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Updated: May 9, 2025
It is necessary to shout it aloud, brothers, it is necessary to shout it aloud!" He fell into a fit of coughing, bending and all a-shiver. "Why?" asked Yefim. "My misery is my own affair. Just look at my joy." "Don't interrupt," Rybin admonished. "You yourself said a man mustn't boast of his misfortune," observed Yefim with a frown. "That's a different thing.
Yefim looked carefully at Andrey and said: "You have sharp bones; peasants' bones are rounder." "The peasant stands more firmly on his feet," Rybin supplemented. "He feels the ground under him although he does not possess it. Yet he feels the earth. But the factory workingman is something like a bird. He has no home. To-day he's here, to-morrow there.
Give me an axe!" "Don't chop your fingers off," says the master, when the blows of the axe on the root under water are heard. "Yefim, get out of this! Stay, I'll get the eel-pout. . . . You'll never do it." The root is hacked a little. They partly break it off, and Andrey Andreitch, to his immense satisfaction, feels his fingers under the gills of the fish. "I'm pulling him out, lads!
As though he had sipped power and strictness out of a ladle." Yefim spoke the truth: during these few days Foma underwent a striking transformation.
That means for me to take off the skin I have not sold. He is without conscience! He thinks it is clever to sap the life out of us." The boy heard this grumbling and knew that it was concerning his father. He also noticed that although Yefim was grumbling, he carried more wood on his stretcher than the others, and walked faster than the others.
"Stick your finger in! Are you deaf, fellow, or what? Tfoo!" "What are you after, lads?" shouts Yefim. "An eel-pout! We can't get him out! He's hidden under the roots. Get round to the side! To the side!" For a minute Yefim screws up his eye at the fishermen, then he takes off his bark shoes, throws his sack off his shoulders, and takes off his shirt.
He gave Pavel a wink, and continued with a laugh: "But that's not enough! I have come here to you to get books. Yefim is here, too. We are transporting tar; and so we turned aside to stop at your house. You stock me up with books before Yefim comes. He doesn't have to know too much!" "Mother," said Pavel, "go get some books! They'll know what to give you. Tell them it's for the country."
"Lie down, you damned brute," cried the old man, raising himself on his elbow; "blast you, you devil's creature." When the dogs were quiet again, the old man resumed his former attitude and said quietly: "It was at Kovyli on Ascension Day that Yefim Zhmenya died. Don't speak of it in the dark, it is a sin to mention such people. He was a wicked old man. I dare say you have heard."
"No, I haven't." "Yefim Zhmenya, the uncle of Styopka, the blacksmith. The whole district round knew him. Aye, he was a cursed old man, he was! I knew him for sixty years, ever since Tsar Alexander who beat the French was brought from Taganrog to Moscow.
It's not the money that I am asking you about I just want to know how you lived there," insisted Ignat, regarding his son attentively and sternly. "I was eating, drinking." Foma did not give in, bending his head morosely and confusedly. "Drinking vodka?" "Vodka, too." "Ah! So. Isn't it rather too soon?" "Ask Yefim whether I ever drank enough to be intoxicated." "Why should I ask Yefim?
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