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Updated: June 26, 2025
Foma lived as though walking in a swamp, in danger of sinking at each step in the mire and slime, while his godfather, like a river loach, wriggled himself on a dry, firm little spot, vigilantly watching the life of his godson from afar. After his quarrel with Foma, Yakov Tarasovich returned home, gloomy and pensive.
On Yakov Tarasovich the letter of his son made a different impression. On learning the contents of Taras's reply the old man started and hastily turned to his daughter with animation and with a peculiar smile: "Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise men write. Where are my spectacles? Mm! 'Dear sister! Yes."
"Eh!" exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich regretfully, with a shake of the head. "You've spoilt the whole mass for me, dear! How could you be so straightforward in your dealings with the man? Psha! The devil drove me to send you there! I should have gone myself. I would have turned him around my finger!" "Hardly! He says, 'I am an oak." "An oak? And I am a saw. An oak!
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."
At the very edge of the landing-stage stood Yakov Tarasovich, squeezed between two stout women, with his iron-like face lifted upward, and he waved his cap in the air with malicious politeness. His beard shook, his bald crown flashed, and his small eye pierced Foma like borers. "What a vulture!" muttered Foma, raising his cap and nodding his head to his godfather.
"About my affairs," replied Foma, firmly, without greeting his godfather. "That's praiseworthy, my dear sir!" said Yakov Tarasovich, all beaming with a smile. "The lady with the feathers what is she to you, may I ask?" "She's my mistress," said Foma, loud, without lowering his eyes at the keen look of his godfather.
But what does it mean?" muttered Yakov Tarasovich, with confusion and joy. "And here they circulated that absurd rumour." "That's right it is absurd indeed!" said the old man, distressed. "And it did a pretty great deal of harm on a certain occasion." "Really? Is that possible?" "Yes. I was about to go into business for myself, and my credit was ruined on account of "
Beautiful, clever, Yakov Tarasovich. Proposing to use the money for this public club, they do not understand the real needs of the population." "And then, your Excellency, a small capital means that the city will have to add its own money." "Perfectly true! Perfectly true!" "Temperance, I say, is good! Would to God that all were sober!
All burst into ringing laughter, but soon fell silent, for Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin, rising to his feet, cleared his throat, and, stroking his bald crown, surveyed the merchants with a serious look expecting attention. "Well, brethren, open your ears!" shouted Kononov, with satisfaction. "Gentlemen of the merchant class!" began Mayakin with a smile.
"I would not feel sorry if he stayed away a little longer," said Foma. "I wish I could listen to you some more. You speak so very oddly." "Ah! my children, my doves!" exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich, appearing in the doorway. "You're drinking tea? Pour out some tea for me, Lugava!"
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