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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Oh Lord, Jesus Christ!" said he in a low voice, making the sign of the cross. "Yes. There it is the last hour of my life." "Stop, papa!" whispered Foma. "Why stop? We'll have our tea, and then send for the priest, and for Mayakin." "I'd rather send for them now." "They'll soon toll for the mass the priest isn't home and then there's no hurry, it may pass soon."
There was a tickling sensation in his throat, and he felt there was something foreign in his breast, as though some dust or ashes were strewn upon his heart, and it throbbed unevenly and with difficulty. Wishing to explain to himself his act, he said slowly and thoughtfully, without looking at anyone: "I wanted to speak the truth. Is this life?" "Fool!" said Mayakin, contemptuously.
Foma was pushed from behind and from the sides; he walked, seeing nothing but the gray head of his father, and the mournful singing resounded in his heart like a melancholy echo. And Mayakin, walking beside him, kept on intrusively whispering in his ears: "Look, what a crowd thousands!
Come, let me embrace you!" "Let's toss, Mayakin! "Strike up the band." "Sound a flourish! A march. 'The Persian March." "We don't want any music! The devil take it!" "Here is the music! Eh, Yakov Tarasovich! What a mind!" "I was small among my brethren, but I was favoured with understanding." "You lie, Trofim!" "Yakov! you'll die soon. Oh, what a pity! Words can't express how sorry we are!"
"That's enough!" replied Mayakin. And immediately after this there fell a minute of perfect, painful silence. People were coming up to the table noiselessly, on tiptoe, and when they were near they stretched their necks to see Foma. "Well, Fomka, do you understand now what you have done?" asked Mayakin. He spoke softly, but all heard his question. Foma nodded his head and maintained silence.
"When we get a little nearer." "No, it's not necessary," said Mayakin in an undertone-"We'll leave him here. Let someone send for a carriage. We'll take him straight to the asylum." "And where am I to rest?" Foma muttered again. "Whither shall I fling myself?" And he remained as though petrified in a broken, uncomfortable attitude, all distorted, with an expression of pain on his face.
All people are taught the same thing, he says: 'so that all may be equal, looking alike." "Does he consider it wrong?" "Evidently so." "Fo-o-o-l!" Mayakin drawled out, with contempt. "Why? Is it good?" asked Foma, looking at his godfather suspiciously. "We do not know what is good; but we can see what is wise.
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.
"You disturb yourself rather too soon," Mayakin smilingly replied. He, too, loved his godson, and when Ignat announced to him one day that he would take Foma to his own house, Mayakin was very much grieved. "Leave him here," he begged. "See, the child is used to us; there! he's crying." "He'll cease crying. I did not beget him for you. The air of the place is disagreeable.
I love it. I love you, too. Never mind, you're a good fellow!" said Mayakin, softly, and as though out of breath. "Do not love me, but teach me. But then, you cannot teach me the right thing!" said Foma, as he turned his back on the old man and left the hall. Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin remained in the tavern alone.
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