And Foma embraced his neck, and, pressing his cheek to that of his father, was silent and breathed rapidly.
"My son," whispered Ignat in a dull voice, "My darling! My joy! Learn while I am alive.

Alas! it is hard to live." The child's heart trembled at this whisper; he set his teeth together, and hot tears gushed from his eyes.
Until this day Ignat had never kindled any particular feeling in his son: the boy was used to him; he was tired of looking at his enormous figure, and feared him slightly, but was at the same time aware that his father would do anything for him that he wanted.

Sometimes Ignat would stay away from home a day, two, a week, or possibly the entire summer.
And yet Foma did not even notice his absence, so absorbed was he by his love for Aunt Anfisa.

When Ignat returned the boy was glad, but he could hardly tell whether it was his father's arrival that gladdened him or the playthings he brought with him.

But now, at the sight of Ignat, the boy ran to meet him, grasped him by the hand, laughed, stared into his eyes and felt weary if he did not see him for two or three hours: His father became interesting to him, and, rousing his curiosity, he fairly developed love and respect for himself.