arer."

"No, it's not necessary," said Mayakin in an undertone-"We'll leave him
here. Let someone send for a carriage. We'll take him straight to the
asylum."

"And where am I to rest?" Foma muttered again. "Whither shall I fling
myself?" And he remained as though petrified in a broken, uncomfortable
attitude, all distorted, with an expression of pain on his face.

Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly:

"Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard."

"I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov Tarasovich as
he departed.

"No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely.

"And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction of
Mayakin.

"What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it."

"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!"

"He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!"

Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the
engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared into
the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips were slightly
quivering.

"His son has returned," whispered Bobrov.

"I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"A business-like, clever fellow."

"Is that so?"

"He manages a big business in Oosolye."

"Consequently Yakov does not need this one. Yes. So that's it."

"Look, he's weeping!"

"Oh?"

Foma was sitting leaning against the back of the chair, and drooping
his head on the shoulder. His eyes were shut, and from under his eyelids
tears were trickling one after another. They coursed down his cheeks
into his moustache. Foma's lips quivered convulsively, and the tears
fell from his moustache upon his breast. He was silent and motionless,
only his chest heaved unevenly, and with difficulty. The merchants
looked at his pale, tear-stained face, grown lean with suffering, with
the corners of his lips lowered downward, and walked away from him
quietly and mutely.

And then Foma remained alone, with his hands tied behind his back,
sitting at the table which was covered with dirty dishes and different
remains of the feast. At times he slowly opened his heavy, swollen
eyelids, and his eyes, through tears, looked dimly and mournfully at the
table where everything was dirty, upset, ruined.

.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Three years have passed.

About a year ago Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin died. He died in full
consciousness, an