"Hm! what a fellow you are!" she thought; but said aloud: "It's for Pasha and the comrades to decide."
Nikolay thoughtfully inclined his head.
"Who's this Pasha?" asked the host, seating himself.
"My son."
"What's the family?"
"Vlasov."
He nodded his head, got his tobacco pouch, whipped out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. He spoke brokenly:
"I've heard of him. My nephew knows him. He, too, is in prison—my nephew Yevchenko. Have you heard of him? And my family is Godun. They'll soon shut all the young people in prison, and then there'll be plenty and comfort for us old folks. The gendarme assures me that my nephew will even be sent to Siberia. They'll exile him—the dogs!"
Lighting his pipe, he turned to Nikolay, spitting frequently on the floor:
"So she doesn't want to? Well, that's her affair! A person is free to feel as he wants to. Are you tired of sitting in prison? Go. Are you tired of going? Sit. They robbed you? Keep still. They beat you? Bear it. They have killed you? Stay dead. That's certain. And I'll carry off Savka; I'll carry him off!" His curt, barking phrases, full of good-natured irony, perplexed the mother. But his last words aroused envy in her.