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"I tell you I am a merchant!" repeated Ignat, insinuatingly, and there was something discontented and almost timorous in his glance at the disenchanted face of his son. "Like Grandpa Fedor, the Kalatch baker?" asked Foma, having thought awhile. "Well, yes, like him. Only I am richer than he. I have more money than Fedor." "Have you much money?" "Well, some people have still more."
"Well, if you did it you ought to be able to explain to yourself and to others the reason for so doing. Come here!" Foma walked up to his father, who was sitting on a chair, and placed himself between his knees. Ignat put his hand on the boy's shoulders, and, smiling, looked into his eyes. "Are you ashamed?" "I am ashamed," sighed Foma. "There you have it, fool!
The governor himself came out to accompany your father to the church, the mayor, and almost the entire city council. And behind you just turn around! There goes Sophya Pavlovna. The town pays its respects to Ignat." At first Foma did not listen to his godfather's whisper, but when he mentioned Medinskaya, he involuntarily looked back and noticed the governor.
Foma touched his father's forehead with his lips and sprang back from the coffin with horror. "Hold your peace! You nearly knocked me down," Mayakin remarked to him, in a low voice, and these simple, calm words supported Foma better than his godfather's hands. "Ye that behold me mute and lifeless before you, weep for me, brethren and friends," begged Ignat through the mouth of the Church.
His father jumped to his feet and rushed toward him. "What is that? What are they doing there?" cried Foma. Wildly roaring, Ignat jumped out of the cabin with huge bounds. He soon returned, sooner than Foma, staggering and looking around him, had time to reach his father's bed. "They frightened you? It's nothing!" said Ignat, taking him up in his arms. "Lie down with me."
They were awaiting him for dinner, having prepared his favourite dishes for him, and as soon as he took off his coat, seated him at the table and began to ply him with questions. "Well, how was it? How did you like the school?" asked Ignat, looking lovingly at his son's rosy, animated face. "Pretty good. It's nice!" replied Foma.
It alarmed him: in the dark depth of this emptiness he suspected some hidden existence of a hostile power, as yet formless but already carefully and persistently striving to become incarnate. In the meantime Ignat, changing but little outwardly, was growing ever more restless and querulous and was complaining more often of being ill. "I lost my sleep.
And also in my eyes. And it always seems to me that all this is not real." She waved her hand around her, pointing at the walls, the furniture and everything. Ignat did not reflect on her words, and, laughing, said to her: "That's to no purpose! Everything here is genuine. All these are costly, solid things.
Let us understand this much at least, for our own consolation. And did you have a good time with girls, too? Be frank! Are you afraid that I will beat you, or what?" "Yes. There was one on the steamer. I had her there from Perm to Kazan." "So," Ignat sighed heavily and said, frowning: "You've become defiled rather too soon." "I am twenty years old.
"His violin is at the Grigoryevs' now." Seryozha leaned his elbows on the edge of the table again, and sank into thought. His white face wore a fixed expression, as though he were listening or following a train of thought of his own; distress and something like fear came into his big staring eyes. He was most likely thinking now of death, which had so lately carried off his mother and Uncle Ignat.
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