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"Have you been wrecked?" "No, God saved us." "Burned up? Well, speak more quickly." Yefim drew air into his chest and said slowly: "Barge No. 9 was sunk smashed up. One man's back was broken, and one is altogether missing, so that he must have drowned. About five more were injured, but not so very badly, though some were disabled."
It doesn't matter to him whether it's fixed or whether it revolves that's of no importance you can hang it on a rope, if you want to, provided it feeds him; you can nail it to the skies, provided it gives him enough to eat." "'The History of Slavery," Yefim read out again, and asked Pavel: "Is it about us?" "Here's an account of Russian serfdom, too," said Pavel, giving him another book.
When the mother had concluded her short account, all were silent for a moment, looking at one another. Ignaty, sitting at the table, drew a pattern with his nails on the boards. Yefim stood behind Rybin, resting his elbows on his shoulders. Yakob leaned against the trunk of a tree, his hands folded over his chest, his head inclined. Sofya observed the peasants from the corner of her eye.
A few days later, when the barges had discharged their cargo and the steamer was ready to leave for Perm, Yefim noticed, to his great sorrow, that a cart came up to the shore and that the dark-eyed Pelageya, with a trunk and with some bundles, was in it. "Send a sailor to bring her things," ordered Foma, nodding his head toward the shore.
As Yefim Petrovitch had made no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady’s legacy, which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all the time he was studying.
Suddenly Yakob moved forward from the tree, stepped to one side, stopped, and shaking his head observed dryly: "So, when we're in the army with Yefim, it's on such men as Pavel Mikhaylovich that they'll set us." "Against whom did you think they'd make you go?" retorted Rybin glumly. "They choke us with our own hands. That's where the jugglery comes in."
"It's Yefim," said Rybin, looking into the kitchen. "Come here, Yefim. As for you, Pavel, think! Think a whole lot. There is a great deal to think about. This is Yefim. And this man's name is Pavel. I told you about him."
"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, and I will sing a song to thee," murmurs Varka, and now she sees herself in a dark stuffy hut. Her dead father, Yefim Stepanov, is tossing from side to side on the floor. She does not see him, but she hears him moaning and rolling on the floor from pain.
With a reproachful shake of his head, Yefim carried out the order angrily, and then asked in a lowered voice: "So she, too, is coming with us?" "She is going with me," Foma announced shortly. "It is understood. Not with all of us. Oh, Lord!" "Why are you sighing?" "Yes. Foma Ignatyich! We are going to a big city. Are there not plenty of women of her kind?" "Well, keep quiet!" said Foma, sternly.
"They will show no mercy," the peasant assented calmly, and resumed his examination of the books. "Drink your tea, Yefim; we've got to leave soon," said Rybin. "Directly." And Yefim asked again: "Revolution is an uprising, isn't it?" Andrey came, red, perspiring, and dejected. He shook Yefim's hand without saying anything, sat down by Rybin's side, and smiled as he looked at him.
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