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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Eh, my lad, I will not wait! You are not your father. Youngsters like you, milksops, are an unreliable lot. In a month you may break up the whole business. And I would be the loser for it. You give me all the money tomorrow, or I'll protest the notes. It wouldn't take me long to do it!" Foma looked at Shchurov, with astonishment.
"No, I never met Mikhail Shchurov. Well, pardon me for Christ's sake!" and rising from the lounge, the pilgrim bowed to Foma and went toward the door. "But wait awhile, sit down, let's talk a little!" exclaimed Foma, rushing at him uneasily. The pilgrim looked at him searchingly and sank down on the lounge.
He also knew that Shchurov had got rid of two wives one of them died during the first night of the wedding, in Anany's embraces. Then he took his son's wife away from him, and his son took to drink for grief and would have perished in drunkenness had he not come to himself in time and gone off to save himself in a hermitage, in Irgiz.
"I am sure you'd make it warm for him." "Well, my lad, that will do!" said Shchurov, sternly. "Though you consider yourself quite clever, it is rather too soon. You've gained nothing, and already you began to boast! But you just win from me then you may shout for joy. Goodbye. Have all the money for tomorrow." "Don't let that trouble you. Goodbye!" "God be with you!"
The coffin is already waiting for us old people. Ye-es! It may be that about fifty years hence, no one will believe that I lived in this world. I, Anany, the son of Savva, by the surname of Shchurov. So! And that I, Anany, feared no one, save God.
"And where have I seen him before? Or does he resemble some acquaintance of mine?" Suddenly it somehow struck Foma with particular vividness that the humble preacher before him was no other than the son of old Anany Shchurov. Stunned by this conjecture, he walked up to the pilgrim and seating himself by his side, inquired freely: "Are you from Irgiz, father?"
The pilgrim raised his head, turned his face toward Foma slowly and heavily, scrutinized him and said in a calm and gentle voice: "I was on the Irgiz, too." "Are you a native of that place?" "Are you now coming from there?" "No, I am coming from Saint Stephen." The conversation broke off. Foma lacked the courage to ask the pilgrim whether he was not Shchurov.
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