“Ah, Yakov Tarasovich!” exclaimed the governor with a friendly smile, shaking and squeezing Mayakin’s hand, while the old man was at the same time kissing the bishop’s hand. “How are you, deathless old man?” “I thank you humbly, your Excellency! My respects to Sophya Pavlovna!” Mayakin spoke fast, whirling like a peg-top amid the crowd of people. In a minute he managed to shake hands with the presiding justice of the court, with the prosecutor, with the mayor--in a word, with all those people whom he considered it necessary to greet first; such as these, however, were few. He jested, smiled and at once attracted everybody’s attention to his little figure, and Foma with downcast head stood behind him, looking askance at these people wrapped in costly stuffs, embroidered with gold; he envied the old man’s adroitness and lost his courage, and feeling that he was losing his courage--he grew still more timid. But now Mayakin seized him by the hand and drew him up to himself. “There, your Excellency, this is my godson, Foma, the late Ignat’s only son.” “Ah!” said the governor in his basso, “I’m very pleased. I sympathise with you in your misfortune, young man!” he said, shaking Foma’s hand, and became silent; then he added resolutely and confidently: “To lose a father, that is a very painful misfortune.” And, having waited about two seconds for Foma’s answer, he turned away from him, addressing Mayakin approvingly: “I am delighted with the speech you made yesterday in the city hall! Beautiful, clever, Yakov Tarasovich. Proposing to use the money for this public club, they do not understand the real needs of the population.” “And then, your Excellency, a small capital means that the city will have to add its own money.” “Perfectly true! Perfectly true!” “Temperance, I say, is good! Would to God that all were sober! I don’t drink, either, but what is the use of these performances, libraries and all that, since the people cannot even read?” The governor replied approvingly. “Here, I say, you better use this money for a technical institution. If it should be established on a small plan, this money alone will suffice, and in case it shouldn’t, we can ask for more in St. Petersburg--they’ll give it to us. Then the city wouldn’t have to add of its own money, and the whole affair would be more sensible.” “Precisely! I fully agree with you! But how the liberals began to cry at you! Eh? Ha, ha!” “That has always been their business, to cry.” The deep cough of the archdeacon of the cathedral announced the beginning of the divine service. Sophya Pavlovna came up to Foma, greeted him and said in a sad, low voice: “I looked at your face on the day of the funeral, and my heart saddened. My God, I thought, how he must suffer!” And Foma listened to her and felt as though he was drinking honey. “These cries of yours, they shook my soul, my poor child! I may speak to you this way, for I am an old woman already.” “You!” exclaimed Foma, softly.