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Updated: May 16, 2025
"I can give it you," sighed the friend "why not? But why the devil do you keep those carcases? tfoo! Tell me that, please. It would be all right if it were a useful horse, but tfoo! one is ashamed to look at it. . . . And the dog's nothing but a skeleton! Why the devil do you keep them?" "What am I to do with them?" "You know. Take them to Ignat the slaughterer that is all there is to do.
And it isn't the kopeck, but since it is mine, no one dares touch it unless I throw it away myself. Eh! The devil take them! Well, tell me where have you been, what have you seen?" The boy sat down beside his father and told him in detail all the impressions of that day. Ignat listened, fixedly watching the animated face of his son, and the eyebrows of the big man contracted pensively.
Though he had not quite made up his mind, and did not know what to do, he turned towards it. His head was giddy and there was a darkness before his eyes. . . . He remembers little of what happened in the slaughterer's yard. He has a memory of a sickening, heavy smell of hides and the savoury steam of the cabbage-soup Ignat was sipping when he went in to him.
"Only fancy!" answered Ignat, surprised at the broadening grin on his face in the mirror. "Impudence! Impudence!" they heard behind them the voice of Mavra Kuzminichna who had entered silently. "How he's grinning, the fat mug! Is that what you're here for? Nothing's cleared away down there and Vasilich is worn out. Just you wait a bit!"
The animated talk and laughter drowned his godfather's bold speech, and Foma was unable to hear a single word of it, much more so that the tenor of the secretary was unceasingly ringing in his ears: "Look, there, the archdeacon arose; he is filling his lungs with air; he will soon proclaim an eternal memory for Ignat Matveyich." "May I not go away?" asked Foma in a low voice. "Why not?
The fire flared up brightly; Styopka was enveloped in black smoke, and the shadow cast by the cross danced along the road in the dusk beside the waggons. "Yes, they were killed," Dymov said reluctantly. "Two merchants, father and son, were travelling, selling holy images. They put up in the inn not far from here that is now kept by Ignat Fomin.
But about four days later, Natalya Fominichna announced to her husband that she was pregnant. Ignat trembled for joy, embraced her firmly, and said in a dull voice: "You're a fine fellow, Natalya! Natasha, if it should be a son! If you bear me a son I'll enrich you! I tell you plainly, I'll be your slave! By God! I'll lie down at your feet, and you may trample upon me, if you like!"
Tall, well-built, with large blue eyes and with a long chestnut braid, she was a worthy match for the handsome Ignat. He was happy and proud of his wife and loved her with the passionate love of a healthy man, but he soon began to contemplate her thoughtfully, with a vigilant eye.
Ignat talked with his son about two hours, telling him of his own youth, of his toils, of men; their terrible power, and of their weakness; of how they live, and sometimes pretend to be unfortunate in order to live on other people's money; and then he told him of himself, and of how he rose from a plain working man to be proprietor of a large concern.
What are you talking about? Well, I'll tell this to Ignat." And Mayakin filled the air with a jarring, hasty laughter, at which his goat-like beard began to tremble in an uncomely manner.
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