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.
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