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Updated: June 5, 2025
And, as you see, man's happiness is dependent upon his relation toward his work." Taras Mayakin spoke slowly and laboriously, as though it were unpleasant and tedious for him to speak. And Lubov, with knitted brow, leaning toward him, listened to his words with eager attention in her eyes, ready to accept everything and imbibe it into her soul.
Father! set me at liberty! For now, you see, I am drinking. I'm entangled with that woman." Mayakin looked at him, listened attentively to his words, and his face was stern, immobile as though petrified.
He is put into circulation and he must bring interests to life. Life knows the value of each of us and will not check our course before time. Nobody, dear, works to his own detriment, if he is wise. And life has saved up much wisdom. Are you listening?" "I am." "And what do you understand?" "Everything." "You are probably lying?" Mayakin doubted. "But, why must we die?" asked Foma in a low voice.
She was a tall, thin woman, with a dark face and with stern gray eyes, which had an imperious and intelligent expression. Mayakin also had a son Taras, but his name was never mentioned in the house; acquaintances knew that since the nineteen-year-old Taras had gone to study in Moscow he married there three years later, against his father's will Yakov disowned him.
Foma bowed to her mutely, not hearing her answer to Mayakin, nor what his father was saying to him. The lady stared at him steadfastly and smiled to him affably and serenely. Her childlike figure, clothed in some kind of dark fabric, was almost blended with the crimson stuff of the armchair, while her wavy, golden hair and her pale face shone against the dark background.
Foma seated himself more firmly in his chair, and, his face distorted with wrathful agitation, he said: "Godfather, you are a sensible man. I respect you for your common sense." "Thank you, my son!" and Mayakin bowed, rising slightly, and leaning his hands against the table. "Don't mention it. I want to tell you that I am no longer twenty. I am not a child any longer."
A crowd had gathered around Yakov Tarasovitch Mayakin, and listened to his quiet speech with anger, and nodded their heads affirmatively. "Act, Yakov!" said Robustov, loudly. "We are all witnesses. Go ahead!" And above the general tumult of voices rang out Foma's loud, accusing voice: "It was not life that you have built you have made a cesspool! You have bred filth and putrefaction by your deeds!
Sasha stood behind him calmly examining over his shoulder the little old man, whose head hardly reached Foma's chin. Attracted by Foma's loud words, the public looked at them, scenting a scandal. And Mayakin, too, perceived immediately the possibility of a scandal and instantly estimated correctly the quarrelsome mood of his godson.
ONE Sunday afternoon, Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin was drinking tea in his garden and talking to his daughter. The collar of his shirt unbuttoned, a towel wound round his neck, he sat on a bench under a canopy of verdant cherry-trees, waved his hands in the air, wiped the perspiration off his face, and incessantly poured forth into the air his brisk speech.
The bishop, the governor, the representatives of the city's aristocracy and the administration formed, together with the splendidly dressed ladies, a big bright group and looked at the efforts of the two stonemasons, who were preparing the bricks and the lime. Mayakin and his godson wended their way toward this group.
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