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Updated: June 17, 2025
And now, awaiting death, which was already somewhere beside him, he counts his sins, judges others, and perhaps judges himself, and says: "Who, but the Lord, is my judge?" "Is he afraid or not?" Foma asked himself and became pensive, stealthily scrutinising the old man. "Yes, my lad! Think," spoke Shchurov, shaking his head, "think, how you are to live.
And what did you hear?" "'The strong, he says, 'will be forgiven; but there is no forgiveness for the weak." "Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that." For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man's face, he said with a grin: "But he doesn't like you."
And that in my youth I was a peasant, that all the land I possessed then was two desyatins and a quarter; while toward my old age I have hoarded up eleven thousand desyatins, all forests, and perhaps two millions in cash." "There, they always speak of money!" said Foma, with dissatisfaction. "What joy does man derive from money?" "Mm," bellowed Shchurov.
He again recalled the fugitive convict, who was killed and burnt by Shchurov, and again he believed that it really was so.
Outside the window something was softly rustling on the roof of the house; the rattle of wheels and the muffled sounds of conversation were heard from below, from the street. The samovar on the table sang a sad tune. Shchurov was fixedly staring into his glass of tea, stroking his beard, and one could hear that something rattled in his breast, as if some burden was turning about in it.
Foma saw that if he did not pay him at once, Shchurov would indeed not spare him and would dishonour the firm by protesting the notes. "Evidently business is poor?" grinned Shchurov. "Well, tell the truth where have you squandered your father's money?" Foma wanted to test the old man: "Business is none too brisk," said he, with a frown. "We have no contracts.
"There is but one man on earth more sinful than was the late Ignat and that is that cursed heathen, your godfather Yashka," ejaculated the old man. "Are you sure of it?" inquired Foma, smiling. "I? Of course, I am!" said Shchurov, confidently, nodding his head, and his eyes became somewhat darker. "I will also appear before the Lord, and that not sinless.
His big, handsome figure, his open face and his clear eyes called forth in Foma a feeling of respect for Shchurov, although he heard it rumoured that this lumber-dealer had gained his wealth not by honest toil and that he was leading an evil life at home, in an obscure village of the forest district; and Ignat had told Foma that when Shchurov was young and was but a poor peasant, he sheltered a convict in the bath-house, in his garden, and that there the convict made counterfeit money for him.
Mayakin, in a greasy morning-gown, a counting-board in his hand, began to move about in his leather-covered arm-chair impatiently, and said with animation: "Pour out some tea for him, Lubava! Tell me, Foma, I must be in the City Council at nine o'clock; tell me all about it, make haste!" Smiling, Foma related to him how Shchurov suggested to rewrite the notes.
From the words of the old man Foma's head was heavy and troubled, and he was glad that the conversation had, at last, turned to business matters. "That isn't right," said Shchurov, sternly knitting his brow. "It is overdue you must pay. "You'll get a half of it tomorrow." "Why a half? Why not all?" "We are badly in need of money now." "And haven't you any? But I also need it." "Wait a little."
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