Without moving his head, which was heavy from intoxication, Foma
looked long at the clouds and finally began to feel as though
silent clouds were also passing through his breast,--passing,
breathing a damp coldness upon his heart and oppressing him.
There was something impotent in the motion of the clouds across
the sky. And he felt the same within him. Without thinking, he
pictured to himself all he had gone through during the past
months. It seemed to him as though he had fallen into a turbid,
boiling stream, and now he had been seized by dark waves, that
resembled these clouds in the sky; had been seized and carried
away somewhere, even as the clouds were carried by the wind. In
the darkness and the tumult which surrounded him, he saw as
though through a mist that certain other people were hastening
together with him--to-day not those of yesterday, new ones each
day, yet all looking alike--equally pitiful and repulsive.
Intoxicated, noisy, greedy, they flew about him as in a
whirlwind, caroused at his expense, abused him, fought, screamed,
and even wept more than once.
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