he
rose from a plain working man to be proprietor of a large concern. The
boy listened to his words, looked at him and felt as though his father
were coming nearer and nearer to him. And though his father's story
did not contain the material of which Aunt Anfisa's fairy-tales were
brimful, there was something new in it, something clearer and
more comprehensible than in her fairy-tales, and something just as
interesting. Something powerful and warm began to throb within his
little heart, and he was drawn toward his father. Ignat, evidently,
surmised his son's feelings by his eyes: he rose abruptly from his seat,
seized him in his arms and pressed him firmly to his breast. And Foma
embraced his neck, and, pressing his cheek to that of his father, was
silent and breathed rapidly.

"My son," whispered Ignat in a dull voice, "My darling! My joy! Learn
while I am alive. Alas! it is hard to live."

The child's heart trembled at this whisper; he set his teeth together,
and hot tears gushed from his eyes.

Until this day Ignat had never kindled any particular feeling in his
son: the boy was used to him; he was tired of looking at his enormous
figure, and feared him slightly, but was at the same time aware that his
father would do anything for him that he wanted. Sometimes Ignat would
stay away from home a day, two, a week, or possibly the entire summer.
And yet Foma did not even notice his absence, so absorbed was he by his
love for Aunt Anfisa. When Ignat returned the boy was glad, but he could
hardly tell whether it was his father's arrival that gladdened him or
the playthings he brought with him. But now, at the sight of Ignat, the
boy ran to meet him, grasped him by the hand, laughed, stared into his
eyes and felt weary if he did not see him for two or three hours: His
father became interesting to him, and, rousing his curiosity, he fairly
developed love and respect for himself. Every time that they were
together Foma begged his father:

"Papa, tell me about yourself."

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

The steamer was now going up the Volga. One suffocating night in July,
when the sky was overcast with thick black clouds, and everything on the
Volga was somewhat ominously calm, they reached Kazan and anchored near
Uslon at the end of an enormous fleet of vessels. The clinking of the
anchor chains and the shouting of the crew awakened Foma; he looked
out of the window and saw, far in the distance, small lights glimmering
f