One day, when he had fallen sick on
account of overwork, he was lying on the bow of the steamer, and
when Foma asked him why he was thus ruining himself, Ilya replied
roughly and sternly:
"Because every copeck is more necessary to me than a hundred
roubles to you. That's why!"
And, saying this, the old man turned his body, which was burning
with pain, with its back to Foma.
Reflecting on the stoker his thoughts suddenly and without any
effort, embraced all those petty people that were doing hard
work. He wondered, Why do they live? What pleasure is it for them
to live on earth? They constantly do but their dirty, hard work,
they eat poorly, are poorly clad, they drink. One man is sixty
years old, and yet he keeps on toiling side by side with the
young fellows. And they all appeared to Foma as a huge pile of
worms, which battled about on earth just to get something to eat.
In his memory sprang up his meetings with these people, one after
another--their remarks about life--now sarcastic and mournful,
now hopelessly gloomy remarks--their wailing songs.
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