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"For Christ's sake, do not speak," uttered Foma in a dull voice.
Mayakin glanced at his godson and became silent. Foma's face
looked drawn; he grew pale, and there was a great deal of painful,
bitter stupor in his half-open lips and in his sad look. On the right
and on the left of the road a field stretched itself, covered here
and there with patches of winter-raiment. Rooks were hopping busily
about over the black spots, where the snow had melted. The water under
the sledge-runners was splashing, the muddy snow was kicked up by the
hoofs of the horses.
"How foolish man is in his youth!" exclaimed Mayakin, in a low voice.
Foma did not look at him.
"Before him stands the stump of a tree, and yet he sees the snout
of a beast--that's how he frightens himself. Oh, oh!"
"Speak more plainly," said Foma, sternly.
"What is there to say? The thing is clear: girls are cream; women
are milk; women are near, girls are far. Consequently, go to Sonka,
if you cannot do without it, and tell her plainly. That's how the
matter stands.


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