appeared before him, speaking quickly:

"You? My God! How pale you are! How thin you've grown! It seems you have
been leading a fine life."

Then her face became distorted with alarm and she exclaimed almost in a
whisper:

"Ah, Foma. You don't know. Do you hear? Someone is ringing the bell.
Perhaps it is he."

And she rushed out of the room, leaving behind her in the air the rustle
of her silk gown, and the astonished Foma, who had not even had a chance
to ask her where her father was. Yakov Tarasovich was at home. Attired
in his holiday clothes, in a long frock coat with medals on his breast,
he stood on the threshold with his hands outstretched, clutching at the
door posts. His green little eyes examined Foma, and, feeling their look
upon him, Foma raised his head and met them.

"How do you do, my fine gentleman?" said the old man, shaking his head
reproachfully. "Where has it pleased you to come from, may I ask? Who
has sucked off that fat of yours? Or is it true that a pig looks for a
puddle, and Foma for a place which is worse?"

"Have you no other words for me?" asked Foma, sternly, looking straight
into the old man's face. And suddenly he noticed that his godfather
shuddered, his legs trembled, his eyes began to blink repeatedly, and
his hands clutched the door posts with an effort. Foma advanced toward
him, presuming that the old man was feeling ill, but Yakov Tarasovich
said in a dull and angry voice:

"Stand aside. Get out of the way."

And his face assumed its usual expression.

Foma stepped back and found himself side by side with a rather short,
stout man, who bowed to Mayakin, and said in a hoarse voice:

"How do you do, papa?"

"How are you, Taras Yakovlich, how are you?" said the old man, bowing,
smiling distractedly, and still clinging to the door posts.

Foma stepped aside in confusion, seated himself in an armchair, and,
petrified with curiosity, wide-eyed, began to watch the meeting of
father and son.

The father, standing in the doorway, swayed his feeble body, leaning his
hands against the door posts, and, with his head bent on one side and
eyes half shut, stared at his son in silence. The son stood about three
steps away from him; his head already gray, was lifted high; he knitted
his brow and gazed at his father with large dark eyes. His small, black,
pointed beard and his small moustache quivered on his meagre face, with
its gristly nose, like that of his father. And the hat, al