"Don't you understand? A certain lady is always around him.""What about her?" exclaimed Foma, recalling his Pelageya, and for some reason or other his heart was filled with joy.
"She sticks to him and--bleeds him."
"Is she a quiet one?"
"She? Quiet as a fire. Seventy-five thousand roubles she blew out of his pocket like a feather!""Oh! Who is she?"
"Sonka Medinskaya, the architect's wife."
"Great God! Is it possible that she--Did my father--Is it possible that he took her as his sweetheart?" asked Foma, with astonishment, in a low voice.
His godfather drew back from him, and comically opening his eyes wide, said convincedly:
"You are out of your mind, too! By God, you're out of your mind!
Come to your senses! A sweetheart at the age of sixty-three! And at such a price as this. What are you talking about? Well, I'll tell this to Ignat."And Mayakin filled the air with a jarring, hasty laughter, at which his goat-like beard began to tremble in an uncomely manner. It took Foma a long time to obtain a categorical answer; the old man, contrary to his habit, was restless and irritated; his speech, usually fluent, was now interrupted; he was swearing and expectorating as he spoke, and it was with difficulty that Foma learned what the matter was.
Sophya Pavlovna Medinskaya, the wealthy architect's wife, who was well known in the city for her tireless efforts in the line of arranging various charitable projects, persuaded Ignat to endow seventy-five thousand roubles for the erection of a lodging-house in the city and of a public library with a reading-room. Ignat had given the money, and already the newspapers lauded him for his generosity. Foma had seen the woman more than once on the streets; she was short; he knew that she was considered as one of the most beautiful women in the city, and that bad rumours were afoot as to her behaviour.
"Is that all?" exclaimed Foma, when his godfather concluded the story.
"And I thought God knows what!"
"You? You thought?" cried Mayakin, suddenly grown angry. "You thought nothing, you beardless youngster!""Why do you abuse me?" Foma said.
"Tell me, in your opinion, is seventy-five thousand roubles a big sum or not?""Yes, a big sum," said Foma, after a moment's thought.
"Ah, ha!"
"But my father has much money. Why do you make such a fuss about it?"Yakov Tarasovich was taken aback. He looked into the youth's face with contempt and asked him in a faint voice:
"And you speak like this?"
"I? Who then?"
"You lie! It is your young foolishness that speaks. Yes! And my old foolishness--brought to test a million times by life--says that you are a young dog as yet, and it is too early for you to bark in a basso."Foma hearing this, had often been quite provoked by his godfather's too picturesque language.
Mayakin always spoke to him more roughly than his father, but now the youth felt very much offended by the old man and said to him reservedly, but firmly:
"You had better not abuse me without reflection, for I am no longer a small child.""Come, come!" exclaimed Mayakin, mockingly lifting his eyebrows and squinting.
This roused Foma's indignation. He looked full into the old man's eyes and articulated with emphasis:
"And I am telling you that I don't want to hear any more of that undeserved abuse of yours. Enough!""Mm! So-o! Pardon me."
Yakov Tarasovich closed his eyes, chewed a little with his lips, and, turning aside from his godson, kept silent for awhile. The carriage turned into a narrow street, and, noticing from afar the roof of his house, Foma involuntarily moved forward. At the same time Mayakin asked him with a roguish and gentle smile:
"Foma! Tell me--on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?""Why, are they sharp?" asked Foma, pleased with the manner in which Mayakin now regarded him.
"Pretty good. That's good, dear. That's very good! Your father and I were afraid lest you should be a laggard. Well, have you learned to drink vodka?""I drank it."
"Rather too soon! Did you drink much of it?"
"Why much?"
"Does it taste good?"
"Not very."
"So. Never mind, all this is not so bad. Only you are too outspoken.
You are ready to confess all your sins to each and every pope that comes along. You must consider it isn't always necessary to do that.
Sometimes by keeping silent you both please people and commit no sins. Yes. Aman's tongue is very seldom sober. Here we are. See, your father does not know that you have arrived. Is he home yet, I wonder?"He was at home: his loud, somewhat hoarse laughter was heard from the open windows of the rooms. The noise of the carriage, which stopped at the house, caused Ignat to look out of the window, and at the sight of his son he cried out with joy:
"Ah! You've come."
After a while he pressed Foma to his breast with one hand, and, pressing the palm of his other hand against his son's forehead, thus bending his head back, he looked into his face with beaming eyes and spoke contentedly:
"You are sunburnt. You've grown strong. You're a fine fellow! Madame!
How's my son? Isn't he fine?"
"Not bad looking," a gentle, silver voice was heard. Foma glanced from behind his father's shoulder and noticed that a slender woman with magnificent fair hair was sitting in the front corner of the room, resting her elbows on the table; her dark eyes, her thin eyebrows and plump, red lips strikingly defined on her pale face. Behind her armchair stood a large philodendron-plant whose big, figured leaves were hanging down in the air over her little golden head.
