“Just mark this,” the old man went on distinctly and impressively. “We merchants had no hand in the arrangement of life, nor do we have a voice or a hand in it today. Life was arranged by others, and it is they that multiplied all sorts of scabs in life--idlers and poor unfortunates; and since by multiplying them they obstructed life and spoilt it--it is, justly judging, now their duty to purify it. But we are purifying it, we contribute money for the poor, we look after them--we, judge it for yourself, why should we mend another’s rags, since we did not tear them? Why should we repair a house, since others have lived in it and since it belongs to others? Were it not wiser for us to step aside and watch until a certain time how rottenness is multiplying and choking those that are strangers to us? They cannot conquer it, they have not the means to do it. Then they will turn to us and say: ‘Pray, help us, gentlemen!’ and we’ll tell them: ‘Let us have room for our work! Rank us among the builders of this same life!’ And as soon as they do this we, too, will have to clear life at one sweep of all sorts of filth and chaff. Then the Emperor will see with his clear eyes who are really his faithful servants, and how much wisdom they have saved up while their hands were idle. Do you understand?” “Of course, I do!” exclaimed Foma. When his godfather spoke of the functionaries, Foma reminded himself of the people that were present at the dinner; he recalled the brisk secretary, and a thought flashed through his mind that this stout little man has in all probability an income of no more than a thousand roubles a year, while he, Foma, has a million. But that man lives so easily and freely, while he, Foma, does not know how to live, is indeed abashed to live. This comparison and his godfather’s speech roused in him a whirl of thoughts, but he had time to grasp and express only one of them: “Indeed, do we work for the sake of money only? What’s the use of money if it can give us no power?” “Aha!” said Mayakin, winking his eyes. “Eh!” exclaimed Foma, offended. “How about my father? Have you spoken to him?” “I spoke to him for twenty years.” “Well, how about him?” “My words did not reach him. The crown of your father’s head was rather thick. His soul was open to all, while his mind was hidden away far within him. Yes, he made a blunder, and I am very sorry about the money.” “I am not sorry for the money.” “You should have tried to earn even a tenth part of it, then speak.” “May I come in?” came Luba’s voice from behind the door. “Yes, step right in,” said the father. “Will you have lunch now?” she asked, entering. “Let us have it.” She walked up to the sideboard and soon the dishes were rattling. Yakov Tarasovich looked at her, moved his lips, and suddenly striking Foma’s knee with his hand, he said to him: “That’s the way, my godson! Think.” Foma responded with a smile and thought: “But he’s clever--cleverer than my father.”