"
Yozhov's voice quivered and quaked, and his head began to shake.
Foma felt that something warm trickled down on his hand, and he
looked up at the wrinkled face of Yozhov, who went on speaking,
trembling in every limb:
"I am not the only one. There are many like myself, intimidated
by fate, broken and suffering. We are more unfortunate than you
are, because we are weaker both in body and in soul, but we are
stronger than you because we are armed with knowledge, which we
have no opportunity to apply. We are gladly ready to come to you
and resign ourselves to you and help you to live. There is
nothing else for us to do! Without you we are without ground to
stand on; without us, you are without light! Comrades! we were
created by Fate itself to complete one another!"
"What does he beg of them?" thought Foma, listening to Yozhov's
words with perplexity. And examining the faces of the compositors
he saw that they also looked at the orator inquiringly,
perplexedly, wearily.
"The future is yours, my friends!" said Yozhov, faintly, shaking
his head mournfully as though feeling sorry for the future, and
yielding to these people against his will the predominance over
it.
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