“There, they always speak of money!” said Foma, with dissatisfaction. “What joy does man derive from money?” “Mm,” bellowed Shchurov. “You will make a poor merchant, if you do not understand the power of money.” “Who does understand it?” asked Foma. “I!” said Shchurov, with confidence. “And every clever man. Yashka understands it. Money? That is a great deal, my lad! Just spread it out before you and think, ‘What does it contain?’ Then will you know that all this is human strength, human mind. Thousands of people have put their life into your money and thousands more will do it. And you can throw it all into the fire and see how the money is burning, and at that moment you will consider yourself master.” “But nobody does this.” “Because fools have no money. Money is invested in business. Business gives bread to the masses. And you are master over all those masses. Wherefore did God create man? That man should pray to Him. He was alone and He felt lonesome, so He began to desire power, and as man was created in the image of the Lord, man also desires power. And what, save money, can give power? That’s the way. Well, and you--have you brought me money?” “No,” answered Foma. 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.” “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. It was not at all that same old man, who but a moment ago spoke so sagaciously about the devil. Then his face and his eyes seemed different, and now he looked fierce, his lips smiled pitilessly, and the veins on his cheeks, near his nostrils, were eagerly trembling. 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. We have received no earnest money, and so it is rather hard.” “So-o! Shall I help you out?” “Be so kind. Postpone the day of payment,” begged Foma, modestly lowering his eyes. “Mm. Shall I assist you out of my friendship for your father? Well, be it so, I’ll do it.” “And for how long will you postpone it?” inquired Foma. “For six months.” “I thank you humbly.”