eks and his lips were thick and red, and seemed
out of place on his face. His thin, long nose was turned downward as
though it wished to hide itself in his white moustache; the old man
moved his lips, and from beneath them small, yellow teeth were gleaming.
He had on a pink calico shirt, a silk belt around his waist, and black,
loose trousers, which were tucked into his boots. Foma stared at his
lips and thought that the old man was surely such as he was said to be.

"As a boy you looked more like your father," said Shchurov suddenly, and
sighed. Then, after a moment's silence, he asked: "Do you remember your
father? Do you ever pray for him? You must, you must pray!" he went on,
after he heard Foma's brief answer. "Ignat was a terrible sinner, and he
died without repentance, taken unawares. He was a great sinner!"

"He was not more sinful than others," replied Foma, angrily, offended in
his father's behalf.

"Than who, for instance?" demanded Shchurov, strictly.

"Are there not plenty of sinners?"

"There is but one man on earth more sinful than was the late Ignat--and
that is that cursed heathen, your godfather Yashka," ejaculated the old
man.

"Are you sure of it?" inquired Foma, smiling.

"I? Of course, I am!" said Shchurov, confidently, nodding his head, and
his eyes became somewhat darker. "I will also appear before the Lord,
and that not sinless. I shall bring with me a heavy burden before His
holy countenance. I have been pleasing the devil myself, only I trust to
God for His mercy, while Yashka believes in nothing, neither in dreams,
nor in the singing of birds. Yashka does not believe in God, this I
know! And for his non-belief he will yet receive his punishment on
earth."

"Are you sure of this, too?"

"Yes, I am. And don't you think I also know that you consider it
ludicrous to listen to me. What a sagacious fellow, indeed! But he who
has committed many sins is always wise. Sin is a teacher. That's why
Yashka Mayakin is extraordinarily clever."

Listening to the old man's hoarse and confident voice, Foma thought:

"He is scenting death, it seems."

The waiter, a small man, with a face which was pale and characterless,
brought in the samovar and quickly hastened out of the room, with short
steps. The old man was undoing some bundles on the window-sill and said,
without looking at Foma:

"You are bold, and the look of your eyes is dark. Before, there used to
be more light-eyed people, because t