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"
"He speaks with weight," said Foma, thoughtfully, stirring his tea.
"Did he abuse me?" inquired Mayakin, with a malicious grimace.
"Somewhat."
"And what did you do?"
"I listened."
"Mm! And what did you hear?"
"'The strong,' he says, ' will be forgiven; but there is no
forgiveness for the weak.'"
"Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that."
For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin
regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man's
face, he said with a grin:
"But he doesn't like you."
"Nobody likes me, my dear," said Mayakin, proudly. "There is no
reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me.
And they respect only those they fear." And the old man winked at
his godson boastfully.
"He speaks with weight," repeated Foma. "He is complaining. 'The
real merchant,' says he, 'is passing away. All people are taught
the same thing,' he says: 'so that all may be equal, looking
alike."'
"Does he consider it wrong?"
"Evidently so."
"Fo-o-o-l!" Mayakin drawled out, with contempt.


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