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Updated: June 5, 2025
In winter, from tea time to dinner, they played in the house when it was very cold outside, or went out in the yard to slide down the big ice hill. They had dinner at noon, "in Russian style," as Mayakin said.
On his way he thought of how everything would be and how he should behave in order not to be confused before the people. "Eh, eh! Hold on!" He turned around. Mayakin came hastening to him from the sidewalk. He was in a frock-coat that reached his heels, in a high cap, and he carried a huge umbrella in his hand.
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.
"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort of a man what in your opinion is Taras?" Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily: "What sort of talk is this?"
She walked away and silently seated herself opposite her father, compressing her lips for affront. Contrary to his habits Mayakin ate slowly, stirring his spoon in his plate of cabbage-soup for a long time, and examining the soup closely. "If your obstructed mind could but comprehend your father's thoughts!" said he, suddenly, as he sighed with a sort of whistling sound.
You are an old man, and yet you speak so that it is a shame to listen to you! To say such a thing! Do you think she would come down to this?" Mayakin smacked his lips and sang out in a mournful voice: "What a blockhead you are! What a fool!" and suddenly grown angry, he spat out: "Shame upon you!
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.
"And why not wreck them, since they can be wrecked?" retorted Foma, passionately and firmly. "Of course, you did not earn them yourself; why should you spare them? Well, come. And couldn't we drown that lady in the water for awhile?" said Mayakin, softly. "Drive to the town, Sasha, and engage a room at the Siberian Inn.
His bow evidently afforded great pleasure to Mayakin. The old man somehow coiled himself up, stamped his feet, and his face seemed beaming with a malicious smile. "The little boy will get money for nuts, it seems!" Sasha teased Foma. Her words together with his godfather's smile seemed to have kindled a fire in Foma's breast.
Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly: "Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard." "I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov Tarasovich as he departed. "No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely. "And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction of Mayakin. "What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it."
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