“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! An oak is a good tree, but its fruits are good for swine only. So it comes out that an oak is simply a blockhead.” “But it’s all the same, we have to pay, anyway.” “Clever people are in no hurry about this; while you are ready to run as fast as you can to pay the money. What a merchant you are!” Yakov Tarasovich was positively dissatisfied with his godson. He frowned and in an angry manner ordered his daughter, who was silently pouring out tea: “Push the sugar nearer to me. Don’t you see that I can’t reach it?” Lubov’s face was pale, her eyes seemed troubled, and her hands moved lazily and awkwardly. Foma looked at her and thought: “How meek she is in the presence of her father.” “What did he speak to you about?” asked Mayakin. “About sins.” “Well, of course! His own affair is dearest to each and every man. And he is a manufacturer of sins. Both in the galleys and in hell they have long been weeping and longing for him, waiting for him impatiently.” “He speaks with weight,” said Foma, thoughtfully, stirring his tea. “Did he abuse me?” inquired Mayakin, with a malicious grimace. “Somewhat.” “And what did you do?” “I listened.” “Mm! And what did you hear?” “‘The strong,’ he says, ‘will be forgiven; but there is no forgiveness for the weak.’” “Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that.” For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man’s face, he said with a grin: “But he doesn’t like you.” “Nobody likes me, my dear,” said Mayakin, proudly. “There is no reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me. And they respect only those they fear.” And the old man winked at his godson boastfully. “He speaks with weight,” repeated Foma. “He is complaining. ‘The real merchant,’ says he, ‘is passing away. All people are taught the same thing,’ he says: ‘so that all may be equal, looking alike.”’ “Does he consider it wrong?” “Evidently so.” “Fo-o-o-l!” Mayakin drawled out, with contempt. “Why? Is it good?” asked Foma, looking at his godfather suspiciously. “We do not know what is good; but we can see what is wise. When we see that all sorts of people are driven together in one place and are all inspired there with one and the same idea--then must we acknowledge that it is wise. Because--what is a man in the empire? Nothing more than a simple brick, and all bricks must be of the same size. Do you understand? And those people that are of equal height and weight--I can place in any position I like.” “And whom does it please to be a brick?” said Foma, morosely.