The mother loved to listen to
his tales, and carried away a strange impression from them. She
conceived the shrewdest enemies of the people, those who deceived
them most frequently and most cruelly, as little, big-bellied,
red-faced creatures, unprincipled and greedy, cunning and heartless.
When life was hard for them under the domination of the czars, they
would incite the common people against the ruler; and when the
people arose and wrested the power from him, these little creatures
got it into their own hands by deceit, and drove the people off to
their holes; and if the people remonstrated, they killed them by the
hundreds and thousands.
Once she summoned up courage and told him of the picture she had
formed of life from his tales, and asked him:
"Is it so, Yegor Ivanovich?"
He burst into a guffaw, turned up his eyes, gasped for breath, and
rubbed his chest.
"Exactly, granny! You caught the idea to a dot! Yes, yes! You've
placed some ornaments on the canvas of history, you've added some
flourishes, but that does not interfere with the correctness of the
whole. It's these very little, pot-bellied creatures who are the
chief sinners and deceivers and the most poisonous insects that
harass the human race.
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