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'That's right! I thought, 'that's right! That means that he is a cultured man who loves business and order, who, in general, loves to arrange life, loves to live, knows the value of himself and of life. Good!" Yakov Tarasovich trembled, his wrinkles spread over his face like beams, from his smiling eyes to his lips, and his bald head looked like some dark star.
You thought?" cried Mayakin, suddenly grown angry. "You thought nothing, you beardless youngster!" "Why do you abuse me?" Foma said. "Tell me, in your opinion, is seventy-five thousand roubles a big sum or not?" "Yes, a big sum," said Foma, after a moment's thought. "Ah, ha!" "But my father has much money. Why do you make such a fuss about it?" Yakov Tarasovich was taken aback.
"Untie me." "It's all right! You can lie that way as well." "Call up my godfather." But Yakov Tarasovich came up at this moment. He came up, stopped near Foma, sternly surveyed with his eyes the outstretched figure of his godson, and heaved a deep sigh. "Well, Foma," he began. "Order them to unbind me," entreated Foma, softly, in a mournful voice. "So you can be turbulent again?
"Tarasovich! Start." "Brethren! It is jolly! By God." "And in 'La Belle Helene' she used to come out almost naked, my dear," suddenly Robustov's shrill and emotional voice broke through the noise. "Look out! Jacob cheated Esau? Aha!" "I can't! My tongue is not a hammer, and I am no longer young. "Yasha! We all implore you!" "Do us the honour!" "We'll elect you mayor!"
Overturning the chairs, jostling the tables, thus causing the dishes and the bottles to rattle and fall, the merchants, agitated, delighted, some with tears in their eyes, rushed toward Mayakin with goblets in their hands. "Ah! Do you understand what has been said here?" asked Kononov, grasping Robustov by the shoulder and shaking him. "Understand it! That was a great speech!" "Yakov Tarasovich!
And I want to leave, Yakov Tarasovich! I am not used to being without a master, I cannot live without a master!" "Keep quiet!" said Mayakin, sternly. "Where's Foma?" "There; at the same place. Immediately after the accident, he came to himself and at once sent for workmen. They'll lift the barge. They may have started by this time." "Is he there alone?" asked Mayakin, lowering his head.
He gave Foma a fleeting smile, and, taking his father by the arm, led him toward the table. "I believe in blood," said Yakov Tarasovich; "in hereditary blood. Therein lies all power! My father, I remember, told me: 'Yashka, you are my genuine blood! There. The blood of the Mayakins is thick it is transferred from father to father and no woman can ever weaken it. Let us drink some champagne!
He seemed to be amused by the old man's joy. And Yakov Tarasovich tapped Foma on the chest with his finger and said: "I do not know him, my own son. He has not opened his soul to me. It may be that such a difference had grown up between us that not only an eagle, but the devil himself cannot cross it. Perhaps his blood has overboiled; that there is not even the scent of the father's blood in it.
"And supposing it is he, what of it?" inquired Yakov Tarasovich in a business-like tone. "Nothing, I don't know him," replied Lubov, indefinitely. "We'll make you acquainted. It's time, Lubov, it's time. Our hopes for Foma are poor, although I do not give him up." "I did not reckon on Foma what is he to me?" "That's wrong. If you had been cleverer perhaps he wouldn't have gone astray!
And then Foma remained alone, with his hands tied behind his back, sitting at the table which was covered with dirty dishes and different remains of the feast. At times he slowly opened his heavy, swollen eyelids, and his eyes, through tears, looked dimly and mournfully at the table where everything was dirty, upset, ruined. Three years have passed. About a year ago Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin died.
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