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Updated: June 5, 2025
No, no, you'd better lie this way," his godfather replied. "I won't say another word. I swear it by God! Unbind me. I am ashamed! For Christ's sake. You see I am not drunk. Well, you needn't untie my hands." "You swear that you'll not be troublesome?" asked Mayakin. "Oh Lord! I will not, I will not," moaned Foma. They untied his feet, but left his hands bound.
"There was a man in the land of Uz," began Mayakin, in a hoarse voice, and Foma, sitting beside Luba on the lounge in the corner of the room, knew beforehand that soon his godfather would become silent and pat his bald head with his hand. He sat and, listening, pictured to himself this man from the land of Uz.
It was in March. The water under the sledge-runners was bubbling, the snow was already covered with a rather dirty fleece, and the sun shone warmly and merrily in the clear sky. "Will you go to your lady as soon as we arrive?" asked Mayakin, unexpectedly, interrupting their business talk. "I will," said Foma, shortly, and with displeasure. "Mm.
Mayakin looked at his daughter with alarm. She was silent. "Tell me," he asked her, "what do you need? How, in your opinion, is it proper to live? What do you want? You have studied, read, tell me what is it that you need?" The questions fell on Lubov's head quite unexpectedly to her, and she was embarrassed.
"Dear gentlemen!" said Mayakin, raising his voice, "in the newspapers they keep writing about us merchants, that we are not acquainted with this 'culture, that we do not want it, and do not understand it. And they call us savage, uncultured people. What is culture?
"Nobody likes me, my dear," said Mayakin, proudly. "There is no reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me. And they respect only those they fear." And the old man winked at his godson boastfully. "He speaks with weight," repeated Foma. "He is complaining. 'The real merchant, says he, 'is passing away.
Bobrov, Kononov and several others preceded by Yakov Mayakin went to the cabin, anxiously discussing something in low tones. The steamer was sailing toward the town at full speed. The bottles on the tables trembled and rattled from the vibration of the steamer, and Foma heard this jarring, plaintive sound above everything else. Near him stood a throng of people, saying malicious, offensive things.
It was rumoured that upon his discharge from the asylum Mayakin had sent him away to some relatives of his mother in the Ural. Not long ago Foma appeared in the streets of the town. He is worn out, shabby and half-witted. Almost always intoxicated, he appears now gloomy, with knitted brow, and with head bent down on his breast, now smiling the pitiful and melancholy smile of a silly fanatic.
There is our own, Russian stuff, and there is foreign, all at once! That's the best way! Who wishes anything? Does anybody want snails, or these crabs, eh? They're from India, I am told." And Zubov said to his neighbour, Mayakin: "The prayer 'At the Building of a Vessel' is not suitable for steam-tugs and river steamers, that is, not that it is not suitable, it isn't enough alone.
Yakov Tarasovich closed his eyes, chewed a little with his lips, and, turning aside from his godson, kept silent for awhile. The carriage turned into a narrow street, and, noticing from afar the roof of his house, Foma involuntarily moved forward. At the same time Mayakin asked him with a roguish and gentle smile: "Foma! Tell me on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?"
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