Somehow Foma said to her one day:
"But what piles of money you and I have squandered!"
She glanced at him, and asked:
"And why should we save it?"
"Indeed, why?" thought Foma, astonished by the fact that she
reasoned so simply.
"Who are you?" he asked her at another occasion.
"Why, have you forgotten my name?"
"Well, the idea!"
"What do you wish to know then?"
"I am asking you about your origin."
"Ah! I am a native of the province of Yaroslavl. I'm from
Ooglich. I was a harpist. Well, shall I taste sweeter to you, now
that you know who I am?"
"Do I know it?" asked Foma, laughing.
"Isn't that enough for you? I shall tell you nothing more about
it. What for? We all come from the same place, both people and
beasts. And what is there that I can tell you about myself? And
what for? All this talk is nonsense. Let's rather think a little
as to how we shall pass the day."
On that day they took a trip on a steamer, with an orchestra of
music, drank champagne, and every one of them got terribly drunk.
Sasha sang a peculiar, wonderfully sad song, and Foma, moved by
her singing, wept like a child.
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