up much wisdom. Are you listening?"

"I am."

"And what do you understand?"

"Everything."

"You are probably lying?" Mayakin doubted.

"But, why must we die?" asked Foma in a low voice.

Mayakin looked into his face with regret, smacked his lips and said:

"A wise man would never ask such a question. A wise man knows for
himself that if it is a river, it must be flowing somewhere, and if it
were standing in one place, it would be a swamp."

"You're simply mocking me at random," said Foma, sternly. "The sea is
not flowing anywhere."

"The sea receives all rivers into itself, and then, powerful storms rage
in it at times. Then the sea of life also submits on agitation, stirred
up by men, and death renovates the waters of the sea of life, that they
might not become spoiled. No matter how many people are dying, they are
nevertheless forever growing in number."

"What of it? But my father is dead."

"You will die as well."

"Then what have I to do with the fact that people are growing in
number?" Foma smiled sadly.

"Eh, he, he!" sighed Mayakin. "That, indeed, concerns none of us. There,
your trousers probably reason in the same way: what have we to do with
the fact that there are all sorts of stuff in the world? But you do not
mind them--you wear them out and throw them away."

Foma glanced at his godfather reproachfully, and noticing that the old
man was smiling, he was astonished and he asked respectfully:

"Can it be true, father, that you do not fear death?"

"Most of all I fear foolishness, my child," replied Mayakin with humble
bitterness. "My opinion is this: if a fool give you honey, spit upon it;
if a wise man give you poison, drink it! And I will tell you that the
perch has a weak soul since his fins do not stand on end."

The old man's mocking words offended and angered Foma. He turned aside
and said:

"You can never speak without these subterfuges."

"I cannot!" exclaimed Mayakin, and his eyes began to sparkle with alarm.
"Each man uses the very same tongue he has. Do I seem to be stern? Do
I?"

Foma was silent.

"Eh, you. Know this--he loves who teaches. Remember this well. And as to
death, do not think of it. It is foolish, dear, for a live man to think
of death. 'Ecclesiastes' reflected on death better than anybody else
reflected on it, and said that a living dog is better than a dead lion."

They came home. The street near the house was crowded with carriages,
and from the open