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Updated: June 5, 2025
That's a question asked of God. How is that?" And the reader, triumphantly and interrogatively looks around at his listeners. "He merited it, the righteous man," they replied with a sigh. Yakov Mayakin eyes them with a smile, and says: "Fools! You better put the children to sleep."
Silent and angry, he met these glances without lowering his eyes. "I ask you to come up to the table!" cried Mayakin, gleaming amid the crowd of people like an ember amid ashes. "Be seated, pray! They're soon serving pancakes." Foma shrugged his shoulders and walked off toward the door, saying aloud: "I shall not eat."
But that man lives so easily and freely, while he, Foma, does not know how to live, is indeed abashed to live. This comparison and his godfather's speech roused in him a whirl of thoughts, but he had time to grasp and express only one of them: "Indeed, do we work for the sake of money only? What's the use of money if it can give us no power?" "Aha!" said Mayakin, winking his eyes.
Mayakin, who had Foma's full power of attorney to manage his affairs, acted now in such a way that Foma was bound to feel almost every day the burden of the obligations which rested upon him. People were constantly applying to him for payments, proposing to him terms for the transportation of freight.
Get out of the way." And his face assumed its usual expression. Foma stepped back and found himself side by side with a rather short, stout man, who bowed to Mayakin, and said in a hoarse voice: "How do you do, papa?" "How are you, Taras Yakovlich, how are you?" said the old man, bowing, smiling distractedly, and still clinging to the door posts.
A dull, tavern noise smote the air, some people went past them, they greeted Mayakin, but he saw nothing, staring fixedly at the agitated face of his godson, who smiled distractedly, both joyously and pitifully. "Eh, my sour blackberry!" said Mayakin, with a sigh, interrupting Foma's speech. "I see you've lost your way. And you're prating nonsense.
The old man shuddered at his laughter, and started back with fright, with a scarcely perceptible movement of his body. After Smolin's words all three maintained silence for about a minute. "Yes," said Mayakin, without lifting his head, which was bent low. "It is necessary to think of that. I must think of it."
Taras disappeared without leaving any trace. It was rumoured that he had been sent to Siberia for something. Yakov Mayakin was very queerly built. Short, thin, lively, with a little red beard, sly greenish eyes, he looked as though he said to each and every one: "Never mind, sir, don't be uneasy. Even though I know you for what you are, if you don't annoy me I will not give you away."
Offended to the quick, Foma looked with a frown at the fat lips and at the jaws chewing the tasty food, and he felt like crying out and driving away all these people, whose sedateness had but lately inspired him with respect for them. "You had better be more kind, more sociable," said Mayakin in a low voice, coming up to him. "Why are they gobbling here? Is this a tavern?" cried Foma, angrily.
The friction of the tiniest screw must be taken into consideration, if you wish to do a serious thing seriously. I can let you read a little note which I have drawn up, based upon my personal study of cattle-breeding and of the consumption of meat in Russia." "How's that!" laughed Mayakin. "Bring me that note, it's interesting! It seems you did not spend your time for nothing in Western Europe.
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