Kornéy fell back against the wall, supporting himself with his staff, and looked intently at her. He was surprised to find that he no longer felt the anger he had nursed against her all these years, but that a mixed feeling of tenderness and languor had suddenly overcome him.
“Martha! … We shall have to die soon …”
“Go … go, in Heaven’s name!” said she, rapidly and angrily.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I have nothing to say,” she answered. “Go … for Heaven’s sake! Go, go! … There are plenty of you ne’er-do-well devils loafing about!”
She hurriedly reentered the room, and slammed the door.
“Why scold?” he heard a man say; and a dark peasant—such as Kornéy had been forty years before, only shorter and thinner, but with the same sparkling black eyes—came out, with an axe stuck in his belt.
This was that same Fédka to whom, seventeen years before, he had given a picture-book. It was he who was now reproaching his mother for showing no pity to the beggar. With him came the dumb nephew, also with an axe at his belt. He was now a grown man, wrinkled and sinewy, with a thin beard, long neck, and a determined, penetrating glance. Both men had just finished their breakfast, and were going to the woods.
“Wait a bit, daddy,” said Fédka, and, turning to his dumb companion, he pointed first to the old man and then to the room, and made a movement as if cutting bread.
Fédka went into the street, and the dumb man returned to the room. Kornéy, his head hanging down, still stood in the passage, leaning against the wall and supporting himself on his staff. He felt quite weak, and could hardly check his sobs. The dumb man returned from the room