His hair was stiff, standing out
in all directions in thick locks, his face was yellow, unshaven,
with a long, crooked nose. To Foma it seemed that he resembled a
swab with which the steamer decks are washed, and this amused the
half-intoxicated fellow.
"How fine!" said he, sarcastically. "What are you snarling at,
eh? Do you know who I am?"
With the gesture of a tragic actor the man stretched out to Foma
his hand, with its long, pliant fingers like those of a juggler,
and he said in a deep hoarse basso:
"You are the rotten disease of your father, who, though he was a
plunderer, was nevertheless a worthy man in comparison with you."
Because of the unexpectedness of this, and because of his wrath,
Foma's heart shrank. He fiercely opened his eyes wide and kept
silent, finding no words to reply to this insolence. And the man,
standing before him, went on hoarsely, with animation, beastlike
rolling his large, but dim and swollen, eyes:
"You demand of us respect for you, you fool! How have you merited
it? Who are you? A drunkard, drinking away the fortune of your
father.
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