The animated talk and laughter drowned his godfather's bold speech,
and Foma was unable to hear a single word of it, much more so that
the tenor of the secretary was unceasingly ringing in his ears:
"Look, there, the archdeacon arose; he is filling his lungs with air;
he will soon proclaim an eternal memory for Ignat Matveyich."
"May I not go away?" asked Foma in a low voice.
"Why not? Everybody will understand this."
The deacon's resounding voice drowned and seemed to have crushed the
noise in the hail; the eminent merchants fixed their eyes on the big,
wide-open mouth, from which a deep sound was streaming forth, and
availing himself of this moment, Foma arose from his seat and left
the hall.
After awhile he breathed freely and, sitting in his cab, thought
sadly that there was no place for him amid these people. Inwardly,
he called them polished. He did not like their brilliancy, their
faces, their smiles or their words, but the freedom and the cleverness
of their movements, their ability to speak much and on any subject,
their pretty costumes--all this aroused in him a mixture of envy and
respect for them.
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