He could not name it, but it seemed to him as something like a grudge against someone.
The crowd in the harbour blended into a close, dark and dead spot, faceless, formless, motionless.

Foma went away from the rail and began to pace the deck gloomily.
The passengers, conversing aloud, seated themselves to drink tea; the porters bustled about on the gallery, setting the tables; somewhere below, on the stern, in the third class, a child was crying, a harmonica was wailing, the cook was chopping something with knives, the dishes were jarring--producing a rather harsh noise.

Cutting the waves and making foam, shuddering under the strain and sighing heavily, the enormous steamer moved rapidly against the current.

Foma looked at the wide strip of broken, struggling, and enraged waves at the stern of the steamer, and began to feel a wild desire to break or tear something; also to go, breast foremost, against the current and to mass its pressure against himself, against his breast and his shoulders.
"Fate!" said someone beside him in a hoarse and weary voice.
This word was familiar to him: his Aunt Anfisa had often used it as an answer to his questions, and he had invested in this brief word a conception of a power, similar to the power of God.

He glanced at the speakers: one of them was a gray little old man, with a kind face; the other was younger, with big, weary eyes and with a little black wedge-shaped beard.