like her
so much?"

"I do not like such as she is."

"So-o! Just think of it! And which women are more to your liking, sir,
may I ask?"

"Those that are more simple. She's always busy with her Gymnasium
students and with her books. She's become learned. She'll be laughing at
my expense," said Foma, emotionally.

"That is quite true. She is too bold. But that is a trifle. All sorts of
rust can be removed if you try to do it. That's a matter for the future.
And your godfather is a clever old man. His was a peaceful, sedentary
life; sitting in one place he gave a thought to everything. It is
worthwhile listening to him, for he can see the wrong side of each
and every worldly affair. He is our aristocrat--descending from Mother
Yekaterina--ha, ha! He understands a great deal about himself. And as
his stem was cut off by Taras, he decided to put you in Taras's place,
do you see?"

"No, I'd rather select my place myself," said Foma, stubbornly.

"You are foolish as yet." Ignat smiled in reply to his son's words.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Aunt Anfisa.

"Foma! You've come," she cried out, somewhere behind the doors. Foma
rose and went to meet her, with a gentle smile.

Again his life streamed on slowly, calmly, monotonously. Again the
Exchange and his father's instructions. Retaining a kindly sarcastic and
encouraging tone in his relation toward his son, Ignat began to treat
him more strictly. He censured him for each and every trifle and
constantly reminded him that he brought him up freely; that he was never
in his way and that he never beat him.

"Other fathers beat fellows like yourself with logs of wood. And I never
even touched you with a finger."

"Evidently I didn't deserve it," said Foma one day, calmly.

Ignat became angry at his son for these words and for the tone.

"Don't talk so much!" he roared. "You've picked up courage because of
the softness of my hand. You find an answer to every word I say. Beware;
though my hand was soft, it can nevertheless still squeeze you so that
tears will gush forth from your heels. You've grown up too soon, like
a toad-stool, just sprung up from the ground. You have a bad smell
already."

"Why are you so angry at me?" asked Foma, perplexed and offended, when
his father chanced to be in a happy frame of mind.

"Because you cannot tolerate it when your father grumbles at you. You're
ready to quarrel immediately."

"But it is offensive. I