Yakov Mayakin was very queerly built. Short, thin, lively, with a
little red beard, sly greenish eyes, he looked as though he said
to each and every one:

"Never mind, sir, don't be uneasy. Even though I know you for
what you are, if you don't annoy me I will not give you away."

His beard resembled an egg in shape and was monstrously big. His
high forehead, covered with wrinkles, joined his bald crown, and
it seemed as though he really had two faces--one an open,
penetrating and intellectual face, with a long gristle nose, and
above this face another one, eyeless and mouthless, covered with
wrinkles, behind which Mayakin seemed to hide his eyes and his
lips until a certain time; and when that time had arrived, he
would look at the world with different eyes and smile a different
smile.

He was the owner of a rope-yard and kept a store in town near the
harbour. In this store, filled up to the ceiling with rope,
twine, hemp and tow, he had a small room with a creaking glass
door. In this room stood a big, old, dilapidated table, and near
it a deep armchair, covered with oilcloth, in which Mayakin sat
all day long, sipping tea and always reading the same
"Moskovskiya Vedomosty," to which he subscribed, year in and year
out, all his life. Among merchants he enjoyed the respect and
reputation of a "brainy" man, and he was very fond of boasting of
the antiquity of his race, saying in a hoarse voice:

"We, the Mayakins, were merchants during the reign of 'Mother'