em the more. In your godfather's house
you saw various kinds of people--unfortunate travellers and hangers-on,
and all sorts of rabble. Forget them. They are not men, they are just
shells, and are good for nothing. They are like bugs, fleas and other
unclean things. Nor do they live for God's sake--they have no God. They
call His name in vain, in order to move fools to pity, and, thus pitied,
to fill their bellies with something. They live but for their bellies,
and aside from eating, drinking, sleeping and moaning they can do
nothing. And all they accomplish is the soul's decay. They are in your
way and you trip over them. A good man among them--like fresh apples
among bad ones--may soon be spoilt, and no one will profit by it. You
are young, that's the trouble. You cannot comprehend my words. Help him
who is firm in misery. He may not ask you for assistance, but think of
it yourself, and assist him without his request. And if he should happen
to be proud and thus feel offended at your aid, do not allow him to see
that you are lending him a helping hand. That's the way it should be
done, according to common sense! Here, for example, two boards, let us
say, fall into the mud--one of them is a rotten one, the other, a good
sound board. What should you do? What good is there in the rotten board?
You had better drop it, let it stay in the mud and step on it so as not
to soil your feet. As to the sound board, lift it up and place it in the
sun; if it can be of no use to you, someone else may avail himself of
it. That's the way it is, my son! Listen to me and remember. There is no
reason why Yefim should be pitied. He is a capable fellow, he knows his
value. You cannot knock his soul out with a box on the ear. I'll just
watch him for about a week, and then I'll put him at the helm. And
there, I am quite sure, he'll be a good pilot. And if he should be
promoted to captain, he wouldn't lose courage--he would make a clever
captain! That's the way people grow. I have gone through this school
myself, dear. I, too, received more than one box on the ear when I was
of his age. Life, my son, is not a dear mother to all of us. It is our
exacting mistress."

Ignat talked with his son about two hours, telling him of his own youth,
of his toils, of men; their terrible power, and of their weakness; of
how they live, and sometimes pretend to be unfortunate in order to live
on other people's money; and then he told him of himself, and of how