“It’s all right now. Never mind the past. Only God knows which of us is to blame. He, the upright one, He’ll tell it to you--wait! I shall keep silence. This is not the time for us to discuss that matter. You better tell me--what have you been doing all these years? How did you come to that soda factory? How have you made your way?” “That’s a long story,” said Taras with a sigh; and emitting from his mouth a great puff of smoke, he began slowly: “When I acquired the possibility to live at liberty, I entered the office of the superintendent of the gold mines of the Remezovs.” “I know; they’re very rich. Three brothers. I know them all. One is a cripple, the other a fool, and the third a miser. Go on!” “I served under him for two years. And then I married his daughter,” narrated Mayakin in a hoarse voice. “The superintendent’s? That wasn’t foolish at all.” Taras became thoughtful and was silent awhile. The old man looked at his sad face and understood his son. “And so you lived with your wife happily,” he said. “Well, what can you do? To the dead belongs paradise, and the living must live on. You are not so very old as yet. Have you been a widower long?” “This is the third year.” “So? And how did you chance upon the soda factory?” “That belongs to my father-in-law.” “Aha! What is your salary?” “About five thousand.” “Mm. That’s not a stale crust. Yes, that’s a galley slave for you!” Taras glanced at his father with a firm look and asked him drily: “By the way, what makes you think that I was a convict?” The old man glanced at his son with astonishment, which was quickly changed into joy: “Ah! What then? You were not? The devil take them! Then--how was it? Don’t take offence! How could I know? They said you were in Siberia! Well, and there are the galleys!” “To make an end of this once for all,” said Taras, seriously and impressively, clapping his hand on his knee, “I’ll tell you right now how it all happened. I was banished to Siberia to settle there for six years, and, during all the time of my exile, I lived in the mining region of the Lena. In Moscow I was imprisoned for about nine months. That’s all!” “So-o! 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--” “Pshaw!” said Yakov Tarasovich, as he spat angrily. “Oh, devil! Come, come, is that possible?”