“I? That’s right. God has favoured me with strength.”
“How hard you struck him!” exclaimed the boy in a low voice, lowering his head.
Ignat was about to put a piece of bread with caviar into his mouth, but his hand stopped, held back by his son’s exclamation; he looked interrogatively at Foma’s drooping head and asked:
“You mean Yefim, don’t you?”
“Yes, he was bleeding. And how he walked afterward, how he cried,” said the boy in a low voice.
“Mm,” roared Ignat, chewing a bite. “Well, are you sorry for him?”
“It’s a pity!” said Foma, with tears in his voice.
“Yes. So that’s the kind of a fellow you are,” said Ignat.
Then, after a moment’s silence, he filled a wineglass with vodka, emptied it, and said sternly, in a slightly reprimanding tone:
“There is no reason why you should pity him. He brawled at random, and therefore got what he deserved. I know him: he is a good fellow, industrious, strong and not a bit foolish. But to argue is not his business; I may argue, because I am the master. It isn’t simple to be master. A punch wouldn’t kill him, but will make him wiser. That’s the way. Eh, Foma! You are an infant, and you do not understand these things. I must teach you how to live. It may be that my days on earth are numbered.”