We'll entertain the prodigal
son. You must have forgotten, my little old man, what sort of a
man your father is?"
Taras Mayakin scrutinized his parent with a meditative look of
his large eyes and he smiled, speechless, clad in black,
wherefore the gray hair on his head and in his beard told more
strikingly.
"Well, be seated. Tell me--how have you lived, what have you
done? What are you looking at? Ah! That's my godson. Ignat
Gordyeeff's son, Foma. Do you remember Ignat?"
"I remember everything," said Taras.
"Oh! That's good, if you are not bragging. Well, are you
married?"
"I am a widower."
"Have you any children?"
"They died. I had two."
"That's a pity. I would have had grandchildren."
"May I smoke?" asked Taras.
"Go ahead. Just look at him, you're smoking cigars."
"Don't you like them?"
"I? Come on, it's all the same to me. I say that it looks rather
aristocratic to smoke cigars."
"And why should we consider ourselves lower than the
aristocrats?" said Taras, laughing.
"Do, I consider ourselves lower?" exclaimed the old man.
Pages:
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539