rod nor with a pen, but with a finger and with
brains.

"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they will
say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So--" and, raising
his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an authoritative tone:

"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't squeak! Or
we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree! Silence, dear
fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to happen, Lubavka! He, he,
he!"

The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and carried away
by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and then, and smacked his
lips as though tasting his own wisdom.

"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion will
arrange life wisely, after their own fashion. Then things won't go at
random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall not live to see
it!"

The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes of a
big strong net--they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl, unable to free
herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by her father's words.
Staring into his face with an intense look, she sought support for
herself in his words and heard in them something similar to what she
had read in books, and which seemed to her the real truth. But the
malignant, triumphant laughter of her father stung her heart, and the
wrinkles, which seemed to creep about on his face like so many dark
little snakes, inspired her with a certain fear for herself in his
presence. She felt that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so
simple and so easy in her dreams.

"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a
desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort
of a man--what in your opinion is Taras?"

Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his
keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:

"What sort of talk is this?"

"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.

I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak of him!
"--the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with
a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not want to speak of his
son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a
minute's silence he said sternly and angrily:

"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you
cannot discrimi