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Title:  Foma Gordyeff
Title:  (The Man Who Was Afraid)

Author:  Maxim Gorky

Translator:  Herman Bernstein

July, 2001  [Etext #2709]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]

Project Gutenberg Etext of Foma Gordeev/Gordyeeff, by Maxim Gorky
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E-text created by Martin Adamson
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Foma Gordyeff
(The Man Who Was Afraid)

by Maxim Gorky




Translated by Herman Bernstein




INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

OUT of the darkest depths of life, where vice and crime and
misery abound, comes the Byron of the twentieth century, the poet
of the vagabond and the proletariat, Maxim Gorky. Not like the
beggar, humbly imploring for a crust in the name of the Lord, nor
like the jeweller displaying his precious stones to dazzle and
tempt the eye, he comes to the world,--nay, in accents of
Tyrtaeus this commoner of Nizhni Novgorod spurs on his troops of
freedom-loving heroes to conquer, as it were, the placid, self-
satisfied literatures of to-day, and bring new life to pale,
bloodless frames.

Like Byron's impassioned utterances, "borne on the tones of a
wild and quite artless melody," is Gorky's mad, unbridled,
powerful voice, as he sings of the "madness of the brave," of the
barefooted dreamers, who are proud of their idleness, who possess
nothing and fear nothing, who are gay in their misery, though
miserable in their joy.

Gorky's voice is not the calm, cultivated, well-balanced voice of
Chekhov, the Russian De Maupassant, nor even the apostolic, well-
meaning, but comparatively faint voice of Tolstoy, the preacher:
it is the roaring of a lion, the crash of thunder. In its
elementary power is the heart. rending cry of a sincere but
suffering soul that saw the brutality of life in all its horrors,
and now flings its experiences into the face of the world with
unequalled sympathy and the courage of a giant.

For Gorky, above all, has courage; he dares to say that he finds
the vagabond, the outcast of society, more sublime and
significant than society itself.

His Bosyak, the symbolic incarnation of the Over-man, is as naive
and as bold as a child--or as a genius. In the vehement passions
of the magnanimous, compassionate hero in tatters, in the
aristocracy of his soul, and in his constant thirst for Freedom,
Gorky sees the rebellious and irreconcilable spirit of man, of
future man,--in these he sees something beautiful, something
powerful, something monumental, and is carried away by their
strange psychology. For the barefooted dreamer's life is Gorky's
life, his ideals are Gorky's ideals, his pleasures and pains,
Gorky's pleasures and pains.

And Gorky, though broken in health now, buffeted by the storms of
fate, bruised and wounded in the battle-field of life, still like
Byron and like Lermontov,

"--seeks the storm
As though the storm contained repose."

And in a leonine voice he cries defiantly:

"Let the storm rage with greater force and fury!"

HERMAN BERNSTEIN.

September 20, 1901.



FOMA GORDYEEF

Dedicated to

ANTON P. CHEKHOV

By

Maxim Gorky

CHAPTER I

ABOUT sixty years ago, when fortunes of millions had been made on
the Volga with fairy-tale rapidity, Ignat Gordyeeff, a young
fellow, was working as water-pumper on one of the barges of the
wealthy merchant Zayev.

Built like a giant, handsome and not at all stupid, he was one of
those people whom luck always follows everywhere--not because
they are gifted and industrious, but rather because, having an
enormous stock of energy at their command, they cannot stop to
think over the choice of means when on their way toward their
aims, and, excepting their own will, they know no law. Sometimes
they speak of their conscience with fear, sometimes they really
torture themselves struggling with it, but conscience is an
unconquerable power to the faint-hearted only; the strong master
it quickly and make it a slave to their desires, for they
unconsciously feel that, given room and freedom, conscience would
fracture life. They sacrifice days to it; and if it should happen
that conscience conquered their souls, they are never wrecked,
even in defeat--they are just as healthy and strong under its
sway as when they lived without conscience.

At the age of forty Ignat Gordyeeff was himself the owner of
three steamers and ten barges. On the Volga he was respected as a
rich and clever man, but was nicknamed "Frantic," because his
life did not flow along a straight channel, like that of other
people of his kind, but now and again, boiling up turbulently,
ran out of its rut, away from gain-- the prime aim of his
existence. It looked as though there were three Gordyeeffs in
him, or as though there were three souls in Ignat's body. One of
them, the mightiest, was only greedy, and when Ignat lived
according to its commands, he was merely a man seized with
untamable passion for work. This passion burned in him by day and
by night, he was completely absorbed by it, and, grabbing
everywhere hundreds and thousands of roubles, it seemed as if he
could never have enough of the jingle and sound of money. He
worked about up and down the Volga, building and fastening nets
in which he caught gold: he bought up grain in the villages,
floated it to Rybinsk on his barges; he plundered, cheated,
sometimes not noticing it, sometimes noticing, and, triumphant,
be openly laughed at by his victims; and in the senselessness of
his thirst for money, he rose to the heights of poetry. But, giving
up so much strength to this hunt after the rouble, he was not greedy
in the narrow sense, and sometimes he even betrayed an inconceivable
but sincere indifference to his property. Once, when the ice was
drifting down the Volga, he stood on the shore, and, seeing that the
ice was breaking his new barge, having crushed it against the bluff
shore, he ejaculated:

"That's it. Again. Crush it! Now, once more! Try!"

"Well, Ignat," asked his friend Mayakin, coming up to him, "the
ice is crushing about ten thousand out of your purse, eh?"

"That's nothing! I'll make another hundred. But look how the
Volga is working! Eh? Fine? She can split the whole world, like
curd, with a knife. Look, look! There you have my 'Boyarinya!'
She floated but once. Well, we'll have mass said for the dead."

The barge was crushed into splinters. Ignat and the godfather,
sitting in the tavern on the shore, drank vodka and looked out of
the window, watching the fragments of the "Boyarinya" drifting
down the river together with the ice.

"Are you sorry for the vessel, Ignat?" asked Mayakin.

"Why should I be sorry for it? The Volga gave it to me, and the
Volga has taken it back. It did not tear off my hand."

"Nevertheless."

"What--nevertheless? It is good at least that I saw how it was
all done. It's a lesson for the future. But when my 'Volgar' was
burned--I was really sorry--I didn't see it. How beautiful it
must have looked when such a woodpile was blazing on the water
in the dark night! Eh? It was an enormous steamer."

"Weren't you sorry for that either?"

"For the steamer? It is true, I did feel sorry for the steamer.
But then it is mere foolishness to feel sorry! What's the use? I
might have cried; tears cannot extinguish fire. Let the steamers
burn. And even though everything be burned down, I'd spit upon
it! If the soul is but burning to work, everything will be erected
anew. Isn't it so?"

"Yes," said Mayakin, smiling. "These are strong words you say.
And whoever speaks that way, even though he loses all, will
nevertheless be rich."

Regarding losses of thousands of roubles so philosophically,
Ignat knew the value of every kopeika; he gave to the poor very
seldom, and only to those that were altogether unable to work.
When a more or less healthy man asked him for alms, Ignat would
say, sternly:

"Get away! You can work yet. Go to my dvornik and help him to
remove the dung. I'll pay you for it."

Whenever he had been carried away by his work he regarded people
morosely and piteously, nor did he give himself rest while
hunting for roubles. And suddenly--it usually happened in spring,
when everything on earth became so bewitchingly beautiful and
something reproachfully wild was breathed down into the soul from
the clear sky--Ignat Gordyeeff would feel that he was not the
master of his business, but its low slave. He would lose himself
in thought and, inquisitively looking about himself from under
his thick, knitted eyebrows, walk about for days, angry and
morose, as though silently asking something, which he feared to
ask aloud. They awakened his other soul, the turbulent and
lustful soul of a hungry beast. Insolent and cynical, he drank,
led a depraved life, and made drunkards of other people. He went
into ecstasy, and something like a volcano of filth boiled within
him. It looked as though he was madly tearing the chains which he
himself had forged and carried, and was not strong enough to tear
them. Excited and very dirty, his face swollen from drunkenness
and sleeplessness, his eyes wandering madly, and roaring in a
hoarse voice, he tramped about the town from one tavern to
another, threw away money without counting it, cried and danced
to the sad tunes of the folk songs, or fought, but found no rest
anywhere--in anything.

It happened one day that a degraded priest, a short, stout little
bald-headed man in a torn cassock, chanced on Ignat, and stuck to
him, just as a piece of mud will stick to a shoe. An impersonal,
deformed and nasty creature, he played the part of a buffoon:
they smeared his bald head with mustard, made him go upon all-
fours, drink mixtures of different brandies and dance comical
dances; he did all this in silence, an idiotic smile on his
wrinkled face, and having done what he was told to do, he
invariably said, outstretching his hand with his palm upward:

"Give me a rouble."

They laughed at him and sometimes gave him twenty kopeiks,
sometimes gave him nothing, but it sometimes happened that they
threw him a ten-rouble bill and even more.

"You abominable fellow," cried Ignat to him one day. "Say, who
are you?"

The priest was frightened by the call, and bowing low to Ignat,
was silent.

"Who? Speak!" roared Ignat.

"I am a man--to be abused," answered the priest, and the company
burst out laughing at his words.

"Are you a rascal?" asked Ignat, sternly.

"A rascal? Because of need and the weakness of my soul?"

"Come here!" Ignat called him. "Come and sit down by my side."

Trembling with fear, the priest walked up to the intoxicated
merchant with timid steps and remained standing opposite him.

"Sit down beside me!" said Ignat, taking the frightened priest by
the hand and seating him next to himself. "You are a very near
man to me. I am also a rascal! You, because of need; I, because
of wantonness. I am a rascal because of grief! Understand?"

"I understand," said the priest, softly. All the company were
giggling.

"Do you know now what I am?"

"I do."

"Well, say, 'You are a rascal, Ignat!'"

The priest could not do it. He looked with terror at the huge
figure of Ignat and shook his head negatively. The company's
laughter was now like the rattling of thunder. Ignat could not
make the priest abuse him. Then he asked him:

"Shall I give you money?"

"Yes," quickly answered the priest.

"And what do you need it for?"

He did not care to answer. Then Ignat seized him by the collar,
and shook out of his dirty lips the following speech, which he
spoke almost in a whisper, trembling with fear:

"I have a daughter sixteen years old in the seminary. I save for
her, because when she comes out there won't be anything with
which to cover her nakedness."

"Ah," said Ignat, and let go the priest's collar. Then he sat for
a long time gloomy and lost in thought, and now and again stared
at the priest. Suddenly his eyes began to laugh, and he said:

"Aren't you a liar, drunkard?"

The priest silently made the sign of the cross and lowered his
head on his breast.

"It is the truth!" said one of the company, confirming the
priest's words.

"True? Very well!" shouted Ignat, and, striking the table with
his fist, he addressed himself to the priest:

"Eh, you! Sell me your daughter! How much will you take?"

The priest shook his head and shrank back.

"One thousand!"

The company giggled, seeing that the priest was shrinking as
though cold water was being poured on him.

"Two!" roared Ignat, with flashing eyes.

"What's the matter with you? How is it?" muttered the priest,
stretching out both hands to Ignat.

"Three!"

"Ignat Matveyich!" cried the priest, in a thin, ringing voice.
"For God's sake! For Christ's sake! Enough! I'll sell her! For
her own sake I'll sell her!"

In his sickly, sharp voice was heard a threat to someone, and
his eyes, unnoticed by anybody before, flashed like coals. But
the intoxicated crowd only laughed at him foolishly.

"Silence!" cried Ignat, sternly, straightening himself to his
full length and flashing his eyes.

"Don't you understand, devils, what's going on here? It's enough
to make one cry, while you giggle."

He walked up to the priest, went down on his knees before him,
and said to him firmly:

"Father now you see what a rascal I am. Well, spit into my face!"

Something ugly and ridiculous took place. The priest too, knelt
before Ignat, and like a huge turtle, crept around near his feet,
kissed his knees and muttered something, sobbing. Ignat bent over
him, lifted him from the floor and cried to him, commanding and
begging:

"Spit! Spit right into my shameless eyes!"

The company, stupefied for a moment by Ignat's stern voice,
laughed again so that the panes rattled in the tavern windows.

"I'll give you a hundred roubles. Spit!"

And the priest crept over the floor and sobbed for fear, or for
happiness, to hear that this man was begging him to do something
degrading to himself.

Finally Ignat arose from the floor, kicked the priest, and,
flinging at him a package of money, said morosely, with a smile:

"Rabble! Can a man repent before such people? Some are afraid to
hear of repentance, others laugh at a sinner. I was about to
unburden myself completely; the heart trembled. Let me, I
thought. No, I didn't think at all. Just so! Get out of here! And
see that you never show yourself to me again. Do you hear?"

"Oh, a queer fellow!" said the crowd, somewhat moved.

Legends were composed about his drinking bouts in town; everybody
censured him strictly, but no one ever declined his invitation to
those drinking bouts. Thus he lived for weeks.

And unexpectedly he used to come home, not yet altogether freed
from the odour of the kabaks, but already crestfallen and quiet.
With humbly downcast eyes, in which shame was burning now, he
silently listened to his wife's reproaches, and, humble and meek
as a lamb, went away to his room and locked himself in. For many
hours in succession he knelt before the cross, lowering his head
on his breast; his hands hung helplessly, his back was bent, and
he was silent, as though he dared not pray. His wife used to come
up to the door on tiptoe and listen. Deep sighs were heard from
behind the door--like the breathing of a tired and sickly horse.

"God! You see," whispered Ignat in a muffled voice, firmly
pressing the palms of his hands to his broad breast.

During the days of repentance he drank nothing but water and ate
only rye bread.

In the morning his wife placed at the door of his room a big
bottle of water, about a pound and a half of bread, and salt. He
opened the door, took in these victuals and locked himself in
again. During this time he was not disturbed in any way;
everybody tried to avoid him. A few days later he again appeared
on the exchange, jested, laughed, made contracts to furnish corn
as sharp-sighted as a bird of prey, a rare expert at anything
concerning his affairs.

But in all the moods of Ignat's life there was one passionate
desire that never left him--the desire to have a son; and the
older he grew the greater was this desire. Very often such
conversation as this took place between him and his wife. In the
morning, at her tea, or at noon during dinner hour he gloomily
glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman, with a red face and
sleepy eyes, and asked her:

"Well, don't you feel anything?"

She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied:

"How can I help feeling? Your fists are like dumb-bells."

"You know what I'm talking about, you fool."

"Can one become pregnant from such blows?"

"It's not on account of the blows that you don't bear any
children; it's because you eat too much. You fill your stomach
with all sorts of food--and there's no room for the child to
engender."

"As if I didn't bear you any children?"

"Those were girls," said Ignat, reproachfully. "I want a son! Do
you understand? A son, an heir! To whom shall I give my capital
after my death? Who shall pray for my sins? Shall I give it to a
cloister? I have given them enough! Or shall I leave it to you?
What a fine pilgrim you are! Even in church you think only of
fish pies. If I die, you'll marry again, and my money will be
turned over to some fool. Do you think this is what I am working
for?"

And he was seized with sardonic anguish, for he felt that his
life was aimless if he should have no son to follow him.

During the nine years of their married life his wife had borne
him four daughters, all of whom had passed away. While Ignat had
awaited their birth tremblingly, he mourned their death but
little--at any rate they were unnecessary to him. He began to
beat his wife during the second year of their married life; at
first he did it while being intoxicated and without animosity,
but just according to the proverb: "Love your wife like your soul
and shake her like a pear-tree;" but after each confinement,
deceived in his expectation, his hatred for his wife grew
stronger, and he began to beat her with pleasure, in revenge for
not bearing him a son.

Once while on business in the province of Samarsk, he received a
telegram from relatives at home, informing him of his wife's
death. He made the sign of the cross, thought awhile and wrote to
his friend Mayakin:

"Bury her in my absence; look after my property."

Then he went to the church to serve the mass for the dead, and,
having prayed for the repose of the late Aquilina's soul, he
began to think that it was necessary for him to marry as soon as
possible.

He was then forty-three years old, tall, broad-shouldered, with a
heavy bass voice, like an arch-deacon; his large eyes looked bold
and wise from under his dark eyebrows; in his sunburnt face,
overgrown with a thick, black beard, and in all his mighty figure
there was much truly Russian, crude and healthy beauty; in his
easy motions as well as in his slow, proud walk, a consciousness
of power was evident--a firm confidence in himself. He was liked
by women and did not avoid them.

Ere six months had passed after the death of his wife, he courted
the daughter of an Ural Cossack. The father of the bride,
notwithstanding that Ignat was known even in Ural as a "pranky"
man, gave him his daughter in marriage, and toward autumn Ignat
Gordyeeff came home with a young Cossack-wife. Her name was
Natalya. Tall, well-built, with large blue eyes and with a long
chestnut braid, she was a worthy match for the handsome Ignat. He
was happy and proud of his wife and loved her with the passionate
love of a healthy man, but he soon began to contemplate her
thoughtfully, with a vigilant eye.

Seldom did a smile cross the oval, demure face of his wife--she
was always thinking of something foreign to life, and in her calm
blue eyes something dark and misanthropic was flashing at times.
Whenever she was free from household duties she seated herself in
the most spacious room by the window, and sat there silently for
two or three hours. Her face was turned toward the street, but
the look of her eyes was so indifferent to everything that lived
and moved there beyond the window, and at the same time it was so
fixedly deep, as though she were looking into her very soul. And
her walk, too, was queer. Natalya moved about the spacious room
slowly and carefully, as if something invisible restrained the
freedom of her movements. Their house was filled with heavy and
coarsely boastful luxury; everything there was resplendent,
screaming of the proprietor's wealth, but the Cossack-wife walked
past the costly furniture and the silverware in a shy and
somewhat frightened manner, as though fearing lest they might
seize and choke her. Evidently, the noisy life of the big
commercial town did not interest this silent woman, and whenever
she went out driving with her husband, her eyes were fixed on the
back of the driver. When her husband took her visiting she went
and behaved there just as queerly as at home; when guests came to
her house, she zealously served them refreshments, taking no
interest whatever in what was said, and showing preference toward
none. Only Mayakin, a witty, droll man, at times called forth on
her face a smile, as vague as a shadow. He used to say of her:

"It's a tree--not a woman! But life is like an inextinguishable
wood-pile, and every one of us blazes up sometimes. She, too,
will take fire; wait, give her time. Then we shall see how she
will bloom."

"Eh!" Ignat used to say to her jestingly. "What are you thinking
about? Are you homesick? Brighten up a bit!"

She would remain silent, calmly looking at him.

"You go entirely too often to the church. You should wait. You
have plenty of time to pray for your sins. Commit the sins first.
You know, if you don't sin you don't repent; if you don't repent,
you don't work out your salvation. You better sin while you are
young. Shall we go out for a drive?"

"I don't feel like going out."

He used to sit down beside her and embrace her. She was cold,
returning his caresses but sparingly. Looking straight into her
eyes, he used to say:

"Natalya! Tell me--why are you so sad? Do you feel lonesome here
with me?"

"No," she replied shortly.

"What then is it? Are you longing for your people?"

No, it's nothing."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I am not thinking."

"What then?"

"Oh, nothing!"

Once he managed to get from her a more complete answer:

"There is something confused in my heart. And also in my eyes.
And it always seems to me that all this is not real."

She waved her hand around her, pointing at the walls, the
furniture and everything. Ignat did not reflect on her words,
and, laughing, said to her:

"That's to no purpose! Everything here is genuine. All these are
costly, solid things. If you don't want these, I'll burn them,
I'll sell them, I'll give them away--and I'll get new ones! Do
you want me to?"

"What for?" said she calmly.

He wondered, at last, how one so young and healthy could live as
though she were sleeping all the time, caring for nothing, going
nowhere, except to the church, and shunning everybody. And he
used to console her:

"Just wait. You'll bear a son, and then an altogether different
life will commence. You are so sad because you have so little
anxiety, and he will give you trouble. You'll bear me a son, will
you not?

"If it pleases God," she answered, lowering her head.

Then her mood began to irritate him.

"Well, why do you wear such a long face? You walk as though on
glass. You look as if you had ruined somebody's soul! Eh! You are
such a succulent woman, and yet you have no taste for anything.
Fool!"

Coming home intoxicated one day, he began to ply her with
caresses, while she turned away from him. Then he grew angry, and
exclaimed:

"Natalya! Don't play the fool, look out!"

She turned her face to him and asked calmly:

"What then?"

Ignat became enraged at these words and at her fearless look.

"What?" he roared, coming up close to her.

"Do you wish to kill me?" asked she, not moving from her place, nor
winking an eye.

Ignat was accustomed to seeing people tremble before his wrath,
and it was strange and offensive to him to see her calm.

"There," he cried, lifting his hand to strike her. Slowly, but in
time, she eluded the blow; then she seized his hand, pushed it
away from her, and said in the same tone:

"Don't you dare to touch me. I will not allow you to come near me!"

Her eyes became smaller and their sharp, metallic glitter sobered
Ignat. He understood by her face that she, too, was a strong
beast, and if she chose to she wouldn't admit him to her, even
though she were to lose her life.

"Oh," he growled, and went away.

But having retreated once, he would not do it again: he could not
bear that a woman, and his wife at that, should not bow before
him-- this would have degraded him. He then began to realise that
henceforth his wife would never yield to him in any matter, and
that an obstinate strife for predominance must start between them.

"Very well! We'll see who will conquer," he thought the next day,
watching his wife with stern curiosity; and in his soul a strong
desire was already raging to start the strife, that he might
enjoy his victory the sooner.

But about four days later, Natalya Fominichna announced to her
husband that she was pregnant.

Ignat trembled for joy, embraced her firmly, and said in a dull
voice:

"You're a fine fellow, Natalya! Natasha, if it should be a son!
If you bear me a son I'll enrich you! I tell you plainly, I'll be
your slave! By God! I'll lie down at your feet, and you may
trample upon me, if you like!"

"This is not within our power; it's the will of the Lord," said
she in a low voice.

"Yes, the Lord's!" exclaimed Ignat with bitterness and drooped
his head sadly.

From that moment he began to look after his wife as though she
were a little child.

"Why do you sit near the window? Look out. You'll catch cold in
your side; you may take sick," he used to say to her, both
sternly and mildly. "Why do you skip on the staircase? You may
hurt yourself. And you had better eat more, eat for two, that
he may have enough."

And the pregnancy made Natalya more morose and silent, as though
she were looking still deeper into herself, absorbed in the
throbbing of new life within her. But the smile on her lips
became clearer, and in her eyes flashed at times something new,
weak and timid, like the first ray of the dawn.

When, at last, the time of confinement came, it was early on an
autumn morning. At the first cry of pain she uttered, Ignat
turned pale and started to say something, but only waved his hand
and left the bedroom, where his wife was shrinking convulsively,
and went down to the little room which had served his late mother
as a chapel. He ordered vodka, seated himself by the table and
began to drink sternly, listening to the alarm in the house and
to the moans of his wife that came from above. In the corner of
the room, the images of the ikons, indifferent and dark, stood
out confusedly, dimly illumined by the glimmering light of the
image lamp. There was a stamping and scraping of feet over his
head, something heavy was moved from one side of the floor to the
other, there was a clattering of dishes, people were bustling
hurriedly, up and down the staircase. Everything was being done
in haste, yet time was creeping slowly. Ignat could hear a
muffled voice from above

"As it seems, she cannot be delivered that way. We had better
send to the church to open the gates of the Lord."

Vassushka, one of the hangers-on in his house, entered the room
next to Ignat's and began to pray in a loud whisper:

"God, our Lord, descend from the skies in Thy benevolence, born
of the Holy Virgin. Thou dost divine the helplessness of human
creatures. Forgive Thy servant."

And suddenly drowning all other sounds, a superhuman, soul-
rending cry rang out, and a continuous moan floated softly over the
room and died out in the corners, which were filled now with the
twilight. Ignat cast stern glances at the ikons, heaved a deep
sigh and thought:

"Is it possible that it's again a daughter?"

At times he arose, stupidly stood in the middle of the room, and
crossed himself in silence, bowing before the ikons; then he went
back to the table, drank the vodka, which had not made him dizzy
during these hours, dozed off, and thus passed the whole night
and following morning until noon.

And then, at last, the midwife came down hastily, crying to him
in a thin, joyous voice.

"I congratulate you with a son, Ignat Matveyich!"

"You lie!" said he in a dull voice. "What's the matter with you,
batushka!" Heaving a sigh with all the strength of his massive
chest, Ignat went down on his knees, and clasping his hands
firmly to his breast, muttered in a trembling voice:

"Thank God! Evidently Thou didst not want that my stem should be
checked! My sins before Thee shall not remain without repentance.
I thank Thee, Oh Lord. Oh!" and, rising to his feet, he immediately
began to command noisily:

"Eh! Let someone go to St. Nicholas for a priest. Tell him that
Ignat Matveyich asked him to come! Let him come to make a prayer
for the woman."

The chambermaid appeared and said to him with alarm:

"Ignat Matveyich, Natalya Fominichna is calling you. She is
feeling bad."

"Why bad? It'll pass!" he roared, his eyes flashing cheerfully.
"Tell her I'll be there immediately! Tell her she's a fine fellow!
I'll just get a present for her and I'll come! Hold on! Prepare
something to eat for the priest. Send somebody after Mayakin!"

His enormous figure looked as though it had grown bigger, and
intoxicated with joy, he stupidly tossed about the room; he was
smiling, rubbing his hands and casting fervent glances at the
images; he crossed himself swinging his hand wide. At last he
went up to his wife.

His eyes first of all caught a glimpse of the little red body,
which the midwife was bathing in a tub. Noticing him, Ignat stood
up on tiptoes, and, folding his hands behind his back, walked up
to him, stepping carefully and comically putting forth his lips.
The little one was whimpering and sprawling in the water, naked,
impotent and pitiful.

"Look out there! Handle him more carefully! He hasn't got any
bones yet," said Ignat to the midwife, softly.

She began to laugh, opening her toothless mouth, and cleverly
throwing the child over from one hand to the other.

"You better go to your wife."

He obediently moved toward the bed and asked on his way:

"Well, how is it, Natalya?"

Then, on reaching her, he drew back the bed curtain, which had
thrown a shadow over the bed.

"I'll not survive this," said she in a low, hoarse voice.

Ignat was silent, fixedly staring at his wife's face, sunk in the
white pillow, over which her dark locks were spread out like dead
snakes. Yellow, lifeless, with black circles around her large,
wide-open eyes--her face was strange to him. And the glance of
those terrible eyes, motionlessly fixed somewhere in the distance
through the wall--that, too, was unfamiliar to Ignat. His heart,
compressed by a painful foreboding, slackened its joyous throbbing.

"That's nothing. That's nothing. It's always like this," said he
softly, bending over his wife to give her a kiss. But she moaned
right into his face:

"I'll not survive this."

Her lips were gray and cold, and when he touched them with his
own he understood that death was already within her.

"Oh, Lord!" he uttered, in an alarmed whisper, feeling that
fright was choking his throat and suppressing his breath.

"Natasha? What will become of him? He must be nursed! What is the
matter with you?"

He almost began to cry at his wife. The midwife was bustling
about him; shaking the crying child in the air. She spoke to him
reassuringly, but he heard nothing--he could not turn his eyes
away from the frightful face of his wife. Her lips were moving,
and he heard words spoken in a low voice, but could not
understand them. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he spoke in a
dull and timid voice: "Just think of it! He cannot do without
you; he's an infant! Gather strength! Drive this thought away
from you! Drive it away."

He talked, yet he understood he was speaking useless words. Tears
welled up within him, and in his breast there came a feeling
heavy as stone and cold as ice.

"Forgive me. Goodbye! Take care. Look out. Don't drink,"
whispered Natalya, soundlessly.

The priest came, and, covering her face with something, and
sighing, began to read gentle, beseeching words:

"0h God, Almighty Lord, who cureth every disease, cure also Thy
servant Natalya, who has just given birth to a child; and restore
her from the bed on which she now lies, for in the words of David,
'We indulge in lawlessness and are wicked in Thine eyes."'

The old man's voice was interrupted now and then, his thin face
was stern and from his clothes came the odour of rock-rose.

"Guard the infant born of her, guard him from all possible
temptation, from all possible cruelty, from all possible storms,
from evil spirits, night and day."

Ignat listened to the prayer, and wept silently. His big, hot
tears fell on the bare hand of his wife. But the hand, evidently,
did not feel that the tears were dropping upon it: it remained
motionless, and the skin did not tremble from the fall of the
tears. After the prayer Natalya became unconscious and a day
later she died, without saying another word--she died just as
quietly as she had lived. Having arranged a pompous funeral,
Ignat christened his son, named him Foma, and unwillingly gave
his boy into the family of the godfather, his old friend Mayakin,
whose wife, too, had given birth to a child not long before. The
death of his wife had sown many gray hairs in Ignat's dark beard,
but in the stern glitter of his eyes appeared a new expression,
gentle, clear and mild.

CHAPTER II

MAYAKIN lived in an enormous two-story house near a big palisade,
where sturdy, old spreading linden trees were growing
magnificently. The rank branches covered the windows with a
dense, dark embroidery, and the sun in broken rays peeped into
the small rooms, which were closely crowded with miscellaneous
furniture and big trunks, wherefore a stern and melancholy semi-
darkness always reigned there supreme. The family was devout--the
odour of wax, of rock-rose and of image-lamp oil filled the
house, and penitent sighs and prayers soared about in the air.
Religious ceremonials were performed infallibly, with pleasure,
absorbing all the free power of the souls of the dwellers of the
house. Feminine figures almost noiselessly moved about the rooms
in the half-dark, stifling, heavy atmosphere. They were dressed
in black, wore soft slippers on their feet, and always had a
penitent look on their faces.

The family of Yakov Tarazovich Mayakin consisted of himself, his
wife, a daughter and five kinswomen, the youngest of whom was
thirty-four years old. These were alike devout and impersonal,
and subordinate to Antonina Ivanovna, the mistress of the house.
She was a tall, thin woman, with a dark face and with stern gray
eyes, which had an imperious and intelligent expression. Mayakin
also had a son Taras, but his name was never mentioned in the
house; acquaintances knew that since the nineteen-year-old Taras
had gone to study in Moscow--he married there three years later,
against his father's will--Yakov disowned him. Taras disappeared
without leaving any trace. It was rumoured that he had been sent
to Siberia for something.

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'
Catherine, consequently I am a pure-blooded man."

In this family Ignat Gordyeeff's son lived for six years. By the
time he was seven years old Foma was a big-headed, broad-
shouldered boy, seemingly older that his years, both in his size
and in the serious look of his dark, almond-shaped eyes. Quiet,
silent and persistent in his childish desires, he spent all his
days over his playthings, with Mayakin's daughter, Luba, quietly
looked after by one of the kinswomen, a stout, pock-marked old
maid, who was, for some reason or other, nicknamed "Buzya." She
was a dull, somewhat timid creature; and even to the children she
spoke in a low voice, in words of monosyllables. Having devoted
her time to learning prayers, she had no stories to tell Foma.

Foma was on friendly terms with the little girl, but when she
angered or teased him he turned pale, his nostrils became
distended, his eyes stared comically and he beat her audaciously.
She cried, ran to her mother and complained to her, but Antonina
loved Foma and she paid but little attention to her daughter's
complaints, which strengthened the friendship between the
children still more. Foma's day was long and uniform. Getting out
of bed and washing himself, he used to place himself before the
image, and under the whispering of the pock-marked Buzya he
recited long prayers. Then they drank tea and ate many biscuits,
cakes and pies. After tea--during the summer--the children went
to the big palisade, which ran down to a ravine, whose bottom
always looked dark and damp, filling them with terror. The
children were not allowed to go even to the edge of the ravine,
and this inspired in them a fear of it. In winter, from tea time
to dinner, they played in the house when it was very cold
outside, or went out in the yard to slide down the big ice hill.

They had dinner at noon, "in Russian style," as Mayakin said. At
first a big bowl of fat, sour cabbage soup was served with rye
biscuits in, but without meat, then the same soup was eaten with
meat cut into small pieces; then they ate roast meat--pork,
goose, veal or rennet, with gruel--then again a bowl of soup with
vermicelli, and all this was usually followed by dessert. They
drank kvass made of red bilberries, juniper-berries, or of bread--
Antonina Ivanovna always carried a stock of different kinds of
kvass. They ate in silence, only now and then uttering a sigh of
fatigue; the children each ate out of a separate bowl, the adults
eating out of one bowl. Stupefied by such a dinner, they went to
sleep; and for two or three hours Mayakin's house was filled with
snoring and with drowsy sighs.

Awaking from sleep, they drank tea and talked about local news,
the choristers, the deacons, weddings, or the dishonourable
conduct of this or that merchant. After tea Mayakin used to say
to his wife:

"Well, mother, hand me the Bible."

Yakov Tarasovich used to read the Book of Job more often than
anything else. Putting his heavy, silver-framed spectacles on his
big, ravenous nose, he looked around at his listeners to see
whether all were in their places.

They were all seated where he was accustomed to see them and on
their faces was a familiar, dull and timid expression of piety.

"There was a man in the land of Uz," began Mayakin, in a hoarse
voice, and Foma, sitting beside Luba on the lounge in the corner
of the room, knew beforehand that soon his godfather would become
silent and pat his bald head with his hand. He sat and, listening,
pictured to himself this man from the land of Uz. The man was tall
and bare, his eyes were enormously large, like those of the image
of the Saviour, and his voice was like a big brass trumpet on which
the soldiers played in the camps. The man was constantly growing bigger
and bigger; and, reaching the sky, he thrust his dark hands into the
clouds, and, tearing them asunder, cried out in a terrible voice:

"Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath
hedged in?"

Dread fell on Foma, and he trembled, slumber fled from his eyes,
he heard the voice of his godfather, who said, with a light
smile, now and then pinching his beard:

"See how audacious he was!"

The boy knew that his godfather spoke of the man from the land of
Uz, and the godfather's smile soothed the child. So the man would
not break the sky; he would not rend it asunder with his terrible
arms. And then Foma sees the man again--he sits on the ground,
"his flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust, his skin is
broken." But now he is small and wretched, he is like a beggar at
the church porch.

Here he says:

"What is man, that he should be clean? And he which is born
of woman, that he should be righteous?" [These words attributed
by Mayakin to Job are from Eliphaz the Temanite's reply--
Translator's Note.]

"He says this to God," explained Mayakin, inspired. "How, says
he, can I be righteous, since I am made of flesh? That's a
question asked of God. How is that?"

And the reader, triumphantly and interrogatively looks around at
his listeners.

"He merited it, the righteous man," they replied with a sigh.

Yakov Mayakin eyes them with a smile, and says:

"Fools! You better put the children to sleep."

Ignat visited the Mayakins every day, brought playthings for his
son, caught him up into his arms and hugged him, but sometimes
dissatisfied he said to him with ill-concealed uneasiness:

"Why are you such a bugbear? Oh! Why do you laugh so little?"

And he would complain to the lad's godfather:

"I am afraid that he may turn out to be like his mother. His eyes
are cheerless."

"You disturb yourself rather too soon," Mayakin smilingly replied.

He, too, loved his godson, and when Ignat announced to him one
day that he would take Foma to his own house, Mayakin was very
much grieved.

"Leave him here," he begged. "See, the child is used to us;
there! he's crying."

"He'll cease crying. I did not beget him for you. The air of the
place is disagreeable. It is as tedious here as in an old
believer's hermitage. This is harmful to the child. And without
him I am lonesome. I come home--it is empty. I can see nothing
there. It would not do for me to remove to your house for his
sake. I am not for him, he is for me. So. And now that my sister
has come to my house there will be somebody to look after him."

And the boy was brought to his father's house.

There he was met by a comical old woman, with a long, hook-like
nose and with a mouth devoid of teeth. Tall, stooping, dressed in
gray, with gray hair, covered by a black silk cap, she did not
please the boy at first; she even frightened him. But when he
noticed on the wrinkled face her black eyes, which beamed so
tenderly on him, he at once pressed his head close to her knees
in confidence.

"My sickly little orphan!" she said in a velvet-like voice that
trembled from the fulness of sound, and quietly patted his face
with her hand, "stay close to me, my dear child!"

There was something particularly sweet and soft in her caresses,
something altogether new to Foma, and he stared into the old
woman's eyes with curiosity and expectation on his face. This old
woman led him into a new world, hitherto unknown to him. The very
first day, having put him to bed, she seated herself by his side,
and, bending over the child, asked him:

"Shall I tell you a story, Fomushka?"

And after that Foma always fell asleep amid the velvet-like
sounds of the old woman's voice, which painted before him a magic
life. Giants defeating monsters, wise princesses, fools who
turned out to be wise--troops of new and wonderful people were
passing before the boy's bewitched imagination, and his soul was
nourished by the wholesome beauty of the national creative power.
Inexhaustible were the treasures of the memory and the fantasy of
this old woman, who oftentimes, in slumber, appeared to the boy--
now like the witch of the fairy-tales--only a kind and amiable
old witch--now like the beautiful, all-wise Vasilisa. His eyes
wide open, holding his breath, the boy looked into the darkness
that filled his chamber and watched it as it slowly trembled in
the light of the little lamp that was burning before the image.
And Foma filled this darkness with wonderful pictures of fairy-
tale life. Silent, yet living shadows, were creeping over the
walls and across the floor; it was both pleasant and terrible to
him to watch their life; to deal out unto them forms and colours,
and, having endowed them with life, instantly to destroy them all
with a single twinkle of the eyelashes. Something new appeared in
his dark eyes, something more childish and naive, less grave; the
loneliness and the darkness, awaking in him a painful feeling of
expectation, stirred his curiosity, compelled him to go out to
the dark corner and see what was hidden there beyond the thick
veils of darkness. He went and found nothing, but he lost no hope
of finding it out.

He feared his father and respected him. Ignat's enormous size,
his harsh, trumpet-like voice, his bearded face, his gray-haired
head, his powerful, long arms and his flashing eyes--all these
gave to Ignat the resemblance of the fairy-tale robbers.

Foma shuddered whenever he heard his voice or his heavy, firm
steps; but when the father, smiling kind-heartedly, and talking
playfully in a loud voice, took him upon his knees or threw him
high up in the air with his big hands the boy's fear vanished.

Once, when the boy was about eight years old, he asked his
father, who had returned from a long journey:

"Papa, where were you?"

"On the Volga."

"Were you robbing there?" asked Foma, softly.

"Wha-at?" Ignat drawled out, and his eyebrows contracted.

"Aren't you a robber, papa? I know it," said Foma, winking his
eyes slyly, satisfied that he had already read the secret of his
father's life.

"I am a merchant!" said Ignat, sternly, but after a moment's
thought he smiled kind-heartedly and added: "And you are a little
fool! I deal in corn, I run a line of steamers. Have you seen the
'Yermak'? Well, that is my steamer. And yours, too."

"It is a very big one," said Foma with a sigh.

"Well, I'll buy you a small one while you are small yourself.
Shall I?"

"Very well," Foma assented, but after a thoughtful silence he
again drawled out regretfully: "But I thought you were a robber
or a giant."

"I tell you I am a merchant!" repeated Ignat, insinuatingly, and
there was something discontented and almost timorous in his
glance at the disenchanted face of his son.

"Like Grandpa Fedor, the Kalatch baker?" asked Foma, having
thought awhile.

"Well, yes, like him. Only I am richer than he. I have more money
than Fedor."

"Have you much money?"

Well, some people have still more."

"How many barrels do you have?"

"Of what?"

"Of money, I mean."

"Fool! Is money counted by the barrel?"

"How else?" exclaimed Foma, enthusiastically, and, turning his
face toward his father, began to tell him quickly: "Maksimka, the
robber, came once to a certain town and filled up twelve barrels
with money belonging to some rich man there. And he took different silverware and robbed a church. And cut up a man with his sword
and threw him down the steeple because he tried to sound an alarm."

"Did your aunt tell you that?" asked Ignat admiring his son's
enthusiasm.

"Yes! Why?"

"Nothing!" said Ignat, laughing. "So you thought your father was
a robber."

"And perhaps you were a robber long ago?"

Foma again returned to his theme, and it was evident on his face
that he would be very glad to hear an affirmative answer.

"I was never a robber. Let that end it."

"Never?"

"I tell you I was not! What a queer little boy you are! Is it
good to be a robber? They are all sinners, the robbers. They
don't believe in God--they rob churches. They are all cursed in
the churches. Yes. Look here, my son, you'll have to start to
study soon. It is time; you'll soon be nine years old. Start with
the help of God. You'll study during the winter and in spring
I'll take you along with me on the Volga."

"Will I go to school?" asked Foma, timidly.

"First you'll study at home with auntie." Soon after the boy
would sit down near the table in the morning and, fingering the
Slavonic alphabet, repeat after his aunt:

"Az, Buky, Vedy."

When they reached "bra, vra, gra, dra" for a long time the boy
could not read these syllables without laughter. Foma succeeded
easily in gaining knowledge, almost without any effort, and soon
he was reading the first psalm of the first section of the
psalter: "Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of
the ungodly."

"That's it, my darling! So, Fomushka, that's right!" chimed in
his aunt with emotion, enraptured by his progress.

"You're a fine fellow, Foma!" Ignat would approvingly say when
informed of his son's progress. "We'll go to Astrakhan for fish
in the spring, and toward autumn I'll send you to school!"

The boy's life rolled onward, like a ball downhill. Being his
teacher, his aunt was his playmate as well. Luba Mayakin used to
come, and when with them, the old woman readily became one of them.

They played at "hide and seek and "blind man's buff;" the
children were pleased and amused at seeing Anfisa, her eyes
covered with a handkerchief, her arms outstretched, walking about
the room carefully, and yet striking against chairs and tables,
or looking for them in each and every commodious corner, saying:

"Eh, little rascals. Eh, rogues. Where have they hidden
themselves? Eh?"

And the sun shone cheerfully and playfully upon the old worn-out
body, which yet retained a youthful soul, and upon the old life,
that was adorning, according to its strength and abilities, the
life-path of two children.

Ignat used to go to the Exchange early in the morning and
sometimes stayed away until evening; in the evening he used to go
to the town council or visiting or elsewhere. Sometimes he
returned home intoxicated. At first Foma, on such occasions, ran
from him and hid himself, then he became accustomed to it, and
learned that his father was better when drunk than sober: he was
kinder and plainer and was somewhat comical. If it happened at
night, the boy was usually awakened by his trumpet-like voice:

"Anfisa! Dear sister! Let me in to my son; let me in to my successor!"

And auntie answered him in a crying and reproachful voice:

"Go on. You better go to sleep, you cursed devil! Drunk again, eh?
You are gray already?"

"Anfisa! May I see my son, with one eye?" Foma knew that Anfisa
would not let him in, and he again fell asleep in spite of the
noise of their voices. But when Ignat came home intoxicated
during the day he immediately seized his son with his enormous
paws and carried him about the rooms, asking him with an
intoxicated, happy laughter:

"Fomka! What do you wish? Speak! Presents? Playthings? Ask!
Because you must know there's nothing in this world that I
wouldn't buy for you. I have a million! Ha, ha, ha! And I'll have
still more! Understand? All's yours! Ha, ha!"

And suddenly his enthusiasm was extinguished like a candle put
out by a violent puff of the wind. His flushed face began to
shake, his eyes, burning red, filled with tears, and his lips
expanded into a sad and frightened smile.

"Anfisa, in case he should die, what am I to do then?"

And immediately after these words he was seized with fury.

"I'd burn everything!" he roared, staring wildly into some dark
corner of the room. "I'd destroy everything! I'd blow it up with
dynamite!"

"Enough, you ugly brute! Do you wish to frighten the child? Or do
you want him to take sick?" interposed Anfisa, and that was
sufficient for Ignat to rush off hastily, muttering:

"Well, well, well! I am going, I am going, but don't cry! Don't
make any noise. Don't frighten him."

And when Foma was somewhat sick, his father, casting everything
aside, did not leave the house for a moment, but bothered his
sister and his son with stupid questions and advice; gloomy,
sighing, and with fear in his eyes, he walked about the house
quite out of sorts.

"Why do you vex the Lord?" said Anfisa. "Beware, your grumblings
will reach Him, and He will punish you for your complaints
against His graces."

"Eh, sister!" sighed Ignat. "And if it should happen? My entire
life is crumbling away! Wherefore have I lived? No one knows."

Similar scenes and the striking transitions of his father from
one mood to another frightened the child at first, but he soon
became accustomed to all this, and when he noticed through the
window that his father, on coming home, was hardly able to get
out of the sledge, Foma said indifferently:

"Auntie, papa came home drunk again."

.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Spring came, and, fulfilling his promise, Ignat took his son
along on one of his steamers, and here a new life, abounding in
impressions, was opened before Foma's eyes.

The beautiful and mighty "Yermak," Gordyeeff's steam tow-boat,
was rapidly floating down the current, and on each side the
shores of the powerful and beautiful Volga were slowly moving
past him--the left side, all bathed in sunshine, stretching
itself to the very end of the sky like a pompous carpet of
verdure; the right shore, its high banks overgrown with woods,
swung skyward, sinking in stern repose.

The broad-bosomed river stretched itself majestically between the
shores; noiselessly, solemnly and slowly flowed its waters,
conscious of their invincible power; the mountainous shore is
reflected in the water in a black shadow, while on the left side
it is adorned with gold and with verdant velvet by a border of
sand and the wide meadows. Here and there villages appear on
mountain and on meadow, the sun shines bright on the window-panes
of the huts and on the yellow roofs of straw, the church crosses
sparkle amid the verdure of the trees, gray wind-mill wings
revolve lazily in the air, smoke from the factory chimney rises
skyward in thick, black curling clouds. Crowds of children in
blue, red or white shirts, standing on the banks, shouted loudly
at the sight of the steamer, which had disturbed the quiet of the
river, and from under the steamer's wheels the cheerful waves are
rushing toward the feet of the children and splash against the
bank. Now a crowd of children, seated in a boat, rowed toward the
middle of the river to rock there on the waves as in a cradle.
Trees stood out above the water; sometimes many of them are
drowned in the overflow of the banks, and these stand in the
water like islands. From the shore a melancholy song is heard:

"Oh, o-o-o, once more!"

The steamer passes many rafts, splashing them with waves. The
beams are in continual motion under the blows of the waves; the
men on the rafts in blue shirts, staggering, look at the steamer
and laugh and shout something. The big, beautiful vessel goes
sidewise on the river; the yellow scantlings with which it is
loaded sparkle like gold and are dimly reflected in the muddy,
vernal water. A passenger steamer comes from the opposite side
and whistles--the resounding echo of the whistle loses itself in
the woods, in the gorges of the mountainous bank, and dies away
there. In the middle of the river the waves stirred up by the two
vessels strike against one another and splash against the
steamers' sides, and the vessels are rocked upon the water. On
the slope of the mountainous bank are verdant carpets of winter
corn, brown strips of fallow ground and black strips of ground
tilled for spring corn. Birds, like little dots, soar over them,
and are clearly seen in the blue canopy of the sky; nearby a
flock is grazing; in the distance they look like children's toys;
the small figure of the shepherd stands leaning on a staff, and
looks at the river.

The glare of the water-- freedom and liberty are everywhere, the
meadows are cheerfully verdant and the blue sky is tenderly
clear; a restrained power is felt in the quiet motion of the
water; above it the generous May sun is shining, the air is
filled with the exquisite odour of fir trees and of fresh
foliage. And the banks keep on meeting them, caressing the eyes
and the soul with their beauty, as new pictures constantly unfold
themselves.

Everything surrounding them bears the stamp of some kind of
tardiness: all--nature as well as men--live there clumsily,
lazily; but in that laziness there is an odd gracefulness, and it
seems as though beyond the laziness a colossal power were concealed;
an invincible power, but as yet deprived of consciousness, as yet
without any definite desires and aims. And the absence of consciousness
in this half-slumbering life throws shades of sadness over all the
beautiful slope. Submissive patience, silent hope for something new
and more inspiriting are heard even in the cry of the cuckoo, wafted
to the river by the wind from the shore. The melancholy songs sound
as though imploring someone for help. And at times there is in them a
ring of despair. The river answers the songs with sighs. And the tree-
tops shake, lost in meditation. Silence.

Foma spent all day long on the captain's bridge beside his
father. Without uttering a word, he stared wide-eyed at the
endless panorama of the banks, and it seemed to him he was moving
along a broad silver path in those wonderful kingdoms inhabited
by the sorcerers and giants of his familiar fairy-tales. At times
he would load his father with questions about everything that
passed before them. Ignat answered him willingly and concisely,
but the boy was not pleased with his answers; they contained
nothing interesting and intelligible to him, and he did not hear
what he longed to hear. Once he told his father with a sigh:

"Auntie Anfisa knows better than you."

"What does she know?" asked Ignat, smiling.

"Everything," replied the boy, convincedly.

No wonderful kingdom appeared before him. But often cities
appeared on the banks of the river, just such cities as the one
where Foma lived. Some of them were larger, some smaller, but the
people, and the houses, and the churches--all were the same as in
his own city. Foma examined them in company with his father, but was
still unsatisfied and returned to the steamer gloomy and fatigued.

"Tomorrow we shall be in Astrakhan," said Ignat one day.

"And is it just the same as the other cities?"

"Of course. How else should it be?"

"And what is beyond Astrakhan?"

"The sea. The Caspian Sea it is called."

"And what is there?"

"Fishes, queer fellow! What else can there be in the water?"

"There's the city Kitezh standing in the water."

"That's a different thing! That's Kitezh. Only righteous people
live there."

"And are there no righteous cities on the sea?"

No," said Ignat, and, after a moment's silence, added: "The sea
water is bitter and nobody can drink it."

"And is there more land beyond the sea?"

"Certainly, the sea must have an end. It is like a cup."

"And are there cities there too?"

"Again cities. Of course! Only that land is not ours, it belongs
to Persia. Did you see the Persians selling pistachio-nuts and
apricots in the market?"

"Yes, I saw them," replied Foma, and became pensive.

One day he asked his father:

"Is there much more land left?"

"The earth is very big, my dear! If you should go on foot, you
couldn't go around it even in ten years."

Ignat talked for a long time with his son about the size of the
earth, and said at length:

"And yet no one knows for certain how big it really is, nor where
it ends."

"And is everything alike on earth?"

"What do you mean?"

"The cities and all?"

"Well, of course, the cities are like cities. There are houses,
streets--and everything that is necessary."

After many similar conversations the boy no longer stared so
often into the distance with the interrogative look of his black
eyes.

The crew of the steamer loved him, and he, too, loved those fine,
sun-burnt and weather-beaten fellows, who laughingly played with
him. They made fishing tackles for him, and little boats out of
bark, played with him and rowed him about the anchoring place,
when Ignat went to town on business. The boy often heard the men
talking about his father, but he paid no attention to what they
said, and never told his father what he heard about him. But one
day, in Astrakhan, while the steamer was taking in a cargo of
fuel, Foma heard the voice of Petrovich, the machinist:

"He ordered such a lot of wood to be taken in. What an absurd
man! First he loads the steamer up to the very deck, and then he
roars. 'You break the machinery too often,' he says. 'You pour
oil,' he says, 'at random.'"

The voice of the gray and stern pilot replied:

"It's all his exorbitant greediness. Fuel is cheaper here, so he
is taking all he can. He is greedy, the devil!"

"Oh, how greedy!"

This word, repeated many times in succession, fixed itself in Foma's
memory, and in the evening, at supper, he suddenly asked his father:

"Papa!"

"What?"

"Are you greedy?"

In reply to his father's questions Foma told him of the conversation
between the pilot and the machinist. Ignat's face became gloomy, and
his eyes began to flash angrily.

"That's how it is," ejaculated Ignat, shaking his head. "Well,
you--don't you listen to them. They are not your equals; don't
have so much to do with them. You are their master, they are your
servants, understand that. If we choose to, we can put every one
of them ashore. They are cheap and they can be found everywhere
like dogs. Understand? They may say many bad things about me. But
they say them, because I am their master. The whole thing arises
because I am fortunate and rich, and the rich are always envied.
A happy man is everybody's enemy."

About two days later there was a new pilot and another machinist
on the steamer.

"And where is Yakov?" asked the boy.

"I discharged him. I ordered him away."

"For that?" queried Foma.

"Yes, for that very thing."

"And Petrovich, too?"

"Yes, I sent him the same way."

Foma was pleased with the fact that his father was able to change
the men so quickly. He smiled to his father, and, coming out on
the deck, walked up to a sailor, who sat on the floor, untwisting
a piece of rope and making a swab.

"We have a new pilot here," announced Foma.

"I know. Good health to you, Foma Ignatich! How did you sleep?"

"And a new machinist, too."

"And a new machinist. Are you sorry for Petrovich?"

"Really? And he was so good to you."

"Well, why did he abuse my father?"

"Oh? Did he abuse him?"

"Of course he did. I heard it myself."

"Mm--and your father heard it, too?"

"No, I told him."

"You--so"--drawled the sailor and became silent, taking up his
work again.

"And papa says to me: 'You,' he says, 'you are master here--you
can drive them all away if you wish.'"

"So," said the sailor, gloomily looking at the boy, who was so
enthusiastically boasting to him of his supreme power. From that
day on Foma noticed that the crew did not regard him as before.
Some became more obliging and kind, others did not care to speak
to him, and when they did speak to him, it was done angrily, and
not at all entertainingly, as before. Foma liked to watch while
the deck was being washed: their trousers rolled up to their
knees, or sometimes taken off altogether, the sailors, with swabs
and brushes in their hands, cleverly ran about the deck, emptying
pails of water on it, besprinkling one another, laughing,
shouting, falling. Streams of water ran in every direction, and
the lively noise of the men intermingled with the gray splash of
the water. Before, the boy never bothered the sailors in this
playful and light work; nay, he took an active part, besprinkling
them with water and laughingly running away, when they threatened
to pour water over him. But after Yakov and Petrovich had been
discharged, he felt that he was in everybody's way, that no one
cared to play with him and that no one regarded him kindly.
Surprised and melancholy, he left the deck, walked up to the
wheel, sat down there, and, offended, he thoughtfully began to
stare at the distant green bank and the dented strip of woods
upon it. And below, on the deck, the water was splashing
playfully, and the sailors were gaily laughing. He yearned to go
down to them, but something held him back.

"Keep away from them as much as possible," he recalled his
father's words; "you are their master." Then he felt like
shouting at the sailors--something harsh and authoritative, so
his father would scold them. He thought a long time what to say,
but could not think of anything. Another two, three days passed,
and it became perfectly clear to him that the crew no longer
liked him. He began to feel lonesome on the steamer, and amid the
parti-coloured mist of new impressions, still more often there
came up before Foma the image of his kind and gentle Aunt Anfisa,
with her stories, and smiles, and soft, ringing laughter, which
filled the boy's soul with a joyous warmth. He still lived in the
world of fairy-tales, but the invisible and pitiless hand of
reality was already at work tearing the beautiful, fine web of
the wonderful, through which the boy had looked at everything
about him. The incident with the machinist and the pilot directed
his attention to his surroundings; Foma's eyes became more sharp-
sighted. A conscious searchfulness appeared in them and in his
questions to his father rang a yearning to understand which
threads and springs were managing the deeds of men.

One day a scene took place before him: the sailors were carrying
wood, and one of them, the young, curly-haired and gay Yefim,
passing the deck of the ship with hand-barrows, said loudly and
angrily:

"No, he has no conscience whatever! There was no agreement that I
should carry wood. A sailor--well, one's business is clear--but
to carry wood into the bargain--thank you! That means for me to
take off the skin I have not sold. He is without conscience! He
thinks it is clever to sap the life out of us."

The boy heard this grumbling and knew that it was concerning his
father. He also noticed that although Yefim was grumbling, he
carried more wood on his stretcher than the others, and walked
faster than the others. None of the sailors replied to Yefim's
grumbling, and even the one who worked with him was silent, only
now and then protesting against the earnestness with which Yefim
piled up the wood on the stretchers.

"Enough!" he would say, morosely, "you are not loading a horse,
are you?"

"And you had better keep quiet. You were put to the cart--cart it
and don't kick--and should your blood be sucked--keep quiet
again. What can you say?"

Suddenly Ignat appeared, walked up to the sailor and, stopping in
front of him, asked sternly:

"What were you talking about?"

"I am talking--I know," replied Yefim, hesitating. "There was no
agreement--that I must say nothing."

"And who is going to suck blood?" asked Ignat, stroking his beard.

The sailor understood that he had been caught unawares, and seeing no
way out of it, he let the log of wood fall from his hands, rubbed his
palms against his pants, and, facing Ignat squarely, said rather boldly:

"And am I not right? Don't you suck it?"

"I?"

"You."

Foma saw that his father swung his hand. A loud blow resounded,
and the sailor fell heavily on the wood. He arose immediately and
worked on in silence. Blood was trickling from his bruised face
on to the white bark of the birch wood; he wiped the blood off
his face with the sleeve of his shirt, looked at his sleeve and,
heaving a sigh, maintained silence, and when he went past Foma
with the hand-harrows, two big, turbid tears were trembling on
his face, near the bridge of his nose, and Foma noticed them.

At dinner Foma was pensive and now and then glanced at his father
with fear in his eyes.

"Why do you frown?" asked his father, gently.

"Frown?"

"Are you ill, perhaps? Be careful. If there is anything, tell me."

"You are strong," said Foma of a sudden musingly.

"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."

Ignat was silent for awhile, drank some more vodka and went on
instinctively:

"It is necessary to have pity on men. You are right in doing so.
But you must pity them sensibly. First look at a man, find out
what good there is in him, and what use may be made of him! And
if you find him to be strong and capable--pity and assist him.
And if he is weak and not inclined to work--spit upon him, pass
him by. Just keep this in mind--the man who complains against
everything, who sighs and moans all the time--that man is worth
nothing; he merits no compassion and you will do him no good
whatever, even if you help him. Pity for such people makes them
more morose, spoils them the more. In your godfather's house you
saw various kinds of people--unfortunate travellers and hangers-
on, and all sorts of rabble. Forget them. They are not men, they
are just shells, and are good for nothing. They are like bugs,
fleas and other unclean things. Nor do they live for God's sake--
they have no God. They call His name in vain, in order to move
fools to pity, and, thus pitied, to fill their bellies with
something. They live but for their bellies, and aside from
eating, drinking, sleeping and moaning they can do nothing. And
all they accomplish is the soul's decay. They are in your way and
you trip over them. A good man among them--like fresh apples
among bad ones--may soon be spoilt, and no one will profit by it.
You are young, that's the trouble. You cannot comprehend my
words. Help him who is firm in misery. He may not ask you for
assistance, but think of it yourself, and assist him without his
request. And if he should happen to be proud and thus feel
offended at your aid, do not allow him to see that you are
lending him a helping hand. That's the way it should be done,
according to common sense! Here, for example, two boards, let us
say, fall into the mud--one of them is a rotten one, the other, a
good sound board. What should you do? What good is there in the
rotten board? You had better drop it, let it stay in the mud and
step on it so as not to soil your feet. As to the sound board,
lift it up and place it in the sun; if it can be of no use to
you, someone else may avail himself of it. That's the way it is,
my son! Listen to me and remember. There is no reason why Yefim
should be pitied. He is a capable fellow, he knows his value. You
cannot knock his soul out with a box on the ear. I'll just watch
him for about a week, and then I'll put him at the helm. And
there, I am quite sure, he'll be a good pilot. And if he should
be promoted to captain, he wouldn't lose courage--he would make a
clever captain! That's the way people grow. I have gone through
this school myself, dear. I, too, received more than one box on
the ear when I was of his age. Life, my son, is not a dear mother
to all of us. It is our exacting mistress."

Ignat talked with his son about two hours, telling him of his own
youth, of his toils, of men; their terrible power, and of their
weakness; of how they live, and sometimes pretend to be
unfortunate in order to live on other people's money; and then he
told him of himself, and of how he rose from a plain working man
to be proprietor of a large concern. The boy listened to his
words, looked at him and felt as though his father were coming
nearer and nearer to him. And though his father's story did not
contain the material of which Aunt Anfisa's fairy-tales were
brimful, there was something new in it, something clearer and
more comprehensible than in her fairy-tales, and something just
as interesting. Something powerful and warm began to throb within
his little heart, and he was drawn toward his father. Ignat,
evidently, surmised his son's feelings by his eyes: he rose
abruptly from his seat, seized him in his arms and pressed him
firmly to his breast. 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.
Every time that they were together Foma begged his father:

"Papa, tell me about yourself."

.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The steamer was now going up the Volga. One suffocating night in
July, when the sky was overcast with thick black clouds, and
everything on the Volga was somewhat ominously calm, they reached
Kazan and anchored near Uslon at the end of an enormous fleet of
vessels. The clinking of the anchor chains and the shouting of
the crew awakened Foma; he looked out of the window and saw, far
in the distance, small lights glimmering fantastically: the water
about the boat black and thick, like oil--and nothing else could
be seen. The boy's heart trembled painfully and he began to
listen attentively. A scarcely audible, melancholy song reached
his ears--mournful and monotonous as a chant on the caravan the
watchmen called to one another; the steamer hissed angrily
getting up steam. And the black water of the river splashed sadly
and quietly against the sides of the vessels. Staring fixedly
into the darkness, until his eyes hurt, the boy discerned black
piles and small lights dimly burning high above them. He knew
that those were barges, but this knowledge did not calm him and
his heart throbbed unevenly, and, in his imagination, terrifying
dark images arose.

"O-o-o," a drawling cry came from the distance and ended like a
wail.

Someone crossed the deck and went up to the side of the steamer.

"O-o-o," was heard again, but nearer this time.

"Yefim!" some one called in a low voice on the deck. "Yefimka!"

"Well?"

"Devil! Get up! Take the boat-hook."

"O-o-o," someone moaned near by, and Foma, shuddering, stepped
back from the window.

The queer sound came nearer and nearer and grew in strength, sobbed
and died out in the darkness. While on the deck they whispered
with alarm:

"Yefimka! Get up! A guest is floating!"

"Where?" came a hasty question, then bare feet began to patter about
the deck, a bustle was heard, and two boat-hooks slipped down past
the boy's face and almost noiselessly plunged into the water.

"A gue-e-est!" Some began to sob near by, and a quiet, but very
queer splash resounded.

The boy trembled with fright at this mournful cry, but he could
not tear his hands from the window nor his eyes from the water.

"Light the lantern. You can't see anything."

"Directly."

And then a spot of dim light fell over the water. Foma saw that
the water was rocking calmly, that a ripple was passing over it,
as though the water were afflicted, and trembled for pain.

"Look! Look!" they whispered on the deck with fright.

At the same time a big, terrible human face, with white teeth set
together, appeared on the spot of light. It floated and rocked in the
water, its teeth seemed to stare at Foma as though saying, with a smile:

"Eh, boy, boy, it is cold. Goodbye!"

The boat-hooks shook, were lifted in the air, were lowered again
into the water and carefully began to push something there.

"Shove him! Shove! Look out, he may be thrown under the wheel."

"Shove him yourself then."

The boat-hooks glided over the side of the steamer, and, scratching
against it, produced a noise like the grinding of teeth. Foma could
not close his eyes for watching them. The noise of feet stamping on
the deck, over his head, was gradually moving toward the stern. And
then again that moaning cry for the dead was heard:

"A gue-e-est!"

"Papa!" cried Foma in a ringing voice. "Papa!" His father jumped
to his feet and rushed toward him.

"What is that? What are they doing there?" cried Foma.

Wildly roaring, Ignat jumped out of the cabin with huge bounds.
He soon returned, sooner than Foma, staggering and looking around
him, had time to reach his father's bed.

"They frightened you? It's nothing!" said Ignat, taking him up in
his arms. "Lie down with me."

"What is it?" asked Foma, quietly.

"It was nothing, my son. Only a drowned man. A man was drowned
and he is floating. That's nothing! Don't be afraid, he has
already floated clear of us."

"Why did they push him?" interrogated the boy, firmly pressing
close to his father, and shutting his eyes for fright.

"It was necessary to do so. The water might have thrown him under
the wheel. Under ours, for instance. Tomorrow the police would
notice it, there would be trouble, inquests, and we would be held
here for examination. That's why we shoved him along. What
difference does it make to him? He is dead; it doesn't pain him;
it doesn't offend him. And the living would be troubled on his
account. Sleep, my son.

"So he will float on that way?"

"He will float. They'll take him out somewhere and bury him."

"And will a fish devour him?"

"Fish do not eat human bodies. Crabs eat them. They like them."

Foma's fright was melting, from the heat of his father's body,
but before his eyes the terrible sneering face was still rocking
in the black water.

"And who is he?"

"God knows! Say to God about him: '0h Lord, rest his soul! '"

"Lord, rest his soul!" repeated Foma, in a whisper.

"That's right. Sleep now, don't fear. He is far away now! Floating on.
See here, be careful as you go up to the side of the ship. You
may fall overboard. God forbid! And--"

"Did he fall overboard?"

"Of course. Perhaps he was drunk, and that's his end! And maybe
he threw himself into the water. There are people who do that.
They go and throw themselves into the water and are drowned.
Life, my dear, is so arranged that death is sometimes a holiday
for one, sometimes it is a blessing for all."

"Papa."

"Sleep, sleep, dear."

CHAPTER III

DURING the very first day of his school life, stupefied by the
lively and hearty noise of provoking mischiefs and of wild,
childish games, Foma picked out two boys from the crowd who at
once seemed more interesting to him than the others. One had a
seat in front of him. Foma, looking askance, saw a broad back; a
full neck, covered with freckles; big ears; and the back of the
head closely cropped, covered with light-red hair which stood out
like bristles.

When the teacher, a bald-headed man, whose lower lip hung down,
called out: "Smolin, African!" the red-headed boy arose slowly,
walked up to the teacher, calmly stared into his face, and,
having listened to the problem, carefully began to make big round
figures on the blackboard with chalk.

"Good enough!" said the teacher. "Yozhov, Nicolai. Proceed!"

One of Foma's neighbours, a fidgety little boy with black little
mouse-eyes, jumped up from his seat and passed through the aisle,
striking against everything and turning his head on all sides. At
the blackboard he seized the chalk, and, standing up on the toes
of his boots, noisily began to mark the board with the chalk,
creaking and filling with chalk dust, dashing off small,
illegible marks.

"Not so loud!" said the teacher, wrinkling his yellow face and
contracting his fatigued eyes. Yozhov spoke quickly and in a
ringing voice:

"Now we know that the first peddler made 17k. profit."

"Enough! Gordyeeff! Tell me what must we do in order to find out
how much the second peddler gained?"

Watching the conduct of the boys, so unlike each other, Foma was
thus taken unawares by the question and he kept quiet.

"Don't you know? How? Explain it to him, Smolin."

Having carefully wiped his fingers, which had been soiled with
chalk, Smolin put the rag away, and, without looking at Foma,
finished the problem and again began to wipe his hands, while
Yozhov, smiling and skipping along as he walked, returned to his
seat.

"Eh, you!" he whispered, seating himself beside Foma,
incidentally striking his side with his fist. "Why don't you know
it? What was the profit altogether? Thirty kopecks. And there
were two peddlers. One of them got 17. Well, how much did the
other one get?"

"I know," replied Foma, in a whisper, feeling confused and
examining the face of Smolin, who was sedately returning to his
seat. He didn't like that round, freckled face, with the blue
eyes, which were loaded with fat. And Yozhov pinched his leg and
asked:

"Whose son are you? The Frantic's?"

"Yes."

"So. Do you wish me to prompt you always?"

"Yes."

"And what will you give me for it?"

Foma thought awhile and asked:

"And do you know it all yourself?"

"I? I am the best pupil. You'll see for yourself."

"Hey, there! Yozhov, you are talking again?" cried the teacher,
faintly.

Yozhov jumped to his feet and said boldly:

"It's not I, Ivan Andreyich--it's Gordyeeff."

"Both of them were whispering," announced Smolin, serenely.

Wrinkling his face mournfully and moving his big lip comically,
the teacher reprimanded them all, but his words did not prevent
Yozhov from whispering immediately:

"Very well, Smolin! I'll remember you for telling."

"Well, why do you blame it all on the new boy?" asked Smolin, in
a low voice, without even turning his head to them.

"All right, all right," hissed Yozhov.

Foma was silent, looking askance at his brisk neighbour, who at
once pleased him and roused in him a desire to get as far as
possible away from him. During recess he learned from Yozhov that
Smolin, too, was rich, being the son of a tan-yard proprietor,
and that Yozhov himself was the son of a guard at the Court of
Exchequer, and very poor. The last was clearly evident by the
adroit boy's costume, made of gray fustian and adorned with
patches on the knees and elbows; by his pale, hungry-looking
face; and, by his small, angular and bony figure. This boy spoke in
a metallic alto, elucidating his words with grimaces and
gesticulations,
and he often used words whose meaning was known but to himself.

"We'll be friends," he announced to Foma.

"Why did you complain to the teacher about me?" Gordyeeff
reminded Yozhov, looking at him suspiciously.

"There! What's the difference to you? You are a new scholar and
rich. The teacher is not exacting with the rich. And I am a poor
hanger-on; he doesn't like me, because I am impudent and because
I never bring him any presents. If I had been a bad pupil he
would have expelled me long ago. You know I'll go to the
Gymnasium from here. I'll pass the second class and then I'll
leave. Already a student is preparing me for the second class.
There I'll study so that they can't hold me back! How many horses
do you have?"

"Three. What do you need to study so much for?" asked Foma.

"Because I am poor. The poor must study hard so that they may
become rich. They become doctors, functionaries, officers. I
shall be a 'tinkler.' A sword at my side, spur on my boots.
Cling, cling! And what are you going to be?"

"I don't know," said Foma, pensively, examining his companion.

"You need not be anything. And are you fond of pigeons?"

"Yes."

"What a good-for-nothing you are! Oh! Eh!" Yozhov imitated Foma's
slow way of speaking. "How many pigeons do you have?"

"I have none."

"Eh, you! Rich, and yet you have no pigeons. Even I have three.
If my father had been rich I would have had a hundred pigeons and
chased them all day long. Smolin has pigeons, too, fine ones!
Fourteen. He made me a present of one. Only, he is greedy. All
the rich are greedy. And you, are you greedy, too?"

"I don't know," said Foma, irresolutely.

"Come up to Smolin's and the three of us together will chase the
pigeons."

"Very well. If they let me."

"Why, does not your father like you?"

"He does like me."

"Well, then, he'll let you go. Only don't tell him that I am
coming. Perhaps he would not let you go with me. Tell him you
want to go to Smolin's. Smolin!"

A plump boy came up to them, and Yozhov accosted him, shaking his
head reproachfully:

"Eh, you red-headed slanderer! It isn't worth while to be friends
with you, blockhead!"

"Why do you abuse me?" asked Smolin, calmly, examining Foma
fixedly.

"I am not abusing you; I am telling the truth," Yozhov explained,
straightening himself with animation. "Listen! Although you are a
kissel, but--let it go! We'll come up to see you on Sunday after
mass."

"Come," Smolin nodded his head.

"We'll come up. They'll ring the bell soon. I must run to sell
the siskin," declared Yozhov, pulling out of his pocket a paper
package, wherein some live thing was struggling. And he
disappeared from the school-yard as mercury from the palm of a
hand.

"What a queer fellow he is!" said Foma, dumfounded by Yozhov's
adroitness and looking at Smolin interrogatively.

"He is always like this. He's very clever," the red-headed boy
explained.

"And cheerful, too," added Foma.

"Cheerful, too," Smolin assented. Then they became silent,
looking at each other.

"Will you come up with him to my house?" asked the red-headed boy.

"Yes."

"Come up. It's nice there."

Foma said nothing to this. Then Smolin asked him:

"Have you many friends?"

"I have none."

"Neither did I have any friends before I went to school. Only
cousins. Now you'll have two friends at once."

"Yes," said Foma.

"Are you glad?"

"I'm glad."

"When you have lots of friends, it is lively. And it is easier to
study, too--they prompt you."

"And are you a good pupil?"

"Of course! I do everything well," said Smolin, calmly.

The bell began to bang as though it had been frightened and was
hastily running somewhere.

Sitting in school, Foma began to feel somewhat freer, and
compared his friends with the rest of the boys. He soon learned
that they both were the very best boys in school and that they
were the first to attract everybody's attention, even as the two
figures 5 and 7, which had not yet been wiped off the blackboard.
And Foma felt very much pleased that his friends were better than
any of the other boys.

They all went home from school together, but Yozhov soon turned
into some narrow side street, while Smolin walked with Foma up to
his very house, and, departing, said:

"You see, we both go home the same way, too."

At home Foma was met with pomp: his father made him a present of
a heavy silver spoon, with an ingenious monogram on it, and his
aunt gave him a scarf knitted by herself. They were awaiting him
for dinner, having prepared his favourite dishes for him, and as
soon as he took off his coat, seated him at the table and began
to ply him with questions.

"Well, how was it? How did you like the school?" asked Ignat,
looking lovingly at his son's rosy, animated face.

"Pretty good. It's nice!" replied Foma.

"My darling!" sighed his aunt, with feeling, "look out, hold your
own with your friends. As soon as they offend you tell your
teachers about it."

"Go on. What else will you tell him?" Ignat smiled. "Never do
that! Try to get square with every offender yourself, punish him
with your own hand, not with somebody else's. Are there any good
fellows there?"

"There are two," Foma smiled, recalling Yozhov. "One of them is
so bold--terrible!"

"Whose is he?"

"A guard's son."

"Mm! Bold did you say?"

"Dreadfully bold!"

"Well, let him be! And the other?"

"The other one is red-headed. Smolin."

"Ah! Evidently Mitry Ivanovitch's son. Stick to him, he's good
company. Mitry is a clever peasant. If the son takes after his
father it is all right. But that other one--you know, Foma, you
had better invite them to our house on Sunday. I'll buy some
presents and you can treat them. We'll see what sort of boys they
are."

"Smolin asked me to come to him this Sunday," said Foma, looking
up at his father questioningly.

"So. Well, you may go! That's all right, go. Observe what kind of
people there are in the world. You cannot pass your life alone,
without friendship. Your godfather and I, for instance, have been
friends for more than twenty years, and I have profited a great
deal by his common sense. So you, too, try to be friendly with
those that are better and wiser than you. Rub against a good man,
like a copper coin against silver, and you may then pass for a
silver coin yourself."

And, bursting into laughter at his comparison, Ignat added
seriously:

"I was only jesting. Try to be, not artificial, but genuine. And
have some common sense, no matter how little, but your own. Have
you many lessons to do?"

"Many!" sighed the boy, and to his sigh, like an echo, his aunt
answered with a heavy sigh.

"Well, study. Don't be worse than others at school. Although,
I'll tell you, even if there were twenty-five classes in your
school, they could never teach you there anything save reading,
writing and arithmetic. You may also learn some naughty things,
but God protect you! I shall give you a terrible spanking if you
do. If you smoke tobacco I'll cut your lips off."

"Remember God, Fomushka," said the aunt. "See that you don't
forget our Lord."

"That's true! Honour God and your father. But I wish to tell you
that school books are but a trivial matter. You need these as a
carpenter needs an adze and a pointer. They are tools, but the
tools cannot teach you how to make use of them. Understand? Let
us see: Suppose an adze were handed to a carpenter for him to
square a beam with it. It's not enough to have hands and an adze;
it is also necessary for him to know how to strike the wood so as
not to hit his foot instead. To you the knowledge of reading and
writing is given, and you must regulate your life with it. Thus
it follows that books alone are but a trifle in this matter; it
is necessary to be able to take advantage of them. And it is this
ability that is more cunning than any books, and yet nothing
about it is written in the books. This, Foma, you must learn from
Life itself. A book is a dead thing, you may take it as you
please, you may tear it, break it--it will not cry out. While
should you but make a single wrong step in life, or wrongly
occupy a place in it, Life will start to bawl at you in a
thousand voices; it will deal you a blow, felling you to the
ground."

Foma, his elbows leaning on the table, attentively listened to
his father, and under the sound of his powerful voice he pictured
to himself now the carpenter squaring a beam, now himself, his
hands outstretched, carefully and stealthily approaching some
colossal and living thing, and desiring to grasp that terrible
something.

"A man must preserve himself for his work and must be thoroughly
acquainted with the road to it. A man, dear, is like the pilot on
a ship. In youth, as at high tide, go straight! A way is open to
you everywhere. But you must know when it is time to steer. The
waters recede--here you see a sandbank, there, a rock; it is
necessary to know all this and to slip off in time, in order to
reach the harbour safe and sound."

"I will reach it!" said the boy, looking at his father proudly
and with confidence.

"Eh? You speak courageously!" Ignat burst into laughter. And the
aunt also began to laugh kindly.

Since his trip with his father on the Volga, Foma became more
lively and talkative at home, with his father, with his aunt and
with Mayakin. But on the street, in a new place, or in the
presence of strangers, he was always gloomy, always looking about
him with suspicion, as though he felt something hostile to him
everywhere, something hidden from him spying on him.

At nights he sometimes awoke of a sudden and listened for a long
time to the silence about him, fixedly staring into the dark with
wide-open eyes. And then his father's stories were transformed
before him into images and pictures. Without being aware of it,
he mixed up those stories with his aunt's fairy-tales, thus
creating for himself a chaos of adventures wherein the bright
colours of fantasy were whimsically intertwined with the stern
shades of reality. This resulted in something colossal,
incomprehensible; the boy closed his eyes and drove it all away
from him and tried to check the play of his imagination, which
frightened him. In vain he attempted to fall asleep, and the
chamber became more and more crowded with dark images. Then he
quietly roused his aunt.

"Auntie! Auntie!"

"What? Christ be with you."

"I'll come to you," whispered Foma.

"Why? Sleep, darling, sleep."

"I am afraid," confessed the boy.

"You better say to yourself, 'And the Lord will rise again,' then
you won't be afraid."

Foma lies with his eyes open and says the prayer. The silence of
the night pictures itself before him in the form of an endless
expanse of perfectly calm, dark water, which has overflowed
everything and congealed; there is not a ripple on it, not a
shadow of a motion, and neither is there anything within it,
although it is bottomlessly deep. It is very terrible for one to
look down from the dark at this dead water. But now the sound of
the night watchman's mallet is heard, and the boy sees that the
surface of the water is beginning to tremble, and, covering the
surface with ripples, light little balls are dancing upon it. The
sound of the bell on the steeple, with one mighty swing, brings
all the water in agitation and it is slightly trembling from that
sound; a big spot of light is also trembling, spreading light
upon the water, radiating from its centre into the dark distance,
there growing paler and dying out. Again there is weary and
deathlike repose in this dark desert.

"Auntie," whispers Foma, beseechingly.

"Dearest?"

"I am coming to you."

"Come, then, come, my darling."

Going over into auntie's bed, he presses close to her, begging:

"Tell me something."

"At night?" protests auntie, sleepily.

"Please."

He does not have to ask her long. Yawning, her eyes closed, the
old woman begins slowly in a voice grown heavy with sleep:

"Well, my dear sir, in a certain kingdom, in a certain empire,
there lived a man and his wife, and they were very poor. They
were so unfortunate that they had nothing to eat. They would go
around begging, somebody would give them a crust of stale bread
and that would keep them for awhile. And it came to pass that the
wife begot a child--a child was born--it was necessary to
christen it, but, being poor, they could not entertain the
godparents and the guests, so nobody came to christen the child.
They tried this and they tried that--yet nobody came. And they
began to pray to the Lord, '0h Lord! 0h Lord!'"

Foma knew this awful story about God's godchild. He had heard it
more than once and was already picturing to himself this godchild
riding on a white horse to his godfather and godmother; he was
riding in the darkness, over the desert, and he saw there all the
unbearable miseries to which sinners are condemned. And he heard
their faint moans and requests:

"Oh! Man! Ask the Lord yet how long are we to suffer here!"

Then it appeared to Foma that it was he who was riding at night
on the white horse, and that the moans and the implorings were
addressed to him. His heart contracts with some incomprehensible
desire; sorrow compressed his breast and tears gathered in his
eyes, which he had firmly closed and now feared to open.

He is tossing about in his bed restlessly,

"Sleep, my child. Christ be with you!" says the old woman,
interrupting her tale of men suffering for their sins.

But in the morning after such a night Foma rose sound and cheerful,
washed himself hastily, drank his tea in haste and ran off to school,
provided with sweet cakes, which were awaited by the always hungry
little Yozhov, who greedily subsisted on his rich friend's generosity.

"Got anything to eat?" he accosted Foma, turning up his sharp-pointed
nose. "Let me have it, for I left the house without eating anything.
I slept too long, devil take it! I studied up to two o'clock last
night. Have you solved your problems?"

"No, I haven't."

"Eh, you lazy bones! Well, I'll dash them off for you directly!"

Driving his small, thin teeth into the cakes, he purred something
like a kitten, stamped his left foot, beating time, and at the
same time solved the problem, rattling off short phrases to Foma:

"See? Eight bucketfuls leaked out in one hour. And how many hours
did it leak--six? Eh, what good things they eat in your house!
Consequently, we must multiply six by eight. Do you like cake
with green onions? Oh, how I like it! So that in six hours forty-
eight bucketfuls leaked out of the first gauge-cock. And
altogether the tub contained ninety. Do you understand the rest?"

Foma liked Yozhov better than Smolin, but he was more friendly
with Smolin. He wondered at the ability and the sprightliness of
the little fellow. He saw that Yozhov was more clever and better
than himself; he envied him, and felt offended on that account,
and at the same time he pitied him with the condescending
compassion of a satisfied man for a hungry one. Perhaps it was
this very compassion that prevented him from preferring this
bright boy to the boring red-headed Smolin. Yozhov, fond of
having a laugh at the expense of his well-fed friends, told them
quite often: "Eh, you are little trunks full of cakes!"

Foma was angry with him for his sneers, and one day, touched to
the quick, said wickedly and with contempt:

"And you are a beggar--a pauper!"

Yozhov's yellow face became overcast, and he replied slowly:

"Very well, so be it! I shall never prompt you again--and you'll
be like a log of wood!"

And they did not speak to each other for about three days, very
much to the regret of the teacher, who during these days had to
give the lowest markings to the son of the esteemed Ignat Matveyich.

Yozhov knew everything: he related at school how the procurator's
chambermaid gave birth to a child, and that for this the
procurator's wife poured hot coffee over her husband; he could
tell where and when it was best to catch perch; he knew how to
make traps and cages for birds; he could give a detailed account
of how the soldier had hanged himself in the garret of the armoury,
and knew from which of the pupils' parents the teacher had received
a present that day and precisely what sort of a present it was.

The sphere of Smolin's knowledge and interests was confined to
the merchant's mode of life, and, above all, the red-headed boy
was fond of judging whether this man was richer than that,
valuing and pricing their houses, their vessels and their horses.
All this he knew to perfection, and spoke of it with enthusiasm.

Like Foma, he regarded Yozhov with the same condescending pity,
but more as a friend and equal. Whenever Gordyeeff quarrelled
with Yozhov, Smolin hastened to reconcile them, and he said to
Foma one day, on their way home:

"Why do you always quarrel with Yozhov?"

"Well, why is he so self-conceited?" said Foma, angrily.

"He is proud because you never know your lessons, and he always helps
you out. He is clever. And because he is poor--is he to blame for
that?
He can learn anything he wants to, and he will be rich, too."

"He is like a mosquito," said Foma, disdainfully; "he will buzz
and buzz, and then of a sudden will bite."

But there was something in the life of these boys that united
them all; there were hours when the consciousness of difference
in their natures and positions was entirely lost. On Sundays they
all gathered at Smolin's, and, getting up on the roof of the
wing, where they had an enormous pigeon-house, they let the
pigeons loose.

The beautiful, well-fed birds, ruffling their snow-white wings,
darted out of the pigeon-house one by one, and, seating themselves
in a row on the ridge of the roof, and, illumined by the sun, cooing,
flaunted before the boys.

"Scare them!" implored Yozhov, trembling for impatience.

Smolin swung a pole with a bast-wisp fastened to its end, and
whistled.

The frightened pigeons rushed into the air, filling it with the
hurried flapping of their wings. And now, outlining big circles,
they easily soar upwards, into the blue depths of the sky; they
float higher and higher, their silver and snow-white feathers
flashing. Some of them are striving to reach the dome of the
skies with the light soaring of the falcon, their wings
outstretched wide and almost motionless; others play, turn over
in the air, now dropping downward in a snowy lump, now darting up
like an arrow. Now the entire flock seems as though hanging
motionless in the desert of the sky, and, growing smaller and
smaller, seems to sink in it. With heads thrown back, the boys
admire the birds in silence, without taking their eyes from them--
their tired eyes, so radiant with calm joy, not altogether free
from envying these winged creatures, which so freely took flight
from earth up into the pure and calm atmosphere full of the glitter
of the sun. The small group of scarcely visible dots, now mere specks
in the azure of the sky, leads on the imagination of the children,
and Yozhov expresses their common feeling when, in a low voice, he
says thoughtfully:

"That's the way we ought to fly, friends."

While Foma, knowing that human souls, soaring heavenward, oftentimes
assume the form of pigeons, felt in his breast the rising of a
burning,
powerful desire.

Unified by their joy, attentively and mutely awaiting the return
of their birds from the depths of the sky, the boys, pressing
close to one another, drifted far away from the breath of life,
even as their pigeons were far from earth; at this moment they
are merely children, knowing neither envy nor anger; free from
everything, they are near to one another, they are mute, judging
their feelings by the light in their eyes--and they feel as happy
as the birds in the sky.

But now the pigeons come down on the roof again, and, tired out
by their flight, are easily driven into the pigeon-house.

"Friends, let's go for apples?" suggests Yozhov, the instigator
of all games and adventures.

His call drives out of the children's souls the peacefulness
brought into them by the pigeons, and then, like plunderers,
carefully listening for each and every sound, they steal quietly
across the back yards toward the neighbouring garden. The fear of
being caught is balanced by the hope of stealing with impunity.
But stealing is work and dangerous work at that, and everything
that is earned by your own labour is so sweet! And the more
effort required to gain it, the sweeter it is. Carefully the boys
climb over the fence of the garden, and, bending down, crawl
toward the apple trees and, full of fright, look around vigilantly.
Their hearts tremble and their throbbing slackens at the faintest
rustle. They are alike afraid of being caught, and, if noticed, of
being recognised, but in case they should only see them and yell at
them, they would be satisfied. They would separate, each going in a
different direction, and then, meeting again, their eyes aglow with
joy and boldness, would laughingly tell one another how they felt
when they heard some one giving chase to them, and what happened to
them when they ran so quickly through the garden, as though the ground
were burning under their feet.

Such invasions were more to Foma's liking than all other adventures
and games, and his behaviour during these invasions was marked with
a boldness that at once astounded and angered his companions. He was
intentionally careless in other people's gardens: he spoke loud,
noisily broke the branches of apple trees, and, tearing off a worm-
eaten apple, threw it in the direction of the proprietor's house.
The danger of being caught in the act did not frighten him; it
rather encouraged him--his eyes would turn darker, his teeth would
clench, and his face would assume an expression of anger and pride.

Smolin, distorting his big mouth contemptibly, would say to him:

"You are making entirely too much fuss about yourself."

"I am not a coward anyway!" replied Foma.

"I know that you are not a coward, but why do you boast of it?
One may do a thing as well without boasting."

Yozhov blamed him from a different point of view:

"If you thrust yourself into their hands willingly you can go to
the devil! I am not your friend. They'll catch you and bring you
to your father--he wouldn't do anything to you, while I would get
such a spanking that all my bones would be skinned."

"Coward!" Foma persisted, stubbornly.

And it came to pass one day that Foma was caught by the second
captain, Chumakov, a thin little old man. Noiselessly approaching
the boy, who was hiding away in his bosom the stolen apples, the old
man seized him by the shoulders and cried in a threatening voice:

"Now I have you, little rogue! Aha!"

Foma was then about fifteen years old, and he cleverly slipped out of
the old man's hands. Yet he did not run from him, but, knitting his
brow and clenching his fist, he said threateningly:

"You dare to touch me!"

"I wouldn't touch you. I'll just turn you over to the police!
Whose son are you?"

Foma did not expect this, and all his boldness and spitefulness
suddenly left him.

The trip to the police station seemed to him something which his
father would never forgive him. He shuddered and said confusedly:

"Gordyeeff."

"Ignat Gordyeeff's?"

"Yes."

Now the second captain was taken aback. He straightened himself,
expanded his chest and for some reason or other cleared his throat
impressively. Then his shoulders sank and he said to the boy in a
fatherly tone:

"It's a shame! The son of such a well-known and respected man! It
is unbecoming your position. You may go. But should this happen
again! Hm! I should be compelled to notify your father, to whom,
by the way, I have the honour of presenting my respects."

Foma watched the play of the old man's physiognomy and understood
that he was afraid of his father. Like a young wolf, he looked
askance at Chumakov; while the old man, with comical seriousness,
twisted his gray moustache, hesitating before the boy, who did not
go away, notwithstanding the given permission.

"You may go," repeated the old man, pointing at the road leading
to his house.

"And how about the police?" asked Foma, sternly, and was immediately
frightened at the possible answer.

"I was but jesting," smiled the old man. "I just wanted to frighten
you."

"You are afraid of my father yourself," said Foma, and, turning his
back to the old man, walked off into the depth of the garden.

"I am afraid? Ah! Very well!" exclaimed Chumakov after him, and Foma
knew by the sound of his voice that he had offended the old man. He
felt sad and ashamed; he passed the afternoon in walking, and, coming
home, he was met by his father's stern question:

"Foma! Did you go to Chumakov's garden?"

"Yes, I did," said the boy, calmly, looking into his father's eyes.

Evidently Ignat did not expect such an answer and he was silent for
awhile, stroking his beard.

"Fool! Why did you do it? Have you not enough of your own apples?"

Foma cast down his eyes and was silent, standing before his father.

"See, you are shamed! Yozhishka must have incited you to this! I'll
give it to him when he comes, or I'll make an end of your friendship
altogether."

"I did it myself," said Foma, firmly.

"From bad to worse!" exclaimed Ignat. "But why did you do it?"

"Because."

"Because!" mocked the father. "Well, if you did it you ought to be
able to explain to yourself and to others the reason for so doing.
Come here!"

Foma walked up to his father, who was sitting on a chair, and placed
himself between his knees. Ignat put his hand on the boy's shoulders,
and, smiling, looked into his eyes.

"Are you ashamed?"

"I am ashamed," sighed Foma.

"There you have it, fool! You have disgraced me and yourself."

Pressing his son's head to his breast, he stroked his hair and
asked again:

"Why should you do such a thing--stealing other people's apples?"

"I--I don't know," said Foma, confusedly. "Perhaps because it is
so lonesome. I play and play the same thing day after day. I am
growing tired of it! While this is dangerous."

"Exciting?" asked the father, smiling.

"Yes."

"Mm, perhaps it is so. But, nevertheless, Foma, look out--drop
this, or I shall deal with you severely."

"I'll never climb anywhere again," said the boy with confidence.

"And that you take all the blame on yourself--that is good. What
will become of you in the future, only God knows, but meanwhile--
it is pretty good. It is not a trifle if a man is willing to pay
for his deeds with his own skin. Someone else in your place would
have blamed his friends, while you say: 'I did it myself.' That's
the proper way, Foma. You commit the sin, but you also account for
it. Didn't Chumakov strike you?" asked Ignat, pausing as he spoke.

"I would have struck him back," declared Foma, calmly.

"Mm," roared his father, significantly.

"I told him that he was afraid of you. That is why he complained.
Otherwise he was not going to say anything to you about it."

"Is that so?"

"'By God! Present my respects to your father,' he said."

"Did he?"

"Yes."

"Ah! the dog! See what kind of people there are; he is robbed and
yet he makes a bow and presents his respects! Ha, ha! It is true
it might have been worth no more than a kopeck, but a kopeck is
to him what a rouble is to me. And it isn't the kopeck, but since
it is mine, no one dares touch it unless I throw it away myself.
Eh! The devil take them! Well, tell me--where have you been, what
have you seen?"

The boy sat down beside his father and told him in detail all the
impressions of that day. Ignat listened, fixedly watching the animated
face of his son, and the eyebrows of the big man contracted pensively.

"You are still but floating on the surface, dear. You are still
but a child. Eh! Eh!"

"We scared an owl in the ravine," related the boy. "That was fun!
It began to fly about and struck against a tree--bang! It even
began to squeak so pitifully. And we scared it again; again it
rose and flew about here and there, and again it struck against
something, so that its feathers were coming out. It flew about in
the ravine and at last hid itself somewhere with difficulty. We
did not try to look for it, we felt sorry it was all bruised.
Papa, is an owl entirely blind in daytime?"

"Blind!" said Ignat; "some men will toss about in life even as
this owl in daytime. Ever searching for his place, he strives and
strives--only feathers fly from him, but all to no purpose. He is
bruised, sickened, stripped of everything, and then with all his
might he thrusts himself anywhere, just to find repose from his
restlessness. Woe to such people. Woe to them, dear!"

"How painful is it to them?" said Foma in a low voice.

"Just as painful as to that owl."

"And why is it so?"

"Why? It is hard to tell. Someone suffers because he is darkened
by his pride--he desires much, but has but little strength. Another
because of his foolishness. But then there are a thousand and one
other reasons, which you cannot understand."

"Come in and have some tea," Anfisa called to them. She had been
standing in the doorway for quite a long while, and, folding her
hands, lovingly admired the enormous figure of her brother, who
bent over Foma with such friendliness, and the pensive pose of
the boy, who clung to his father's shoulder.

Thus day by day Foma's life developed slowly--a quiet, peaceful
life, not at all brimful of emotions. Powerful impressions, rousing
the boy's soul for an hour or for a day, sometimes stood out
strikingly against the general background of this monotonous life,
but these were soon obliterated. The boy's soul was as yet but a calm
lake--a lake hidden from the stormy winds of life, and all that
touched the surface of the lake either sank to the bottom, stirring
the placid water for a moment, or gliding over the smooth surface,
swam apart in big circles and disappeared.

Having stayed at the district school for five years, Foma passed
four classes tolerably well and came out a brave, dark-haired
fellow, with a swarthy face, heavy eyebrows and dark down on the
upper lip. His big dark eyes had a naive and pensive look, and
his lips were like a child's, half-open; but when meeting with
opposition to his desires or when irritated by something else,
the pupils of his eyes would grow wide, his lips press tight, and
his whole face assume a stubborn and resolute expression. His
godfather, smiling sceptically, would often say to him:

"To women, Foma, you'll be sweeter than honey, but as yet not
much common sense can be seen in you."

Ignat would heave a sigh at these words.

"You had better start out your son as soon as possible."

"There's time yet, wait."

"Why wait? He'll go about the Volga for two or three years and
then we'll have him married. There's my Lubov."

Lubov Mayakina was now studying in the fifth class of some boarding
school. Foma often met her on the street at which meeting she always
bowed condescendingly, her fair head in a fashionable cap. Foma liked
her, but her rosy cheeks, her cheerful brown eyes and crimson lips
could not smooth the impression of offence given to him by her
condescending bows. She was acquainted with some Gymnasium students,
and although Yozhov, his old friend, was among them, Foma felt no
inclination to be with them, and their company embarrassed him. It
seemed to him that they were all boasting of their learning before
him and that they were mocking his ignorance. Gathered together in
Lubov's house they would read some books, and whenever he found them
reading or loudly arguing, they became silent at his sight. All this
removed them further from him. One day when he was at Mayakin's, Luba
called him to go for a walk in the garden, and there, walking by his
side, asked him with a grimace on her face:

"Why are you so unsociable? You never talk about anything."

"What shall I talk about, since I know nothing!" said Foma, plainly.

"Study--read books."

"I don't feel like doing it."

"You see, the Gymnasium students know everything, and know how to
talk about everything. Take Yozhov, for instance."

"I know Yozhov--a chatterbox."

"You simply envy him. He is very clever--yes. He will soon graduate
from
the Gymnasium--and then he'll go to Moscow to study in the
University."

"Well, what of it?" said Foma, indifferently.

"And you'll remain just an ignorant man."

"Well, be it so."

"That will be nice!" exclaimed Luba, ironically.

"I shall hold my ground without science," said Foma, sarcastically.
"And I'll have a laugh at all the learned people. Let the hungry
study.
I don't need it."

"Pshaw, how stupid you are, bad, disgusting!" said the girl with
contempt and went away, leaving him alone in the garden. Offended
and gloomy, he looked after her, moved his eyebrows and lowering
his head, slowly walked off into the depth of the garden.

He already began to recognise the beauty of solitude and the
sweet poison of contemplation. Oftentimes, during summer evenings,
when everything was coloured by the fiery tints of sunset, kindling
the imagination, an uneasy longing for something incomprehensible
penetrated his breast. Sitting somewhere in a dark corner of the
garden or lying in bed, he conjured up before him the images of the
fairy-tale princesses--they appeared with the face of Luba and of
other young ladies of his acquaintance, noiselessly floating before
him in the twilight and staring into his eyes with enigmatic looks.
At times these visions awakened in him a mighty energy, as though
intoxicating him--he would rise and, straightening his shoulders,
inhale the perfumed air with a full chest; but sometimes these same
visions brought to him a feeling of sadness--he felt like crying,
but ashamed of shedding tears, he restrained himself and never wept
in silence. Or suddenly his heart began to tremble with the desire
to express his gratitude to God, to bow before Him; the words of the
prayer flashed through his memory, and beholding the sky, he whispered
them for a long time, one by one, and his heart grew lighter,
breathing
into prayer the excess of his power.

The father patiently and carefully introduced him into commercial
circles, took him on the Exchange, told him about his contracts and
enterprises, about his co-associates, described to him how they had
made their way, what fortunes they now possessed, what natures were
theirs. Foma soon mastered it, regarding everything seriously and
thoughtfully.

"Our bud is blooming into a blood-red cup-rose!" Mayakin smiled,
winking to Ignat.

And yet, even when Foma was nineteen years old, there was something
childish in him, something naive which distinguished him from the boys
of his age. They were laughing at him, considering him stupid; he kept
away from them, offended by their relations toward him. As for his
father
and Mayakin, who were watching him vigilantly, this uncertainty of
Foma's
character inspired them with serious apprehensions.

"I cannot understand him!" Ignat would say with contrite heart. " He
does not lead a dissipated life, he does not seem to run after the
women, treats me and you with respect, listens to everything--he is
more like a pretty girl than a fellow! And yet he does not seem to be
stupid!"

"No, there's nothing particularly stupid about him," said Mayakin.

"It looks as though he were waiting for something--as though some
kind of shroud were covering his eyes. His late mother groped on
earth in the same way.

"Just look, there's Afrikanka Smolin, but two years older than my
boy--what a man he has become! That is, it is difficult to tell
whether he is his father's head or his father his. He wants to go
to some factory to study. He swears:

"'Eh,' says he, 'papa, you have not taught me enough.' Yes. While
mine does not express himself at all. 0h Lord!"

"Look here," Mayakin advised him, "you had better push him head
foremost into some active business! I assure you! Gold is tested
in fire. We'll see what his inclinations are when at liberty.
Send him out on the Kama--alone."

"To give him a trial?"

"Well, he'll do some mischief--you'll lose something--but then
we'll know what stuff he is made of."

"Indeed--I'll send him off," Ignat decided.

And thus in the spring, Ignat sent his son off on the Kama with two
barges laden with corn. The barges were led by Gordyeeff's steamer
"Philezhny," under the command of Foma's old acquaintance, the
former sailor Yefim--now, Yefim Ilyich, a squarely built man of
about thirty with lynx-like eyes--a sober-minded, steady and very
strict captain.

They sailed fast and cheerfully, because all were contented. At
first Foma was proud of the responsible commission with which he
had been charged. Yefim was pleased with the presence of the young
master, who did not rebuke or abuse him for each and every oversight;
and the happy frame of mind of the two most important persons on the
steamer reflected in straight rays on the entire crew. Having left the
place where they had taken in their cargo of corn in April, the
steamer reached the place of its destination in the beginning of May,
and the
barges were anchored near the shore with the steamer at their side.
Foma's duty was to deliver the corn as soon as possible, and receiving
the payments, start off for Perm, where a cargo of iron was awaiting
him, which Ignat had undertaken to deliver at the market.

The barges stood opposite a large village, near a pine forest,
about two versts distant from the shore. On the very next day
after their arrival, a big and noisy crowd of women and peasants,
on foot and on horses, came up to the shore early in the morning.
Shouting and singing, they scattered on the decks and in an instant
work started expeditiously. Having descended into the holds, the women
were filling the sacks with rye, the peasants, throwing the sacks upon
their shoulders, ran over the gang-planks to the shore, and from the
shore, carts, heavily laden with the long-expected corn, went off
slowly to the village. The women sang songs; the peasants jested and
gaily abused one another; the sailors representing the guardians of
peace, scolded the working people now and then; the gang-planks,
bending under the feet of the carriers, splashed against the water
heavily; while on the shore the horses neighed, and the carts and
the sand under the wheels were creaking.

The sun had just risen, the air was fresh and invigorating and
densely filled with the odour of pines; the calm water of the
river, reflecting the clear sky, was gently murmuring, breaking
against the sides of the vessels and the chains of the anchors.
The loud and cheerful noise of toil, the youthful beauty of nature,
gaily illumined by the sunbeams--all was full of a kind-hearted,
somewhat crude, sound power, which pleasantly stirred Foma's soul,
awakening in him new and perplexed sensations and desires. He was
sitting by the table under the awning of the steamer and drinking
tea, together with Yefim and the receiver of the corn, a provincial
clerk--a redheaded, short-sighted gentleman in glasses. Nervously
shrugging his shoulders the receiver was telling in a hoarse voice
how the peasants were starving, but Foma paid little attention to
his words, looking now at the work below, now at the other side of
the river--a tall, yellow, sandy steep shore, whose edges were
covered with pine trees. It was unpeopled and quiet.

"I'll have to go over there," thought Foma. And as though from a
distance the receiver's tiresome, unpleasant, harsh voice fell on his
ears:

"You wouldn't believe it--at last it became horrible! Such an incident
took place! A peasant came up to a certain intelligent man in Osa and
brought along with him a girl about sixteen years old.

"'What do you wish?"

"'Here,' he says, 'I've brought my daughter to your Honour.'

"'What for?'

"'Perhaps,' he says, 'you'll take her--you are a bachelor.'

"'That is, how? What do you mean?'

"'I took her around town,' he says. 'I wanted to hire her out as a
servant--but nobody would have her--take her at least as your
mistress!'

"Do you understand? He offered his own daughter--just think of it!
A daughter--as a mistress! The devil knows what that is! Eh? The man,
of course, became indignant and began abusing the peasant. But the
peasant spoke to him reasonably:

"'Your Honour! Of what use is she to me at this time? Utterly useless.
I have,' says he, 'three boys--they will be working men; it is
necessary to keep them up. Give me,' says he, 'ten roubles for the
girl, and that will improve my lot and that of my boys.'

"How is that? Eh? It is simply terrible, I tell you."

"No good!" sighed Yefim. "As they say--hunger will break through
stone walls. The stomach, you see, has its own laws."

This story called forth in Foma a great incomprehensible interest in
the fate of the girl, and the youth hastened to enquire of the
receiver:

"Well, did the man buy her?"

"Of course not!" exclaimed the receiver, reproachfully.

"Well, and what became of her?"

"Some good people took pity on her--and provided for her."

"A-h!" drawled Foma, and suddenly he said firmly and angrily: "I
would have given that peasant such a thrashing! I would have broken
his head!" And he showed the receiver his big tightly-clenched fist.

"Eh! What for?" cried the receiver in a sickly, loud voice, tearing
his spectacles from his eyes. "You do not understand the motive."

"I do understand it!" said Foma, with an obstinate shake of his head.

"But what could he do? It came to his mind."

"How can one allow himself to sell a human being?"

"Ah! It is brutal, I agree with you."

"And a girl at that! I would have given him the ten roubles!"

The receiver waved his hand hopelessly and became silent. His gesture
confused Foma. He arose from his seat, walked off to the railing and
looked down at the deck of the barge, which was covered with an
industriously working crowd of people. The noise intoxicated him, and
the uneasy something, which was rambling in his soul, was now defined
into a powerful desire to work, to have the strength of a giant, to
possess enormous shoulders and put on them at one time a hundred bags
of rye, that every one looking at him might be astonished.

"Come now, hurry up there!" he shouted down in a ringing voice. A
few heads were raised to him, some faces appeared before him, and
one of them--the face of a dark-eyed woman--smiled at him a gentle
and enticing smile. Something flared up in his breast at this smile
and began to spread over his veins in a hot wave. He drew back from
the railing and walked up to the table again, feeling that his cheeks
were burning.

"Listen!" said the receiver, addressing him, "wire to your father
asking him to allow some grain for waste! Just see how much is lost
here. And here every pound is precious! You should have understood
this! What a fine father you have," he concluded with a biting
grimace.

"How much shall I allow?" asked Foma, boldly and disdainfully. "Do
you want a hundred puds? [A pud is a weight of 40 Russian pounds.]
Two hundred?"

"I--I thank you!" exclaimed the receiver, overjoyed and confused,
"if you have the right to do it."

"I am the master!" said Foma, firmly. "And you must not speak
that way about my father--nor make such faces."

"Pardon me! I--I do not doubt that you have full power. I thank
you heartily. And your father, too--in behalf of all these men--
in behalf of the people!"

Yefim looked cautiously at the young master, spreading out and
smacking his lips, while the master with an air of pride on his face
listened to the quick-witted speech of the receiver, who was pressing
his hand firmly.

"Two hundred puds! That is Russian-like, young man! I shall directly
notify the peasants of your gift. You'll see how grateful they will
be--how glad." And he shouted down:

"Eh, boys! The master is giving away two hundred puds."

"Three hundred!" interposed Foma.

"Three hundred puds. Oh! Thank you! Three hundred puds of grain,
boys!"

But their response was weak. The peasants lifted up their heads and
mutely lowered them again, resuming their work. A few voices said
irresolutely and as though unwillingly:

"Thanks. May God give you. We thank you very humbly."

And some cried out gaily and disdainfully:

"What's the use of that? If they had given each of us a glass of
vodka instead--that would be a just favour. For the grain is not
for us--but for the country Council."

"Eh! They do not understand!" exclaimed the receiver, confused.
"I'll go down and explain it to them."

And he disappeared. But the peasants' regard for his gift did not
interest Foma. He saw that the black eyes of the rosy-cheeked
woman were looking at him so strangely and pleasingly. They
seemed to thank him and caressingly beckoned him, and besides
those eyes he saw nothing. The woman was dressed like the city
women. She wore shoes, a calico waist, and over her black hair
she had a peculiar kerchief. Tall and supple, seated on a pile of
wood, she repaired sacks, quickly moving her hands, which were
bare up to the elbows, and she smiled at Foma all the time.

"Foma Ignatyich!" he heard Yefim's reproachful voice, "you've showed
off too much. Well, if it were only about fifty puds! But why so
much? Look out that we don't get a good scolding for this."

"Leave me alone!" said Foma, shortly.

"What is it to me? I'll keep quiet. But as you are so young, and as
I was told to keep an eye on you, I may get a rap on the snout for
being heedless."

"I'll tell my father all about it. Keep quiet!" said Foma.

"As for me--let it be so--so that you are master here."

"Very well."

"I have said this, Foma Ignatyich, for your own sake--because you
are so young and simple-minded."

"Leave me alone, Yefim!"

Yefim heaved a sigh and became silent, while Foma stared at the
woman and thought:

"I wish they would bring such a woman for sale to me."

His heart beat rapidly. Though as yet physically pure, he already
knew from conversations the mysteries of intimate relations
between men and women. He knew by rude and shameful names, and
these names kindled in him an unpleasant, burning curiosity and
shame; his imagination worked obstinately, for he could not
picture it to himself in intelligible images. And in his soul he
did not believe that those relations were really so simple and
rude, as he had been told. When they had laughed at him and
assured him that they were such, and, indeed, could not be
otherwise, he smiled stupidly and confusedly, but thought
nevertheless that the relations with women did not have to be in
such a shameful form for everyone, and that, in all probability,
there was something purer, less rude and abusive to a human being.

Now looking at the dark-eyed working woman with admiration, Foma
distinctly felt just that rude inclination toward her, and he was
ashamed and afraid of something. And Yefim, standing beside him,
said admonitively:

"There you are staring at the woman, so that I cannot keep silence
any longer. You do not know her, but when she winks at you, you may,
because of your youth--and with a nature like yours--you may do such
a thing that we'll have to go home on foot by the shore. And we'll
have to thank God if our trousers at least remain with us."

"What do you want?" asked Foma, red with confusion.

"I want nothing. And you had better mind me. In regard to affairs
with women I may perfectly well be a teacher. You must deal with
a woman very plainly--give her a bottle of vodka, something to eat
after it, then a couple of bottles of beer and after everything
give her twenty kopecks in cash. For this price she will show you
all her love in the best way possible."

"You are lying," said Foma, softly.

"I am lying? Why shall I lie to you since I have observed that same
policy perhaps a hundred times? Just charge me to have dealings with
her. Eh? I'll make you acquainted with her in a moment."

"Very well," said Foma, feeling that he could hardly breathe and
that something was choking his throat.

"Well, then, I'll bring her up in the evening."

And Yefim smiled approvingly into Foma's face and walked off.
Until evening Foma walked about as though lost in mist, not
noticing the respectful and beseeching glances with which the
peasants greeted him at the receiver's instigation. Dread fell on
him, he felt himself guilty before somebody, and to all those that
addressed him he replied humbly and gently, as though excusing
himself for something. Some of the working people went home toward
evening, others gathered on the shore near a big, bright bonfire and
began cooking their supper. Fragments of their conversation floated
about in the stillness of the evening. The reflection of the fire
fell on the river in red and yellow stripes, which trembled on the
calm water and on the window panes of the cabin where Foma was s
itting. He sat in the corner on a lounge, which was covered with
oilcloth--and waited. On the table before him were a few bottles of
vodka and beer, and plates with bread and dessert. He covered the
windows and did not light the lamp; the faint light from the bonfire,
penetrating through the curtains, fell on the table, on the bottles
and on the wall, and trembled, now growing brighter, now fainter. It
was quiet on the steamer and on the barges, only from the shore came
indistinct sounds of conversation, and the river was splashing,
scarcely audible, against the sides of the steamer. It seemed to Foma
that somebody was hiding in the dark near by, listening to him and
spying upon him. Now somebody is walking over the gang-plank of the
barges with quick and heavy steps--the gang-plank strikes against the
water clangously and angrily. Foma hears the muffled laughter of the
captain and his lowered voice. Yefim stands by the cabin door and
speaks softly, but somewhat reprimandingly, as though instructing.
Foma suddenly felt like crying out:

"It is not necessary!"

And he arose from the lounge--but at this moment the cabin door was
opened, the tall form of a woman appeared on the threshold, and,
noiselessly closing the door behind her, she said in a low voice:

"0h dear! How dark it is! Is there a living soul somewhere around
here?"

"Yes," answered Foma, softly.

"Well, then, good evening."

And the woman moved forward carefully.

"I'll light the lamp," said Foma in a broken voice, and, sinking
on the lounge, he curled himself up in the corner.

"It is good enough this way. When you get used to it you can see
everything in the dark as well."

"Be seated," said Foma.

"I will."

She sat down on the lounge about two steps away from him. Foma
saw the glitter of her eyes, he saw a smile on her full lips. It
seemed to him that this smile of hers was not at all like that
other smile before--this smile seemed plaintive, sad. This smile
encouraged him; he breathed with less difficulty at the sight of
these eyes, which, on meeting his own, suddenly glanced down on
the floor. But he did not know what to say to this woman and for
about two minutes both were silent. It was a heavy, awkward silence.
She began to speak:

"You must be feeling lonesome here all alone?"

"Yes," answered Foma.

"And do you like our place here?" asked the woman in a low voice.

"It is nice. There are many woods here."

And again they became silent.

"The river, if you like, is more beautiful than the Volga,"
uttered Foma, with an effort.

"I was on the Volga."

"Where?"

"In the city of Simbirsk."

"Simbirsk?" repeated Foma like an echo, feeling that he was again
unable to say a word.

But she evidently understood with whom she had to deal, and she
suddenly asked him in a bold whisper:

"Why don't you treat me to something?"

"Here!" Foma gave a start. "Indeed, how queer I am? Well, then,
come up to the table."

He bustled about in the dark, pushed the table, took up one bottle,
then another, and again returned them to their place, laughing
guiltily
and confusedly as he did so. She came up close to him and stood by his
side, and, smiling, looked at his face and at his trembling hands.

"Are you bashful?" she suddenly whispered.

He felt her breath on his cheek and replied just as softly:

"Yes."

Then she placed her hands on his shoulders and quietly drew him
to her breast, saying in a soothing whisper:

"Never mind, don't be bashful, my young, handsome darling. How I
pity you!"

And he felt like crying because of her whisper, his heart was
melting in sweet fatigue; pressing his head close to her breast,
he clasped her with his hands, mumbling to her some inarticulate
words, which were unknown to himself.

"Be gone!" said Foma in a heavy voice, staring at the wall with
his eyes wide open.

Having kissed him on the cheek she walked out of the cabin,
saying to him:

"Well, good-bye."

Foma felt intolerably ashamed in her presence; but no sooner did
she disappear behind the door than he jumped up and seated
himself on the lounge. Then he arose, staggering, and at once he
was seized with the feeling of having lost something very valuable,
something whose presence he did not seem to have noticed in himself
until the moment it was lost. But immediately a new, manly feeling
of self-pride took possession of him. It drowned his shame, and,
instead of the shame, pity for the woman sprang up within him--
for the half-clad woman, who went out alone into the dark of the
chilly May night. He hastily came out on the deck--it was a starlit,
but moonless night; the coolness and the darkness embraced him. On the
shore the golden-red pile of coals was still glimmering. Foma
listened--
an oppressive stillness filled the air, only the water was murmuring,
breaking against the anchor chains. There was not a sound of footsteps
to be heard. Foma now longed to call the woman, but he did not know
her name. Eagerly inhaling the fresh air into his broad chest, he
stood on deck for a few minutes. Suddenly, from beyond the roundhouse-
-
from the prow--a moan reached his ears--a deep, loud moan, resembling
a wail. He shuddered and went thither carefully, understanding that
she
was there.

She sat on the deck close to the side of the steamer, and, leaning her
head against a heap of ropes, she wept. Foma saw that her bare white
shoulders were trembling, he heard her pitiful moans, and began to
feel depressed. Bending over her, he asked her timidly:

"What is it?"

She nodded her head and said nothing in reply.

"Have I offended you?"

"Go away," she said.

"But, how?" said Foma, alarmed and confused, touching her head
with his hand. "Don't be angry. You came of your own free will."

"I am not angry!" she replied in a loud whisper. "Why should I be
angry at you? You are not a seducer. You are a pure soul! Eh, my
darling! Be seated here by my side."

And taking Foma by the hand, she made him sit down, like a child,
in her lap, pressed his head close to her breast, and, bending
over him, pressed her lips to his for a long time.

"What are you crying about?" asked Foma, caressing her cheek with
one hand, while the other clasped the woman's neck.

"I am crying about myself. Why have you sent me away?" she asked
plaintively.

"I began to feel ashamed of myself," said Foma, lowering his head.

"My darling! Tell me the truth--haven't you been pleased with me?"
she asked with a smile, but her big, hot tears were still trickling
down on Foma's breast.

"Why should you speak like this?" exclaimed the youth, almost
frightened, and hotly began to mumble to her some words about her
beauty, about her kindness, telling her how sorry he was for her
and how bashful in her presence. And she listened and kept on
kissing his cheeks, his neck, his head and his uncovered breast.

He became silent--then she began to speak--softly and mournfully
as though speaking of the dead:

"And I thought it was something else. When you said, 'Be gone!' I
got up and went away. And your words made me feel sad, very sad.
There was a time, I remembered, when they caressed me and fondled
me unceasingly, without growing tired; for a single kind smile
they used to do for me anything I pleased. I recalled all this
and began to cry! I felt sorry for my youth, for I am now thirty
years old, the last days for a woman! Eh, Foma Ignatyevich!" she
exclaimed, lifting her voice louder, and reiterating the rhythm
of her harmonious speech, whose accents rose and fell in unison
with the melodious murmuring of the water.

"Listen to me--preserve your youth! There is nothing in the world
better than that. There is nothing more precious than youth. With
youth, as with gold, you can accomplish anything you please. Live
so that you shall have in old age something to remind you of your
youth. Here I recalled myself, and though I cried, yet my heart
blazed up at the very recollection of my past life. And again I
was young, as though I drank of the water of life! My sweet child I'll
have a good time with you, if I please you, we'll enjoy ourselves
as much as we can. Eh! I'll burn to ashes, now that I have blazed up!"

And pressing the youth close to herself, she greedily began to
kiss him on the lips.

"Lo-o-ok o-u-u-u-t!" the watch on the barge wailed mournfully, and,
cutting short the last syllable, began to strike his mallet against
the cast-iron board.

The shrill, trembling sounds harshly broke the solemn quiet of
the night.

A few days later, when the barges had discharged their cargo and
the steamer was ready to leave for Perm, Yefim noticed, to his
great sorrow, that a cart came up to the shore and that the dark-
eyed Pelageya, with a trunk and with some bundles, was in it.

"Send a sailor to bring her things," ordered Foma, nodding his
head toward the shore.

With a reproachful shake of his head, Yefim carried out the order
angrily, and then asked in a lowered voice:

"So she, too, is coming with us?"

"She is going with me," Foma announced shortly.

"It is understood. Not with all of us. Oh, Lord!"

"Why are you sighing?"

"Yes. Foma Ignatyich! We are going to a big city. Are there not
plenty of women of her kind?"

"Well, keep quiet!" said Foma, sternly.

"I will keep quiet, but this isn't right!"

"What?"

"This very wantonness of ours. Our steamer is perfect, clean--and
suddenly there is a woman there! And if it were at least the right
sort of a woman! But as it is, she merely bears the name of woman."

Foma frowned insinuatingly and addressed the captain, imperiously
emphasizing his words:

"Yefim, I want you to bear it in mind, and to tell it to everybody
here, that if anyone will utter an obscene word about her, I'll
strike him on the head with a log of wood!"

"How terrible!" said Yefim, incredulously, looking into the master's
face with curiosity. But he immediately made a step backward. Ignat's
son, like a wolf, showed his teeth, the apples of his eyes became
wider,
and he roared:

"Laugh! I'll show you how to laugh!"

Though Yefim lost courage, he nevertheless said with dignity:

"Although you, Foma Ignatyich, are the master, yet as I was told,
'Watch, Yefim,' and then I am the captain here."

"The captain?" cried Foma, shuddering in every limb and turning
pale. "And who am I?"

"Well, don't bawl! On account of such a trifle as a woman."

Red spots came out on Foma's pale face, he shifted from one foot
to the other, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket
with a convulsive motion and said in a firm and even voice:

"You! Captain! See here, say another word against me--and you go
to the devil! I'll put you ashore! I'll get along as well with
the pilot! Understand? You cannot command me. Do you see?"

Yefim was dumfounded. He looked at his master and comically
winked his eyes, finding no reply to his words.

"Do you understand, I say?"

"Yes. I understand! " drawled Yefim. "But what is all this noise
about? On account of--"

"Silence!"

Foma's eyes, which flashed wildly, and his face distorted with
wrath, suggested to the captain the happy thought to leave his
master as soon as possible and, turning around quickly, he walked off.

"Pshaw! How terrible! As it seems the apple did not fall too far
from the tree," he muttered sneeringly, walking on the deck. He
was angry at Foma, and considered himself offended for nothing,
but at the same time he began to feel over himself the real, firm
hand of a master. For years accustomed to being subordinate, he
rather liked this manifestation of power over him, and, entering
the cabin of the old pilot, he related to him the scene between
himself and his master, with a shade of satisfaction in his voice.

"See?" he concluded his story. "A pup coming from a good breed is
an excellent dog at the very first chase. From his exterior he is
so-so. A man of rather heavy mind as yet. Well, never mind, let
him have his fun. It seems now as though nothing wrong will come
out of this. With a character like his, no. How he bawled at me!
A regular trumpet, I tell you! And he appointed himself master at
once. As though he had sipped power and strictness out of a ladle."

Yefim spoke the truth: during these few days Foma underwent a
striking transformation. The passion now kindled in him made him
master of the soul and body of a woman; he eagerly absorbed the
fiery sweetness of this power, and this burned out all that was
awkward in him, all that gave him the appearance of a somewhat
stupid, gloomy fellow, and, destroying it, filled his heart with
youthful pride, with the consciousness of his human personality.
Love for a woman is always fruitful to the man, be the love
whatever it may; even though it were to cause but sufferings
there is always much that is rich in it. Working as a powerful
poison on those whose souls are afflicted, it is for the healthy
man as fire for iron, which is to be transformed into steel.

Foma's passion for the thirty-year-old woman, who lamented in his
embraces her dead youth, did not tear him away from his affairs;
he was never lost in the caresses, or in his affairs, bringing
into both his whole self. The woman, like good wine, provoked in
him alike a thirst for labour and for love, and she, too, became
younger from the kisses of the youth.

In Perm, Foma found a letter waiting for him. It was from his
godfather, who notified him that Ignat, out of anxiety for his
son, had begun to drink heavily, and that it was harmful to drink
thus, for a man of his age. The letter concluded with advice to
hurry up matters in order to return home the sooner. Foma felt
alarmed over this advice, and it clouded the clear holiday of his
heart. But this shadow soon melted in his worries over his affairs,
and in the caresses of Pelageya. His life streamed on with the
swiftness of a river wave, and each day brought to him new sensations,
awakening in him new thoughts. Pelageya's relations with him contained
all the passion of a mistress, all that power of feeling which women
of her age put into their passion when drinking the last drops from
the cup of life. But at times a different feeling awoke in her, a
feeling not less powerful, and by which Foma became still more
attached
to her--something similar to a mother's yearning to guard her beloved
son from errors, to teach him the wisdom of life. Oftentimes at night,
sitting in his embraces on the deck, she spoke to him tenderly and
sadly:

"Mind me as an older sister of yours. I have lived, I know men. I
have seen a great deal in my life! Choose your companions with
care, for there are people just as contagious as a disease. At
first you cannot tell them even when you see them; he looks to be
a man like everybody else, and, suddenly, without being aware of
it yourself, you will start to imitate him in life. You look around--
and you find that you have contracted his scabs. I myself have lost
everything on account of a friend. I had a husband and two children.
We lived well. My husband was a clerk at a volost." She became silent
and looked for a long time at the water, which was stirred by the
vessel. Then she heaved a sigh and spoke to him again:

"May the Holy Virgin guard you from women of my kind--be careful.
You are tender as yet, your heart has not become properly hardened.
And women are fond of such as you--strong, handsome, rich. And most
of all beware of the quiet women. They stick to a man like blood-
suckers, and suck and suck. And at the same time they are always so
kind, so gentle. They will keep on sucking your juice, but will
preserve themselves. They'll only break your heart in vain. You had
better have dealings with those that are bold, like myself. These live
not for the sake of gain."

And she was indeed disinterested. In Perm Foma purchased for her
different new things and what-not. She was delighted, but later,
having examined them, she said sadly:

"Don't squander your money too freely. See that your father does
not get angry. I love you anyway, without all this."

She had already told him that she would go with him only as far
as Kazan, where she had a married sister. Foma could not believe
that she would leave him, and when, on the eve of their arrival
at Kazan, she repeated her words, he became gloomy and began to
implore her not to forsake him.

"Do not feel sorry in advance," she said. "We have a whole night
before us. You will have time to feel sorry when I bid you good-
bye, if you will feel sorry at all."

But he still tried to persuade her not to forsake him, and, finally--
which was to be expected--announced his desire to marry her.

"So, so!" and she began to laugh. "Shall I marry you while my
husband is still alive? My darling, my queer fellow! You have a
desire to marry, eh? But do they marry such women as I am? You
will have many, many mistresses. Marry then, when you have
overflowed, when you have had your fill of all sweets and feel
like having rye bread. Then you may marry! I have noticed that a
healthy man, for his own peace, must not marry early. One woman
will not be enough to satisfy him, and he'll go to other women.
And for your own happiness, you should take a wife only when you
know that she alone will suffice for you."

But the more she spoke, the more persistent Foma became in his
desire not to part with her.

"Just listen to what I'll tell you," said the woman, calmly. "A
splinter of wood is burning in your hand, and you can see well even
without its light--you had better dip it into water, so that there
will be no smell of smoke and your hand will not be burned."

"I do not understand your words."

"Do understand. You have done me no wrong, and I do not wish to
do you any. And, therefore, I am going away."

It is hard to say what might have been the result of this dispute
if an accident had not interfered with it. In Kazan Foma received a
telegram from Mayakin, who wrote to his godson briefly: "Come
immediately on the passenger steamer." Foma's heart contracted
nervously, and a few hours later, gloomy and pale, his teeth set
together, he stood on the deck of the steamer, which was leaving the
harbour, and clinging to the rail with his hands, he stared
motionlessly into the face of his love, who was floating far away from
him together
with the harbour and the shore. Pelageya waved her handkerchief and
smiled, but he knew that she was crying, shedding many painful tears.
From her tears the entire front of Foma's shirt was wet, and from
her tears, his heart, full of gloomy alarm, was sad and cold. The
figure of the woman was growing smaller and smaller, as though
melting away, and Foma, without lifting his eyes, stared at her and
felt that aside from fear for his father and sorrow for the woman,
some new, powerful and caustic sensation was awakening in his soul.
He could not name it, but it seemed to him as something like a grudge
against someone.

The crowd in the harbour blended into a close, dark and dead spot,
faceless, formless, motionless. Foma went away from the rail and
began to pace the deck gloomily.

The passengers, conversing aloud, seated themselves to drink tea;
the porters bustled about on the gallery, setting the tables;
somewhere below, on the stern, in the third class, a child was
crying, a harmonica was wailing, the cook was chopping something
with knives, the dishes were jarring-- producing a rather harsh
noise. Cutting the waves and making foam, shuddering under the
strain and sighing heavily, the enormous steamer moved rapidly
against the current. Foma looked at the wide strip of broken,
struggling, and enraged waves at the stern of the steamer, and
began to feel a wild desire to break or tear something; also to
go, breast foremost, against the current and to mass its pressure
against himself, against his breast and his shoulders.

"Fate!" said someone beside him in a hoarse and weary voice.

This word was familiar to him: his Aunt Anfisa had often used it
as an answer to his questions, and he had invested in this brief
word a conception of a power, similar to the power of God. He
glanced at the speakers: one of them was a gray little old man,
with a kind face; the other was younger, with big, weary eyes and
with a little black wedge-shaped beard. His big gristly nose and
his yellow, sunken cheeks reminded Foma of his godfather.

"Fate!" The old man repeated the exclamation of his interlocutor
with confidence, and began to smile. "Fate in life is like a
fisherman on the river: it throws a baited hook toward us into
the tumult of our life and we dart at it with greedy mouths. Then
fate pulls up the rod--and the man is struggling, flopping on the
ground, and then you see his heart is broken. That's how it is,
my dear man."

Foma closed his eyes, as if a ray of the sun had fallen full on
them, and shaking his head, he said aloud:

"True! That is true!"

The companions looked at him fixedly: the old man, with a fine,
wise smile; the large-eyed man, unfriendly, askance. This confused
Foma; he blushed and walked away, thinking of Fate and wondering
why it had first treated him kindly by giving him a woman, and then
took back the gift from him, so simply and abusively? And he now
understood that the vague, caustic feeling which he carried within
him was a grudge against Fate for thus sporting with him. He had been
too much spoiled by life, to regard more plainly the first drop of
poison from the cup which was just started, and he passed all the time
of the journey without sleep, pondering over the old man's words and
fondling his grudge. This grudge, however, did not awaken in him
despondency and sorrow, but rather a feeling of anger and revenge.

Foma was met by his godfather, and to his hasty and agitated
question, Mayakin, his greenish little eyes flashing excitedly,
said when he seated himself in the carriage beside his godson:

"Your father has grown childish."

"Drinking?"

"Worse--he has lost his mind completely."

"Really? 0h Lord! Tell me."

"Don't you understand? A certain lady is always around him."

"What about her?" exclaimed Foma, recalling his Pelageya, and for
some reason or other his heart was filled with joy.

"She sticks to him and--bleeds him."

"Is she a quiet one?"

"She? Quiet as a fire. Seventy-five thousand roubles she blew out
of his pocket like a feather!"

"Oh! Who is she?"

"Sonka Medinskaya, the architect's wife."

"Great God! Is it possible that she--Did my father--Is it
possible that he took her as his sweetheart?" asked Foma, with
astonishment, in a low voice.

His godfather drew back from him, and comically opening his eyes
wide, said convincedly:

"You are out of your mind, too! By God, you're out of your mind!
Come to your senses! A sweetheart at the age of sixty-three! And
at such a price as this. What are you talking about? Well, I'll
tell this to Ignat."

And Mayakin filled the air with a jarring, hasty laughter, at which
his goat-like beard began to tremble in an uncomely manner. It took
Foma a long time to obtain a categorical answer; the old man, contrary
to his habit, was restless and irritated; his speech, usually fluent,
was now interrupted; he was swearing and expectorating as he spoke,
and it was with difficulty that Foma learned what the matter was.
Sophya Pavlovna Medinskaya, the wealthy architect's wife, who was well
known in the city for her tireless efforts in the line of arranging
various charitable projects, persuaded Ignat to endow seventy-five
thousand roubles for the erection of a lodging-house in the city and
of a public library with a reading-room. Ignat had given the money,
and already the newspapers lauded him for his generosity. Foma had
seen the woman more than once on the streets; she was short; he knew
that she was considered as one of the most beautiful women in the
city,
and that bad rumours were afoot as to her behaviour.

"Is that all?" exclaimed Foma, when his godfather concluded the story.
"And I thought God knows what!"

"You? You thought?" cried Mayakin, suddenly grown angry. "You
thought nothing, you beardless youngster!"

"Why do you abuse me?" Foma said.

"Tell me, in your opinion, is seventy-five thousand roubles a big
sum or not?"

"Yes, a big sum," said Foma, after a moment's thought.

"Ah, ha!"

"But my father has much money. Why do you make such a fuss about it?"

Yakov Tarasovich was taken aback. He looked into the youth's face
with contempt and asked him in a faint voice:

"And you speak like this?"

"I? Who then?"

"You lie! It is your young foolishness that speaks. Yes! And my
old foolishness--brought to test a million times by life--says
that you are a young dog as yet, and it is too early for you to
bark in a basso."

Foma hearing this, had often been quite provoked by his godfather's
too picturesque language.

Mayakin always spoke to him more roughly than his father, but now
the youth felt very much offended by the old man and said to him
reservedly, but firmly:

"You had better not abuse me without reflection, for I am no
longer a small child."

"Come, come!" exclaimed Mayakin, mockingly lifting his eyebrows
and squinting.

This roused Foma's indignation. He looked full into the old man's
eyes and articulated with emphasis:

"And I am telling you that I don't want to hear any more of that
undeserved abuse of yours. Enough!"

"Mm! So-o! Pardon me."

Yakov Tarasovich closed his eyes, chewed a little with his lips,
and, turning aside from his godson, kept silent for awhile. The
carriage turned into a narrow street, and, noticing from afar the
roof of his house, Foma involuntarily moved forward. At the same
time Mayakin asked him with a roguish and gentle smile:

"Foma! Tell me--on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?"

"Why, are they sharp?" asked Foma, pleased with the manner in
which Mayakin now regarded him.

"Pretty good. That's good, dear. That's very good! Your father and
I were afraid lest you should be a laggard. Well, have you learned
to drink vodka?"

"I drank it."

"Rather too soon! Did you drink much of it?"

"Why much?"

"Does it taste good?"

"Not very."

"So. Never mind, all this is not so bad. Only you are too outspoken.
You are ready to confess all your sins to each and every pope that
comes along. You must consider it isn't always necessary to do that.
Sometimes
by keeping silent you both please people and commit no sins. Yes. A
man's tongue is very seldom sober. Here we are. See, your father does
not know that you have arrived. Is he home yet, I wonder?"

He was at home: his loud, somewhat hoarse laughter was heard from the
open windows of the rooms. The noise of the carriage, which stopped at
the house, caused Ignat to look out of the window, and at the sight of
his son he cried out with joy:

"Ah! You've come."

After a while he pressed Foma to his breast with one hand, and,
pressing the palm of his other hand against his son's forehead, thus
bending his head back, he looked into his face with beaming eyes and
spoke contentedly:

"You are sunburnt. You've grown strong. You're a fine fellow! Madame!
How's my son? Isn't he fine?"

"Not bad looking," a gentle, silver voice was heard. Foma glanced
from behind his father's shoulder and noticed that a slender woman
with magnificent fair hair was sitting in the front corner of the
room, resting her elbows on the table; her dark eyes, her thin
eyebrows
and plump, red lips strikingly defined on her pale face. Behind her
armchair stood a large philodendron-plant whose big, figured leaves
were hanging down in the air over her little golden head.

"How do you do, Sophya Pavlovna," said Mayakin, tenderly, approaching
her with his hand outstretched. "What, are you still collecting
contributions from poor people like us?"

Foma bowed to her mutely, not hearing her answer to Mayakin, nor
what his father was saying to him. The lady stared at him steadfastly
and smiled to him affably and serenely. Her childlike figure, clothed
in some kind of dark fabric, was almost blended with the crimson stuff
of the armchair, while her wavy, golden hair and her pale face shone
against the dark background. Sitting there in the corner, beneath the
green leaves, she looked at once like a flower, and like an ikon.

"See, Sophya Pavlovna, how he is staring at you. An eagle, eh?"
said Ignat.

Her eyes became narrower, a faint blush leaped to her cheeks, and
she burst into laughter. It sounded like the tinkling of a little
silver bell. And she immediately arose, saying:

"I wouldn't disturb you. Good-bye!"

When she went past Foma noiselessly, the scent of perfume came to him,
and he noticed that her eyes were dark blue, and her eyebrows almost
black.

"The sly rogue glided away," said Mayakin in a low voice, angrily
looking after her.

"Well, tell us how was the trip? Have you squandered much money?"
roared Ignat, pushing his son into the same armchair where Medinskaya
had been sitting awhile before. Foma looked at him askance and seated
himself in another chair.

"Isn't she a beautiful young woman, eh?" said Mayakin, smiling,
feeling Foma with his cunning eyes. "If you keep on gaping at her she
will eat away all your insides."

Foma shuddered for some reason or other, and, saying nothing in reply,
began to tell his father about the journey in a matter-of-fact tone.
But Ignat interrupted him:

"Wait, I'll ask for some cognac."

"And you are keeping on drinking all the time, they say," said
Foma, disapprovingly.

Ignat glanced at his son with surprise and curiosity, and asked:

"Is this the way to speak to your father?"

Foma became confused and lowered his head.

"That's it!" said Ignat, kind-heartedly, and ordered cognac to be
brought to him.

Mayakin, winking his eyes, looked at the Gordyeeffs, sighed, bid
them good-bye, and, after inviting them to have tea with him in
his raspberry garden in the evening, went away.

"Where is Aunt Anfisa?" asked Foma, feeling that now, being alone
with his father, he was somewhat ill at ease.

"She went to the cloister. Well, tell me, and I will have some
cognac."

Foma told his father all about his affairs in a few minutes and
he concluded his story with a frank confession:

"I have spent much money on myself."

"How much?"

"About six hundred roubles."

"In six weeks! That's a good deal. I see as a clerk you're too
expensive for me. Where have you squandered it all?"

"I gave away three hundred puds of grain."

"To whom? How?"

Foma told him all about it.

"Hm! Well, that's all right!" Ignat approved. "That's to show what
stuff we are made of. That's clear enough--for the father's honour--
for the honour of the firm. And there is no loss either, because that
gives a good reputation. And that, my dear, is the very best signboard
for a business. Well, what else?"

"And then, I somehow spent more."

"Speak frankly. It's not the money that I am asking you about--I
just want to know how you lived there," insisted Ignat, regarding
his son attentively and sternly.

"I was eating, drinking." Foma did not give in, bending his head
morosely and confusedly.

"Drinking vodka?"

"Vodka, too."

"Ah! So. Isn't it rather too soon?"

"Ask Yefim whether I ever drank enough to be intoxicated."

"Why should I ask Yefim? You must tell me everything yourself. So
you are drinking? I don't like it."

"But I can get along without drinking."

"Come, come! Do you want some cognac?"

Foma looked at his father and smiled broadly. And his father
answered him with a kindly smile:

"Eh, you. Devil! Drink, but look out--know your business. What
can you do? A drunkard will sleep himself sober, a fool--never.
Let us understand this much at least, for our own consolation.
And did you have a good time with girls, too? Be frank! Are you
afraid that I will beat you, or what?"

"Yes. There was one on the steamer. I had her there from Perm to
Kazan."

"So," Ignat sighed heavily and said, frowning: "You've become
defiled rather too soon."

"I am twenty years old. And you yourself told me that in your days
fellows married at the age of fifteen," replied Foma, confused.

"Then they married. Very well, then, let us drop the subject. Well,
you've had dealings with a woman. What of it? A woman is like
vaccination, you cannot pass your life without her. As for myself,
I cannot play the hypocrite. I began to go around with women when I
was younger than you are now. But you must be on your guard with
them."

Ignat became pensive and was silent for a long time, sitting
motionless, his head bent low on his breast.

"Listen, Foma," he started again, sternly and firmly. "I shall
die before long. I am old. Something oppresses my breast. I
breathe with difficulty. I'll die. Then all my affairs will fall
on your shoulders. At first your godfather will assist you--mind
him! You started quite well; you attended to everything properly;
you held the reins firmly in your hands. And though you did
squander a big sum of money, it is evident that you did not lose
your head. God grant the same in the future. You should know this:
business is a living, strong beast; you must manage it ably; you must
put a strong bridle on it or it will conquer you. Try to stand above
your business. Place yourself so that it will all be under your feet;
that each little tack shall be visible to you."

Foma looked at his father's broad chest, heard his heavy voice
and thought to himself:

"Oh, but you won't die so soon!"

This thought pleased him and awakened in him a kind, warm feeling
for his father.

"Rely upon your godfather. He has enough common sense in his head
to supply the whole town with it. All he lacks is courage, or he
would have risen high. Yes, I tell you my days on earth are numbered.
Indeed, it is high time to prepare myself for death; to cast
everything aside; to fast, and see to it that people bear me good-
will."

"They will!" said Foma with confidence.

"If there were but a reason why they should."

"And the lodging-house?"

Ignat looked at his son and began to laugh.

"Yakov has had time to tell it to you already! The old miser. He
must have abused me?"

"A little." Foma smiled.

"Of course! Don't I know him?"

"He spoke of it as though it were his own money."

Ignat leaned back in his chair and burst into still louder laughter.

"The old raven, eh? That's quite true. Whether it be his own money
or mine, it is all the same to him. There he is trembling now. He
has an aim in view, the bald-headed fellow. Can you tell me what it
is?"

Foma thought awhile and said:

"I don't know."

"Eh, you're stupid. He wants to tell our fortunes."

How is that?"

"Come now, guess!"

Foma looked at his father and--guessed it. His face became gloomy, he
slightly raised himself from the armchair and said resolutely:

"No, I don't want to. I shall not marry her!"

"Oh? Why so? She is a strong girl; she is not foolish; she's his
only child."

"And Taras? The lost one? But I--I don't want to at all!"

"The lost one is gone, consequently it is not worthwhile speaking
of him. There is a will, dear, which says: 'All my movable and real
estates shall go to my daughter, Lubov.' And as to the fact that she
is your godfather's daughter, we'll set this right."

"It is all the same," said Foma, firmly. "I shall not marry her!"

"Well, it is rather early to speak of it now! But why do you
dislike her so much?"

I do not like such as she is."

"So-o! Just think of it! And which women are more to your liking,
sir, may I ask?"

"Those that are more simple. She's always busy with her Gymnasium
students and with her books. She's become learned. She'll be laughing
at my expense," said Foma, emotionally.

"That is quite true. She is too bold. But that is a trifle. All
sorts of rust can be removed if you try to do it. That's a matter
for the future. And your godfather is a clever old man. His was a
peaceful, sedentary life; sitting in one place he gave a thought
to everything. It is worthwhile listening to him, for he can see
the wrong side of each and every worldly affair. He is our aristocrat-
-descending from Mother Yekaterina--ha, ha! He understands a great
deal about himself. And as his stem was cut off by Taras, he decided
to put you in Taras's place, do you see?"

"No, I'd rather select my place myself," said Foma, stubbornly.

"You are foolish as yet." Ignat smiled in reply to his son's words.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Aunt Anfisa.

"Foma! You've come," she cried out, somewhere behind the doors.
Foma rose and went to meet her, with a gentle smile.

Again his life streamed on slowly, calmly, monotonously. Again
the Exchange and his father's instructions. Retaining a kindly
sarcastic and encouraging tone in his relation toward his son,
Ignat began to treat him more strictly. He censured him for each
and every trifle and constantly reminded him that he brought him
up freely; that he was never in his way and that he never beat him.

"Other fathers beat fellows like yourself with logs of wood. And
I never even touched you with a finger."

"Evidently I didn't deserve it," said Foma one day, calmly.

Ignat became angry at his son for these words and for the tone.

"Don't talk so much!" he roared. "You've picked up courage because
of the softness of my hand. You find an answer to every word I say.
Beware; though my hand was soft, it can nevertheless still squeeze
you so that tears will gush forth from your heels. You've grown up
too soon, like a toad-stool, just sprung up from the ground. You have
a bad smell already."

"Why are you so angry at me?" asked Foma, perplexed and offended,
when his father chanced to be in a happy frame of mind.

"Because you cannot tolerate it when your father grumbles at you.
You're ready to quarrel immediately."

"But it is offensive. I have not grown worse than I was before.
Don't I see how others live at my age?"

"Your head wouldn't fall off from my scolding you. And I scold you
because I see there is something in you that is not mine. What it is,
I do not know, but I see it is there. And that something is harmful
to you."

These words of Ignat made the son very thoughtful. Foma also felt
something strange in himself, something which distinguished him
from the youth of his age, but he, too, could not understand what
it was. And he looked at himself with suspicion.

Foma liked to be on the Exchange amid the bustle and talk of the
sedate people who were making deals amounting to thousands of
roubles; the respect with which the less well-to-do tradesmen
greeted and spoke to him--to Foma, the son of the millionaire--
flattered him greatly. He felt happy and proud whenever he
successfully managed some part of his father's business, assuming
all responsibility on his own shoulders, and received a smile of
approval from his father for it. There was in him a great deal of
ambition, yearning to appear as a grown-up man of business, but--
just as before his trip to Perm--he lived as in solitude; he still
felt no longing for friends, although he now came in contact everyday
with the merchants' sons of his age. They had invited him more than
once to join them in their sprees, but he rather rudely and
disdainfully declined their invitations and even laughed at them.

"I am afraid. Your fathers may learn of your sprees, and as
they'll give you a drubbing, I might also come in for a share."

What he did not like in them was that they were leading a dissipated
and depraved life, without their fathers' knowledge, and that the
money
they were spending was either stolen from their parents or borrowed on
long-termed promissory notes, to be paid with exorbitant interest.
They
in turn did not like him for this very reserve and aversion, which
contained the pride so offensive to them. He was timid about speaking
to people older than himself, fearing lest he should appear in their
eyes stupid and thick-headed.

He often recalled Pelageya, and at first he felt melancholy whenever
her image flashed before his imagination. But time went on, and little
by little rubbed off the bright colours of this woman; and before he
was aware of it his thoughts were occupied by the slender, angel-like
Medinskaya. She used to come up to Ignat almost every Sunday with
various requests, all of which generally had but one aim--to hasten
the building of the lodging-asylum. In her presence Foma felt awkward,
huge, heavy; this pained him, and he blushed deeply under the
endearing look of Sophya Pavlovna's large eyes. He noticed that every
time she looked at him, her eyes would grow darker, while her upper
lip would tremble and raise itself slightly, thus displaying very
small white teeth. This always frightened him. When his father noticed
how steadfastly he was staring at Medinskaya he told him one day:

"Don't be staring so much at that face. Look out, she is like a birch
ember: from the outside it is just as modest, smooth and dark--
altogether cold to all appearances--but take it into your hand and it
will burn you."

Medinskaya did not kindle in the youth any sensual passion, for there
was nothing in her that resembled Pelageya, and altogether she was not
at all like other women. He knew that shameful rumours about her were
in the air, but he did not believe any of them. But his relations to
her were changed when he noticed her one day in a carriage beside a
stout man in a gray hat and with long hair falling over his shoulders.
His face was like a bladder--red and bloated; he had neither moustache
nor beard, and altogether he looked like a woman in disguise. Foma was
told that this was her husband. Then dark and contradicting feelings
sprang up within him: he felt like insulting the architect, and at the
same time he envied and respected him. Medinskaya now seemed to him
less beautiful and more accessible; he began to feel sorry for her,
and yet he thought malignantly:

"She must surely feel disgusted when he kisses her."

And after all this he sometimes perceived in himself some bottomless
and oppressive emptiness, which could not be filled up by anything--
neither by the impressions of the day just gone by nor by the
recollection of the past; and the Exchange, and his affairs, and his
thoughts of Medinskaya--all were swallowed up by this emptiness. It
alarmed him: in the dark depth of this emptiness he suspected some
hidden existence of a hostile power, as yet formless but already
carefully and persistently striving to become incarnate.

In the meantime Ignat, changing but little outwardly, was growing ever
more restless and querulous and was complaining more often of being
ill.

"I lost my sleep. It used to be so sound that even though you had torn
off my skin, I would not have felt it. While now I toss about from
side to side, and I fall asleep only toward morning. And every now and
then I awaken. My heart beats unevenly, now, though tired out; often
thus: tuk-tuk-tuk. And sometimes it sinks of a sudden--and it seems as
though it would soon tear itself away and fall somewhere into the
deep;
into the bosom. 0h Lord, have pity upon me through Thy great mercy."
And heaving a penitent sigh, he would lift heavenward his stern eyes,
grown dim now, devoid of their bright, sparkling glitter.

"Death keeps an eye on me somewhere close by," he said one day
morosely,
but humbly. And indeed, it soon felled his big, sturdy body to the
ground.

This happened in August, early in the morning. Foma was sound asleep
when suddenly he felt somebody shaking him by the shoulder, and a
hoarse voice called at his ear:

"Get up."

He opened his eyes and saw that his father was seated in a chair
near his bed, monotonously repeating in a dull voice:

"Get up, get up."

The sun had just risen, and its light, falling on Ignat's white
linen shirt, had not yet lost its rosy tints.

"It's early," said Foma, stretching himself.

"Well, you'll sleep enough later."

Lazily muffling himself in the blanket, Foma asked:

"Why do you need me?"

"Get up, dear, will you, please?" exclaimed Ignat, adding, somewhat
offended: "It must be necessary, since I am waking you."

When Foma looked closely at his father's face, he noticed that it
was gray and weary.

"Are you ill? "

"Slightly."

"Shall we send for a doctor?"

"The devil take him!" Ignat waved his hand. "I am not a young man
any longer. I know it as well without him."

"What?"

"Oh, I know it!" said the old man, mysteriously, casting a strange
glance around the room. Foma was dressing himself, and his father,
with lowered head, spoke slowly:

"I am afraid to breathe. Something tells me that if I should now
heave a deep sigh, my heart would burst. Today is Sunday! After
the morning mass is over, send for the priest."

"What are you talking about, papa?" Foma smiled.

"Nothing. Wash yourself and go into the garden. I ordered the
samovar to be brought there. We'll drink our tea in the morning
coolness. I feel like drinking now hot, strong tea. Be quicker."

The old man rose with difficulty from the chair, and, bent and
barefooted, left the room in a staggering gait. Foma looked at
his father, and a shooting chill of fear made his heart shrink.
He washed himself in haste, and hurried out into the garden.

There, under an old, spreading apple-tree sat Ignat in a big oaken
armchair. The light of the sun fell in thin stripes through the
branches of the trees upon the white figure of the old man clad
in his night-garments. There was such a profound silence in the
garden that even the rustle of a branch, accidentally touched by
Foma's clothes, seemed to him like a loud sound and he shuddered.
On the table, before his father, stood the samovar, purring like
a well-fed tom-cat and exhaling a stream of steam into the air.
Amid the silence and the fresh verdure of the garden, which had
been washed by abundant rains the day before, this bright spot of
the boldly shining, loud brass seemed to Foma as something
unnecessary,
as something which suited neither the time nor the place--nor the
feeling that sprang up within him at the sight of the sickly, bent old
man, who was dressed in white, and who sat alone underneath the mute,
motionless, dark-green foliage, wherein red apples were modestly
peeping.

"Be seated," said Ignat.

"We ought to send for a doctor." Foma advised him irresolutely,
seating himself opposite him.

"It isn't necessary. It's a little better now in the open air.
And now I'll sip some tea and perhaps that will do me more good,"
said Ignat, pouring out tea into the glasses, and Foma noticed
that the teapot was trembling in his father's hand.

"Drink."

Silently moving up one glass for himself, Foma bent over it, blowing
the foam off the surface of the tea, and with pain in his heart,
hearing
the loud, heavy breathing of his father. Suddenly something struck
against the table with such force that the dishes began to rattle.

Foma shuddered, threw up his head and met the frightened, almost
senseless look of his father's eyes. Ignat stared at his son and
whispered hoarsely:

"An apple fell down (the devil take it!). It sounded like the
firing of a gun."

"Won't you have some cognac in your tea?" Foma suggested.

"It is good enough without it."

They became silent. A flight of finches winged past over the garden,
scattering a provokingly cheerful twittering in the air. And again the
ripe beauty of the garden was bathed in solemn silence. The fright was
still in Ignat's eyes.

"0h Lord, Jesus Christ!" said he in a low voice, making the sign
of the cross. "Yes. There it is--the last hour of my life."

"Stop, papa!" whispered Foma.

"Why stop? We'll have our tea, and then send for the priest, and
for Mayakin."

"I'd rather send for them now."

"They'll soon toll for the mass--the priest isn't home--and then
there's no hurry, it may pass soon."

And he noisily started to sip the tea out of the saucer.

"I should live another year or two. You are young, and I am very
much afraid for you. Live honestly and firmly; do not covet what
belongs to other people, take good care of your own."

It was hard for him to speak, he stopped short and rubbed his
chest with his hand.

"Do not rely upon others; expect but little from them. We all live in
order to take, not to give. 0h Lord! Have mercy on the sinner!"

Somewhere in the distance the deep sound of the bell fell on the
silence
of the morning. Ignat and Foma crossed themselves three times.

After the first sound of the bell-tone came another, then a third, and
soon the air was filled with sounds of the church-bells, coming from
all sides--flowing, measured, calling aloud.

"There, they are tolling for the mass," said Ignat, listening to the
echo of the bell-metal. "Can you tell the bells by their sounds?"

"No," answered Foma.

"Just listen. This one now--do you hear? the bass--this is from the
Nikola Church. It was presented by Peter Mitrich Vyagin--and this,
the hoarse one--this is at the church of Praskeva Pyatnitza."

The singing waves of the bell-tones agitated the air, which was filled
with them, and they died away in the clear blue of the sky. Foma
stared thoughtfully at his father's face and saw that the alarm was
disappearing from his eyes, and that they were now brighter.

But suddenly the old man's face turned very red, his eyes distended
and rolled out of their orbits, his mouth opened with fright, and from
it issued a strange, hissing sound:

"F-F-A-A-ch."

Immediately after this Ignat's head fell back on his shoulder, and his
heavy body slowly slipped down from the chair to the ground as if the
earth had dragged him imperiously unto itself. Foma was motionless and
silent for awhile, then he rushed up to Ignat, lifted his head from
the ground and looked into his face. The face was dark, motionless,
and the wide-open eyes expressed nothing--neither pain, nor fear, nor
joy. Foma looked around him. As before, nobody was in the garden, and
the
resounding chatter of the bells was still roaring in the air. Foma's
hands began to tremble, he let go his father's head, and it struck
heavily against the ground. Dark, thick blood began to gush in a
narrow stream from his open mouth across his blue cheek.

Foma struck his breast with both hands, and kneeling before the dead
body, he wildly cried aloud. He was trembling with fright, and with
eyes like those of a madman he was searching for someone in the
verdure of the garden.

CHAPTER IV

HIS father's death stupefied Foma and filled him with a strange
sensation; quiet was poured into his soul--a painful, immovable
quiet, which absorbed all the sounds of life without accounting
for it. All sorts of acquaintances were bustling about him; they
appeared, disappeared, said something to him--his replies to them
were untimely, and their words called forth no images in him,
drowning, without leaving any trace, in the bottomless depths of
the death-like silence which filled his soul. He neither cried,
nor grieved, nor thought of anything; pale and gloomy, with
knitted brow, he was attentively listening to this quiet, which
had forced out all his feelings, benumbed his heart and tightly
clutched his brains. He was conscious but of the purely physical
sensation of heaviness in all his frame and particularly in his
breast, and then it also seemed to him that it was always
twilight, and even though the sun was still high in the sky--
everything on earth looked dark and melancholy.

The funeral was arranged by Mayakin. Hastily and briskly he was
bustling about in the rooms, making much clatter with the heels
of his boots; he cried at the household help imperiously, clapped
his godson on the shoulder, consoling him:

"And why are you petrified? Roar and you will feel relieved. Your
father was old--old in body. Death is prepared for all of us, you
cannot escape it--consequently you must not be prematurely torpid.
You cannot bring him to life again with your sorrow, and your grief
is unnecessary to him, for it is said: 'When the body is robbed of
the soul by the terrible angels, the soul forgets all relatives and
acquaintances,' which means that you are of no consequence to him
now, whether you cry or laugh. But the living must care for the
living. You had better cry, for this is human. It brings much relief
to the heart."

But neither did these words provoke anything in Foma's head or in
his heart. He came to himself, however, on the day of the funeral,
thanks to the persistence of his godfather, who was assiduously and
oddly trying to rouse his sad soul.

The day of the funeral was cloudy and dreary. Amid a heavy cloud
of dust an enormous crowd of people, winding like a black ribbon,
followed the coffin of Ignat Gordyeeff. Here and there flashed the
gold of the priest's robes, and the dull noise of the slow
movement of the crowd blended in harmony with the solemn music of
the choir, composed of the bishop's choristers. Foma was pushed
from behind and from the sides; he walked, seeing nothing but the
gray head of his father, and the mournful singing resounded in
his heart like a melancholy echo. And Mayakin, walking beside
him, kept on intrusively whispering in his ears:

"Look, what a crowd--thousands! The governor himself came out to
accompany your father to the church, the mayor, and almost the
entire city council. And behind you--just turn around! There goes
Sophya Pavlovna. The town pays its respects to Ignat."

At first Foma did not listen to his godfather's whisper, but when
he mentioned Medinskaya, he involuntarily looked back and noticed
the governor. A little drop of something pleasant fell into his
heart at the sight of this important personage, with a bright
ribbon across his shoulder, with orders on his breast, pacing after
the coffin, an expression of sorrow on his stern countenance.

Blessed is the road where this soul goeth today," Yakov Tarasovich
hummed softly, moving his nose, and he again whispered in his
godson's ear:

"Seventy-five thousand roubles is such a sum that you can demand
so many escorts for it. Have you heard that Sonka is making
arrangements for the laying of the corner-stone on the fifteenth?
Just forty days after the death of your father."

Foma again turned back, and his eyes met the eyes of Medinskaya.
He heaved a deep sigh at her caressing glance, and felt relieved
at once, as if a warm ray of light penetrated his soul and
something melted there. And then and there he considered that it
was unbecoming him to turn his head from side to side.

At church Foma's head began to ache, and it seemed to him that
everything around and underneath him was shaking. In the stifling
air, filled with dust, with the breathing of the people and the
smoke of the incense, the flames of the candles were timidly
trembling. The meek image of Christ looked down at him from the
big ikon, and the flames of the candles, reflected in the
tarnished gold of the crown over the Saviour's brow, reminded him
of drops of blood.

Foma's awakened soul was greedily feeding itself on the solemn,
gloomy poetry of the liturgy, and when the touching citation was
heard, "Come, let us give him the last kiss," a loud, wailing sob
escaped from Foma's chest, and the crowd in church was stirred to
agitation by this outburst of grief.

Having uttered the sob, Foma staggered. His godfather immediately
caught him by his arms and began to push him forward to the coffin,
singing quite loudly and with some anger:

Kiss him who was but lately with us. Kiss, Foma, kiss him--he is
given over to the grave, covered with a stone. He is settling
down in darkness, and is buried with the dead."

Foma touched his father's forehead with his lips and sprang back
from the coffin with horror.

"Hold your peace! You nearly knocked me down," Mayakin remarked
to him, in a low voice, and these simple, calm words supported
Foma better than his godfather's hands.

"Ye that behold me mute and lifeless before you, weep for me,
brethren and friends," begged Ignat through the mouth of the
Church. But his son was not crying any longer; his horror was
called forth by the black, swollen face of his father, and this
horror somewhat sobered his soul, which had been intoxicated by
the mournful music of the Church's lament for its sinful son. He
was surrounded by acquaintances, who were kindly consoling him;
he listened to them and understood that they all felt sorry for
him and that he became dear to them. And his godfather whispered
in his ear:

"See, how they all fawn upon you. The tom-cats have smelt the fat."

These words were unpleasant to Foma, but they were useful to him,
as they caused him to answer at all events.

At the cemetery, when they sang for Ignat's eternal memory, he cried
again bitterly and loud. His godfather immediately seized him by the
arms and led him away from the grave, speaking to him earnestly:

"What a faint-hearted fellow you are! Do I not feel sorry for him?
I have known his real value, while you were but his son. And yet,
I do not cry. For more than thirty years we lived together in perfect
harmony--how much had been spoken, how much thought--how much sorrow
drunk. You are young; it is not for you to grieve! Your life is before
you, and you will be rich in all sorts of friendship; while I am old,
and now that I buried my only friend, I am like a pauper. I can no
longer make a bosom friend!"

The old man's voice began to jar and squeak queerly. His face was
distorted, his lips were stretched into a big grimace and were
quivering, and from his small eyes frequent tears were running
over the now contracted wrinkles of his face. He looked so pitiful
and so unlike himself, that Foma stopped short, pressed him close to
his body with the tenderness of a strong man and cried with alarm:

"Don't cry, father--darling! Don't cry."

"There you have it!" said Mayakin, faintly, and, heaving a deep
sigh, he suddenly turned again into a firm and clever old man.

"You must not cry," said he, mysteriously, seating himself in the
carriage beside his godson. "You are now the commander-in-chief
in the war and you must command your soldiers bravely. Your
soldiers are the roubles, and you have a great army of these.
Make war incessantly!"

Surprised at the quickness of his transformation, Foma listened
to his words and for some reason or other they reminded him of
those clods of earth, which the people threw into Ignat's grave
upon his coffin.

"On whom am I to make war?" said Foma with a sigh.

"I'll teach you that! Did your father tell you that I was a
clever old man and that you should mind me?"

"He did."

"Then do mind me! If my mind should be added to your youthful
strength, a good victory might be won. Your father was a great
man, but he did not look far before him and he could not take my
advice. He gained success in life not with his mind, but more
with his head. Oh, what will become of you? You had better move
into my house, for you will feel lonesome in yours."

"Aunt is there."

"Aunt? She is sick. She will not live long."

"Do not speak of it," begged Foma in a low voice.

"And I will speak of it. You need not fear death--you are not an old
woman on the oven. Live fearlessly and do what you were appointed to
do. Man is appointed for the organisation of life on earth. Man is
capital--like a rouble, he is made up of trashy copper groshes and
copecks. From the dust of the earth, as it is said; and even as he
has intercourse with the world, he absorbs grease and oil, sweat and
tears--a soul and a mind form themselves in him. And from this he
starts to grow upward and downward. Now, you see his price is a
grosh, now a fifteen copeck silver piece, now a hundred roubles, and
sometimes he is above any price. He is put into circulation and he
must bring interests to life. Life knows the value of each of us and
will not check our course before time. Nobody, dear, works to his own
detriment, if he is wise. And life has saved up much wisdom. Are you
listening?"

"I am."

"And what do you understand?"

"Everything."

"You are probably lying?" Mayakin doubted.

"But, why must we die?" asked Foma in a low voice.

Mayakin looked into his face with regret, smacked his lips and said:

"A wise man would never ask such a question. A wise man knows for
himself that if it is a river, it must be flowing somewhere, and
if it were standing in one place, it would be a swamp."

"You're simply mocking me at random," said Foma, sternly. "The
sea is not flowing anywhere."

"The sea receives all rivers into itself, and then, powerful
storms rage in it at times. Then the sea of life also submits on
agitation, stirred up by men, and death renovates the waters of
the sea of life, that they might not become spoiled. No matter how
many people are dying, they are nevertheless forever growing in
number."

"What of it? But my father is dead."

"You will die as well."

"Then what have I to do with the fact that people are growing in
number?" Foma smiled sadly.

"Eh, he, he!" sighed Mayakin. "That, indeed, concerns none of us.
There, your trousers probably reason in the same way: what have we to
do with the fact that there are all sorts of stuff in the world? But
you do not mind them--you wear them out and throw them away."

Foma glanced at his godfather reproachfully, and noticing that the old
man was smiling, he was astonished and he asked respectfully:

"Can it be true, father, that you do not fear death?"

"Most of all I fear foolishness, my child," replied Mayakin with
humble bitterness. "My opinion is this: if a fool give you honey, spit
upon it; if a wise man give you poison, drink it! And I will tell you
that the perch has a weak soul since his fins do not stand on end."

The old man's mocking words offended and angered Foma. He turned
aside and said:

"You can never speak without these subterfuges."

"I cannot!" exclaimed Mayakin, and his eyes began to sparkle with
alarm. "Each man uses the very same tongue he has. Do I seem to be
stern? Do I?"

Foma was silent.

"Eh, you. Know this--he loves who teaches. Remember this well.
And as to death, do not think of it. It is foolish, dear, for a
live man to think of death. 'Ecclesiastes' reflected on death
better than anybody else reflected on it, and said that a living
dog is better than a dead lion."

They came home. The street near the house was crowded with
carriages, and from the open windows came loud sounds of talk. As
soon as Foma appeared in the hall, he was seized by the arms and
led away to the table and there was urged to drink and eat
something. A marketplace noise smote the air; the hall was
crowded and suffocating. Silently, Foma drank a glass of vodka,
then another, and a third. Around him they were munching and
smacking their lips; the vodka poured out from the bottles was
gurgling, the wine-glasses were tinkling. They were speaking of
dried sturgeon and of the bass of the soloist of the bishop's
choir, and then again of the dried sturgeon, and then they said
that the mayor also wished to make a speech, but did not venture
to do so after the bishop had spoken, fearing lest he should not
speak so well as the bishop. Someone was telling with feeling:

"The deceased one used to do thus: he would cut off a slice of
salmon, pepper it thickly, cover it with another slice of salmon,
and then send it down immediately after a drink."

"Let us follow his example," roared a thick basso. Offended to
the quick, Foma looked with a frown at the fat lips and at the
jaws chewing the tasty food, and he felt like crying out and
driving away all these people, whose sedateness had but lately
inspired him with respect for them.

"You had better be more kind, more sociable," said Mayakin in a
low voice, coming up to him.

"Why are they gobbling here? Is this a tavern?" cried Foma, angrily.

"Hush," Mayakin remarked with fright and hastily turned to look
around with a kind smile on his face.

But it was too late; his smile was of no avail. Foma's words had
been overheard, the noise and the talk was subsiding, some of the
guests began to bustle about hurriedly, others, offended, frowned,
put down their forks and knives and walked away from the table, all
looking at Foma askance.

Silent and angry, he met these glances without lowering his eyes.

"I ask you to come up to the table! "cried Mayakin, gleaming
amid the crowd of people like an ember amid ashes. "Be seated,
pray! They're soon serving pancakes."

Foma shrugged his shoulders and walked off toward the door,
saying aloud:

"I shall not eat."

He heard a hostile rumbling behind him and his godfather's
wheedling voice saying to somebody:

"It's for grief. Ignat was at once father and mother to him."

Foma came out in the garden and sat down on the same place where
his father had died. The feeling of loneliness and grief oppressed
his heart. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt to make his
breathing easier, rested his elbows on the table, and with his head
tightly pressed between his hands, he sat motionless. It was drizzling
and the leaves of the apple-tree were rustling mournfully under the
drops of the rain. He sat there for a long time alone, motionless,
watching how the small drops were falling from the apple-tree. His
head was heavy from the vodka, and in his heart there was a growing
grudge against men. Some indefinite, impersonal feelings and thoughts
were springing up and vanishing within him; before him flashed the
bald skull of his godfather with a little crown of silver hair and
with a dark face, which resembled the faces of the ancient ikons.
This face with the toothless mouth and the malicious smile, rousing
in Foma hatred and fear, augmented in him the consciousness of
solitude. Then he recalled the kind eyes of Medinskaya and her small,
graceful figure; and beside her arose the tall, robust, and rosy-
cheeked Lubov Mayakina with smiling eyes and with a big light golden-
coloured braid. "Do not rely upon men, expect but little at their
hands"--his father's words began to ring in his memory. He sighed
sadly and cast a glance around him. The tree leaves were fluttering
from the rain, and the air was full of mournful sounds. The gray sky
seemed as though weeping, and on the trees cold tears were trembling.
And Foma's soul was dry, dark; it was filled with a painful feeling
of orphanhood. But this feeling gave birth to the question:

"How shall I live now that I am alone?"

The rain drenched his clothes, and when he felt that he was
shivering with cold he arose and went into the house.

Life was tugging him from all sides, giving him no chance to be
concentrated in thinking of and grieving for his father, and on
the fortieth day after Ignat's death Foma, attired in holiday
clothes, with a pleasant feeling in his heart, went to the ceremony
of the corner-stone laying of the lodging-asylum. Medinskaya notified
him in a letter the day before, that he had been elected as a member
of the building committee and also as honorary member of the society
of which she was president. This pleased him and he was greatly
agitated by the part he was to play today at the laying of the
corner-stone. On his way he thought of how everything would be and
how he should behave in order not to be confused before the people.

"Eh, eh! Hold on!"

He turned around. Mayakin came hastening to him from the sidewalk.
He was in a frock-coat that reached his heels, in a high cap, and
he carried a huge umbrella in his hand.

"Come on, take me up there," said the old man, cleverly jumping into
the carriage like a monkey. "To tell the truth, I was waiting for
you. I was looking around, thinking it was time for you to go."

"Are you going there?" asked Foma.

"Of course! I must see how they will bury my friend's money in
the ground."

Foma looked at him askance and was silent. "Why do you frown upon
me? Don't fear, you will also start out as a benefactor among men."

"What do you mean?" asked Foma, reservedly. "I've read in the
newspaper this morning that you were elected as a member of the building
committee and also as an honorary member of Sophya's society."

"Yes."

"This membership will eat into your pocket!" sighed Mayakin.

"That wouldn't ruin me."

"I don't know it," observed the old man, maliciously.

"I speak of this more because there is altogether very little
wisdom in this charity business, and I may even say that it isn't
a business at all, but simply harmful nonsense."

"Is it harmful to aid people?" asked Foma, hotly.

"Eh, you cabbage head!" said Mayakin with a smile. "You had better
come up to my house, I'll open your eyes in regard to this. I must
teach you! Will you come?"

"Very well, I will come!" replied Foma.

"So. And in the meantime, hold yourself proud at the laying of
the corner-stone. Stand in view of everybody. If I don't tell
this to you, you might hide yourself behind somebody's back."

"Why should I hide myself?" said Foma, displeased.

"That's just what I say: there is no reason why. For the money
was donated by your father and you are entitled to the honour as
his heir. Honour is just the same as money. With honour a business
man will get credit everywhere, and everywhere there is a way open
to him. Then come forward, so that everybody may see you and that
if you do five copecks' worth of work, you should get a rouble in
return for it. And if you will hide yourself--nothing but foolishness
will be the result."

They arrived at their destination, where all the important people
had gathered already, and an enormous crowd of people surrounded
the piles of wood, bricks and earth. The bishop, the governor, the
representatives of the city's aristocracy and the administration
formed, together with the splendidly dressed ladies, a big bright
group and looked at the efforts of the two stonemasons, who were
preparing the bricks and the lime. Mayakin and his godson wended
their way toward this group. He whispered to Foma:

"Lose no courage, these people have robbed their bellies to cover
themselves with silk."

And he greeted the governor before the bishop, in a respectfully
cheerful voice.

"How do you do, your Excellency? Give me your blessing, your
Holiness!"

"Ah, Yakov Tarasovich!" exclaimed the governor with a friendly smile,
shaking and squeezing Mayakin's hand, while the old man was at the
same time kissing the bishop's hand. "How are you, deathless old man?"

"I thank you humbly, your Excellency! My respects to Sophya Pavlovna!"
Mayakin spoke fast, whirling like a peg-top amid the crowd of people.
In a minute he managed to shake hands with the presiding justice of
the court, with the prosecutor, with the mayor--in a word, with all
those people whom he considered it necessary to greet first; such as
these, however, were few. He jested, smiled and at once attracted
everybody's attention to his little figure, and Foma with downcast
head stood behind him, looking askance at these people wrapped in
costly stuffs, embroidered with gold; he envied the old man's
adroitness and lost his courage, and feeling that he was losing his
courage--he grew still more timid. But now Mayakin seized him by the
hand and drew him up to himself.

"There, your Excellency, this is my godson, Foma, the late Ignat's
only son."

"Ah!" said the governor in his basso, "I'm very pleased. I sympathise
with you in your misfortune, young man!" he said, shaking Foma's hand,
and became silent; then he added resolutely and confidently: "To lose
a father, that is a very painful misfortune."

And, having waited about two seconds for Foma's answer, he turned
away from him, addressing Mayakin approvingly:

"I am delighted with the speech you made yesterday in the city hall!
Beautiful, clever, Yakov Tarasovich. Proposing to use the money for
this public club, they do not understand the real needs of the
population."

"And then, your Excellency, a small capital means that the city
will have to add its own money."

"Perfectly true! Perfectly true!"

"Temperance, I say, is good! Would to God that all were sober! I
don't drink, either, but what is the use of these performances,
libraries and all that, since the people cannot even read?"

The governor replied approvingly.

"Here, I say, you better use this money for a technical institution.
If it should be established on a small plan, this money alone will
suffice, and in case it shouldn't, we can ask for more in St.
Petersburg--they'll give it to us. Then the city wouldn't have to
add of its own money, and the whole affair would be more sensible."

"Precisely! I fully agree with you! But how the liberals began to
cry at you! Eh? Ha, ha!"

"That has always been their business, to cry."

The deep cough of the archdeacon of the cathedral announced the
beginning of the divine service.

Sophya Pavlovna came up to Foma, greeted him and said in a sad,
low voice:

"I looked at your face on the day of the funeral, and my heart
saddened. My God, I thought, how he must suffer!"

And Foma listened to her and felt as though he was drinking honey.

"These cries of yours, they shook my soul, my poor child! I may
speak to you this way, for I am an old woman already."

"You!" exclaimed Foma, softly.

"Isn't that so?" she asked, naively looking into his face.

Foma was silent, his head bent on his breast.

"Don't you believe that I am an old woman?"

"I believe you; that is, I believe everything you may say; only
this is not true!" said Foma, feelingly, in a low voice.

"What is not true? What do you believe me?"

"No! not this, but that. I--excuse me! I cannot speak!" said
Foma, sadly, all aflush with confusion. "I am not cultured."

"You need not trouble yourself on this account," said Medinskaya,
patronisingly. "You are so young, and education is accessible to
everybody. But there are people to whom education is not only
unnecessary, but who can also be harmed by it. Those that are pure
of heart, sanguine, sincere, like children, and you are of those
people. You are, are you not?"

What could Foma say in answer to this question? He said sincerely:

"I thank you humbly!"

And noticing that his words called forth a gay gleam in Medinskaya's
eyes, Foma appeared ridiculous and stupid in his own eyes; he
immediately became angry at himself and said in a muffled voice:

"Yes, I am such. I always speak my mind. I cannot deceive. If I
see something to laugh at, I laugh openly. I am stupid!"

"What makes you speak that way?" said the woman, reproachfully, and
adjusting her dress, she accidentally stroked Foma's hand, in which
he held his hat. This made him look at his wrist and smile joyously
and confusedly.

"You will surely be present at the dinner, won't you?" asked
Medinskaya.

"Yes."

"And tomorrow at the meeting in my house?"

"Without fail!"

"And perhaps sometime you will drop in, simply on a visit, wouldn't
you?"

"I--I thank you! I'll come!"

"I must thank you for the promise."

They became silent. In the air soared the reverently soft voice
of the bishop, who recited the prayer expressively, outstretching
his hand over the place where the corner-stone of the house was laid:

"May neither the wind, nor water, nor anything else bring harm
unto it; may it be completed in thy benevolence, and free all
those that are to live in it from all kinds of calumny."

"How rich and beautiful our prayers are, are they not?" asked
Medinskaya.

"Yes," said Foma, shortly, without understanding her words and
feeling that he was blushing again.

"They will always be opponents of our commercial interests,"
Mayakin whispered loudly and convincingly, standing beside the
city mayor, not far from Foma. "What is it to them? All they want
is somehow to deserve the approval of the newspaper. But they cannot
reach the main point. They live for mere display, not for the
organisation of life; these are their only measures: the newspapers
and Sweden! [Mayakin speaks of Sweden, meaning Switzerland.--
Translator's note.] The doctor scoffed at me all day yesterday with
this Sweden. The public education, says he, in Sweden, and everything
else there is first-class! But what is Sweden, anyway? It may be that
Sweden is but a fib, is but used as an example, and that there is no
education whatever or any of the other things there. And then, we
don't live for the sake of Sweden, and Sweden cannot put us to test.
We have to make our lip according to our own last. Isn't it so?

And the archdeacon droned, his head thrown back:

"Eternal me-emo-ory to the founder of this ho-ouse!"

Foma shuddered, but Mayakin was already by his side, and pulling
him by the sleeve, asked:

"Are you going to the dinner?"

And Medinskaya's velvet-like, warm little hand glided once more
over Foma's hand.

The dinner was to Foma a real torture. For the first time in his
life among these uniformed people, he saw that they were eating
and speaking--doing everything better than he, and he felt that
between him and Medinskaya, who was seated just opposite him, was
a high mountain, not a table. Beside him sat the secretary of the
society of which Foma had been made an honorary member; he was a
young court officer, bearing the odd name of Ookhtishchev. As if
to make his name appear more absurd than it really was, he spoke
in a loud, ringing tenor, and altogether--plump, short, round-
faced and a lively talker--he looked like a brand new bell.

"The very best thing in our society is the patroness; the most
reasonable is what we are doing--courting the patroness; the most
difficult is to tell the patroness such a compliment as would
satisfy her; and the most sensible thing is to admire the patroness
silently and hopelessly. So that in reality, you are a member not of
'the Society of Solicitude,' and so on, but of the Society of
Tantaluses, which is composed of persons bent on pleasing Sophya
Medinskaya."

Foma listened to his chatter, now and then looking at the
patroness, who was absorbed in a conversation with the chief of
the police; Foma roared in reply to his interlocutor, pretending
to be busy eating, and he wished that all this would end the
sooner. He felt that he was wretched, stupid, ridiculous and he
was certain that everybody was watching and censuring him. This
tied him with invisible shackles, thus checking his words and his
thoughts. At last he went so far, that the line of various
physiognomies, stretched out by the table opposite him, seemed to
him a long and wavy white strip besprinkled with laughing eyes,
and all these eyes were pricking him unpleasantly and painfully.

Mayakin sat near the city mayor, waved his fork in the air quickly,
and kept on talking all the time, now contracting, now expanding the
wrinkles of his face. The mayor, a gray-headed, red-faced, short-
necked
man, stared at him like a bull, with obstinate attention and at times
he rapped on the edge of the table with his big finger affirmatively.
The animated talk and laughter drowned his godfather's bold speech,
and Foma was unable to hear a single word of it, much more so that
the tenor of the secretary was unceasingly ringing in his ears:

"Look, there, the archdeacon arose; he is filling his lungs with air;
he will soon proclaim an eternal memory for Ignat Matveyich."

"May I not go away?" asked Foma in a low voice.

"Why not? Everybody will understand this."

The deacon's resounding voice drowned and seemed to have crushed the
noise in the hail; the eminent merchants fixed their eyes on the big,
wide-open mouth, from which a deep sound was streaming forth, and
availing himself of this moment, Foma arose from his seat and left
the hall.

After awhile he breathed freely and, sitting in his cab, thought
sadly that there was no place for him amid these people. Inwardly,
he called them polished. He did not like their brilliancy, their
faces, their smiles or their words, but the freedom and the cleverness
of their movements, their ability to speak much and on any subject,
their pretty costumes--all this aroused in him a mixture of envy and
respect for them. He felt sad and oppressed at the consciousness of
being unable to talk so much and so fluently as all these people, and
here he recalled that Luba Mayakina had more than once scoffed at him
on this account.

Foma did not like Mayakin's daughter, and since he had learned from
his father of Mayakin's intention to marry him to Luba, the young
Gordyeeff began to shun her. But after his father's death he was
almost every day at the Mayakins, and somehow Luba said to him one
day:

"I am looking at you, and, do you know?--you do not resemble a
merchant at all."

"Nor do you look like a merchant's daughter," said Foma, and looked
at her suspiciously. He did not understand the meaning of her words;
did she mean to offend him, or did she say these words without any
kind thoughts?

"Thank God for this!" said she and smiled to him a kind, friendly
smile.

"What makes you so glad?" he asked.

"The fact that we don't resemble our fathers."

Foma glanced at her in astonishment and kept silent.

"Tell me frankly," said she, lowering her voice, "you do not love
my father, do you? You don't like him?"

"Not very much," said Foma, slowly.

"And I dislike him very much."

"What for?"

"For everything. When you grow wiser, you will know it yourself.
Your father was a better man."

"Of course!" said Foma, proudly.

After this conversation an attachment sprang up between them almost
immediately, and growing stronger from day to day, it soon developed
into friendship, though a somewhat odd friendship it was.

Though Luba was not older than her god-brother, she nevertheless
treated him as an older person would treat a little boy. She spoke
to him condescendingly, often jesting at his expense; her talk was
always full of words which were unfamiliar to Foma; and she pronounced
these words with particular emphasis and with evident satisfaction.
She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she
had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make
him look like Aunt Anfisa's brave and noble robbers. Often, when
complaining of her father, she said to Foma:

"You will also be just such a skinflint."

All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity. But at
times she was straightforward, simple-minded, and particularly kind
and friendly to him; then he would unburden his heart before her, and
for a long time they would share each other's thoughts and feelings.

Both spoke a great deal and spoke sincerely, but neither one
understood the other; it seemed to Foma that whatever Luba had to
say was foreign to him and unnecessary to her, and at the same time
he clearly saw that his awkward words did not at all interest her,
and that she did not care to understand them. No matter how long these
conversations lasted, they gave both of them the sensation of
discomfort and dissatisfaction. As if an invisible wall of perplexity
had suddenly arisen and stood between them. They did not venture to
touch this wall, or to tell each other that they felt it was there--
they resumed their conversations, dimly conscious that there was
something in each of them that might bind and unite them.

When Foma arrived at his godfather's house, he found Luba alone.
She came out to meet him, and it was evident that she was either
ill or out of humour; her eyes were flashing feverishly and were
surrounded with black circles. Feeling cold, she muffled herself
in a warm shawl and said with a smile:

"It is good that you've come! For I was sitting here alone; it is
lonesome--I don't feel like going anywhere. Will you drink tea?"

"I will. What is the matter with you, are you ill?"

"Go to the dining-room, and I'll tell them to bring the samovar,"
she said, not answering his question.

He went into one of the small rooms of the house, whose two windows
overlooked the garden. In the middle of the room stood an oval table,
surrounded with old-fashioned, leather-covered chairs; on one
partition hung a clock in a long case with a glass door, in the corner
was a cupboard for dishes, and opposite the windows, by the walls,
was an oaken sideboard as big as a fair-sized room.

"Are you coming from the banquet?" asked Luba, entering.

Foma nodded his head mutely.

"Well, how was it? Grand?"

"It was terrible! " Foma smiled. "I sat there as if on hot coals. They
all looked there like peacocks, while I looked like a barn-owl."

Luba was taking out dishes from the cupboard and said nothing to Foma.

"Really, why are you so sad?" asked Foma again, glancing at her
gloomy face.

She turned to him and said with enthusiasm and anxiety:

"Ah, Foma! What a book I've read! If you could only understand it!"

"It must be a good book, since it worked you up in this way,"
said Foma, smiling.

"I did not sleep. I read all night long. Just think of it: you read--
and it seems to you that the gates of another kingdom are thrown
open before you. And the people there are different, and their
language is different, everything different! Life itself is different
there."

"I don't like this," said Foma, dissatisfied. "That's all fiction,
deceit; so is the theatre. The merchants are ridiculed there. Are
they really so stupid? Of course! Take your father, for example."

"The theatre and the school are one and the same, Foma," said Luba,
instructively. "The merchants used to be like this. And what deceit
can there be in books?"

"Just as in fairy--tales, nothing is real."

"You are wrong! You have read no books; how can you judge? Books
are precisely real. They teach you how to live."

"Come, come!" Foma waved his hand. "Drop it; no good will come
out of your books! There, take your father, for example, does he
read books? And yet he is clever! I looked at him today and
envied him. His relations with everybody are so free, so clever,
he has a word for each and every one. You can see at once that
whatever he should desire he is sure to attain."

"What is he striving for?" exclaimed Luba. "Nothing but money.
But there are people that want happiness for all on earth, and to
gain this end they work without sparing themselves; they suffer
and perish! How can my father be compared with these?"

"You need not compare them. They evidently like one thing, while
your father likes another."

"They do not like anything!"

How's that?

"They want to change everything."

"So they do strive for something?" said Foma, thoughtfully. "They
do wish for something?"

"They wish for happiness for all!" cried Luba, hotly. "I can't
understand this," said Foma, nodding his head. "Who cares there
for my happiness? And then again, what happiness can they give
me, since I, myself, do not know as yet what I want? No, you
should have rather looked at those that were at the banquet."

"Those are not men!" announced Luba, categorically.

"I do not know what they are in your eyes, but you can see at
once that they know their place. A clever, easy-going lot."

"Ah, Foma!" exclaimed Luba, vexed. "You understand nothing!
Nothing agitates you! You are an idler."

"Now, that's going too far! I've simply not had time enough to
see where I am."

"You are simply an empty man," said Luba, resolutely and firmly.

"You were not within my soul," replied Foma, calmly. "You cannot
know my thoughts."

"What is there that you should think of?" said Luba, shrugging
her shoulders.

"So? First of all, I am alone. Secondly, I must live. Don't I
understand that it is altogether impossible for me to live as I
am now? I do not care to be made the laughing-stock of others. I
cannot even speak to people. No, nor can I think." Foma concluded
his words and smiled confusedly.

"It is necessary to read, to study," Luba advised him
convincingly, pacing up and down the room.

"Something is stirring within my soul," Foma went on, not looking at
her, as though speaking to himself; "but I cannot tell what it is. I
see, for instance, that whatever my godfather says is clever and
reasonable. But that does not attract me. The other people are by
far more interesting to me."

"You mean the aristocrats?" asked Luba.

"Yes."

"That's just the place for you!" said Luba, with a smile of contempt.
"Eh, you! Are they men? Do they have souls?"

"How do you know them? You are not acquainted with them."

"And the books? Have I not read books about them?"

The maid brought in the samovar, and the conversation was interrupted.
Luba made tea in silence while Foma looked at her and thought of
Medinskaya. He was wishing to have a talk with her.

"Yes," said the girl, thoughtfully, "I am growing more and more
convinced everyday that it is hard to live. What shall I do? Marry?
Whom? Shall I marry a merchant who will do nothing but rob people all
his life, nothing but drink and play cards? A savage? I do not want
it! I want to be an individual. I am such, for I know how wrong the
construction of life is. Shall I study? My father will not allow this.
0h Lord! Shall I run away? I have not enough courage. What am I to
do?"

She clasped her hands and bowed her head over the table.

"If you knew but how repulsive everything is. There is not a living
soul around here. Since my mother died, my father drove everyone
away. Some went off to study. Lipa, too, left us. She writes me:

'Read.' Ah, I am reading! I am reading!" she exclaimed, with despair
in her voice, and after a moment's silence she went on sadly:

"Books do not contain what the heart needs most, and there's much I
cannot understand in them. And then, I feel weary to be reading all
the time alone, alone! I want to speak to a man, but there is none
to speak to! I feel disgusted. We live but once, and it is high time
for me to live, and yet there is not a soul! Wherefore shall I live?
Lipa tells me: 'Read and you will understand it.' I want bread and
she gives me a stone. I understand what one must do--one must stand
up for what he loves and believes. He must fight for it."

And she concluded, uttering something like a moan:

"But I am alone! Whom shall I fight? There are no enemies here.
There are no men! I live here in a prison!

Foma listened to her words, fixedly examining the fingers of his hand;
he felt that in her words was some great distress, but he could not
understand her. And when she became silent, depressed and sad, he
found nothing to tell her save a few words that were like a reproach:

"There, you yourself say that books are worthless to you, and yet
you instruct me to read."

She looked into his face, and anger flashed in her eyes.

"Oh, how I wish that all these torments would awaken within you, the
torments that constantly oppress me. That your thoughts, like mine,
would rob you of your sleep, that you, too, would be disgusted with
everything, and with yourself as well! I despise every one of you.
I hate you!"

All aflush, she looked at him so angrily and spoke with so much
spitefulness, that in his astonishment he did not even feel offended
by her. She had never before spoken to him in such manner.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked her.

"I hate you, too! You, what are you? Dead, empty; how will you live?
What will you give to mankind?" she said with malice, in a low voice.

"I'll give nothing; let them strive for it themselves," answered
Foma, knowing that these words would augment her anger.

"Unfortunate creature!" exclaimed the girl with contempt.

The assurance and the power of her reproaches involuntarily
compelled Foma to listen attentively to her spiteful words; he felt
there was common sense in them. He even came nearer to her, but she,
enraged and exasperated, turned away from him and became silent.

It was still light outside, and the reflection of the setting sun
lay still on the branches of the linden-trees before the windows,
but the room was already filled with twilight, and the sideboard,
the clock and the cupboard seemed to have grown in size. The huge
pendulum peeped out every moment from beneath the glass of the
clock-case, and flashing dimly, was hiding with a weary sound now
on the right side, now on the left. Foma looked at the pendulum and
he began to feel awkward and lonesome. Luba arose and lighted the lamp
which was hanging over the table. The girl's face was pale and stern.

"You went for me," said Foma, reservedly. "What for? I can't
understand."

"I don't want to speak to you!" replied Luba, angrily.

"That's your affair. But nevertheless, what wrong have I done to you?"

"You?

"I."

"Understand me, I am suffocating! It is close here. Is this life?
Is this the way how to live? What am I? I am a hanger-on in my
father's house. They keep me here as a housekeeper. Then they'll
marry me! Again housekeeping. It's a swamp. I am drowning,
suffocating."

"And what have I to do with it?" asked Foma.

"You are no better than the others."

"And therefore I am guilty before you?"

"Yes, guilty! You must desire to be better."

"But do I not wish it?" exclaimed Foma.

The girl was about to tell him something, but at this time the bell
began to ring somewhere, and she said in a low voice, leaning back in
her chair:

"It's father."

"I would not feel sorry if he stayed away a little longer," said Foma.
"I wish I could listen to you some more. You speak so very oddly."

"Ah! my children, my doves! " exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich, appearing in
the doorway. "You're drinking tea? Pour out some tea for me, Lugava!"

Sweetly smiling, and rubbing his hands, he sat down near Foma and
asked, playfully jostling him in the side:

"What have you been cooing about?"

"So--about different trifles," answered Luba.

"I haven't asked you, have I?" said her father to her, with a grimace.
"You just sit there, hold your tongue, and mind your woman's affairs."

"I've been telling her about the dinner," Foma interrupted his
godfather's words.

"Aha! So-o-o. Well, then, I'll also speak about the dinner. I have
been watching you of late. You don't behave yourself sensibly!"

"What do you mean?" asked Foma, knitting his brow, ill pleased.

"I just mean that your behaviour is preposterous, and that's all.
When the governor, for instance, speaks to you, you keep quiet."

"What should I tell him? He says that it is a misfortune to lose
a father. Well, I know it. What could I tell him?"

"But as the Lord willed it so, I do not grumble, your Excellency.
That's what you should have said, or something in this spirit.
Governors, my dear, are very fond of meekness in a man."

"Was I to look at him like a lamb?" said Foma, with a smile.

"You did look like a lamb, and that was unnecessary. You must look
neither like a lamb, nor like a wolf, but just play off before him as
though saying: 'You are our father, we are your children,' and he will
immediately soften."

"And what is this for?"

"For any event. A governor, my dear, can always be of use somewhere."

"What do you teach him, papa?" said Luba, indignantly, in a low voice.

"Well, what?"

"To dance attendance."

"You lie, you learned fool! I teach him politics, not dancing
attendance; I teach him the politics of life. You had better leave us
alone! Depart from evil, and prepare some lunch for us. Go ahead!"

Luba rose quickly and throwing the towel across the back of the chair,
left the room. Mayakin, winking his eyes, looked after her, tapped the
table with his fingers and said:

"I shall instruct you, Foma. I shall teach you the most genuine,
true knowledge and philosophy, and if you understand them, your
life will be faultless."

Foma saw how the wrinkles on the old man's forehead were twitching,
and they seemed to him like lines of Slavonic letters.

"First of all, Foma, since you live on this earth, it is your duty to
think over everything that takes place about you. Why? That you may
not suffer for your own senselessness, and may not harm others by
your folly. Now, every act of man is double-faced, Foma. One is
visible to all--this is the wrong side; the other is concealed--and
that is the real one. It is that one that you must be able to find
in order to understand the sense of the thing. Take for example the
lodging-asylums, the work-houses, the poor-houses and other similar institutions. Just consider, what are they for?"

"What is there to consider here?" said Foma, wearily "Everybody
knows what they are for--for the poor and feeble."

"Eh, dear! Sometimes everybody knows that a certain man is a rascal
and a scoundrel, and yet all call him Ivan or Peter, and instead of
abusing him they respectfully add his father's name to his own."

"What has this to do with it?"

"It's all to the point. So you say that these houses are for the
poor, for beggars, consequently, in accordance with Christ's
commandment. Very well! But who is the beggar? The beggar is a
man, forced by fate to remind us of Christ; he is a brother of
Christ; he is the bell of the Lord and he rings in life to rouse
our conscience, to arouse the satiety of the flesh of man. He
stands by the window and sings out: 'For the sake of Christ!' and
by his singing he reminds us of Christ, of His holy commandment
to help the neighbour. But men have so arranged their life that
it is impossible for them to act according to the teachings of
Christ, and Jesus Christ has become altogether unnecessary to us.
Not one time, but perhaps a hundred thousand times have we turned
Him over to the cross, and yet we cannot drive Him altogether out
of life, because His poor brethren sing His Holy name on the
streets and thus remind us of Him. And now we have arranged to
lock up these beggars in separate houses that they should not
walk around on the streets and should not rouse our conscience.

"Cle-ver!" whispered Foma, amazed, staring fixedly at his godfather.

"Aha!" exclaimed Mayakin, his eyes beaming with triumph.

"How is it that my father did not think of this?" asked Foma,
uneasily.

"Just wait! Listen further, it is still worse. So you see, we have
arranged to lock them up in all sorts of houses and that they might
be kept there cheaply, we have compelled those old and feeble beggars
to work and we need give no alms now, and since our streets have been
cleared of the various ragged beggars, we do not see their terrible
distress and poverty, and we may, therefore, think that all men on
earth are well-fed, shod and clothed. That's what all these different
houses are for, for the concealment of the truth, for the banishment
of Christ from our life! Is this clear to you?"

"Yes!" said Foma, confused by the old man's clever words.

"And this is not all. The pool is not yet baled out to the bottom!"
exclaimed Mayakin, swinging his hand in the air with animation.

The wrinkles of his face were in motion; his long, ravenous nose was
stirring, and in his voice rang notes of irritability and emotion.

"Now, let us look at this thing from the other side. Who
contributes most in favour of the poor, for the support of these
houses, asylums, poor-houses? The rich people, the merchants, our
body of merchants. Very well! And who commands our life and regulates
it? The nobles, the functionaries and all sorts of other people, not
belonging to our class. From them come the laws, the newspapers,
science--everything from them. Before, they were land-owners, now
their land was snatched away from them--and they started out in
service. Very well! But who are the most powerful people today? The
merchant is the supreme power in an empire, because he has the
millions on his side! Isn't that so?"

"True!" assented Foma, eager to hear the sooner that which was to
follow, and which was already sparkling in the eyes of his godfather.

"Just mark this," the old man went on distinctly and impressively.
"We merchants had no hand in the arrangement of life, nor do we have
a voice or a hand in it today. Life was arranged by others, and it
is they that multiplied all sorts of scabs in life--idlers and poor
unfortunates; and since by multiplying them they obstructed life and
spoilt it--it is, justly judging, now their duty to purify it. But
we are purifying it, we contribute money for the poor, we look after
them--we, judge it for yourself, why should we mend another's rags,
since we did not tear them? Why should we repair a house, since
others have lived in it and since it belongs to others? Were it not
wiser for us to step aside and watch until a certain time how
rottenness is multiplying and choking those that are strangers to
us? They cannot conquer it, they have not the means to do it. Then
they will turn to us and say: 'Pray, help us, gentlemen!' and we'll
tell them: 'Let us have room for our work! Rank us among the builders
of this same life!' And as soon as they do this we, too, will have to
clear life at one sweep of all sorts of filth and chaff. Then the
Emperor will see with his clear eyes who are really his faithful
servants, and how much wisdom they have saved up while their hands
were idle. Do you understand?"

"Of course, I do!" exclaimed Foma.

When his godfather spoke of the functionaries, Foma reminded himself
of the people that were present at the dinner; he recalled the brisk
secretary, and a thought flashed through his mind that this stout
little man has in all probability an income of no more than a thousand
roubles a year, while he, Foma, has a million. But that man lives so
easily and freely, while he, Foma, does not know how to live, is
indeed abashed to live. This comparison and his godfather's speech
roused in him a whirl of thoughts, but he had time to grasp and
express only one of them:

"Indeed, do we work for the sake of money only? What's the use of
money if it can give us no power?"

"Aha!" said Mayakin, winking his eyes.

"Eh!" exclaimed Foma, offended. "How about my father? Have you
spoken to him?"

"I spoke to him for twenty years."

"Well, how about him?"

"My words did not reach him. The crown of your father's head was
rather thick. His soul was open to all, while his mind was hidden
away far within him. Yes, he made a blunder, and I am very sorry
about the money."

"I am not sorry for the money."

"You should have tried to earn even a tenth part of it, then speak."

"May I come in?" came Luba's voice from behind the door.

"Yes, step right in," said the father.

"Will you have lunch now?" she asked, entering.

"Let us have it."

She walked up to the sideboard and soon the dishes were rattling.
Yakov Tarasovich looked at her, moved his lips, and suddenly
striking Foma's knee with his hand, he said to him:

"That's the way, my godson! Think."

Foma responded with a smile and thought: "But he's clever--
cleverer than my father."

But another voice within him immediately replied:

"Cleverer, but worse."

CHAPTER V

FOMA'S dual relation toward Mayakin grew stronger and stronger as
time went on; listening to his words attentively and with eager
curiosity, he felt that each meeting with his godfather was
strengthening in him the feeling of hostility toward the old man.
Sometimes Yakov Tarasovich roused in his godson a feeling akin to
fear, sometimes even physical aversion. The latter usually came to
Foma whenever the old man was pleased with something and laughed.
From laughter the old man's wrinkles would tremble, thus changing
the expression of his face every now and then; his dry, thin lips
would stretch out and move nervously, displaying black broken teeth,
and his red little beard was as though aflame. His laughter sounded
like the squeaking of rusty hinges, and altogether the old man looked
like a lizard at play. Unable to conceal his feelings, Foma often
expressed them to Mayakin rather rudely, both in words and in gesture,
but the old man, pretending not to notice it, kept a vigilant eye on
him, directing his each and every step. Wholly absorbed by the
steamship affairs of the young Gordyeeff, he even neglected his own
little shop, and allowed Foma considerable leisure time. Thanks to
Mayakin's important position in town and to his extensive acquaintance
on the Volga, business was splendid, but Mayakin's zealous interest
in his affairs strengthened Foma's suspicions that his godfather was
firmly resolved to marry him to Luba, and this made the old man more
repulsive to him.

He liked Luba, but at the same time she seemed suspicious and
dangerous
for him. She did not marry, and Mayakin never said a word about it; he
gave no evening parties, invited none of the youths to his house and
did not allow Luba to leave the house. And all her girl friends were
married already. Foma admired her words and listened to her just as
eagerly as to her father; but whenever she started to speak of Taras
with love and anguish, it seemed to him that she was hiding another
man under that name, perhaps that same Yozhov, who according to her
words, had to leave the university for some reason or other, and go
to Moscow. There was a great deal of simplemindedness and kindness in
her, which pleased Foma, and ofttimes her words awakened in him a
feeling of pity for her; it seemed to him that she was not alive,
that she was dreaming though awake.

His conduct at the funeral feast for his father became known to
all the merchants and gave him a bad reputation. On the Exchange,
he noticed, everybody looked at him sneeringly, malevolently, and
spoke to him in some peculiar way. One day he heard behind him a
low exclamation, full of contempt:

"Gordyeeff! Milksop!"

He felt that this was said of him, but he did not turn around to
see who it was that flung those words at him. The rich people, who
had inspired him with timidity before, were now losing in his eyes
the witchery of their wealth and wisdom. They had more than once
snatched out of his hands this or that profitable contract; he
clearly saw that they would do it again, and they all seemed to him
alike-- greedy for money, always ready to cheat one another. When he
imparted to his godfather his observation, the old man said:

"How then? Business is just the same as war--a hazardous affair.
There they fight for the purse, and in the purse is the soul."

"I don't like this," announced Foma.

"Neither do I like everything--there's too much fraud.

But to be fair in business matters is utterly impossible; you must be
shrewd! In business, dear, on approaching a man you must hold honey
in your left hand, and clutch a knife in your right. Everybody would
like to buy five copecks' worth for a half a copeck."

"Well, this isn't too good," said Foma, thoughtfully. "But it will be
good later. When you have taken the upper hand, then it will be good.
Life, dear Foma, is very simple: either bite everybody, or lie in the
gutter.

The old man smiled, and the broken teeth in his mouth roused in
Foma the keen thought:

"You have bitten many, it seems."

"There's but one word--battle!" repeated the old man.

"Is this the real one?" asked Foma, looking at Mayakin searchingly.

"That is, what do you mean--the real?"

"Is there nothing better than this? Does this contain everything?"

"Where else should it be? Everybody lives for himself. Each of us
wishes the best for himself. And what is the best? To go in front of
others, to stand above them. So that everybody is trying to attain the
first place in life--one by this means, another by that means. But
everyone is positively anxious to be seen from afar, like a tower.
And man was indeed appointed to go upward. Even the Book of Job says:
'Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks, to fly upward.' Just see:
even children at play always wish to surpass one another. And each
and every game has its climax, which makes it interesting. Do you
understand?"

"I understand this!" said Foma, firmly and confidently.

"But you must also feel this. With understanding alone you cannot
go far, and you must desire, and desire so that a big mountain
should seem to you but a hillock, and the sea but a puddle. Eh!
When I was of your age I had an easy life, while you are only
taking aim. But then, good fruit does not ripen early."

The old man's monotonous speeches soon accomplished what they
were intended to do. Foma listened to them and made clear to
himself the aim of life. He must be better than others, he
resolved, and the ambition, kindled by the old man, took deep
root in his heart. It took root within his heart, but did not
fill it up, for Foma's relations toward Medinskaya assumed that
character, which they were bound to assume. He longed for her, he
always yearned to see her; while in her presence he became timid,
awkward and stupid; he knew it and suffered on this account. He
frequently visited her, but it was hard to find her at home alone;
perfumed dandies like flies over a piece of sugar--were always
flitting about her. They spoke to her in French, sang and laughed,
while he looked at them in silence, tortured by anger and jealousy.
His legs crossed, he sat somewhere in a corner of her richly furnished
drawing-room, where it was extremely difficult to walk without
overturning or at least striking against something--Foma sat and
watched them sternly.

Over the soft rugs she was noiselessly passing hither and thither,
casting to him kind glances and smiles, while her admirers were
fawning upon her, and they all, like serpents, were cleverly gliding
by the various little tables, chairs, screens, flower-stands--a
storehouse full of beautiful and frail things, scattered about the
room with a carelessness equally dangerous to them and to Foma. But
when he walked there, the rugs did not drown his footsteps, and all
these things caught at his coat, trembled and fell. Beside the piano
stood a sailor made of bronze, whose hand was lifted, ready to throw
the life-saving ring; on this ring were ropes of wire, and these
always pulled Foma by the hair. All this provoked laughter among
Sophya
Pavlovna and her admirers, and Foma suffered greatly, changing
from heat to cold.

But he felt no less uncomfortable even when alone with her.
Greeting him with a kindly smile, she would take a seat beside
him in one of the cosy corners of her drawing-room and would usually
start her conversation by complaining to him of everybody:

"You wouldn't believe how glad I am to see you!" Bending like a cat,
she would gaze into his eyes with her dark glance, in which something
avidious would now flash up.

"I love to speak to you," she said, musically drawling her words.
"I've grown tired of all the rest of them. They're all so boring,
ordinary and worn-out, while you are fresh, sincere. You don't
like those people either, do you?"

"I can't bear them!" replied Foma, firmly.

"And me?" she asked softly.

Foma turned his eyes away from her and said, with a sigh:

"How many times have you asked me that?"

"Is it hard for you to tell me?"

"It isn't hard, but what for?"

"I must know it."

"You are making sport of me," said Foma, sternly. And she opened
her eyes wide and inquired in a tone of great astonishment:

"How do I make sport of you? What does it mean to make sport?"

And her face looked so angelic that he could not help believing her.

"I love you! I love you! It is impossible not to love you!" said he
hotly, and immediately added sadly, lowering his voice: "But you don't
need it!"

"There you have it!" sighed Medinskaya, satisfied, drawing back
from him. "I am always extremely pleased to hear you say this, with so
much youthfulness and originality. Would you like to kiss my hand?"

Without saying a word he seized her thin, white little hand and
carefully bending down to it, he passionately kissed it for a long
time. Smiling and graceful, not in the least moved by his passion,
she freed her hand from his. Pensively, she looked at him with that
strange glitter in her eyes, which always confused Foma; she examined
him as something rare and extremely curious, and said:

"How much strength and power and freshness of soul you possess! Do
you know? You merchants are an altogether new race, an entire race
with original traditions, with an enormous energy of body and soul.
Take you, for instance--you are a precious stone, and you should be
polished. Oh!"

Whenever she told him: "You," or "according to your merchant
fashion," it seemed to Foma that she was pushing him away from
her with these words. This at once saddened and offended him. He
was silent, looking at her small maidenly figure, which was always
somehow particularly well dressed, always sweet-scented like a flower.
Sometimes he was seized with a wild, coarse desire to embrace and
kiss her. But her beauty and the fragility of her thin, supple body
awakened in him a fear of breaking and disfiguring her, and her calm,
caressing voice and the clear, but somewhat cautious look of her eyes
chilled his passion; it seemed to him as though she were looking
straight into his soul, divining all his thoughts. But these bursts
of emotion were rare. Generally the youth regarded Medinskaya with
adoration, admiring everything in her--her beauty, her words, her
dresses. And beside this adoration there was in him a painfully keen
consciousness of his remoteness from her, of her supremacy over him.

These relations were established between them within a short time;
after two or three meetings Medinskaya was in full possession of the
youth and she slowly began to torture him. Evidently she liked to have
a healthy, strong youth at her mercy; she liked to rouse and tame the
animal in him merely with her voice and glance, and confident of the
power of her superiority, she found pleasure in thus playing with
him. On leaving her, he was usually half-sick from excitement, bearing
her a grudge, angry with himself, filled with many painful and
intoxicating sensations. And about two days later he would come to
undergo the same torture again.

One day he asked her timidly:

"Sophya Pavlovna! Have you ever had any children?"

"No."

"I thought not!" exclaimed Foma with delight.

She cast at him the look of a very naive little girl, and said:

"What made you think so? And why do you want to know whether I
had any children or not?"

Foma blushed, and, bending his head, began to speak to her in a
heavy voice, as though he was lifting every word from the ground
and as though each word weighed a few puds.

"You see--a woman who--has given birth to children--such a woman
has altogether different eyes."

"So? What kind are they then?"

"Shameless!" Foma blurted out.

Medinskaya broke into her silver laughter, and Foma, looking at
her, also began to laugh.

"Excuse me!" said he, at length. "Perhaps I've said something
wrong, improper."

"Oh, no, no! You cannot say anything improper. You are a pure,
amiable boy. And so, my eyes are not shameless?"

"Yours are like an angel's!" announced Foma with enthusiasm, looking
at her with beaming eyes. And she glanced at him, as she had never
done before; her look was that of a mother, a sad look of love mingled
with fear for the beloved.

"Go, dear one. I am tired; I need a rest," she said to him, as
she rose without looking at him. He went away submissively.

For some time after this incident her attitude toward him was
stricter and more sincere, as though she pitied him, but later
their relations assumed the old form of the cat-and-mouse play.

Foma's relation toward Medinskaya could not escape his godfather's
notice, and one day the old man asked him, with a malicious grimace:

"Foma! You had better feel your head more often so that you may
not lose it by accident."

"What do you mean?" asked Foma.

"I speak of Sonka. You are going to see her too often."

"What has that to do with you?" said Foma, rather rudely. "And
why do you call her Sonka?"

"It's nothing to me. I would lose nothing if you should be
fleeced. And as to calling her Sonka--everybody knows that is
her name. So does everybody know that she likes to rake up the
fire with other people's hands."

"She is clever!" announced Foma, firmly, frowning and hiding his
hands in his pockets. "She is intelligent."

"Clever, that's true! How cleverly she arranged that entertainment;
there was an income of two thousand four hundred roubles, the
expenses--one thousand nine hundred; the expenses really did not even
amount to a thousand roubles, for everybody does everything for her
for nothing. Intelligent! She will educate you, and especially will
those idlers that run around her."

"They're not idlers, they are clever people!" replied Foma, angrily,
contradicting himself now. "And I learn from them. What am I? I know
nothing. What was I taught? While there they speak of everything--and
each one has his word to say. Do not hinder me from being like a man."

"Pooh! How you've learned to speak! With so much anger, like the hail
striking against the roof! Very well, be like a man, but in order to
be
like a man it might be less dangerous for you to go to the tavern; the
people there are after all better than Sophya's people. And you, young
man, you should have learned to discriminate one person from another.
Take Sophya, for instance: What does she represent? An insect for the
adornment of nature and nothing more!"

Intensely agitated, Foma set his teeth together and walked away from
Mayakin, thrusting his hands still deeper into his pockets. But the
old man soon started again a conversation about Medinskaya.

They were on their way back from the bay after an inspection of the
steamers, and seated in a big and commodious sledge, they were
enthusiastically discussing business matters in a friendly way. It was
in March. The water under the sledge-runners was bubbling, the snow
was already covered with a rather dirty fleece, and the sun shone
warmly and merrily in the clear sky.

"Will you go to your lady as soon as we arrive?" asked Mayakin,
unexpectedly, interrupting their business talk.

"I will," said Foma, shortly, and with displeasure,

"Mm. Tell me, how often do you give her presents?" asked Mayakin,
plainly and somewhat intimately.

"What presents? What for?" Foma wondered.

"You make her no presents? You don't say. Does she live with you
then merely so, for love's sake?"

Foma boiled up with anger and shame, turned abruptly toward the
old man and said reproachfully:

"Eh! You are an old man, and yet you speak so that it is a shame
to listen to you! To say such a thing! Do you think she would
come down to this?"

Mayakin smacked his lips and sang out in a mournful voice:

"What a blockhead you are! What a fool!" and suddenly grown angry,
he spat out: "Shame upon you! All sorts of brutes drank out of the
pot, nothing but the dregs remained, and now a fool has made a god
unto himself of this dirty pot. Devil! You just go up to her and tell
her plainly: 'I want to be your lover. I am a young man, don't charge
me much for it.'"

"Godfather!" said Foma, sternly, in a threatening voice, "I
cannot bear to hear such words. If it were someone else."

"But who except myself would caution you? Good God!" Mayakin
cried out, clasping his hands. "So she has led you by the nose
all winter long! What a nose! What a beast she is!"

The old man was agitated; in his voice rang vexation, anger, even
tears Foma had never before seen him in such a state, and looking
at him, he was involuntarily silent.

"She will ruin you! 0h Lord! The Babylonian prostitute!"

Mayakin's eyes were blinking, his lips were trembling, and in
rude, cynical words he began to speak of Medinskaya, irritated,
with a wrathful jar in his voice.

Foma felt that the old man spoke the truth. He now began to breathe
with difficulty and he felt that his mouth had a dry, bitter taste.

"Very well, father, enough," he begged softly and sadly, turning
aside from Mayakin.

"Eh, you ought to get married as soon as possible!" exclaimed the
old man with alarm.

"For Christ's sake, do not speak," uttered Foma in a dull voice.

Mayakin glanced at his godson and became silent. Foma's face
looked drawn; he grew pale, and there was a great deal of painful,
bitter stupor in his half-open lips and in his sad look. On the right
and on the left of the road a field stretched itself, covered here
and there with patches of winter-raiment. Rooks were hopping busily
about over the black spots, where the snow had melted. The water under
the sledge-runners was splashing, the muddy snow was kicked up by the
hoofs of the horses.

"How foolish man is in his youth!" exclaimed Mayakin, in a low voice.
Foma did not look at him.

"Before him stands the stump of a tree, and yet he sees the snout
of a beast--that's how he frightens himself. Oh, oh!"

"Speak more plainly," said Foma, sternly.

"What is there to say? The thing is clear: girls are cream; women
are milk; women are near, girls are far. Consequently, go to Sonka,
if you cannot do without it, and tell her plainly. That's how the
matter stands. Fool! If she is a sinner, you can get her more easily.
Why are you so angry, then? Why so bristled up?"

"You don't understand," said Foma, in a low voice.

"What is it I do not understand? I understand everything!"

"The heart. Man has a heart," sighed the youth.

Mayakin winked his eyes and said:

"Then he has no mind."

CHAPTER VI

WHEN Foma arrived in the city he was seized with sad, revengeful
anger. He was burning with a passionate desire to insult
Medinskaya, to abuse her. His teeth firmly set together, his hands
thrust deep into his pockets, he walked for a few hours in
succession about the deserted rooms of his house, he sternly
knitted his brow, and constantly threw his chest forward. His
breast was too narrow to hold his heart, which was filled with
wrath. He stamped the floor with heavy and measured steps, as
though he were forging his anger.

"The vile wretch--disguised herself as an angel!" Pelageya vividly
arose in his memory, and he whispered malignantly and bitterly:

"Though a fallen woman, she is better. She did not play the
hypocrite. She at once unfolded her soul and her body, and her
heart is surely just as her breast--white and sound."

Sometimes Hope would whisper timidly in his ear:

"Perhaps all that was said of her was a lie."

But he recalled the eager certainty of his godfather, and the power
of his words, and this thought perished. He set his teeth more
firmly together and threw his chest still more forward. Evil
thoughts like splinters of wood stuck into his heart, and his heart
was shattered by the acute pain they caused.

By disparaging Medinskaya, Mayakin made her more accessible to his
godson, and Foma soon understood this. A few days passed, and
Foma's agitated feelings became calm, absorbed by the spring
business cares. The sorrow for the loss of the individual deadened
the spite he owed the woman, and the thought of the woman's
accessibility increased his passion for her. And somehow, without
perceiving it himself, he suddenly understood and resolved that he
ought to go up to Sophya Pavlovna and tell her plainly, openly,
just what he wanted of her--that's all! He even felt a certain joy
at this resolution, and he boldly started off to Medinskaya,
thinking on the way only how to tell her best all that was
necessary.

The servants of Medinskaya were accustomed to his visits, and to
his question whether the lady was at home the maid replied:

"Please go into the drawing-room. She is there alone."

He became somewhat frightened, but noticing in the mirror his
stately figure neatly clad with a frock-coat, and his swarthy,
serious face in a frame of a downy black beard, set with large dark
eyes--he raised his shoulders and confidently stepped forward
through the parlour. Strange sounds of a string instrument were
calmly floating to meet him; they seemed to burst into quiet,
cheerless laughter, complaining of something, tenderly stirring the
heart, as though imploring it for attention and having no hopes of
getting it. Foma did not like to hear music--it always filled him
with sadness. Even when the "machine" in the tavern played some sad
tune, his heart filled with melancholy anguish, and he would either
ask them to stop the "machine" or would go away some little
distance feeling that he could not listen calmly to these tunes
without words, but full of lamentation and tears. And now he
involuntarily stopped short at the door of the drawing-room.

A curtain of long strings of parti-coloured glass beads hung over
the door. The beads had been strung so as to form a fantastic
figure of some kind of plants; the strings were quietly shaking and
it seemed that pale shadows of flowers were soaring in the air.
This transparent curtain did not hide the inside of the drawing-
room from Foma's eyes. Seated on a couch in her favourite corner,
Medinskaya played the mandolin. A large Japanese umbrella, fastened
up to the wall, shaded the little woman in black by its mixture of
colours; the high bronze lamp under a red lamp-shade cast on her
the light of sunset. The mild sounds of the slender strings were
trembling sadly in the narrow room, which was filled with soft and
fragrant twilight. Now the woman lowered the mandolin on her knees
and began running her fingers over the strings, also to examine
fixedly something before her. Foma heaved a sigh.

A soft sound of music soared about Medinskaya, and her face was
forever changing as though shadows were falling on it, falling and
melting away under the flash of her eyes.

Foma looked at her and saw that when alone she was not quite so
good-looking as in the presence of people--now her face looked
older, more serious--her eyes had not the expression of kindness
and gentleness, they had a rather tired and weary look. And her
pose, too, was weary, as if the woman were about to stir but could
not. Foma noticed that the feeling which prompted him to come to
her was now changing in his heart into some other feeling. He
scraped with his foot along the floor and coughed.

"Who is that?" asked the woman, starting with alarm. And the
strings trembled, issuing an alarmed sound.

"It is I," said Foma, pushing aside the strings of the beads.

"Ah! But how quietly you've entered. I am glad to see you. Be
seated! Why didn't you come for such a long time?"

Holding out her hand to him, she pointed with the other at a small
armchair beside her, and her eyes were gaily smiling.

"I was out on the bay inspecting my steamers," said Foma, with
exaggerated ease, moving his armchair nearer to the couch.

"Is there much snow yet on the fields?"

"As much as one may want. But it is already melting considerably.
There is water on the roads everywhere."

He looked at her and smiled. Evidently Medinskaya noticed the ease
of his behaviour and something new in his smile, for she adjusted
her dress and drew farther away from him. Their eyes met--and
Medinskaya lowered her head.

"Melting!" said she, thoughtfully, examining the ring on her little
finger.

"Ye-es, streams everywhere." Foma informed her, admiring his boots.

"That's good. Spring is coming."

Now it won't be delayed long."

"Spring is coming," repeated Medinskaya, softly, as if listening to
the sounds of her words.

"People will start to fall in love," said Foma, with a smile, and
for some reason or other firmly rubbed his hands.

"Are you preparing yourself?" asked Medinskaya, drily.

"I have no need for it. I have been ready long ago. I am already in
love for all my life."

She cast a glance at him, and started to play again, looking at the
strings and saying pensively:

"Spring. How good it is that you are but beginning to live. The
heart is full of power, and there is nothing dark in it."

"Sophya Pavlovna!" exclaimed Foma, softly.She interrupted him with
a caressing gesture.

"Wait, dearest! Today I can tell you something good. Do you know, a
person who has lived long has such moments that when he looks into
his heart he unexpectedly finds there something long forgotten. For
years it lay somewhere in the depth of his heart, but lost none of
the fragrance of youth, and when memory touches it, then spring
comes over that person, breathing upon him the vivifying freshness
of the morning of his life. This is good, though it is very sad."

The strings trembled and wept under the touch of her fingers, and
it seemed to Foma that their sounds and the soft voice of the woman
were touching his heart gently and caressingly. But, still firm in
his decision, he listened to her words and, not knowing their
meaning, thought:

"You may speak! And I won't believe anything you may say."

This thought irritated him. And he felt sorry that he could not
listen to her words as attentively and trustfully as before.

"Are you thinking of how it is necessary to live?" asked the woman.

"Sometimes I think of it, and then I forget again. I have no time
for it!" said Foma and smiled. "And then, what is there to think
of? It is simple. You see how others live. Well, consequently, you
must imitate them."

"Ah, don't do this! Spare yourself. You are so good! There is
something peculiar in you; what--I do not know. But it can be felt.
And it seems to me, it will be very hard for you to get along in
life. I am sure, you will not go along the usual way of the people
of your circle. No! You cannot be pleased with a life which is
wholly devoted to gain, to hunts after the rouble, to this business
of yours. Oh, no! I know, you will have a desire for something
else, will you not?"

She spoke quickly, with a look of alarm in her eyes. Looking at
her, Foma thought:

"What is she driving at?"

And he answered her slowly:

"Perhaps I will have a desire for something else. Perhaps I have it
already."

Drawing up closer to him, she looked into his face and spoke
convincingly:

"Listen! Do not live like all other people! Arrange your life
somehow differently. You are strong, young. You are good!"

"And if I am good then there must be good for me!" exclaimed Foma,
feeling that he was seized with agitation, and that his heart was
beginning to beat with anxiety.

"Ah, but that is not the case! Here on earth it is worse for the
good people than for the bad ones!" said Medinskaya, sadly.

And again the trembling notes of music began to dance at the touch
of her fingers. Foma felt that if he did not start to say at once
what was necessary, he would tell her nothing later.

"God bless me!" he said to himself, and in a lowered voice,
strengthening his heart, began:

"Sophya Pavlovna! Enough! I have something to say. I have come to
tell you: 'Enough!' We must deal fairly, openly. At first you have
attracted me to yourself, and now you are fencing away from me. I
cannot understand what you say. My mind is dull, but I can feel
that you wish to hide yourself. I can see it--do you understand now
what brought me here?"

His eyes began to flash and with each word his voice became warmer
and louder. She moved her body forward and said with alarm:

"Oh, cease."

"No, I won't, I will speak!"

"I know what you want to say."

"You don't know it all!" said Foma, threateningly, rising to his
feet. "But I know everything about you--everything."

"Yes? Then the better it is for me," said Medinskaya, calmly.

She also arose from the couch, as though about to go away
somewhere, but after a few seconds she again seated herself on the
couch. Her face was serious, her lips were tightly compressed, but
her eyes were lowered, and Foma could not see their expression. He
thought that when he told her, "I know everything about you!" she
would be frightened, she would feel ashamed and confused, would ask
his forgiveness for having made sport of him. Then he would embrace
her and forgive her. But that was not the case; it was he who was
confused by her calmness. He looked at her, searching for words to
resume his speech, but found them not.

"It is better," she repeated firmly and drily. "So you have learned
everything, have you? And, of course, you've censured me, as I
deserve. I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot
justify myself."

She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous
gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.

Foma heaved a deep sigh. Her words had killed in him a certain
hope--a hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it
was dead. And shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach:

"There was a time when I looked at you and thought, 'How beautiful
she is, how good, the dove!' And now you say yourself, 'I am
guilty.' Ah!"

The voice of the youth broke down. And the woman began to laugh
softly.

"How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you
cannot understand all this!"

The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing
words and melancholy smile. That cold, harsh something, which he
had in his heart against her, was now melting before the warm light
of her eyes. The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a
child. She was saying something in a gentle voice as though
imploring, and forever smiling, but he paid no attention to her
words.

"I've come to you," said he, interrupting her words, "without pity.
I meant to tell you everything. And yet I said nothing. I don't
feel like doing it. My heart sank. You are breathing upon me so
strangely. Eh, I should not have seen you! What are you to me? It
would be better for me to go away, it seems."

"Wait, dearest, don't go away!" said the woman, hastily, holding
out her hand to him. "Why so severe? Do not be angry at me! What am
I to you? You need a different friend, a woman just as simple-
minded and sound-souled as you are. She must be gay, healthy. I--I
am already an old woman. I am forever worrying. My life is so empty
and so weary, so empty! Do you know, when a person has grown
accustomed to live merrily, and then cannot be merry, he feels bad!
He desires to live cheerfully, he desires to laugh, yet he does not
laugh--it is life that is laughing at him. And as to men. Listen!
Like a mother, I advise you, I beg and implore you--obey no one
except your own heart! Live in accordance with its promptings. Men
know nothing, they cannot tell you anything that is true. Do not
heed them."

Trying to speak as plainly and intelligibly as possible, she was
agitated, and her words came incoherently hurriedly one after
another. A pitiful smile played on her lips all the time, and her
face was not beautiful.

"Life is very strict. It wants all people to submit to its
requests, and only the very strong ones can resist it with
impunity. It is yet questionable whether they can do it! Oh, if you
knew how hard it is to live. Man goes so far that he begins to fear
his own self. He is split into judge and criminal--he judges his
own self and seeks justification before himself. And he is willing
to pass days and nights with those that despise him, and that are
repulsive to him--just to avoid being alone with himself."

Foma lifted his head and said distrustfully, with surprise:

"I cannot understand what it is! Lubov also says the same."

"Which Lubov? What does she say?"

"My foster-sister. She says the same,--she is forever complaining
of life. It is impossible to live, she says."

"Oh, she is yet young! And it is a great happiness that she already
speaks of this."

"Happiness!" Foma drawled out mockingly. "It must be a fine
happiness that makes people sigh and complain."

"You'd better listen to complaints. There is always much wisdom in
these complaints of men. Oh! There is more wisdom in these
complaints than anywhere else. You listen to these,--they will
teach you to find your way."

Foma heard the woman's voice, which sounded convincing; and
perplexed, looked about him. Everything had long been familiar to
him, but today it looked somewhat new to him. A mass of trifles
filled the room, all the walls were covered with pictures and
shelves, bright and beautiful objects were staring from every
corner. The reddish light of the lamp filled one with melancholy.
Twilight wrapped everything in the room, and only here and there
the gold of the frames, or the white spots of marble flashed dimly.
Heavy fabrics were motionlessly hanging before the doors. All this
embarrassed and almost choked Foma; he felt as though he had lost
his way. He was sorry for the woman. But she also irritated him.

"Do you hear how I speak to you? I wish I were your mother, or your
sister. Never before did anybody awaken in me so warm and kindred a
feeling as you have done. And you, you look at me in such an
unfriendly way. Do you believe me? Yes? No?"

He looked at her and said with a sigh:

"I don't know. I used to believe you."

"And now?" she asked hastily.

"And now--it is best for me to go! I don't understand anything, and
yet I long to understand. I do not even understand myself. On my
way to you I knew what to say, and here all is confused. You have
put me up on the rack, you have set me on edge. And then you tell
me--'I am as a mother to you'--which means--begone!"

"Understand me, I feel sorry for you!" the woman exclaimed softly.

Foma's irritation against her was growing stronger and stronger,
and as he went on speaking to her, his words became absurd. While
he spoke, he kept on moving his shoulders as though tearing
something that entangled him.

"Sorry? What for? I do not need it. Eh, I cannot speak well! It is
bad to be dumb. But--I would have told you! You did not treat me
properly--indeed, why have you so enticed a man? Am I a plaything
for you?"

"I only wanted to see you by my side," said the woman simply, in a
guilty voice.

He did not hear these words.

"And when it came to the point, you were frightened and you shut
yourself off from me. You began to repent. Ha, ha! Life is bad! And
why are you always complaining of some life? What life? Man is
life, and except man there is no life. You have invented some other
monster. You have done this to deceive the eye, to justify
yourself. You do some mischief, you lose yourself in different
inventions and foolishnesses and then you sigh! Ah, life! Oh, life!
And have you not done it yourself? And covering yourself with
complaints, you confuse others. You have lost your way, very well,
but why do you want to lead me astray? Is it wickedness that speaks
in you: 'I feel bad,' you say, 'let him also feel bad--there, I'll
besprinkle his heart with my poisonous tears!' Isn't that so? Eh!
God has given you the beauty of an angel, but your heart--where is
it?"

Standing before her, he trembled in every limb, and examined her
from head to foot with reproachful looks. Now his words came freely
from his heart, he spoke not loud, but with power and pleasure. Her
head raised, the woman stared into his face, with wide-open eyes.
Her lips were trembling and deep wrinkles appeared at the corners
of her mouth.

"A beautiful person should lead a good life. While of you they say
things." Foma's voice broke down; he raised his hand and concluded
in a dull voice:

"Goodbye!"

"Goodbye!" said Medinskaya, softly.

He did not give her his hand, but, turning abruptly, he walked away
from her. But already at the door he felt that he was sorry for
her, and he glanced at her across his shoulder. There, in the
corner, she stood alone, her head bent, her hands hanging
motionless.

Understanding that he could not leave her thus, he became confused,
and said softly, but without repenting:

"Perhaps I said something offensive--forgive me! For after all I
love you," and he heaved a deep sigh.

The woman burst into soft, nervous laughter.

"No, you have not offended me. God speed you."

"Well, then goodbye!" repeated Foma in a still lower voice.

"Yes," replied the woman, also in a low voice.

Foma pushed aside the strings of beads with his hand; they swung
back noisily and touched his cheeks. He shuddered at this cold
touch and went out, carrying away a heavy, perplexed feeling in his
breast, with his heart beating as though a soft but strong net were
cast over it.

It was night by this time; the moon was shining and the frost
covered the puddles with coatings of dull silver. Foma walked along
the sidewalk, he broke these with his cane, and they cracked
mournfully. The shadows of the houses fell on the road in black
squares, and the shadows of the trees--in wonderful patterns. And
some of them looked like thin hands, helplessly clutching the
ground.

"What is she doing now?" thought Foma, picturing to himself the
woman, alone, in the corner of a narrow room, in the reddish half-
light.

"It is best for me to forget her," he decided. But he could not
forget her; she stood before him, provoking in him now intense
pity, now irritation and even anger. And her image was so clear,
and the thoughts of her were so painful, as though he was carrying
this woman in his breast. A cab was coming from the opposite side,
filling the silence of the night with the jarring of the wheels on
the cobble-stones and with their creaking on the ice. When the cab
was passing across a moonlit strip, the noise was louder and more
brisk, and in the shadows it was heavier and duller. The driver and
the passenger in it were shaking and hopping about; for some reason
or other they both bent forward and together with the horse formed
one big, black mass. The street was speckled with spots of light
and shade, but in the distance the darkness seemed thick as though
the street were fenced off by a wall, rising from earth to the
skies. Somehow it occurred to Foma that these people did not know
whither they were going. And he, too, did not know whither he was
going. His house rose before his imagination--six big rooms, where
he lived alone. Aunt Anfisa had gone to the cloister, perhaps never
to return--she might die there. At home were Ivan, the old deaf
dvornik, the old maid, Sekleteya, his cook and servant, and a
black, shaggy dog, with a snout as blunt as that of a sheat-fish.
And the dog, too, was old.

"Perhaps I really ought to get married," thought Foma, with a sigh.

But the very thought of how easy it was for him to get married made
him ill at ease, and even ridiculous in his own eyes. It were but
necessary to ask his godfather tomorrow for a bride,--and before a
month would pass, a woman would live with him in his house. And she
would be near him day and night. He would say to her: "Let's go for
a walk! " and she would go. He would tell her: "Let's go to sleep!"
and again she would go. Should she desire to kiss him, she would
kiss him, even though he did not like it. And if he should tell
her: "Go away, I don't want it," she would feel offended. What
would he speak to her about? What would she tell him? He thought
and pictured to himself young ladies of his acquaintance, daughters
of merchants. Some of them were very pretty, and he knew that any
one of them would marry him willingly. But he did not care to have
any of them as his wife. How awkward and shameful it must be when a
girl becomes a wife. And what does the newly-married couple say to
each other after the wedding, in the bedroom? Foma tried to think
what he would say in such a case, and confused, he began to laugh,
finding no appropriate words. Then he recalled Luba Mayakin. She
would surely be first to say something, uttering some
unintelligible words, which were foreign to herself. Somehow it
seemed to him that all her words were foreign, and she did not
speak as was proper for a girl of her age, appearance and descent.

And here his thoughts rested on Lubov's complaints. His gait became
slower; he was now astounded by the fact that all the people that
were near to him and with whom he talked a great deal, always spoke
to him of life. His father, his aunt, his godfather, Lubov, Sophya
Pavlovna, all these either taught him to understand life, or
complained of it. He recalled the words said by the old man on the
steamer about Fate, and many other remarks on life, reproaches and
bitter complaints against it, which he happened to hear from all
sorts of people.

"What does it mean?" he thought, "what is life, if it is not man?
And man always speaks as if life were something else, something
outside of man, and that something hinders him from living. Perhaps
it is the devil?"

A painful feeling of fear fell on the youth; he shuddered and
hastily looked around. The street was deserted and quiet; the dark
windows of the houses stared dimly into the dark of night, and
along the walls and fences Foma's shadow followed him.

"Driver!" he cried out aloud, quickening his steps. The shadow
started and crawled after him, frightened, black, silent. It seemed
to Foma that there was a cold breath behind him, and that something
huge, invisible, and terrible was overtaking him. Frightened, he
almost ran to meet the cab, which appeared noisily from the
darkness, and when he seated himself in the cab, he dared not look
back, though he wished to do so.

CHAPTER VII

ABOUT a week passed since Foma spoke to Medinskaya. And her image
stood fixedly before Foma by night and by day, awakening in his
heart a gnawing feeling of anxiety. He longed to go to her, and was
so much afflicted over her that even his bones were aching from the
desire of his heart to be near her again. But he was sternly
silent; he frowned and did not care to yield to this desire,
industriously occupying himself with his affairs and provoking in
himself a feeling of anger against the woman. He felt that if he
went up to her, he would no longer find her to be the same as he
had left her; something must have changed within her after that
conversation, and she would no longer receive him as cordially as
before, would not smile at him the clear smile that used to awaken
in him strange thoughts and hopes. Fearing that all this was lost
and that something else must have taken its place, he restrained
himself and suffered.

His work and his longing for the woman did not hinder him from
thinking of life. He did not philosophize about this enigma, which
was already stirring a feeling of alarm in his heart; he was not
able to argue, but he began to listen attentively to everything
that men said of life, and he tried to remember their words. They
did not make anything clear to him; nay, they increased his
perplexity and prompted him to regard them suspiciously. They were
clever, cunning and sensible--he saw it; in dealings with them it
was always necessary to be on one's guard; he knew already that in
important matters none of them spoke as they thought. And watching
them carefully, he felt that their sighs and their complaints of
life awakened in him distrust. Silently he looked at everybody with
suspicion, and a thin wrinkle masked his forehead.

One morning his godfather said to him on the Exchange:

"Anany has arrived. He would like to see you. Go up to him toward
evening, and see that you hold your tongue. Anany will try to
loosen it in order to make you talk on business matters. He is
cunning, the old devil; he is a holy fox; he'll lift his eyes
toward heaven, and meanwhile will put his paw into your pocket and
grab your purse. Be on your guard."

"Do we owe him anything?" asked Foma.

"Of course! We haven't paid yet for the barge, and then fifty five-
fathom beams were taken from him not long ago. If he wants
everything at once--don't give. A rouble is a sticky thing; the
longer it turns about in your hand, the more copecks will stick to
it. A rouble is like a good pigeon--it goes up in the air, you turn
around and see--it has brought a whole flock with it into the
pigeon-house."

"But how can we help paying it now, if he demands it?"

"Let him cry and ask for it--and you roar--but don't give it to
him."

I'll go up there soon."

Anany Savvich Shchurov was a rich lumber-dealer, had a big saw-
mill, built barges and ran rafts. He had had dealings with Ignat,
and Foma had more than once seen this tall, heavily-bearded, long-
armed, white-haired old man, who kept himself as erect as a pine-
tree. His big, handsome figure, his open face and his clear eyes
called forth in Foma a feeling of respect for Shchurov, although he
heard it rumoured that this lumber-dealer had gained his wealth not
by honest toil and that he was leading an evil life at home, in an
obscure village of the forest district; and Ignat had told Foma
that when Shchurov was young and was but a poor peasant, he
sheltered a convict in the bath-house, in his garden, and that
there the convict made counterfeit money for him. Since that time
Anany began to grow rich. One day his bathhouse burned down, and in
the ashes they discovered the corpse of a man with a fractured
skull. There was a rumour in the village that Shchurov himself had
killed his workman--killed and then burned him. Such things had
happened more than once with the good-looking old man; but similar
rumours were on foot with reference to many a rich man in town--
they had all, it was said, hoarded up their millions by way of
robberies, murders and, mainly, by passing counterfeit money. Foma
had heard such stories in his childhood and he never before
considered whether they were true or not.

He also knew that Shchurov had got rid of two wives--one of them
died during the first night of the wedding, in Anany's embraces.
Then he took his son's wife away from him, and his son took to
drink for grief and would have perished in drunkenness had he not
come to himself in time and gone off to save himself in a
hermitage, in Irgiz. And when his mistress-daughter-in-law had
passed away, Shchurov took into his house a dumb beggar-girl, who
was living with him to this day, and who had recently borne him a
dead child. On his way to the hotel, where Anany stayed, Foma
involuntarily recalled all this, and felt that Shchurov had become
strangely interesting to him.

When Foma opened the door and stopped respectfully on the threshold
of the small room, whose only window overlooked the rusty roof of
the neighbouring house, he noticed that the old Shchurov had just
risen from sleep, and sitting on his bed, leaning his hands against
it, he stared at the ground; and he was so bent that his long,
white beard fell over his knees. But even bent, he was large.

"Who entered?" asked Anany in a hoarse and angry voice, without
lifting his head.

"I. How do you do, Anany Savvich?"

The old man raised his head slowly and, winking his large eyes,
looked at Foma.

"Ignat's son, is that right?"

"The same."

"Well, come over here, sit down by the window. Let me see how
you've grown up. Will you not have a glass of tea with me?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"Waiter!" cried the old man, expanding his chest, and, taking his
beard in his hand, he began to examine Foma in silence. Foma also
looked at him stealthily.

The old man's lofty forehead was all covered with wrinkles, and its
skin was dark. Gray, curly locks covered his temples and his sharp-
pointed ears; his calm blue eyes lent the upper part of his face a
wise and good expression. But his cheeks and his lips were thick
and red, and seemed out of place on his face. His thin, long nose
was turned downward as though it wished to hide itself in his white
moustache; the old man moved his lips, and from beneath them small,
yellow teeth were gleaming. He had on a pink calico shirt, a silk
belt around his waist, and black, loose trousers, which were tucked
into his boots. Foma stared at his lips and thought that the old
man was surely such as he was said to be.

"As a boy you looked more like your father," said Shchurov
suddenly, and sighed. Then, after a moment's silence, he asked: "Do
you remember your father? Do you ever pray for him? You must, you
must pray!" he went on, after he heard Foma's brief answer. "Ignat
was a terrible sinner, and he died without repentance, taken
unawares. He was a great sinner!"

"He was not more sinful than others," replied Foma, angrily,
offended in his father's behalf.

"Than who, for instance?" demanded Shchurov, strictly.

"Are there not plenty of sinners?"

"There is but one man on earth more sinful than was the late Ignat-
-and that is that cursed heathen, your godfather Yashka,"
ejaculated the old man.

"Are you sure of it?" inquired Foma, smiling.

"I? Of course, I am!" said Shchurov, confidently, nodding his head,
and his eyes became somewhat darker. "I will also appear before the
Lord, and that not sinless. I shall bring with me a heavy burden
before His holy countenance. I have been pleasing the devil myself,
only I trust to God for His mercy, while Yashka believes in
nothing, neither in dreams, nor in the singing of birds. Yashka
does not believe in God, this I know! And for his non-belief he
will yet receive his punishment on earth."

"Are you sure of this, too?"

"Yes, I am. And don't you think I also know that you consider it
ludicrous to listen to me. What a sagacious fellow, indeed! But he
who has committed many sins is always wise. Sin is a teacher.
That's why Yashka Mayakin is extraordinarily clever."

Listening to the old man's hoarse and confident voice, Foma
thought:

"He is scenting death, it seems."

The waiter, a small man, with a face which was pale and
characterless, brought in the samovar and quickly hastened out of
the room, with short steps. The old man was undoing some bundles on
the window-sill and said, without looking at Foma:

"You are bold, and the look of your eyes is dark. Before, there
used to be more light-eyed people, because then the souls used to
be brighter. Before, everything was simpler--both the people and
the sins, and now everything has become complicated. Eh, eh!"

He made tea, seated himself opposite Foma and went on again:

"Your father at your age was a water-pumper and stayed with the
fleet near our village. At your age Ignat was as clear to me as
glass. At a single glance you could tell what sort of a man he was.
While you--here I am looking at you, but cannot see what you are.
Who are you? You don't know it yourself, my lad, and that's why
you'll suffer. Everybody nowadays must suffer, because they do not
know themselves. Life is a mass of wind-fallen trees, and you must
know how to find your way through it. Where is it? All are going
astray, and the devil is delighted. Are you married?"

"Not yet," said Foma.

"There again, you are not married, and yet, I'm quite sure, you are
not pure any longer. Well, are you working hard in your business?"

"Sometimes. Meanwhile I am with my godfather."

"What sort of work is it you have nowadays?" said the old man,
shaking his head, and his eyes were constantly twinkling, now
turning dark, now brightening up again. "You have no labour now! In
former years the merchant travelled with horses on business. Even
at night, in snowstorms, he used to go! Murderers used to wait for
him on the road and kill him. And he died a martyr, washing his
sins away with blood. Now they travel by rail; they are sending
telegrams, or they've even invented something that a man may speak
in his office and you can hear him five miles away. There the devil
surely has a hand in it! A man sits, without motion, and commits
sins merely because he feels lonesome, because he has nothing to
do: the machine does all his work. He has no work, and without toil
man is ruined! He has provided himself with machines and thinks it
is good! While the machine is the devil's trap for you. He thus
catches you in it. While toiling, you find no time for sin, but
having a machine--you have freedom. Freedom kills a man, even as
the sunbeams kill the worm, the dweller of the depth of earth.
Freedom kills man!"

And pronouncing his words distinctly and positively, the old Anany
struck the table four times with his finger. His face beamed
triumphantly, his chest rose high, and over it the silver hair of
his beard shook noiselessly. Dread fell on Foma as he looked at him
and listened to his words, for there was a ring of firm faith in
them, and it was the power of this faith that confused Foma. He had
already forgotten all he knew about the old man, all of which he
had but a while ago believed to be true.

"Whoever gives freedom to his body, kills his soul!" said Anany,
looking at Foma so strangely as if he saw behind him somebody, who
was grieved and frightened by his words; and whose fear and pain
delighted him. "All you people of today will perish through
freedom. The devil has captured you--he has taken toil away from
you, and slipped machines and telegrams into your hands. How
freedom eats into the souls of men! Just tell me, why are the
children worse than their fathers? Because of their freedom, yes.
That's why they drink and lead depraved lives with women. They have
less strength because they have less work, and they have not the
spirit of cheerfulness because they have no worries. Cheerfulness
comes in time of rest, while nowadays no one is getting tired."

"Well," said Foma, softly, "they were leading depraved lives and
drinking just as much in former days as now, I suppose."

"Do you know it? You should keep silence!" cried Anany, flashing
his eyes sternly. "In former days man had more strength, and the
sins were according to his strength. While you, of today, have less
strength, and more sins, and your sins are more disgusting. Then
men were like oak-trees. And God's judgment will also be in
accordance with their strength. Their bodies will be weighed, and
angels will measure their blood, and the angels of God will see
that the weight of the sins does not exceed the weight of the body
and the blood. Do you understand? God will not condemn the wolf for
devouring a sheep, but if a miserable rat should be guilty of the
sheep's death, God will condemn the rat!"

"How can a man tell how God will judge man?" asked Foma,
thoughtfully. "A visible trial is necessary."

"Why a visible trial?"

"That people might understand."

"Who, but the Lord, is my judge?"

Foma glanced at the old man and lowering his head, became silent.
He again recalled the fugitive convict, who was killed and burnt by
Shchurov, and again he believed that it really was so. And the
women--his wives and his mistresses--had surely been hastened
toward their graves by this old man's caresses; he had crushed them
with his bony chest, drunk the sap of their life with these thick
lips of his which were scarlet yet from the clotted blood of the
women, who died in the embraces of his long sinewy arms. And now,
awaiting death, which was already somewhere beside him, he counts
his sins, judges others, and perhaps judges himself, and says:

"Who, but the Lord, is my judge?"

"Is he afraid or not?" Foma asked himself and became pensive,
stealthily scrutinising the old man.

"Yes, my lad! Think," spoke Shchurov, shaking his head, "think, how
you are to live. The capital in your heart is small, and your
habits are great, see that you are not reduced to bankruptcy before
your own self! Ho-ho-ho!"

"How can you tell what and how much I have within my heart?" said
Foma, gloomily, offended by his laughter.

"I can see it! I know everything, because I have lived long! Oh-ho-
ho! How long I have lived! Trees have grown up and been cut down,
and houses built out of them, and even the houses have grown old.
While I have seen all this and am still alive, and when, at times,
I recall my life, I think, 'Is it possible that one man could
accomplish so much? Is it possible that I have witnessed all
this?'" The old man glanced at Foma sternly, shook his head and
became silent.

It became quiet. Outside the window something was softly rustling
on the roof of the house; the rattle of wheels and the muffled
sounds of conversation were heard from below, from the street. The
samovar on the table sang a sad tune. Shchurov was fixedly staring
into his glass of tea, stroking his beard, and one could hear that
something rattled in his breast, as if some burden was turning
about in it.

"It's hard for you to live without your father, isn't it?" said he.

"I am getting used to it," replied Foma.

"You are rich, and when Yakov dies, you will be richer still. He'll
leave everything to you."

"I don't need it."

"To whom else should he leave it? He has but one daughter, and you
ought to marry that daughter, and that she is your godsister and
foster-sister--no matter! That can be arranged--and then you would
be married. What good is there in the life you are now leading? I
suppose you are forever running about with the girls?"

"No."

"You don't say! Eh, eh, eh! the merchant is passing away. A certain
forester told me--I don't know whether he lied or not--that in
former days the dogs were wolves, and then degenerated into dogs.
It is the same with our calling; we will soon also be dogs. We will
take up science, put stylish hats on our heads, we'll do everything
that is necessary in order to lose our features, and there will be
nothing by which to distinguish us from other people. It has become
a custom to make Gymnasium students of all children. The merchants,
the nobles, the commoners--all are adjusted to match the same
colour. They dress them in gray and teach them all the same
subjects. They grow man even as they grow a tree. Why do they do
it? No one knows. Even a log could be told from another by its knot
at least, while here they want to plane the people over so that all
of them should look alike. The coffin is already waiting for us old
people. Ye-es! It may be that about fifty years hence, no one will
believe that I lived in this world. I, Anany, the son of Savva, by
the surname of Shchurov. So! And that I, Anany, feared no one, save
God. And that in my youth I was a peasant, that all the land I
possessed then was two desyatins and a quarter; while toward my old
age I have hoarded up eleven thousand desyatins, all forests, and
perhaps two millions in cash."

"There, they always speak of money!" said Foma, with
dissatisfaction. "What joy does man derive from money?""Mm,"
bellowed Shchurov. "You will make a poor merchant, if you do not
understand the power of money."

"Who does understand it?" asked Foma.

"I!" said Shchurov, with confidence. "And every clever man. Yashka
understands it. Money? That is a great deal, my lad! Just spread it
out before you and think, 'What does it contain?' Then will you
know that all this is human strength, human mind. Thousands of
people have put their life into your money and thousands more will
do it. And you can throw it all into the fire and see how the money
is burning, and at that moment you will consider yourself master."

"But nobody does this."

"Because fools have no money. Money is invested in business.
Business gives bread to the masses. And you are master over all
those masses. Wherefore did God create man? That man should pray to
Him. He was alone and He felt lonesome, so He began to desire
power, and as man was created in the image of the Lord, man also
desires power. And what, save money, can give power? That's the
way. Well, and you--have you brought me money?"

"No," answered Foma. From the words of the old man Foma's head was
heavy and troubled, and he was glad that the conversation had, at
last, turned to business matters.

"That isn't right," said Shchurov, sternly knitting his brow. "It
is overdue--you must pay.

"You'll get a half of it tomorrow."

"Why a half? Why not all?"

"We are badly in need of money now."

"And haven't you any? But I also need it."

"Wait a little."

"Eh, my lad, I will not wait! You are not your father. Youngsters
like you, milksops, are an unreliable lot. In a month you may break
up the whole business. And I would be the loser for it. You give me
all the money tomorrow, or I'll protest the notes. It wouldn't take
me long to do it!"

Foma looked at Shchurov, with astonishment. It was not at all that
same old man, who but a moment ago spoke so sagaciously about the
devil. Then his face and his eyes seemed different, and now he
looked fierce, his lips smiled pitilessly, and the veins on his
cheeks, near his nostrils, were eagerly trembling. Foma saw that if
he did not pay him at once, Shchurov would indeed not spare him and
would dishonour the firm by protesting the notes.

"Evidently business is poor?" grinned Shchurov. "Well, tell the
truth--where have you squandered your father's money?"

Foma wanted to test the old man:

"Business is none too brisk," said he, with a frown. "We have no
contracts. We have received no earnest money, and so it is rather
hard."

"So-o! Shall I help you out?"

"Be so kind. Postpone the day of payment," begged Foma, modestly
lowering his eyes.

"Mm. Shall I assist you out of my friendship for your father? Well,
be it so, I'll do it."

"And for how long will you postpone it?" inquired Foma.

"For six months."

"I thank you humbly."

"Don't mention it. You owe me eleven thousand six hundred roubles.
Now listen: rewrite the notes for the amount of fifteen thousand,
pay me the interest on this sum in advance. And as security I'll
take a mortgage on your two barges."

Foma rose from the chair and said, with a smile:

"Send me the notes tomorrow. I'll pay you in full."

Shchurov also rose from his chair and, without lowering his eyes at
Foma's sarcastic look, said, calmly scratching his chest:

"That's all right."

"Thank you for your kindness."

"That's nothing! You don't give me a chance, or I would have shown
you my kindness!" said the old man lazily, showing his teeth.

"Yes! If one should fall into your hands--"

"He'd find it warm--"

"I am sure you'd make it warm for him."

"Well, my lad, that will do!" said Shchurov, sternly. "Though you
consider yourself quite clever, it is rather too soon. You've
gained nothing, and already you began to boast! But you just win
from me--then you may shout for joy. Goodbye. Have all the money
for tomorrow."

"Don't let that trouble you. Goodbye!"

"God be with you!"

When Foma came out of the room he heard that the old man gave a
slow, loud yawn, and then began to hum in a rather hoarse bass:

"Open for us the doors of mercy. Oh blessed Virgin Mary!"

Foma carried away with him from the old man a double feeling.
Shchurov pleased him and at the same time was repulsive to him.

He recalled the old man's words about sin, thought of the power of
his faith in the mercy of the Lord, and the old man aroused in Foma
a feeling akin to respect.

"He, too, speaks of life; he knows his sins; but does not weep over
them, does not complain of them. He has sinned--and he is willing
to stand the consequences. Yes. And she?" He recalled Medinskaya,
and his heart contracted with pain.

"And she is repenting. It is hard to tell whether she does it
purposely, in order to hide from justice, or whether her heart is
really aching. 'Who, but the Lord,' says he, 'is to judge me?'
That's how it is."

It seemed to Foma that he envied Anany, and the youth hastened to
recall Shchurov's attempts to swindle him. This called forth in him
an aversion for the old man He could not reconcile his feelings
and, perplexed, he smiled.

"Well, I have just been at Shchurov's," he said, coming to Mayakin
and seating himself by the table.

Mayakin, in a greasy morning-gown, a counting-board in his hand,
began to move about in his leather-covered arm-chair impatiently,
and said with animation:

"Pour out some tea for him, Lubava! Tell me, Foma, I must be in the
City Council at nine o'clock; tell me all about it, make haste!"

Smiling, Foma related to him how Shchurov suggested to rewrite the
notes.

"Eh!" exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich regretfully, with a shake of the
head. "You've spoilt the whole mass for me, dear! How could you be
so straightforward in your dealings with the man? Psha! The devil
drove me to send you there! I should have gone myself. I would have
turned him around my finger!"

"Hardly! He says, 'I am an oak.'"

"An oak? And I am a saw. An oak! An oak is a good tree, but its
fruits are good for swine only. So it comes out that an oak is
simply a blockhead."

"But it's all the same, we have to pay, anyway."

"Clever people are in no hurry about this; while you are ready to
run as fast as you can to pay the money. What a merchant you are!"

Yakov Tarasovich was positively dissatisfied with his godson. He
frowned and in an angry manner ordered his daughter, who was
silently pouring out tea:

"Push the sugar nearer to me. Don't you see that I can't reach it?"

Lubov's face was pale, her eyes seemed troubled, and her hands
moved lazily and awkwardly. Foma looked at her and thought:

"How meek she is in the presence of her father."

"What did he speak to you about?" asked Mayakin.

"About sins."

"Well, of course! His own affair is dearest to each and every man.
And he is a manufacturer of sins. Both in the galleys and in hell
they have long been weeping and longing for him, waiting for him
impatiently."

"He speaks with weight," said Foma, thoughtfully, stirring his tea.

"Did he abuse me?" inquired Mayakin, with a malicious grimace.

"Somewhat."

"And what did you do?"

"I listened."

"Mm! And what did you hear?"

"'The strong,' he says, ' will be forgiven; but there is no
forgiveness for the weak.'"

"Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that."

For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin
regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man's
face, he said with a grin:

"But he doesn't like you."

"Nobody likes me, my dear," said Mayakin, proudly. "There is no
reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me.
And they respect only those they fear." And the old man winked at
his godson boastfully.

"He speaks with weight," repeated Foma. "He is complaining. 'The
real merchant,' says he, 'is passing away. All people are taught
the same thing,' he says: 'so that all may be equal, looking
alike."'

"Does he consider it wrong?"

"Evidently so."

"Fo-o-o-l!" Mayakin drawled out, with contempt.

"Why? Is it good?" asked Foma, looking at his godfather
suspiciously.

"We do not know what is good; but we can see what is wise. When we
see that all sorts of people are driven together in one place and
are all inspired there with one and the same idea--then must we
acknowledge that it is wise. Because--what is a man in the empire?
Nothing more than a simple brick, and all bricks must be of the
same size. Do you understand? And those people that are of equal
height and weight--I can place in any position I like."

"And whom does it please to be a brick?" said Foma, morosely.

"It is not a question of pleasing, it is a matter of fact. If you
are made of hard material, they cannot plane you. It is not
everybody's phiz that you can rub off. But some people, when beaten
with a hammer, turn into gold. And if the head happens to crack--
what can you do?It merely shows it was weak."

"He also spoke about toil. 'Everything,' he says, 'is done by
machinery, and thus are men spoiled."'

"He is out of his wits!" Mayakin waved his hand disdainfully. "I am
surprised, what an appetite you have for all sorts of nonsense!
What does it come from?"

"Isn't that true, either?" asked Foma, breaking into stern
laughter.

"What true thing can he know? A machine! The old blockhead should
have thought--'what is the machine made of?' Of iron! Consequently,
it need not be pitied; it is wound up--and it forges roubles for
you. Without any words, without trouble, you set it into motion and
it revolves. While a man, he is uneasy and wretched; he is often
very wretched. He wails, grieves, weeps, begs. Sometimes he gets
drunk. Ah, how much there is in him that is superfluous to me!
While a machine is like an arshin (yardstick), it contains exactly
so much as the work required. Well, I am going to dress. It is
time."

He rose and went away, loudly scraping with his slippers along the
floor. Foma glanced after him and said softly, with a frown:

"The devil himself could not see through all this. One says this,
the other, that."

"It is precisely the same with books," said Lubov in a low voice.

Foma looked at her, smiling good-naturedly. And she answered him
with a vague smile.

Her eyes looked fatigued and sad.

"You still keep on reading?" asked Foma.

"Yes," the girl answered sadly.

"And are you still lonesome?"

"I feel disgusted, because I am alone. There's no one here to say a
word to."

"That's bad."

She said nothing to this, but, lowering her head, she slowly began
to finger the fringes of the towel.

"You ought to get married," said Foma, feeling that he pitied her.

"Leave me alone, please," answered Lubov, wrinkling her forehead.

"Why leave you alone? You will get married, I am sure."

"There!" exclaimed the girl softly, with a sigh. "That's just what
I am thinking of--it is necessary. That is, I'll have to get
married. But how? Do you know, I feel now as though a mist stood
between other people and myself--a thick, thick mist!"

"That's from your books," Foma interposed confidently.

"Wait! And I cease to understand what is going on about me. Nothing
pleases me. Everything has become strange to me. Nothing is as it
should be. Everything is wrong. I see it. I understand it, yet I
cannot say that it is wrong, and why it is so."

"It is not so, not so," muttered Foma. "That's from your books.
Yes. Although I also feel that it's wrong. Perhaps that is because
we are so young and foolish."

"At first it seemed to me," said Lubov, not listening to him, "that
everything in the books was clear to me. But now--"

"Drop your books," suggested Foma, with contempt.

"Ah, don't say that! How can I drop them? You know how many
different ideas there are in the world! O Lord! They're such ideas
that set your head afire. According to a certain book everything
that exists on earth is rational."

"Everything?" asked Foma.

"Everything! While another book says the contrary is true."

"Wait! Now isn't this nonsense?"

"What were you discussing?" asked Mayakin, appearing at the door,
in a long frock-coat and with several medals on his collar and his
breast.

"Just so," said Lubov, morosely.

"We spoke about books," added Foma.

"What kind of books?"

"The books she is reading. She read that everything on earth is
rational."

"Really!"

"Well, and I say it is a lie!"

"Yes." Yakov Tarasovich became thoughtful, he pinched his beard and
winked his eyes a little.

"What kind of a book is it?" he asked his daughter, after a pause.

"A little yellow-covered book," said Lubov, unwillingly.

"Just put that book on my table. That is said not without
reflection--everything on earth is rational! See someone thought of
it. Yes. It is even very cleverly expressed. And were it not for
the fools, it might have been perfectly correct. But as fools are
always in the wrong place, it cannot be said that everything on
earth is rational. And yet, I'll look at the book. Maybe there is
common sense in it. Goodbye, Foma! Will you stay here, or do you
want to drive with me?"

"I'll stay here a little longer."

"Very well."

Lubov and Foma again remained alone.

"What a man your father is," said Foma, nodding his head toward the
direction of his godfather.

"Well, what kind of a man do you think he is?"

"He retorts every call, and wants to cover everything with his
words."

"Yes, he is clever. And yet he does not understand how painful my
life is," said Lubov, sadly.

"Neither do I understand it. You imagine too much."

"What do I imagine?" cried the girl, irritated.

"Why, all these are not your own ideas. They are someone else's."

"Someone else's. Someone else's."

She felt like saying something harsh; but broke down and became
silent. Foma looked at her and, setting Medinskaya by her side,
thought sadly:

"How different everything is--both men and women--and you never
feel alike."

They sat opposite each other; both were lost in thought, and
neither one looked at the other. It was getting dark outside, and
in the room it was quite dark already. The wind was shaking the
linden-trees, and their branches seemed to clutch at the walls of
the house, as though they felt cold and implored for shelter in the
rooms.

"Luba!" said Foma, softly.

She raised her head and looked at him.

"Do you know, I have quarrelled with Medinskaya."

"Why?" asked Luba, brightening up.

"So. It came about that she offended me. Yes, she offended me."

"Well, it's good that you've quarrelled with her," said the girl,
approvingly, "for she would have turned your head. She is a vile
creature; she is a coquette, even worse than that. Oh, what things
I know about her!"

"She's not at all a vile creature," said Foma, morosely. "And you
don't know anything about her. You are all lying!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!"

"No. See here, Luba," said Foma, softly, in a beseeching tone,
"don't speak ill of her in my presence. It isn't necessary. I know
everything. By God! She told me everything herself."

"Herself!" exclaimed Luba, in astonishment. "What a strange woman
she is! What did she tell you?"

"That she is guilty," Foma ejaculated with difficulty, with a wry
smile.

"Is that all?" There was a ring of disappointment in the girl's
question; Foma heard it and asked hopefully:

"Isn't that enough?"

"What will you do now?"

"That's just what I am thinking about."

"Do you love her very much?"

Foma was silent. He looked into the window and answered confusedly:

"I don't know. But it seems to me that now I love her more than
before."

"Than before the quarrel?"

"Yes."

"I wonder how one can love such a woman!" said the girl, shrugging
her shoulders.

"Love such a woman? Of course! Why not?" exclaimed Foma.

"I can't understand it. I think, you have become attached to her
just because you have not met a better woman."

"No, I have not met a better one!" Foma assented, and after a
moment's silence said shyly, "Perhaps there is none better."

"Among our people," Lubov interposed.

"I need her very badly! Because, you see, I feel ashamed before
her."

"Why so?"

"Oh, in general, I fear her; that is, I would not want her to think
ill of me, as of others. Sometimes I feel disgusted. I think--
wouldn't it be a great idea to go out on such a spree that all my
veins would start tingling. And then I recall her and I do not
venture. And so everything else, I think of her, 'What if she finds
it out?' and I am afraid to do it."

"Yes," the girl drawled out thoughtfully, "that shows that you love
her. I would also be like this. If I loved, I would think of him--
of what he might say..."

"And everything about her is so peculiar," Foma related softly.
"She speaks in a way all her own. And, God! How beautiful she is!
And then she is so small, like a child."

"And what took place between you?" asked Lubov.

Foma moved his chair closer to her, and stooping, he lowered his
voice for some reason or other, and began to relate to her all that
had taken place between him and Medinskaya. He spoke, and as he
recalled the words he said to Medinskaya, the sentiments that
called forth the words were also awakened in him.

"I told her, 'Oh, you! why did you make sport of me?'" he said
angrily and with reproach.

And Luba, her cheeks aflame with animation, spurred him on, nodding
her head approvingly:

"That's it! That's good! Well, and she?"

"She was silent!" said Foma, sadly, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"That is, she said different things; but what's the use?"

He waved his hand and became silent. Luba, playing with her braid,
was also silent. The samovar had already become cold. And the
dimness in the room was growing thicker and thicker, outside the
window it was heavy with darkness, and the black branches of the
linden-trees were shaking pensively.

"You might light the lamp," Foma went on.

"How unhappy we both are," said Luba, with a sigh.

Foma did not like this.

"I am not unhappy," he objected in a firm voice. "I am simply--not
yet accustomed to life."

"He who knows not what he is going to do tomorrow, is unhappy,"
said Luba, sadly. "I do not know it, neither do you. Whither go?
Yet go we must, Why is it that my heart is never at ease? Some kind
of a longing is always quivering within it."

"It is the same with me," said Foma. " I start to reflect, but on
what? I cannot make it clear to myself. There is also a painful
gnawing in my heart. Eh! But I must go up to the club."

"Don't go away," Luba entreated.

"I must. Somebody is waiting there for me. I am going. Goodbye!"

"Till we meet again!" She held out her hand to him and sadly looked
into his eyes.

"Will you go to sleep now?" asked Foma, firmly shaking her hand.

"I'll read a little."

"You're to your books as the drunkard to his whisky," said the
youth, with pity.

"What is there that is better?"

Walking along the street he looked at the windows of the house and
in one of them he noticed Luba's face. It was just as vague as
everything that the girl told him, even as vague as her longings.
Foma nodded his head toward her and with a consciousness of his
superiority over her, thought:

"She has also lost her way, like the other one."

At this recollection he shook his head, as though he wanted to
frighten away the thought of Medinskaya, and quickened his steps.

Night was coming on, and the air was fresh. A cold, invigorating
wind was violently raging in the street, driving the dust along the
sidewalks and throwing it into the faces of the passers-by. It was
dark, and people were hastily striding along in the darkness. Foma
wrinkled his face, for the dust filled his eyes, and thought:

"If it is a woman I meet now--then it will mean that Sophya
Pavlovna will receive me in a friendly way, as before. I am going
to see her tomorrow. And if it is a man--I won't go tomorrow, I'll
wait."

But it was a dog that came to meet him, and this irritated Foma to
such an extent that he felt like striking him with his cane.

In the refreshment-room of the club, Foma was met by the jovial
Ookhtishchev. He stood at the door, and chatted with a certain
stout, whiskered man; but, noticing Gordyeeff, he came forward to
meet him, saying, with a smile:

"How do you do, modest millionaire!" Foma rather liked him for his
jolly mood, and was always pleased to meet him.

Firmly and kind-heartedly shaking Ookhtishchev's hand, Foma asked
him:

"And what makes you think that I am modest?"

"What a question! A man, who lives like a hermit, who neither
drinks, nor plays, nor likes any women. By the way, do you know,
Foma Ignatyevich, that peerless patroness of ours is going abroad
tomorrow for the whole summer?"

"Sophya Pavlovna?" asked Foma, slowly. "Of course! The sun of my
life is setting. And, perhaps, of yours as well?"

Ookhtishchev made a comical, sly grimace and looked into Foma's
face.

And Foma stood before him, feeling that his head was lowering on
his breast, and that he was unable to hinder it.

"Yes, the radiant Aurora."

"Is Medinskaya going away?" a deep bass voice asked. "That's fine!
I am glad."

"May I know why?" exclaimed Ookhtishchev. Foma smiled sheepishly
and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev's
interlocutor.

That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and
deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma's ears.

"Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town."

"Shame, Martin Nikitich!" said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully,
knitting his brow.

"How do you know that she is a coquette?" asked Foma, sternly,
coming closer to the whiskered man. The man measured him with a
scornful look, turned aside and moving his thigh, drawled out:

"I didn't say--coquette."

"Martin Nikitich, you mustn't speak that way about a woman who--"
began Ookhtishchev in a convincing tone, but Foma interrupted him:

"Excuse me, just a moment! I wish to ask the gentleman, what is the
meaning of the word he said?"

And as he articulated this firmly and calmly, Foma thrust his hands
deep into his trousers-pockets, threw his chest forward, which at
once gave his figure an attitude of defiance. The whiskered
gentleman again eyed Foma with a sarcastic smile.

"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, softly.

"I said, co-cot-te," pronounced the whiskered man, moving his lips
as if he tasted the word. "And if you don't understand it, I can
explain it to you."

"You had better explain it," said Foma, with a deep sigh, not
lifting his eyes off the man.

Ookhtishchev clasped his hands and rushed aside.

"A cocotte, if you want to know it, is a prostitute," said the
whiskered man in a low voice, moving his big, fat face closer to
Foma.

Foma gave a soft growl and, before the whiskered man had time to
move away, he clutched with his right hand his curly, grayish hair.
With a convulsive movement of the hand, Foma began to shake the
man's head and his big, solid body; lifting up his left hand, he
spoke in a dull voice, keeping time to the punishment:

"Don't abuse a person--in his absence. Abuse him--right in his
face--straight in his eyes."

He experienced a burning delight, seeing how comically the stout
arms were swinging in the air, and how the legs of the man, whom he
was shaking, were bending under him, scraping against the floor.
His gold watch fell out of the pocket and dangled on the chain,
over his round paunch. Intoxicated with his own strength and with
the degradation of the sedate man, filled with the burning feeling
of malignancy, trembling with the happiness of revenge, Foma
dragged him along the floor and in a dull voice, growled wickedly,
in wild joy. In these moments he experienced a great feeling--the
feeling of emancipation from the wearisome burden which had long
oppressed his heart with grief and morbidness. He felt that he was
seized by the waist and shoulders from behind, that someone seized
his hand and bent it, trying to break it; that someone was crushing
his toes; but he saw nothing, following with his bloodshot eyes the
dark, heavy mass moaning and wriggling in his hand. Finally, they
tore him away and downed him, and, as through a reddish mist, he
noticed before him on the floor, at his feet, the man he had
thrashed. Dishevelled, he was moving his legs over the floor,
attempting to rise; two dark men were holding him by the arms, his
hands were dangling in the air like broken wings, and, in a voice
that was choking with sobs, he cried to Foma:

"You mustn't beat me! You mustn't! I have an...

Order. You rascal! Oh, rascal! I have children.

Everybody knows me! Scoundrel! Savage, 0--0--0! You may expect a
duel!"

And Ookhtishchev spoke loudly in Foma's ear:

"Come, my dear boy, for God's sake!"

"Wait, I'll give him a kick in the face," begged Foma. But he was
dragged off. There was a buzzing in his ears, his heart beat fast,
but he felt relieved and well. At the entrance of the club he
heaved a deep sigh of relief and said to Ookhtishchev, with a good-
natured smile:

"I gave him a sound drubbing, didn't I?"

"Listen! "exclaimed the gay secretary, indignantly. "You must
pardon me but that was the act of a savage! The devil take it. I
never witnessed such a thing before!"

"My dear man!" said Foma, friendly, "did he not deserve the
drubbing? Is he not a scoundrel? How can he speak like that behind
a person's back? No! Let him go to her and tell it plainly to her
alone."

"Excuse me. The devil take you! But it wasn't for her alone that
you gave him the drubbing?"

"That is, what do you mea,--not for her alone? For whom then?"
asked Foma, amazed.

"For whom? I don't know. Evidently you had old accounts to settle!
0h Lord! That was a scene! I shall not forget it in all my life!"

"He--that man--who is he?" asked Foma, and suddenly burst out
laughing. "How he roared, the fool!"

Ookhtishchev looked fixedly into his face and asked:

"Tell me, is it true, that you don't know whom you've thrashed? And
is it really only for Sophya Pavlovna?"

"It is, by God!" avowed Foma.

"So, the devil knows what the result may be!" He stopped short,
shrugged his shoulders perplexedly, waved his hand, and again began
to pace the sidewalk, looking at Foma askance. "You'll pay for
this, Foma Ignatyevich."

"Will he take me to court?"

"Would to God he does. He is the Vice-Governor's son-in-law,"

"Is that so?" said Foma, slowly, and made a long face.

"Yes. To tell the truth, he is a scoundrel and a rascal. According
to this fact I must admit, that he deserves a drubbing. But taking
into consideration the fact that the lady you defended is also--"

"Sir!" said Foma, firmly, placing his hand on Ookhtishchev's
shoulder, "I have always liked you, and you are now walking with
me. I understand it and can appreciate it. But do not speak ill of
her in my presence. Whatever she may be in your opinion, in my
opinion, she is dear to me. To me she is the best woman. So I am
telling you frankly. Since you are going with me, do not touch her.
I consider her good, therefore she is good."

There was great emotion in Foma's voice. Ookhtishchev looked at him
and said thoughtfully:

"You are a queer man, I must confess."

"I am a simple man--a savage. I have given him a thrashing and now
I feel jolly, and as to the result, let come what will.'

"I am afraid that it will result in something bad. Do you know--to
be frank, in return for your frankness--I also like you, although--
Mm! It is rather dangerous to be with you. Such a knightly temper
may come over you and one may get a thrashing at your hands."

"How so? This was but the first time. I am not going to beat people
every day, am I?" said Foma, confused. His companion began to
laugh.

"What a monster you are! Listen to me--it is savage to fight--you
must excuse me, but it is abominable. Yet, I must tell you, in this
case you made a happy selection. You have thrashed a rake, a cynic,
a parasite--a man who robbed his nephews with impunity."

"Well, thank God for that!" said Foma with satisfaction. "Now I
have punished him a little."

"A little? Very well, let us suppose it was a little. But listen to
me, my child, permit me to give you advice. I am a man of the law.
He, that Kayazev, is a rascal! True! But you must not thrash even a
rascal, for he is a social being, under the paternal custody of the
law. You cannot touch him until he transgresses the limits of the
penal code. But even then, not you, but we, the judges, will give
him his due. While you must have patience."

"And will he soon fall into your hands?" inquired Foma, naively.

"It is hard to tell. Being far from stupid, he will probably never
be caught, and to the end of his days he will live with you and me
in the same degree of equality before the law. 0h God, what I am
telling you!" said Ookhtishchev, with a comical sigh.

"Betraying secrets?" grinned Foma.

"It isn't secrets; but I ought not to be frivolous. De-e-evil! But
then, this affair enlivened me. Indeed, Nemesis is even then true
to herself when she simply kicks like a horse."

Foma stopped suddenly, as though he had met an obstacle on his way.

"Nemesis--the goddess of Justice," babbled Ookhtishchev. "What's
the matter with you?"

"And it all came about," said Foma, slowly, in a dull voice,
"because you said that she was going away."

"Who?

"Sophya Pavlovna."

"Yes, she is going away. Well?"

He stood opposite Foma and stared at him, with a smile in his eyes.
Gordyeeff was silent, with lowered head, tapping the stone of the
sidewalk with his cane.

"Come," said Ookhtishchev.

Foma started, saying indifferently:

"Well, let her go. And I am alone." Ookhtishchev, waving his cane,
began to whistle, looking at his companion.

"Sha'n't I be able to get along without her?" asked Foma, looking
somewhere in front of him and then, after a pause, he answered
himself softly and irresolutely:

"Of course, I shall."

"Listen to me!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev. "I'll give you some good
advice. A man must be himself. While you, you are an epic man, so
to say, and the lyrical is not becoming to you. It isn't your
genre."

"Speak to me more simply, sir," said Foma, having listened
attentively to his words.

"More simply? Very well. I want to say, give up thinking of this
little lady. She is poisonous food for you."

"She told me the same," put in Foma, gloomily.

"She told you?" Ookhtishchev asked and became thoughtful. "Now,
I'll tell you, shouldn't we perhaps go and have supper?"

"Let's go," Foma assented. And he suddenly roared obdurately,
clinching his fists and waving them in the air: "Well, let us go,
and I'll get wound up; I'll break loose, after all this, so you
can't hold me back!"

"What for? We'll do it modestly."

"No! wait!" said Foma, anxiously, seizing him by the shoulder.
"What's that? Am I worse than other people? Everybody lives,
whirls, hustles about, has his own point. While I am weary.
Everybody is satisfied with himself. And as to their complaining,
they lie, the rascals! They are simply pretending for beauty's
sake. I have no reason to pretend. I am a fool. I don't understand
anything, my dear fellow. I simply wish to live! I am unable to
think. I feel disgusted; one says this, another that! Pshaw! But
she, eh! If you knew. My hope was in her. I expected of her--just
what I expected, I cannot tell; but she is the best of women! And I
had so much faith in her--when sometimes she spoke such peculiar
words, all her own. Her eyes, my dear boy, are so beautiful! 0h
Lord! I was ashamed to look upon them, and as I am telling you, she
would say a few words, and everything would become clear to me. For
I did not come to her with love alone--I came to her with all my
soul! I sought--I thought that since she was so beautiful,
consequently, I might become a man by her side!"

Ookhtishchev listened to the painful, unconnected words that burst
from his companion's lips. He saw how the muscles of his face
contracted with the effort to express his thoughts, and he felt
that behind this bombast there was a great, serious grief. There
was something intensely pathetic in the powerlessness of this
strong and savage youth, who suddenly started to pace the sidewalk
with big, uneven steps. Skipping along after him with his short
legs, Ookhtishchev felt it his duty somehow to calm Foma.
Everything Foma had said and done that evening awakened in the
jolly secretary a feeling of lively curiosity toward Foma, and then
he felt flattered by the frankness of the young millionaire. This
frankness confused him with its dark power; he was disconcerted by
its pressure, and though, in spite of his youth, he had a stock of
words ready for all occasions in life, it took him quite awhile to
recall them.

"I feel that everything is dark and narrow about me," said
Gordyeeff. "I feel that a burden is falling on my shoulders, but
what it is I cannot understand! It puts a restraint on me, and it
checks the freedom of my movements along the road of life.
Listening to people, you hear that each says a different thing. But
she could have said--"

"Eh, my dear boy!" Ookhtishchev interrupted Foma, gently taking his
arm. "That isn't right! You have just started to live and already
you are philosophizing! No, that is not right! Life is given us to
live! Which means--live and let others live. That's the philosophy!
And that woman. Bah! Is she then the only one in the world? The
world is large enough. If you wish, I'll introduce you to such a
virile woman, that even the slightest trace of your philosophy
would at once vanish from your soul! Oh, a remarkable woman! And
how well she knows how to avail herself of life! Do you know,
there's also something epic about her? She is beautiful; a Phryne,
I may say, and what a match she would be to you! Ah, devil! It is
really a splendid idea. I'll make you acquainted with her! We must
drive one nail out with another."

"My conscience does not allow it," said Foma, sadly and sternly.
"So long as she is alive, I cannot even look at women."

"Such a robust and healthy young man. Ho, ho!" exclaimed
Ookhtishchev, and in the tone of a teacher began to argue with Foma
that it was essential for him to give his passion an outlet in a
good spree, in the company of women.

"This will be magnificent, and it is indispensable to you. You may
believe me. And as to conscience, you must excuse me. You don't
define it quite properly. It is not conscience that interferes with
you, but timidity, I believe. You live outside of society. You are
bashful, and awkward. Youare dimly conscious of all this, and it is
this consciousness that you mistake for conscience. In this case
there can be no question about conscience. What has conscience to
do here, since it is natural for man to enjoy himself, since it is
his necessity and his right?"

Foma walked on, regulating his steps to those of his companion, and
staring along the road, which lay between two rows of buildings,
resembled an enormous ditch, and was filled with darkness. It
seemed that there was no end to the road and that something dark,
inexhaustible and suffocating was slowly flowing along it in the
distance. Ookhtishchev's kind, suasive voice rang monotonously in
Foma's ears, and though he was not listening to his words, he felt
that they were tenacious in their way; that they adhered to him,
and that he was involuntarily memorizing them. Notwithstanding that
a man walked beside him, he felt as though he were alone, straying
in the dark. And the darkness seized him and slowly drew him along,
and he felt that he was drawn somewhere, and yet had no desire to
stop. Some sort of fatigue hindered his thinking; there was no
desire in him to resist the admonitions of his companion--and why
should he resist them?

"It isn't for everyone to philosophize," said Ookhtishchev,
swinging his cane in the air, and somewhat carried away by his
wisdom. "For if everybody were to philosophize, who would live? And
we live but once! And therefore it were best to make haste to live.
By God! That's true! But what's the use of talking? Would you
permit me to give you a shaking up? Let's go immediately to a
pleasure-house I know. Two sisters live there. Ah, how they live!
You will come?"

"Well, I'll go," said Foma, calmly, and yawned. "Isn't it rather
late?" he asked, looking up at the sky which was covered with
clouds.

"It's never too late to go to see them!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev,
merrily.

CHAPTER VIII

ON the third day after the scene in the club, Foma found himself
about seven versts from the town, on the timber-wharf of the
merchant Zvantzev, in the company of the merchant's son of
Ookhtishchev-- a sedate, bald-headed and red-nosed gentleman with
side whiskers-- and four ladies. The young Zvantzev wore
eyeglasses, was thin and pale, and when he stood, the calves of
his legs were forever trembling as though they were disgusted at
supporting the feeble body, clad in a long, checked top-coat with
a cape, in whose folds a small head in a jockey cap was comically
shaking. The gentleman with the side whiskers called him Jean and
pronounced this name as though he was suffering from an
inveterate cold. Jean's lady was a tall, stout woman with a showy
bust. Her head was compressed on the sides, her low forehead
receded, her long, sharp-pointed nose gave her face an expression
somewhat bird-like. And this ugly face was perfectly motionless,
and the eyes alone, small, round and cold, were forever smiling a
penetrating and cunning smile. Ookhtishchev's lady's name was
Vera; she was a tall, pale woman with red hair. She had so much
hair, that it seemed as though the woman had put on her head an
enormous cap which was coming down over her ears, her cheeks and
her high forehead, from under which her large blue eyes looked
forth calmly and lazily.

The gentleman with the side whiskers sat beside a young, plump,
buxom girl, who constantly giggled in a ringing voice at
something which he whispered in her ear as he leaned over her
shoulder.

And Foma's lady was a stately brunette, clad all in black. Dark-
complexioned, with wavy locks, she kept her head so erect and
high and looked at everything about her with such condescending
haughtiness, that it was at once evident that she considered
herself the most important person there.

The company were seated on the extreme link of the raft,
extending far into the smooth expanse of the river. Boards were
spread out on the raft and in the centre stood a crudely
constructed table; empty bottles, provision baskets, candy-
wrappers and orange peels were scattered about everywhere. In the
corner of the raft was a pile of earth, upon which a bonfire was
burning, and a peasant in a short fur coat, squatting, warmed his
hands over the fire, and cast furtive glances at the people
seated around the table. They had just finished eating their
sturgeon soup, and now wines and fruits were before them on the
table.

Fatigued with a two-days' spree and with the dinner that had just
been finished, the company was in a weary frame of mind. They all
gazed at the river, chatting, but their conversation was now and
again interrupted by long pauses.

The day was clear and bright and young, as in spring. The cold,
clear sky stretched itself majestically over the turbid water of
the gigantically-wide, overflowing river, which was as calm as
the sky and as vast as the sea. The distant, mountainous shore
was tenderly bathed in bluish mist. Through it, there, on the
mountain tops, the crosses of churches were flashing like big
stars. The river was animated at the mountainous shore; steamers
were going hither and thither, and their noise came in deep moans
toward the rafts and into the meadows, where the calm flow of the
waves filled the air with soft and faint sounds. Gigantic barges
stretched themselves one after another against the current, like
huge pigs, tearing asunder the smooth expanse of the river. Black
smoke came in ponderous puffs from the chimneys of the steamers,
slowly melting in the fresh air, which was full of bright
sunshine. At times a whistle resounded--it was like the roar of
some huge, enraged animal, embittered by toil. And on the meadows
near the rafts, all was calm and silent. Solitary trees that had
been drowned by the flood, were now already covered with light-
green spangles of foliage. Covering their roots and reflecting
their tops, the water gave them the appearance of globes, and it
seemed as though the slightest breeze would send them floating,
fantastically beautiful, down the mirror-like bosom of the river.

The red-haired woman, pensively gazing into the distance, began
to sing softly and sadly:

"Along the Volga river
A little boat is flo-o-oating."

The brunette, snapping her large, stern eyes with contempt,
said, without looking at her: "We feel gloomy enough without
this."

"Don't touch her. Let her sing!" entreated Foma, kindly, looking
into his lady's face. He was pale some spark seemed to flash up
in his eyes now and then, and an indefinite, indolent smile
played about his lips.

"Let us sing in chorus!" suggested the man with the side
whiskers.

"No, let these two sing!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev with enthusiasm.
"Vera, sing that song! You know, 'I will go at dawn.' How is it?
Sing, Pavlinka!"

The giggling girl glanced at the brunette and asked her
respectfully:

"Shall I sing, Sasha?"

"I shall sing myself," announced Foma's companion, and turning
toward the lady with the birdlike face, she ordered:

"Vassa, sing with me!"

Vassa immediately broke off her conversation with Zvantzev,
stroked her throat a little with her hand and fixed her round
eyes on the face of her sister. Sasha rose to her feet, leaned
her hand against the table, and her head lifted haughtily, began
to declaim in a powerful, almost masculine voice:

"Life on earth is bright to him,
Who knows no cares or woe,
And whose heart is not consumed
By passion's ardent glow!"

Her sister nodded her head and slowly, plaintively began to moan
in a deep contralto:

"Ah me! Of me the maiden fair."

Flashing her eyes at her sister, Sasha exclaimed in her low-
pitched notes:

"Like a blade of grass my heart has withered."

The two voices mingled and floated over the water in melodious,
full sounds, which quivered from excess of power. One of them was
complaining of the unbearable pain in the heart, and intoxicated
by the poison of its plaint, it sobbed with melancholy and
impotent grief; sobbed, quenching with tears the fire of the
suffering. The other--the lower, more masculine voice--rolled
powerfully through the air, full of the feeling of bloody
mortification and of readiness to avenge. Pronouncing the words
distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and
each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage,
poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.

"I will requite him,"

sang Vassa, plaintively, closing her eyes.

"I will inflame him,
I'll dry him up,"

Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air
strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows. And suddenly,
changing the
tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing,
as
slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats:

"Drier than the raging wind,
Drier than the mown-down grass,
Oi, the mown and dried-up grass."

Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with
knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black,
half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes
flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light,
the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to
him also black and flashing, like her eyes. He recalled her
caresses and thought:

"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be
with her."

Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of
happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with
satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev
were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned
toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully
examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own,
and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and
listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From
the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards,
on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad,
bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and
of a naive delight.

"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"

entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister,
her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song
in powerful triumphant notes:

"The yearning and the pangs of love!"

When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and
seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and
powerful hand.

"Well, was it a nice song?"

"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.

The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still
full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm
he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.

"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev,
and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no
attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:

"Well, make me a present of something for the song."

"Very well, I will," Foma assented.

"What?"

"You tell me."

"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what I
like--Oh, how I will love you!"

"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought
to love me anyway."

She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said
resolutely:

"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I
lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for
presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot
give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well
already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little--I'll know
you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And
meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my
mode of life."

Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the
nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked
and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. I
cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What
is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something
hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog--altogether
something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic
to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you
ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings. Ah! or the
Italian."

"Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich," cried Ookhtishchev, agitated.

"I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and
gloomy. It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture," said
the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine
out of his glass.

"But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it," put in
the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange.

The sun was setting. Sinking somewhere far beyond the forest, on
the meadow shore, it painted the entire forest with purple tints
and cast rosy and golden spots over the dark cold water. Foma
gazed in that direction at this play of the sunbeams, watched how
they quivered as they were transposed over the placid and vast
expanse of waters, and catching fragments of conversation, he
pictured to himself the words as a swarm of dark butterflies,
busily fluttering in the air. Sasha, her head resting on his
shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which
he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in
him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly.
Aside from her, none of those assembled there interested
him--while Zvantzev and the gentleman with the side whiskers
were actually repulsive to him.

"What are you staring at? Eh?" he heard Ookhtishchev's jestingly-
stern voice.

The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his
head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile:

"I came over to listen to the lady's song."

"Well, does she sing well?"

"What a question! Of course," said the peasant, looking at Sasha,
with admiration in his eyes.

"That's right!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.

"There is a great power of voice in that lady's breast," said the
peasant, nodding his head.

At his words, the ladies burst out laughing and the men made some
double-meaning remarks about Sasha.

After she had calmly listened to these and said nothing in reply,
Sasha asked the peasant:

"Do you sing?"

"We sing a little!" and he waved his hand, "What songs do you
know?"

"All kinds. I love singing." And he smiled apologetically.

"Come, let's sing something together, you and I."

"How can we? Am I a match for you?"

"Well, strike up!"

"May I sit down?"

"Come over here, to the table."

"How lively this is!" exclaimed Zvantzev, wrinkling his face.

"If you find it tedious, go and drown yourself," said Sasha,
angrily flashing her eyes at him.

"No, the water is cold," replied Zvantzev, shrinking at her
glance.

"As you please!" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "But it is
about time you did it, and then, there's also plenty of water
now, so that you wouldn't spoil it all with your rotten body."

"Fie, how witty!" hissed the youth, turning away from her, and
added with contempt: "In Russia even the prostitutes are rude."

He addressed himself to his neighbour, but the latter gave him
only an intoxicated smile in return. Ookhtishchev was also drunk.
Staring into the face of his companion, with his eyes grown dim,
he muttered something and heard nothing. The lady with the bird-
like face was pecking candy, holding the box under her very nose.
Pavlinka went away to the edge of the raft and, standing there,
threw orange peels into the water.

"I never before participated in such an absurd outing and--
company," said Zvantzev, to his neighbour, plaintively.

And Foma watched him with a smile, delighted that this feeble and
ugly-looking man felt bored, and that Sasha had insulted him. Now
and then he cast at her a kind glance of approval. He was pleased
with the fact that she was so frank with everybody and that she
bore herself proudly, like a real gentlewoman.

The peasant seated himself on the boards at her feet, clasped his
knees in his hands, lifted his face to her and seriously listened
to her words.

"You must raise your voice, when I lower mine, understand?"

"I understand; but, Madam, you ought to hand me some just to give
me courage!"

"Foma, give him a glass of brandy!"

And when the peasant emptied it, cleared his throat with
pleasure, licked his lips and said: "Now, I can do it," she
ordered, knitting her brow:

"Begin!"

The peasant made a wry mouth, lifted his eyes to her face, and
started
in a high-pitched tenor:

"I cannot drink, I cannot eat."

Trembling in every limb, the woman sobbed out tremulously, with
strange sadness:

"Wine cannot gladden my soul."

The peasant smiled sweetly, tossed his head to and fro, and
closing his eyes, poured out into the air a tremulous wave of
high-pitched notes:

"Oh, time has come for me to bid goodbye!"

And the woman, shuddering and writhing, moaned and wailed:

"Oi, from my kindred I must part."

Lowering his voice and swaying to and fro, the peasant declaimed
in a sing-song with a remarkably intense expression of anguish:

"Alas, to foreign lands I must depart."

When the two voices, yearning and sobbing, poured forth into the
silence and freshness of the evening, everything about them
seemed warmer and better; everything seemed to smile the
sorrowful smile of sympathy on the anguish of the man whom an
obscure power is tearing away from his native soil into some
foreign place, where hard labour and degradation are in store for
him. It seemed as though not the sounds, nor the song,
but the burning tears of the human heart in which the plaint had
surged up--it seemed as though these tears moistened the air.
Wild grief and pain from the sores of body and soul, which were
wearied in the struggle with stern life; intense sufferings from
the wounds dealt to man by the iron hand of want--all this was
invested in the simple, crude words and was tossed in ineffably
melancholy sounds toward the distant, empty sky, which has no
echo for anybody or anything.

Foma had stepped aside from the singers, and stared at them with
a feeling akin to fright, and the song, in a huge wave, poured
forth into his breast, and the wild power of grief, with which it
had been invested, clutched his heart painfully. He felt that
tears would soon gush from his breast, something was clogging his
throat and his face was quivering. He dimly saw Sasha's black
eyes; immobile and flashing gloomily, they seemed to him enormous
and still growing larger and larger. And it seemed to him that it
was not two persons who were singing--that everything about him
was singing and sobbing, quivering and palpitating in torrents of
sorrow, madly striving somewhere, shedding burning tears, and
all--and all things living seemed clasped in one powerful embrace
of despair. And it seemed to him that he, too, was
singing in unison with all of them--with the people, the river
and the distant shore, whence came plaintive moans that mingled
with the song.

Now the peasant went down on his knees, and gazing at Sasha,
waved his hands, and she bent down toward him and shook her head,
keeping time to the motions of his hands. Both were now singing
without words, with sounds only, and Foma still could not believe
that only two voices were pouring into the air these moans and
sobs with such mighty power.

When they had finished singing, Foma, trembling with excitement,
with a tear-stained face, gazed at them and smiled sadly.

"Well, did it move you?" asked Sasha. Pale with fatigue, she
breathed quickly and heavily.

Foma glanced at the peasant. The latter was wiping the sweat off
his brow and looking around him with such a wandering look as
though he could not make out what had taken place.

All was silence. All were motionless and speechless.

"0h Lord!" sighed Foma, rising to his feet. "Eh, Sasha! Peasant!
Who are you?" he almost shouted.

"I am--Stepan," said the peasant, smiling confusedly, and also
rose to his feet. "I'm Stepan. Of course!"

"How you sing! Ah!" Foma exclaimed in astonishment, uneasily
shifting from foot to foot.

"Eh, your Honour!" sighed the peasant and added softly and
convincingly: "Sorrow can compel an ox to sing like a
nightingale. And what makes the lady sing like this, only God
knows. And she sings, with all her veins--that is to say, so you
might just lie down and die with sorrow! Well, that's a lady."

"That was sung very well!" said Ookhtishchev in a drunken voice.

No, the devil knows what this is!" Zvantzev suddenly shouted,
almost crying, irritated as he jumped up from the table. "I've
come out here for a good time. I want to enjoy myself, and here
they perform a funeral service for me! What an outrage! I can't
stand this any longer. I'm going away!"

"Jean, I am also going. I'm weary, too," announced the gentleman
with the side whiskers.

"Vassa," cried Zvantzev to his lady, "dress yourself!"

"Yes, it's time to go," said the red-haired lady to Ookhtishchev.
"It is cold, and it will soon be dark."

"Stepan! Clear everything away!" commanded Vassa.

All began to bustle about, all began to speak of something. Foma
stared at them in suspense and shuddered. Staggering, the crowd
walked along the rafts. Pale and fatigued, they said to one
another stupid, disconnected things. Sasha jostled them
unceremoniously, as she was getting her things together.

"Stepan! Call for the horses!"

"And I'll drink some more cognac. Who wants some more cognac with
me?" drawled the gentleman with the side whiskers in a beatific
voice, holding a bottle in his hands.

Vassa was muffling Zvantzev's neck with a scarf. He stood in
front of her, frowning, dissatisfied, his lips curled
capriciously, the calves of his legs shivering. Foma became
disgusted as he looked at them, and he went off to the other
raft. He was astonished that all these people behaved as though
they had not heard the song at all. In his breast the song was
alive and there it called to life a restless desire to do
something, to say something. But he had no one there to speak to.

The sun had set and the distance was enveloped in blue mist. Foma
glanced thither and turned away. He did not feel like going to
town with these people, neither did he care to stay here with
them. And they were still pacing the raft with uneven steps,
shaking from side to side and muttering disconnected words. The
women were not quite as drunk as the men, and only the red-haired
one could not lift herself from the bench for a long time, and
finally, when she rose, she declared:

"Well, I'm drunk."

Foma sat down on a log of wood, and lifting the axe, with which
the peasant had chopped wood for the fire, he began to play with
it, tossing it up in the air and catching it.

"Oh, my God! How mean this is!" Zvantzev's capricious voice was
heard.

Foma began to feel that he hated it, and him, and everybody,
except Sasha, who awakened in him a certain uneasy feeling, which
contained at once admiration for her and a fear lest she might do
something unexpected and terrible.

"Brute!" shouted Zvantzev in a shrill voice, and Foma noticed
that he struck the peasant on the chest, after which the peasant
removed his cap humbly and stepped aside.

"Fo-o-ol!" cried Zvantzev, walking after him and lifting his
hand.

Foma jumped to his feet and said threateningly, in a loud voice:

"Eh, you! Don't touch him!"

"Wha-a-at?" Zvantzev turned around toward him.

"Stepan, come over here," called Foma.

"Peasant!" Zvantzev hurled with contempt, looking at Foma.

Foma shrugged his shoulders and made a step toward him; but
suddenly a thought flashed vividly through his mind! He smiled
maliciously and inquired of Stepan, softly:

"The string of rafts is moored in three places, isn't it?

"In three, of course!"

"Cut the connections!"

"And they?"

"Keep quiet! Cut!"

"But--"

"Cut! Quietly, so they don't notice it!"

The peasant took the axe in his hands, slowly walked up to the
place where one link was well fastened to another link, struck a
few times with his axe, and returned to Foma.

"I'm not responsible, your Honour," he said.

"Don't be afraid."

"They've started off," whispered the peasant with fright, and
hastily made the sign of the cross. And Foma gazed, laughing
softly, and experienced a painful sensation that keenly and
sharply stung his heart with a certain strange, pleasant and
sweet fear.

The people on the raft were still pacing to and fro, moving about
slowly, jostling one another, assisting the ladies with their
wraps, laughing and talking, and the raft was meanwhile turning
slowly and irresolutely in the water.

"If the current carries them against the fleet," whispered the
peasant, "they'll strike against the bows--and they'll be smashed
into splinters."

"Keep quiet!"

"They'll drown!"

"You'll get a boat, and overtake them."

"That's it! Thank you. What then? They're after all human beings.
And we'll be held responsible for them." Satisfied now, laughing
with delight, the peasant dashed in bounds across the rafts to
the shore. And Foma stood by the water and felt a passionate
desire to shout something, but he controlled himself, in order to
give time for the raft to float off farther, so that those
drunken people would not be able to jump across to the moored
links. He experienced a pleasant caressing sensation as he saw
the raft softly rocking upon the water and floating off farther
and farther from him every moment.The heavy and dark feeling,
with which his heart had been filled during this time, now seemed
to float away together with the people on the raft. Calmly he
inhaled the fresh air and with it something sound that cleared
his brain. At the very edge of the floating raft stood Sasha,
with her back toward Foma; he looked at her beautiful figure and
involuntarily recalled Medinskaya. The latter was smaller in
size. The recollection of her stung him, and he cried out in a
loud, mocking voice:

"Eh, there! Good-bye! Ha! ha! ha!"

Suddenly the dark figures of the people moved toward him and
crowded together in one group, in the centre of the raft. But by
this time a clear strip of water, about three yards wide, was
flashing between them and Foma.

There was a silence lasting for a few seconds.

Then suddenly a hurricane of shrill, repulsively pitiful sounds,
which were full of animal fright, was hurled at Foma, and louder
than all and more repulsive than all, Zvantzev's shrill, jarring
cry pierced the ear:

"He-e-elp!"

Some one--in all probability, the sedate gentleman with the side
whiskers--roared in his basso:

"Drowning! They're drowning people!"

"Are you people?" cried Foma, angrily, irritated by their screams
which seemed to bite him. And the people ran about on the raft in
the madness of fright; the raft rocked under their feet, floated
faster on account of this, and the agitated water was loudly
splashing against and under it. The screams rent the air, the
people jumped about, waving their hands, and the stately figure
of Sasha alone stood motionless and speechless on the edge of the
raft.

"Give my regards to the crabs!" cried Foma. Foma felt more and
more cheerful and relieved in proportion as the raft was floating
away from him.

"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Ookhtishchev in a faint, but sober
voice, "look out, this is a dangerous joke. I'll make a
complaint."

"When you are drowned? You may complain!" answered Foma,
cheerfully.

"You are a murderer!" exclaimed Zvantzev, sobbing. But at this
time a ringing splash of water was heard as though it groaned
with fright or with astonishment. Foma shuddered and became as
though petrified. Then rang out the wild, deafening shrieks of
the women, and the terror-stricken screams of men, and all the
figures on the raft remained petrified in their places. And Foma,
staring at the water, felt as though he really were petrified. In
the water something black, surrounded with splashes, was floating
toward him.

Rather instinctively than consciously, Foma threw himself with
his chest on the beams of the raft, and stretched out his hands,
his head hanging down over the water. Several incredibly long
seconds passed. Cold, wet arms clasped his neck and dark eyes
flashed before him. Then he understood that it was Sasha.

The dull horror, which had suddenly seized him, vanished,
replaced now by wild, rebellious joy. Having dragged the woman
out of the water, he grasped her by the waist, clasped her to his
breast, and, not knowing what to say to her, he stared into her
eyes with astonishment. She smiled at him caressingly.

"I am cold," said Sasha, softly, and quivered in every limb.

Foma laughed gaily at the sound of her voice, lifted her into his
arms and quickly, almost running, dashed across the rafts to the
shore. She was wet and cold, but her breathing was hot, it burned
Foma's cheek and filled his breast with wild joy.

"You wanted to drown me?" said she, firmly, pressing close to
him. "It was rather too early. Wait!"

"How well you have done it," muttered Foma, as he ran.

"You're a fine, brave fellow! And your device wasn't bad, either,
though you seem to be so peaceable."

"And they are still roaring there, ha! ha!"

"The devil take them! If they are drowned, we'll be sent to
Siberia," said the woman, as though she wanted to console and
encourage him by this. She began to shiver, and the shudder of
her body, felt by Foma, made him hasten his pace.

Sobs and cries for help followed them from the river. There, on
the placid water, floated in the twilight a small island,
withdrawing from the shore toward the stream of the main current
of the river, and on that little island dark human figures were
running about.

Night was closing down upon them.

CHAPTER IX

ONE Sunday afternoon, Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin was drinking tea
in his garden and talking to his daughter. The collar of his
shirt unbuttoned, a towel wound round his neck, he sat on a bench
under a canopy of verdant cherry-trees, waved his hands in the
air, wiped the perspiration off his face, and incessantly poured
forth into the air his brisk speech.

"The man who permits his belly to have the upper hand over him is
a fool and a rogue! Is there nothing better in the world than
eating and drinking? Upon what will you pride yourself before
people, if you are like a hog?"

The old man's eyes sparkled irritably and angrily, his lips
twisted with contempt, and the wrinkles of his gloomy face
quivered.

"If Foma were my own son, I would have made a man of him!"

Playing with an acacia branch, Lubov mutely listened to her
father's words, now and then casting a close and searching look
in his agitated, quivering face. Growing older, she changed,
without noticing it, her suspicious and cold relation toward the
old man. In his words she now began to find the same ideas that
were in her books, and this won her over on her father's side,
involuntarily causing the girl to prefer his live words to the
cold letters of the book. Always overwhelmed with business
affairs, always alert and clever, he went his own way alone, and
she perceived his solitude, knew how painful it was, and her
relations toward her father grew in warmth. At times she even
entered into arguments with the old man; he always regarded her
remarks contemptuously and sarcastically; but more tenderly and
attentively from time to time.

"If the deceased Ignat could read in the newspapers of the
indecent life his son is leading, he would have killed Foma!"
said Mayakin, striking the table with his fists. "How they have
written it up! It's a disgrace!"

"He deserves it," said Lubov.

"I don't say it was done at random! They've barked at him, as was
necessary. And who was it that got into such a fit of anger?"

"What difference does it make to you?" asked the girl.

"It's interesting to know. How cleverly the rascal described
Foma's behaviour. Evidently he must have been with him and
witnessed all the indecency himself."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't go with Foma on a spree!' said Lubov,
confidently, and blushed deeply at her father's searching look.

"So! You have fine acquaintances, Lubka! " said Mayakin with
humorous bitterness. "Well, who wrote it?"

"What do you wish to know it for, papa?"

"Come, tell me!"

She had no desire to tell, but the old man persisted, and his
voice was growing more and more dry and angry. Then she asked him
uneasily:

"And you will not do him any ill for it?"

"I? I will--bite his head off! Fool! What can I do to him? They,
these writers, are not a foolish lot and are therefore a power--a
power, the devils! And I am not the governor, and even he cannot
put one's hand out of joint or tie one's tongue. Like mice, they
gnaw us little by little. And we have to poison them not with
matches, but with roubles. Yes! Well, who is it?"

"Do you remember, when I was going to school, a Gymnasium student
used to come up to us. Yozhov? Such a dark little fellow!"

"Mm! Of course, I saw him. I know him. So it's he?"

"Yes."

"The little mouse! Even at that time one could see already that
something wrong would come out of him. Even then he stood in the
way of other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked
after him then. Perhaps, I might have made a man of him."

Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly:

"And isn't he who writes for newspapers a man?"

For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter.
Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and
examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished
brass of the samovar. Then he raised his head, winked his eyes
and said impressively and irritably:

"They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian
people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and
from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper-
writers, these terrible Pharisees. They have broken out
everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more.
Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From slowness of motion.
Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp. All sorts of
uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a
disordered life."

"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.

"What do you mean by--not right?"

"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble
personalities! They don't want anything--all they strive for is
justice--truth! They're not mosquitoes."

Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was
flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling,
as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince
him.

"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her.
"You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are
they? No one knows! That Yozhov--what is he? Only God knows. All
they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And
suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps
everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me--man cannot be
unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if
he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to
anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own,
then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I
have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and
I can see well--here is my face before you, and before me, there
on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face. You see,
these newspapers give a samovar face to everything, and do not
see the real one. And yet you believe them. But I know that my
face on the samovar is distorted. No one can tell the real truth;
man's throat is too delicate for this. And then, the real truth
is known to nobody."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers
they defend the general interests of all the people."

"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and
that it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest
is not defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows
what I need? Who, but myself, understands my interests?"

"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute
you, but I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with
despair.

"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and
there is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering!
Everybody lives awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no
harmony in life. All are yelling out of tune, in different
voices. And not one understands what the other is in need of!
There is a mist over everything--everybody inhales that mist, and
that's why the blood of the people has become spoiled--hence the
sores. Man is given great liberty to reason, but is not permitted
to do anything--that's why man does not live; but rots and
stinks."

"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on
the table and bending toward her father.

"Everything!" cried the old man, passionately. "Do everything. Go
ahead! Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that
liberty must be given to man--complete freedom! Since there has
come a time, when everyraw youth believes that he knows
everything and was created for the complete arrangement of life--
give him, give the rogue freedom! Here, Carrion, live! Come,
come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow; feeling that his
bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his ears, and
like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe himself
to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his spirit."

The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with
a malicious smile:

"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll
bristle up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides--and
the poor fellow will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten--he,
he, he! Here, he, he, he! The dear fellow will be caught by the
real, worthy people, by those real people who are competent to be
the actual civil masters, who will manage life not with a rod nor
with a pen, but with a finger and with brains.

"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they
will say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So--
"and, raising his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an
authoritative tone:

"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't
squeak! Or we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree!
Silence, dear fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to
happen, Lubavka! He, he, he!"

The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and
carried away by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and
then, and smacked his lips as though tasting his own wisdom.

"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion
will arrange life wisely, after their own fashion. Then things
won't go at random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall
not live to see it!"

The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes
of a big strong net--they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl,
unable to free herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by
her father's words. Staring into his face with an intense look,
she sought support for herself in his words and heard in them
something similar to what she had read in books, and which seemed
to her the real truth. But the malignant, triumphant laughter of
her father stung her heart, and the wrinkles, which seemed to
creep about on his face like so many dark little snakes, inspired
her with a certain fear for herself in his presence. She felt
that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so simple and
so easy in her dreams.

"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought
and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa!
and what sort of a man--what in your opinion is Taras?"

Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed
his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:

"What sort of talk is this?"

"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and
confusedly.

I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak
of him! "--the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered
his head with a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not
want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself
correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and
angrily:

"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops,
and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow
all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads.
That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are
unhappy because of this incompetence. Taraska. Yes. He must be
about forty now. He is lost to me! A galley-slave--is that my
son? A blunt-snouted young pig. He would not speak to his father,
and--he stumbled."

"What did he do?" asked Lubov, eagerly listening to the old man's
words.

"Who knows? It may be that now he cannot understand himself, if
he became sensible, and he must have become a sensible man; he's
the son of a father who's not stupid, and then he must have
suffered not a little. They coddle them, the nihilists! They
should have turned them over to me. I'd show them what to do.
Into the desert! Into the isolated places--march! Come, now, my
wise fellows, arrange life there according to your own will! Go
ahead! And as authorities over them I'd station the robust
peasants. Well, now, honourable gentlemen, you were given to eat
and to drink, you were given an education--what have you learned?
Pay your debts, pray. Yes, I would not spend a broken grosh on
them. I would squeeze all the price out of them--give it up! You
must not set a man at naught. It is not enough to imprison him!
You transgressed the law, and are a gentleman? Never mind, you
must work. Out of a single seed comes an ear of corn, and a man
ought not be permitted to perish without being of use! An
economical carpenter finds a place for each and every chip of
wood--just so must every man be profitably used up, and used up
entire, to the very last vein. All sorts of trash have a place in
life, and man is never trash. Eh! it is bad when power lives
without reason, nor is it good when reason lives without power.
Take Foma now. Who is coming there--give a look."

Turning around, Lubov noticed the captain of the "Yermak," Yefim,
coming along the garden path. He had respectfully removed his cap
and bowed to her. There was a hopelessly guilty expression on his
face and he seemed abashed. Yakov Tarasovich recognized him and,
instantly grown alarmed, he cried:

"Where are you coming from? What has happened?"

"I--I have come to you!" said Yefim, stopping short at the table,
with a low bow.

"Well, I see, you've come to me. What's the matter? Where's the
steamer?"

"The steamer is there!" Yefim thrust his hand somewhere into the
air and heavily shifted from one foot to the other.

"Where is it, devil? Speak coherently--what has happened?" cried
the old man, enraged.

"So--a misfortune, Yakov."

"Have you been wrecked?"

"No, God saved us."

"Burned up? Well, speak more quickly."

Yefim drew air into his chest and said slowly:

"Barge No. 9 was sunk--smashed up. One man's back was broken, and
one is altogether missing, so that he must have drowned. About
five more were injured, but not so very badly, though some were
disabled."

"So-o!" drawled out Mayakin, measuring the captain with an ill-
omened look.

"Well, Yefimushka, I'll strip your skin off"

"It wasn't I who did it!" said Yefim, quickly.

"Not you?" cried the old man, shaking with rage. "Who then?"

"The master himself."

"Foma? And you. Where were you?"

"I was lying in the hatchway."

"Ah! You were lying."

"I was bound there."

"Wha-at?" screamed the old man in a shrill voice.

"Allow me to tell you everything as it happened. He was drunk and
he shouted: "'Get away! I'll take command myself!' I said 'I
can't! I am the captain.' 'Bind him!' said he. And when they had
bound me, they lowered me into the hatchway, with the sailors.
And as the master was drunk, he wanted to have some fun. A fleet
of boats was coming toward us. Six empty barges towed by
'Cheruigorez.' So Foma Ignatyich blocked their way. They
whistled. More than once. I must tell the truth--they whistled!"

"Well?"

"Well, and they couldn't manage it--the two barges in front
crashed into us. And as they struck the side of our ninth, we
were smashed to pieces. And the two barges were also smashed. But
we fared much worse."

Mayakin rose from the chair and burst into jarring, angry
laughter. And Yefim sighed, and, outstretching his hands,
said:xxx"He has a very violent character. When he is sober he is
silent most of the time, and walks around thoughtfully, but when
he wets his springs with wine--then he breaks loose. Then he is
not master of himself and of his business--but their wild enemy--
you must excuse me! And I want to leave, Yakov Tarasovich! I am
not used to being without a master, I cannot live without a
master!"

"Keep quiet!" said Mayakin, sternly. "Where's Foma?"

"There; at the same place. Immediately after the accident, he
came to himself and at once sent for workmen. They'll lift the
barge. They may have started by this time."

"Is he there alone?" asked Mayakin, lowering his head.

"Not quite," replied Yefim, softly, glancing stealthily at Lubov.

"Really?"

"There's a lady with him. A dark one."

"So."

"It looks as though the woman is out of her wits," said Yefim,
with a sigh. "She's forever singing. She sings very well. It's
very captivating."

"I am not asking you about her!" cried Mayakin, angrily. The
wrinkles of his face were painfully quivering, and it seemed to
Lubov that her father was about to weep.

"Calm yourself, papa!" she entreated caressingly. "Maybe the loss
isn't so great."

"Not great?" cried Yakov Tarasovich in a ringing voice. "What do
you understand, you fool? Is it only that the barge was smashed?
Eh, you! A man is lost! That's what it is! And he is essential to
me! I need him, dull devils that you are!" The old man shook his
head angrily and with brisk steps walked off along the garden
path leading toward the house.

And Foma was at this time about four hundred versts away from his
godfather, in a village hut, on the shore of the Volga. He had
just awakened from sleep, and lying on the floor, on a bed of
fresh hay, in the middle of the hut, he gazed gloomily out of the
window at the sky, which was covered with gray, scattered clouds.

The wind was tearing them asunder and driving them somewhere;
heavy and weary, one overtaking another, they were passing across
the sky in an enormous flock. Now forming a solid mass, now
breaking into fragments, now falling low over the earth, in
silent confusion, now again rising upward, one swallowed by
another.

Without moving his head, which was heavy from intoxication, Foma
looked long at the clouds and finally began to feel as though
silent clouds were also passing through his breast,--passing,
breathing a damp coldness upon his heart and oppressing him.
There was something impotent in the motion of the clouds across
the sky. And he felt the same within him. Without thinking, he
pictured to himself all he had gone through during the past
months. It seemed to him as though he had fallen into a turbid,
boiling stream, and now he had been seized by dark waves, that
resembled these clouds in the sky; had been seized and carried
away somewhere, even as the clouds were carried by the wind. In
the darkness and the tumult which surrounded him, he saw as
though through a mist that certain other people were hastening
together with him--to-day not those of yesterday, new ones each
day, yet all looking alike--equally pitiful and repulsive.
Intoxicated, noisy, greedy, they flew about him as in a
whirlwind, caroused at his expense, abused him, fought, screamed,
and even wept more than once. And he beat them. He remembered
that one day he had struck somebody on the face, torn someone's
coat off and thrown it into the water and that some one had
kissed his hands with wet, cold lips as disgusting as frogs. Had
kissed and wept, imploring him not to kill. Certain faces flashed
through his memory, certain sounds and words rang in it. A woman
in a yellow silk waist, unfastened at the breast, had sung in a
loud, sobbing voice:

"And so let us live while we canAnd then--e'en grass may cease to
grow."

All these people, like himself, grown wild and beastlike, were
seized by the same dark wave and carried away like rubbish. All
these people, like himself, must have been afraid to look forward
to see whither this powerful, wild wave was carrying them. And
drowning their fear in wine, they were rushing forward down the
current struggling, shouting, doing something absurd, playing the
fool, clamouring, clamouring, without ever being cheerful. He was
doing the same, whirling in their midst. And now it seemed to
him, that he was doing all this for fear of himself, in order to
pass the sooner this strip of life, or in order not to think of
what would be afterward.

Amid the burning turmoil of carouses, in the crowd of people,
seized by debauchery, perplexed by violent passions, half-crazy
in their longing to forget themselves--only Sasha was calm and
contained. She never drank to intoxication, always addressed
people in a firm, authoritative voice, and all her movements were
equally confident, as though this stream had not taken possession
of her, but she was herself mastering its violent course. She
seemed to Foma the cleverest person of all those that surrounded
him, and the most eager for noise and carouse; she held them all
in her sway, forever inventing something new and speaking in one
and the same manner to everybody; for the driver, the lackey and
the sailor she had the same tone and the same words as for her
friends and for Foma. She was younger and prettier than Pelageya,
but her caresses were silent, cold. Foma imagined that deep in
her heart she was concealing from everybody something terrible,
that she would never love anyone, never reveal herself entire.
This secrecy in the woman attracted him toward her with a feeling
of timorous curiosity, of a great, strained interest in her calm,
cold soul, which seemed even as dark as her eyes.

Somehow Foma said to her one day:

"But what piles of money you and I have squandered!"

She glanced at him, and asked:

"And why should we save it?"

"Indeed, why?" thought Foma, astonished by the fact that she
reasoned so simply.

"Who are you?" he asked her at another occasion.

"Why, have you forgotten my name?"

"Well, the idea!"

"What do you wish to know then?"

"I am asking you about your origin."

"Ah! I am a native of the province of Yaroslavl. I'm from
Ooglich. I was a harpist. Well, shall I taste sweeter to you, now
that you know who I am?"

"Do I know it?" asked Foma, laughing.

"Isn't that enough for you? I shall tell you nothing more about
it. What for? We all come from the same place, both people and
beasts. And what is there that I can tell you about myself? And
what for? All this talk is nonsense. Let's rather think a little
as to how we shall pass the day."

On that day they took a trip on a steamer, with an orchestra of
music, drank champagne, and every one of them got terribly drunk.
Sasha sang a peculiar, wonderfully sad song, and Foma, moved by
her singing, wept like a child. Then he danced with her the
"Russian dance," and finally, perspiring and fatigued, threw
himself overboard in his clothes and was nearly drowned.

Now, recalling all this and a great deal more, he felt ashamed of
himself and dissatisfied with Sasha. He looked at her well-shaped
figure, heard her even breathing and felt that he did not love
this woman, and that she was unnecessary to him. Certain gray,
oppressive thoughts were slowly springing up in his heavy, aching
head. It seemed to him as though everything he had lived through
during this time was twisted within him into a heavy and moist
ball, and that now this ball was rolling about in his breast,
unwinding itself slowly, and the thin gray cords were binding
him.

"What is going on in me?" he thought. "I've begun to carouse.
Why? I don't know how to live. I don't understand myself. Who am
I?"

He was astonished by this question, and he paused over it,
attempting to make it clear to himself--why he was unable to live
as firmly and confidently as other people do. He was now still
more tortured. by conscience. More uneasy at this thought, he
tossed about on the hay and irritated, pushed Sasha with his
elbow.

"Be careful!" said she, although nearly asleep.

"It's all right. You're not such a lady of quality!" muttered
Foma.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

She turned her back to him, and said lazily, with a lazy yawn:

"I dreamed that I became a harpist again. It seemed to me that I
was singing a solo, and opposite me stood a big, dirty dog,
snarling and waiting for me to finish the song. And I was afraid
of the dog. And I knew that it would devour me, as soon as I
stopped singing. So I kept singing, singing. And suddenly it
seemed my voice failed me. Horrible! And the dog is gnashing his
teeth. 0h Lord, have mercy on me! What does it mean?"

"Stop your idle talk!" Foma interrupted her sternly. "You better
tell me what you know about me."

"I know, for instance, that you are awake now," she answered,
without turning to him.

"Awake? That's true. I've awakened," said Foma, thoughtfully and,
throwing his arm behind his head, went on: "That's why I am
asking you. What sort of man do you think I am?"

"A man with a drunken headache," answered Sasha, yawning.

"Aleksandra!" exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, "don't talk nonsense!
Tell me conscientiously, what do you think of me?"

"I don't think anything!" she said drily. "Why are you bothering
me with nonsense?"

"Is this nonsense?" said Foma, sadly. "Eh, you devils! This is
the principal thing. The most essential thing to me."

He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute's
silence, Sasha began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice:

"Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever
see! Is it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And
on what ground should I think about each and every man? I have
not even time to think about myself, and, perhaps, I don't feel
like doing it at all."

Foma laughed drily and said:

"I wish I were like this--and had no desires for anything."

Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into
Foma's face and lay down again, saying:

"You are musing too much. Look out--no good will come of it to
you. I cannot tell you anything about yourself. It is impossible
to say anything true about a man. Who can understand him? Man
does not know himself. Well, here, I'll tell you--you are better
than others. But what of it?"

"And in what way am I better?" asked Foma, thoughtfully.

"So! When one sings a good song--you weep. When one does some
mean thing--you beat him. With women you are simple, you are not
impudent to them. You are peaceable. And you can also be daring,
sometimes."

Yet all this did not satisfy Foma.

"You're not telling me the right thing!" said he, softly.
	"Well, I don't know what you want. But see here, what are
we going to do after they have raised the barge?"

"What can we do?" asked Foma.

"Shall we go to Nizhni or to Kazan?"

"What for?"

To carouse."

"1 don't want to carouse any more."

"What else are you going to do?"

"What? Nothing."

And both were silent for a long time, without looking at each
other.

"You have a disagreeable character," said Sasha, "a wearisome
character."

"But nevertheless I won't get drunk any more!" said Foma, firmly
and confidently.

"You are lying!" retorted Sasha, calmly.

"You'll see! What do you think--is it good to lead such a life as
this?"

"I'll see."

"No, just tell me--is it good?"

"But what is better?"

Foma looked at her askance and, irritated, said:

"What repulsive words you speak."

"Well, here again I haven't pleased him!" said Sasha, laughing.

"What a fine crowd!" said Foma, painfully wrinkling his face.
"They're like trees. They also live, but how? No one understands.
They are crawling somewhere. And can give no account either to
themselves or to others. When the cockroach crawls, he knows
whither and wherefore he wants to go? And you? Whither are you
going?"

"Hold on!" Sasha interrupted him, and asked him calmly: "What
have you to do with me? You may take from me all that you want,
but don't you creep into my soul!"

"Into your so-o-ul!" Foma drawled out, with contempt. "Into what
soul? He, he!"

She began to pace the room, gathering together the clothes that
were scattered everywhere. Foma watched her and was displeased
because she did not get angry at him for his words about her
soul. Her face looked calm and indifferent, as usual, but he
wished to see her angry or offended; he wished for something
human from the woman.

"The soul!" he exclaimed, persisting in his aim. "Can one who has
a soul live as you live? A soul has fire burning in it, there is
a sense of shame in it."

By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her
stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed
her eyes upon his face.

"What are you staring at?" asked Foma.

"Why do you speak that way?" said she, without lifting her eyes
from him.

"Because I must."

"Look out--must you really?"

There was something threatening in her question. Foma felt
intimidated and said, this time without provocation in his voice:

"How could I help speaking?"

"Oh, you!" sighed Sasha and resumed dressing herself

"And what about me?"

"Merely so. You seem as though you were born of two fathers. Do
you know what I have observed among people?"

"Well?"

"If a man cannot answer for himself, it means that he is afraid
of himself, that his price is a grosh!"

"Do you refer to me?" asked Foma, after a pause.

"To you, too."

She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in
the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who
lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:

"You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do
with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I
please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could
tell it! Only,--who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak
at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,--they're
like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you
would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals--you
cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire--just
as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent."

Raising her hands she abruptly loosened her hair, and when it
fell over her shoulders in heavy, black locks--the woman shook
her head haughtily and said, with contempt:

"Never mind that I am leading a loose life! It often happens,
that the man who lives in filth is purer than he who goes about
in silks. If you only knew what I think of you, you dogs, what
wrath I bear against you! And because of this wrath--I am silent!
For I fear that if I should sing it to you--my soul would become
empty. I would have nothing to live on." Foma looked at her, and
now he was pleased with her. In her words there was something
akin to his frame of mind. Laughing, he said to her, with
satisfaction on his face and in his voice:

"And I also feel that something is growing within my soul. Eh, I
too shall have my say, when the time comes."

"Against whom?" asked Sasha, carelessly.

"I--against everybody!" exclaimed Foma, jumping to his feet.
"Against falsehood. I shall ask--"

"Ask whether the samovar is ready," Sasha ordered indifferently.

Foma glanced at her and cried, enraged:

"Go to the devil! Ask yourself."

"Well, all right, I shall. What are you snarling about?"

And she stepped out of the hut.

In piercing gusts the wind blew across the river, striking
against its bosom, and covered with troubled dark waves, the
river was spasmodically rushing toward the wind with a noisy
splash, and all in the froth of wrath. The willow bushes on the
shore bent low to the ground--trembling, they now were about to
lie down on the ground, now, frightened, they thrust themselves
away from it, driven by the blows of the wind. In the air rang a
whistling, a howling, and a deep groaning sound, that burst from
dozens of human breasts:

"It goes--it goes--it goes!"

This exclamation, abrupt as a blow, and heavy as the breath from
an enormous breast, which is suffocating from exertion, was
soaring over the river, falling upon the waves, as if encouraging
their mad play with the wind, and they struck the shores with
might.

Two empty barges lay anchored by the mountainous shore, and their
tall masts, rising skyward, rocked in commotion from side to
side, as though describing some invisible pattern in the air. The
decks of both barges were encumbered with scaffolds, built of
thick brown beams; huge sheaves were hanging everywhere; chains
and ropes were fastened to them, and rocking in the air; the
links of the chains were faintly clanging. A throng of peasants
in blue and in red blouses pulled a large beam across the dock
and, heavily stamping their feet, groaned with full chest:

"It goes--it goes--it goes!"

Here and there human figures clung to the scaffoldings, like big
lumps of blue and red; the wind, blowing their blouses and their
trousers, gave the men odd forms, making them appear now hump-
backed, now round and puffed up like bladders. The people on the
scaffolds and on the decks of the barges were making fast,
hewing, sawing, driving in nails; and big arms, with shirt
sleeves rolled up to the elbows were seen everywhere. The wind
scattered splinters of wood, and a varied, lively, brisk noise in
the air; the saw gnawed the wood, choking with wicked joy; the
beams, wounded by the axes, moaned and groaned drily; the boards
cracked sickly as they split from the blows they received; the
jointer squeaked maliciously. The iron clinking of the chains and
the groaning creaking of the sheaves joined the wrathful roaring
of the waves, and the wind howled loudly, scattering over the
river the noise of toil and drove the clouds across the sky.

"Mishka-a! The deuce take you!" cried someone from the top of the
scaffolding. And from the deck, a large-formed peasant, with his
head thrown upward, answered:

"Wh-a-at?" And the wind, playing with his long, flaxen beard,
flung it into his face.

"Hand us the end."

A resounding basso shouted as through a speaking-trumpet:

"See how you've fastened this board, you blind devil? Can't you
see? I'll rub your eyes for you!"

"Pull, my boys, come on!"

"Once more--brave--boys!" cried out some one in a loud,
beseeching voice.

Handsome and stately, in a short cloth jacket and high boots,
Foma stood, leaning his back against a mast, and stroking his
beard with his trembling hand, admired the daring work of the
peasants. The noise about him called forth in him a persistent
desire to shout, to work together with the peasants, to hew wood,
to carry burdens, to command--to compel everybody to pay
attention to him, and to show them his strength, his skill, and
the live soul within him. But he restrained himself. And standing
speechless, motionless, he felt ashamed and afraid of something.
He was embarrassed by the fact that he was master over everybody
there, and that if he were to start to work himself, no one would
believe that he was working merely to satisfy his desire, and not
to spur them on in their work; to set them an example. And then,
the peasants might laugh at him, in all probability.

A fair and curly-headed fellow, with his shirt collar unbuttoned,
was now and again running past him, now carrying a log on his
shoulder, now an axe in his hands; he was skipping along, like a
frolicsome goat, scattering about him cheerful, ringing laughter,
jests, violent oaths, and working unceasingly, now assisting one,
now another, as he was cleverly and quickly running across the
deck, which was obstructed with timber and shavings. Foma watched
him closely, and envied this merry fellow, who was radiant with
something healthy and inspiring.

"Evidently he is happy," thought Foma, and this thought provoked
in him a keen, piercing desire to insult him somehow, to
embarrass him. All those about him were seized with the zest of
pressing work, all were unanimously and hastily fastening the
scaffoldings, arranging the pulleys, preparing to raise the
sunken barge from the bottom of the river; all were sound and
merry--they all lived. While he stood alone, aside from them, not
knowing what to do, not knowing how to do anything, feeling
himself superfluous to this great toil. It vexed him to feel that
he was superfluous among men, and the more closely he watched
them, the more intense was this vexation. And he was stung most
by the thought that all this was being done for him. And yet he
was out of place there.

"Where is my place, then?" he thought gloomily. "Where is my
work? Am I, then, some deformed being? I have just as much
strength as any of them. But of what use is it to me?"The chains
clanged, the pulleys groaned, the blows of the axes resounded
loud over the river, and the barges rocked from the shocks of the
waves, but to Foma it seemed that he was rocking not because the
barge was rocking under his feet, but rather because he was not
able to stand firmly anywhere, he was not destined to do so.

The contractor, a small-sized peasant with a small pointed gray
beard, and with narrow little eyes on his gray wrinkled face,
came up to him and said, not loud, but pronouncing his words with
a certain m the bottom of the river. He wished that they might
not succeed, that they might feel embarrassed in his presence,
and a wicked thought flashed through his mind:

"Perhaps the chains will break."

"Boys! Attention!" shouted the contractor. "Start all together.
God bless us!" And suddenly, clasping his hands in the air, he
cried in a shrill voice:

"Let--her--go-o-o!"

The labourers took up his shout, and all cried out in one voice,
with excitement and exertion:

"Let her go! She moves."

The pulleys squeaked and creaked, the chains clanked, strained
under the heavy weight that suddenly fell upon them; and the
labourers, bracing their chests against the handle of the
windlasses, roared and tramped heavily. The waves splashed
noisily between the barges as though unwilling to give up their
prize to the men. Everywhere about Foma, chains and ropes were
stretched and they quivered from the strain--they were creeping
somewhere across the deck, past his feet, like huge gray worms;
they were lifted upward, link after link, falling back with a
rattling noise, and all these sounds were drowned by the
deafening roaring of the labourers.

"It goes, it goes, it goes," they all sang in unison,
triumphantly. But the ringing voice of the contractor pierced the
deep wave of their voices, and cut it even as a knife cuts bread.

"My boys! Go ahead, all at once, all at once."

Foma was seized with a strange emotion; passionately he now
longed to mingle with this excited roaring of the labourers,
which was as broad and as powerful as the river--to blend with
this irritating, creaking, squeaking, clanging of iron and
turbulent splashing of waves. Perspiration came out on his face
from the intensity of his desire, and suddenly pale from
agitation, he tore himself away from the mast, and rushed toward
the windlasses with big strides.

"All at once! At once!" he cried in a fierce voice. When he
reached the lever of the windlass, he dashed his chest against it
with all his might, and not feeling the pain, he began to go
around the windlass, roaring, and firmly stamping his feet
against the deck. Something powerful and burning rushed into his
breast, replacing the efforts which he spent while turning the
windlass-lever! Inexpressible joy raged within him and forced
itself outside in an agitated cry. It seemed to him that he
alone, that only his strength was turning the lever, thus raising
the weight, and that his strength was growing and growing.
Stooping, and lowering his head, like a bull he massed the power
of the weight, which threw him back, but yielded to him,
nevertheless. Each step forward excited him the more, each
expended effort was immediately replaced in him by a flood of
burning and vehement pride. His head reeled, his eyes were blood-
shot, he saw nothing, he only felt that they were yielding to
him, that he would soon conquer, that he would overthrow with his
strength something huge which obstructed his way--would
overthrow, conquer and then breathe easily and freely, full of
proud delight. For the first time in his life he experienced such
a powerful, spiritualizing sensation, and he drank it with all
the strength of a hungry, thirsty soul; he was intoxicated by it
and he gave vent to his joy in loud, exulting cries in unison
with the workers:

"It goes--it goes--it goes."

"Hold on! Fasten! Hold on, boys!"

Something dashed against Foma's chest, and he was hurled
backward.

"I congratulate you on a successful result, Foma Ignatyich!" the
contractor congratulated him and the wrinkles quivered on his
face in cheerful beams.

"Thank God! You must be quite tired now?"

Cold wind blew in Foma's face. A contented, boastful bustle was
in the air about him; swearing at one another in a friendly way,
merry, with smiles on their perspiring brows, the peasants
approached him and surrounded him closely. He smiled in
embarrassment: the excitement within him had not yet calmed down
and this hindered him from understanding what had happened and
why all those who surrounded him were so merry and contented.

"We've raised a hundred and seventy thousand puds as if we
plucked a radish from a garden-bed!" said some one.

"We ought to get a vedro of whisky from our master."

Foma, standing on a heap of cable, looked over the heads of the
workers and saw; between the barges, side by side with them,
stood a third barge, black, slippery, damaged, wrapped in chains.
It was warped all over, it seemed as though it swelled from some
terrible disease and, impotent, clumsy, it was suspended between
its companions, leaning against them. Its broken mast stood out
mournfully in the centre; reddish streams of water, like blood,
were running across the deck, which was covered with stains of
rust. Everywhere on the deck lay heaps of iron, of black, wet
stumps of wood, and of ropes.

"Raised?" asked Foma, not knowing what to say at the sight of
this ugly, heavy mass, and again feeling offended at the thought
that merely for the sake of raising this dirty, bruised monster
from the water, his soul had foamed up with such joy.

"How's the barge?" asked Foma, indefinitely, addressing the
contractor.

"It's pretty good! We must unload right away, and put a company
of about twenty carpenters to work on it--they'll bring it
quickly into shape I "said the contractor in a consoling tone.

And the light-haired fellow, gaily and broadly smiling into
Foma's face, asked:

"Are we going to have any vodka?"

"Can't you wait? You have time!" said the contractor, sternly.
"Don't you see--the man is tired."

Then the peasants began to speak:

"Of course, he is tired!

"That wasn't easy work!"

"Of course, one gets tired if he isn't used to work."

"It is even hard to eat gruel if you are not used to it."

"I am not tired," said Foma, gloomily, and again were heard the
respectful exclamations of the peasants, as they surrounded him
more closely.

"Work, if one likes it, is a pleasant thing."

"It's just like play."

"It's like playing with a woman."

But the light-haired fellow persisted in his request:

"Your Honour! You ought to treat us to a vedro of vodka, eh?" he
said, smiling and sighing.

Foma looked at the bearded faces before him and felt like saying
something offensive to them. But somehow everything became
confused in his brain, he found no thoughts in it and, finally,
without giving himself an account of his words, said angrily:

"All you want is to drink all the time! It makes no difference to
you what you do! You should have thought--why? to what purpose?
Eh, you!"

There was an expression of perplexity on the faces of those that
surrounded him, blue and red, bearded figures began to sigh,
scratch themselves, shift themselves from one foot to another.
Others cast a hopeless glance at Foma and turned away.

"Yes, yes!" said the contractor, with a sigh. "That wouldn't
harm! That is--to think--why and how. These are words of wisdom."

The light-haired fellow had a different opinion on the matter;
smiling kind-heartedly, he waved his hand and said:

"We don't have to think over our work! If we have it--we do it!
Our business is simple! When a rouble is earned--thank God! we
can do everything."

"And do you know what's necessary to do?" questioned Foma,
irritated by the contradiction.

"Everything is necessary--this and that."

"But where's the sense?"

"There's but one and the same sense in everything for our class--
when you have earned for bread and taxes--live! And when there's
something to drink, into the bargain."

"Eh, you!" exclaimed Foma, with contempt. "You're also talking!
What do you understand?"

"Is it our business to understand?" said the light-haired fellow,
with a nod of the head. It now bored him to speak to Foma. He
suspected that he was unwilling to treat them to vodka and he was
somewhat angry.

"That's it!" said Foma, instructively, pleased that the fellow
yielded to him, and not noticing the cross, sarcastic glances.
"And he who understands feels that it is necessary to do
everlasting work!"

"That is, for God!" explained the contractor, eyeing the
peasants, and added, with a devout sigh:

"That's true. Oh, how true that is!"

And Foma was inspired with the desire to say something correct
and important, after which these people might regard him in a
different light, for he was displeased with the fact that all,
save the light-haired fellow, kept silent and looked at him
askance, surlily, with such weary, gloomy eyes.

"It is necessary to do such work," he said, moving his eyebrows.
"Such work that people may say a thousand years hence: 'This was
done by the peasants of Bogorodsk--yes!

The light-haired fellow glanced at Foma with astonishment and
asked:

"Are we, perhaps, to drink the Volga dry?" Then he sniffed and,
nodding his head, announced: "We can't do that--we should all
burst."

Foma became confused at his words and looked about him; the
peasants were smiling morosely, disdainfully, sarcastically. And
these smiles stung him like needles. A serious-looking peasant,
with a big gray beard, who had not yet opened his mouth up to
that time, suddenly opened it now, came closer to Foma and said
slowly:

"And even if we were to drink the Volga dry, and eat up that
mountain, into the bargain--that too would be forgotten, your
Honour. Everything will be forgotten. Life is long. It is not for
us to do such deeds as would stand out above everything else. But
we can put up scaffoldings--that we can!"

He spoke and sceptically spitting at his feet, indifferently
walked off from Foma, and slipped into the crowd, as a wedge into
a tree. His words crushed Foma completely; he felt, that the
peasants considered him stupid and ridiculous. And in order to
save his importance as master in their eyes, to attract again the
now exhausted attention of the peasants to himself, he bristled
up, comically puffed up his cheeks and blurted out in an
impressive voice:

"I make you a present of three buckets of vodka."

Brief speeches have always the most meaning and are always apt to
produce a strong impression. The peasants respectfully made way
for Foma, making low bows to him, and, smiling merrily and
gratefully, thanked him for his generosity in a unanimous roar of
approval.

"Take me over to the shore," said Foma, feeling that the
excitement that had just been aroused in him would not last long.
A worm was gnawing his heart, and he was weary.

"I feel disgusted!" he said, entering the hut where Sasha, in a
smart, pink gown, was bustling about the table, arranging wines
and refreshments. "I feel disgusted, Aleksandra! If you could
only do something with me, eh?"

She looked at him attentively and, seating herself on the bench,
shoulder to shoulder with him, said:

"Since you feel disgusted--it means that you want something. What
is it you want?"

"I don't know!" replied Foma, nodding his head mournfully.

"Think of it--search."

"I am unable to think. Nothing comes out of my thinking."

"Eh, you, my child!" said Sasha, softly and disdainfully, moving
away from him. "Your head is superfluous to you."

Foma neither caught her tone nor noticed her movement. Leaning
his hands against the bench, he bent forward, looked at the
floor, and, swaying his body to and fro, said:

"Sometimes I think and think--and the whole soul is stuck round
with thoughts as with tar. And suddenly everything disappears,
without leaving any trace. Then it is dark in the soul as in a
cellar--dark, damp and empty--there is nothing at all in it! It
is even terrible--I feel then as though I were not a man, but a
bottomless ravine. You ask me what I want?"

Sasha looked at him askance and pensively began to sing softly:

"Eh, when the wind blows--mist comes from the sea."

"I don't want to carouse--it is repulsive! Always the same--the
people, the amusements, the wine. When I grow malicious--I'd
thrash everybody. I am not pleased with men--what are they? It is
impossible to understand them--why do they keep on living? And
when they speak the truth--to whom are we to listen? One says
this, another that. While I--I cannot say anything."

"Eh, without thee, dear, my life is weary,"

sang Sasha, staring at the wall before her. And Foma kept on
rocking and said:

"There are times when I feel guilty before men. Everybody lives,
makes noise, while I am frightened, staggered--as if I did not
feel the earth under me. Was it, perhaps, my mother that endowed
me with apathy? My godfather says that she was as cold as ice--
that she was forever yearning towards something. I am also
yearning. Toward men I am yearning. I'd like to go to them and
say: 'Brethren, help me! Teach me! I know not how to live!. And
if I am guilty--forgive me!' But looking about, I see there's no
one to speak to. No one wants it--they are all rascals! And it
seems they are even worse than I am. For I am, at least, ashamed
of living as I am, while they are not! They go on."

Foma uttered some violent, unbecoming invectives and became
silent. Sasha broke off her song and moved still farther away
from him. The wind was raging outside the window, hurling dust
against the window-panes. Cockroaches were rustling on the oven
as they crawled over a bunch of pine wood splinters. Somewhere in
the yard a calf was lowing pitifully.

Sasha glanced at Foma, with a sarcastic smile, and said:

"There's another unfortunate creature lowing. You ought to go to
him; perhaps you could sing in unison. And placing her hand on
his curly head she jestingly pushed it on the side.

"What are people like yourself good for? That's what you ought to
think of. What are you groaning about? You are disgusted with
being idle--occupy yourself, then, with business."

"0h Lord!" Foma nodded his head. "It is hard for one to make
himself understood. Yes, it is hard!" And irritated, he almost
cried out: "What business? I have no yearning toward business!
What is business? Business is merely a name--and if you should
look into the depth, into the root of it--you'll find it is
nothing but absurdity! Do I not understand it? I understand
everything, I see everything, I feel everything! Only my tongue
is dumb. What aim is there in business? Money? I have plenty of
it! I could choke you to death with it, cover you with it. All
this business is nothing but fraud. I meet business people--well,
and what about them? Their greediness is immense, and yet they
purposely whirl about in business that they might not see
themselves. They hide themselves, the devils. Try to free them
from this bustle--what will happen? Like blind men they will
grope about hither and thither; they'll lose their mind--they'll
go mad! I know it! Do you think that business brings happiness
into man? No, that's not so--something else is missing here. This
is not everything yet! The river flows that men may sail on it;
the tree grows--to be useful; the dog--to guard the house. There
is justification for everything in the world! And men, like
cockroaches, are altogether superfluous on earth. Everything is
for them, and they--what are they for? Aha! Wherein is their
justification? Ha, ha, ha!"

Foma was triumphant. It seemed to him that he had found something
good for himself, something severe against men. And feeling that,
because of this, there was great joy in him, he laughed loudly.

"Does not your head ache?" inquired Sasha, anxiously,
scrutinizing his face.

"My soul aches!" exclaimed Foma, passionately. "And it aches
because it is upright--because it is not to be satisfied with
trifles. Answer it, how to live? To what purpose? There--take my
godfather--he is wise! He says--create life! But he's the only
one like this. Well, I'll ask him, wait! And everybody says--life
has usurped us! Life has choked us. I shall ask these, too. And
how can we create life? You must keep it in your hands to do
this, you must be master over it. You cannot make even a pot,
without taking the clay into your hands."

"Listen!" said Sasha, seriously. "I think you ought to get
married, that's all!"

"What for?" asked Foma, shrugging his shoulders.

"You need a bridle."

"All right! I am living with you--you are all of a kind, are you
not? One is not sweeter than the other. I had one before you, of
the same kind as you. No, but that one did it for love's sake.
She had taken a liking to me--and consented; she was good--but,
otherwise, she was in every way the same as you--though you are
prettier than she. But I took a liking to a certain lady--a lady
of noble birth! They said she led a loose life, but I did not get
her. Yes, she was clever, intelligent; she lived in luxury. I
used to think--that's where I'll taste the real thing! I did not
get her--and, it may be, if I had succeeded, all would have taken
a different turn. I yearned toward her. I thought--I could not
tear myself away. While now that I have given myself to drink,
I've drowned her in wine--I am forgetting her--and that also is
wrong. 0 man! You are a rascal, to be frank."

Foma became silent and sank into meditation. And Sasha rose from
the bench and paced the hut to and fro, biting her lips. Then she
stopped short before him, and, clasping her hands to her head,
said:

"Do you know what? I'll leave you."

"Where will you go?" asked Foma, without lifting his head.

"I don't know--it's all the same!"

"But why?"

"You're always saying unnecessary things. It is lonesome with
you. You make me sad."

Foma lifted his head, looked at her and burst into mournful
laughter.

"Really? Is it possible?"

"You do make me sad! Do you know? If I should reflect on it, I
would understand what you say and why you say it--for I am also
of that sort--when the time comes, I shall also think of all
this. And then I shall be lost. But now it is too early for me.
No, I want to live yet, and then, later, come what will!"

"And I--will I, too, be lost?" asked Foma, indifferently, already
fatigued by his words.

"Of course!" replied Sasha, calmly and confidently. "All such
people are lost. He, whose character is inflexible, and who has
no brains--what sort of a life is his? We are like this."

"I have no character at all," said Foma, stretching himself. Then
after a moment's silence he added:

"And I have no brains, either."

They were silent for a minute, eyeing each other.

"What are we going to do?" asked Foma.

"We must have dinner."

"No, I mean, in general? Afterward?"

"Afterward? I don't know?"

"So you are leaving me?"

"I am. Come, let's carouse some more before we part. Let's go to
Kazan, and there we'll have a spree--smoke and flame! I'll sing
your farewell song."

"Very well," assented Foma. "It's quite proper at leave taking.
Eh, you devil! That's a merry life! Listen, Sasha. They say that
women of your kind are greedy for money; are even thieves."

"Let them say," said Sasha, calmly.

"Don't you feel offended?" asked Foma, with curiosity. "But you
are not greedy. It's advantageous to you to be with me. I am
rich, and yet you are going away; that shows you're not greedy."

"I?" Sasha thought awhile and said with a wave of the hand:
"Perhaps I am not greedy--what of it? I am not of the very lowest
of the street women. And against whom shall I feel a grudge? Let
them say whatever they please. It will be only human talk, not
the bellowing of bulls. And human holiness and honesty are quite
familiar to me! Eh, how well I know them! If I were chosen as a
judge, I would acquit the dead only l" and bursting into
malicious laughter, Sasha said: "Well, that will do, we've spoken
enough nonsense. Sit down at the table!"

On the morning of the next day Foma and Sasha stood side by side
on the gangway of a steamer which was approaching a harbour on
the Ustye. Sasha's big black hat attracted everybody's attention
by its deftly bent brim, and its white feathers, and Foma was ill
at ease as he stood beside her, and felt as though inquisitive
glances crawled over his perplexed face. The steamer hissed and
quivered as it neared the landing-bridge, which was sprinkled by
a waiting crowd of people attired in bright summer clothes, and
it seemed to Foma that he noticed among the crowd of various
faces and figures a person he knew, who now seemed to be hiding
behind other people's backs, and yet lifted not his eye from him.

"Let's go into the cabin!" said he to his companion uneasily.

"Don't acquire the habit of hiding your sins from people,"
replied Sasha, with a smile. "Have you perhaps noticed an
acquaintance there?"

"Mm. Yes. Somebody is watching me."

"A nurse with a milk bottle? Ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, there you're neighing!" said Foma, enraged, looking at her
askance. "Do you think I am afraid?"

"I can see how brave you are."

"You'll see. I'll face anybody," said Foma, angrily, but after a
close look at the crowd in the harbour his face suddenly assumed
another expression, and he added softly:

"Oh, it's my godfather."

At the very edge of the landing-stage stood Yakov Tarasovich,
squeezed between two stout women, with his iron-like face lifted
upward, and he waved his cap in the air with malicious
politeness. His beard shook, his bald crown flashed, and his
small eye pierced Foma like borers.

"What a vulture!" muttered Foma, raising his cap and nodding his
head to his godfather.

His bow evidently afforded great pleasure to Mayakin. The old man
somehow coiled himself up, stamped his feet, and his face seemed
beaming with a malicious smile.

"The little boy will get money for nuts, it seems!" Sasha teased
Foma. Her words together with his godfather's smile seemed to
have kindled a fire in Foma's breast.

"We shall see what is going to happen," hissed Foma, and suddenly
he became as petrified in malicious calm. The steamer made fast,
and the people rushed in a wave to the landing-place. Pressed by
the crowd, Mayakin disappeared for awhile from the sight of his
godson and appeared again with a maliciously triumphant smile.
Foma stared at him fixedly, with knitted brow, and came toward
him slowly pacing the gang planks. They jostled him in the back,
they leaned on him, they squeezed him, and this provoked Foma
still more. Now he came face to face with the old man, and the
latter greeted him with a polite bow, and asked:

"Whither are you travelling, Foma Ignatyich?"

"About my affairs," replied Foma, firmly, without greeting his
godfather.

"That's praiseworthy, my dear sir!" said Yakov Tarasovich, all
beaming with a smile. "The lady with the feathers--what is she to
you, may I ask?"

"She's my mistress," said Foma, loud, without lowering his eyes
at the keen look of his godfather.

Sasha stood behind him calmly examining over his shoulder the
little old man, whose head hardly reached Foma's chin. Attracted
by Foma's loud words, the public looked at them, scenting a
scandal. And Mayakin, too, perceived immediately the possibility
of a scandal and instantly estimated correctly the quarrelsome
mood of his godson. He contracted his wrinkles, bit his lips, and
said to Foma, peaceably:

"I have something to speak to you about. Will you come with me to
the hotel?"

"Yes; for a little while."

"You have no time, then? It's a plain thing, you must be making
haste to wreck another barge, eh?" said the old man, unable to
contain himself any longer.

"And why not wreck them, since they can be wrecked?" retorted
Foma, passionately and firmly.

"Of course, you did not earn them yourself; why should you spare
them? Well, come. And couldn't we drown that lady in the water
for awhile?" said Mayakin, softly.

"Drive to the town, Sasha, and engage a room at the Siberian Inn.
I'll be there shortly!" said Foma and turning to Mayakin, he
announced boldly:

"I am ready! Let us go!"

Neither of them spoke on their way to the hotel. Foma, seeing
that his godfather had to skip as he went in order to keep up
with him, purposely took longer strides, and the fact that the
old man could not keep step with him supported and strengthened
in him the turbulent feeling of protest which he was by this time
scarcely able to master.

"Waiter!" said Mayakin, gently, on entering the hall of the
hotel, and turning toward a remote corner, "let us have a bottle
of moorberry kvass."

"And I want some cognac," ordered Foma.

"So-o! When you have poor cards you had better always play the
lowest trump first!" Mayakin advised him sarcastically.

"You don't know my game!" said Foma, seating himself by the
table.

"Really? Come, come! Many play like that."

"How?"

"I mean as you do--boldly, but foolishly."

"I play so that either the head is smashed to pieces, or the wall
broken in half," said Foma, hotly, and struck the table with his
fist.

"Haven't you recovered from your drunkenness yet?" asked Mayakin
with a smile.

Foma seated himself more firmly in his chair, and, his face
distorted with wrathful agitation, he said:

"Godfather, you are a sensible man. I respect you for your common
sense."

"Thank you, my son!" and Mayakin bowed, rising slightly, and
leaning his hands against the table.

"Don't mention it. I want to tell you that I am no longer twenty.
I am not a child any longer."

"Of course not!" assented Mayakin. "You've lived a good while,
that goes without saying! If a mosquito had lived as long it
might have grown as big as a hen."

"Stop your joking!" Foma warned him, and he did it so calmly that
Mayakin started back, and the wrinkles on his face quivered with
alarm.

"What did you come here for?" asked Foma.

"Ah! you've done some nasty work here. So I want to find out
whether there's much damage in it! You see, I am a relative of
yours. And then, I am the only one you have."

"You are troubling yourself in vain. Do you know, papa, what I'll
tell you? Either give me full freedom, or take all my business
into your own hands. Take everything! Everything--to the last
rouble!"

This proposition burst forth from Foma altogether unexpectedly to
himself; he had never before thought of anything like it. But now
that he uttered such words to his godfather it suddenly became
clear to him that if his godfather were to take from him all his
property he would become a perfectly free man, he could go
wherever he pleased, do whatever he pleased. Until this moment he
had been bound and enmeshed with something, but he knew not his
fetters and was unable to break them, while now they were falling
off of themselves so simply, so easily. Both an alarming and a
joyous hope blazed up within his breast, as though he noticed
that suddenly light had begun to flash upon his turbid life, that
a wide, spacious road lay open now before him. Certain images
sprang up in his mind, and, watching their shiftings, he muttered
incoherently:

"Here, this is better than anything! Take everything, and be done
with it! And--as for me--I shall be free to go anywhere in the
wide world! I cannot live like this. I feel as though weights
were hanging on me, as though I were all bound. There--I must not
go, this I must not do. I want to live in freedom, that I may
know everything myself. I shall search life for myself. For,
otherwise, what am I? A prisoner! Be kind, take everything. The
devil take it all! Give me freedom, pray! What kind of a merchant
am I? I do not like anything. And so--I would forsake men--
everything. I would find a place for myself, I would find some
kind of work, and would work. By God! Father! set me at liberty!
For now, you see, I am drinking. I'm entangled with that woman."

Mayakin looked at him, listened attentively to his words, and his
face was stern, immobile as though petrified. A dull, tavern
noise smote the air, some people went past them, they greeted
Mayakin, but he saw nothing, staring fixedly at the agitated face
of his godson, who smiled distractedly, both joyously and
pitifully.

"Eh, my sour blackberry!" said Mayakin, with a sigh, interrupting
Foma's speech. "I see you've lost your way. And you're prating
nonsense. I would like to know whether the cognac is to blame for
it, or is it your foolishness?"

"Papa!" exclaimed Foma, "this can surely be done. There were
cases where people have cast away all their possessions and thus
saved themselves."

"That wasn't in my time. Not people that are near to me!" said
Mayakin, sternly, "or else I would have shown them how to go
away!"

"Many have become saints when they went away."

"Mm! They couldn't have gone away from me! The matter is simple--
you know how to play at draughts, don't you? Move from one place
to another until you are beaten, and if you're not beaten then
you have the queen. Then all ways are open to you. Do you
understand? And why am I talking to you seriously? Psha!"

"Papa! why don't you want it?" exclaimed Foma, angrily.

"Listen to me! If you are a chimney-sweep, go, carrion, on the
roof! If you are a fireman, stand on the watch-tower! And each
and every sort of men must have its own mode of life. Calves
cannot roar like bears! If you live your own life; go on, live
it! And don't talk nonsense, and don't creep where you don't
belong. Arrange your life after your pattern." And from the dark
lips of the old man gushed forth in a trembling, glittering
stream the jarring, but confident and bold words so familiar to
Foma. Seized with the thought of freedom, which seemed to him so
easily possible, Foma did not listen to his words. This idea had
eaten into his brains, and in his heart the desire grew stronger
and stronger to sever all his connections with this empty and
wearisome life, with his godfather, with the steamers, the barges
and the carouses, with everything amidst which it was narrow and
stifling for him to live.

The old man's words seemed to fall on him from afar; they were
blended with the clatter of the dishes, with the scraping of the
lackey's feet along the floor, with some one's drunken shouting.
Not far from them sat four merchants at a table and argued
loudly:

"Two and a quarter--and thank God!"

"Luka Mitrich! How can I?"

"Give him two and a half!"

"That's right! You ought to give it, it's a good steamer, it tows
briskly."

"My dear fellows, I can't. Two and a quarter!"

"And all this nonsense came to your head from your youthful
passion!" said Mayakin, importantly, accompanying his words with
a rap on the table. "Your boldness is stupidity; all these words
of yours are nonsense. Would you perhaps go to the cloister? or
have you perhaps a longing to go on the highways?"

Foma listened in silence. The buzzing noise about him now seemed
to move farther away from him. He pictured himself amid a vast
restless crowd of people; without knowing why they bustled about
hither and thither, jumped on one another; their eyes were
greedily opened wide; they were shouting, cursing, falling,
crushing one another, and they were all jostling about on one
place. He felt bad among them because he did not understand what
they wanted, because he had no faith in their words, and he felt
that they had no faith in themselves, that they understood
nothing. And if one were to tear himself away from their midst to
freedom, to the edge of life, and thence behold them--then all
would become clear to him. Then he would also understand what
they wanted, and would find his own place among them.

"Don't I understand," said Mayakin, more gently, seeing Foma lost
in thought, and assuming that he was reflecting on his words--"I
understand that you want happiness for yourself.  Well, my
friend, it is not to be easily seized. You must seek happiness
even as they search for mushrooms in the wood, you must bend your
back in search of it, and finding it, see whether it isn't a
toad-stool."

"So you will set me free?" asked Foma, suddenly lifting his head,
and Mayakin turned his eyes away from his fiery look.

"Father! at least for a short time! Let me breathe, let me step
aside from everything!" entreated Foma. "I will watch how
everything goes on. And then--if not--I shall become a drunkard."

"Don't talk nonsense. Why do you play the fool?" cried Mayakin,
angrily.

"Very well, then!" replied Foma, calmly. "Very well! You do not
want it? Then there will be nothing! I'll squander it all! And
there is nothing more for us to speak of. Goodbye! I'll set out
to work, you'll see! It will afford you joy. Everything will go
up in smoke!" Foma was calm, he spoke with confidence; it seemed
to him that since he had thus decided, his godfather could not
hinder him. But Mayakin straightened himself in his chair and
said, also plainly and calmly:

"And do you know how I can deal with you?"

"As you like!" said Foma, with a wave of the hand. "Well then.
Now I like the following: I'll return to town and will see to it
that you are declared insane, and put into a lunatic asylum."

"Can this be done?" asked Foma, distrustfully, but with a tone of
fright in his voice.

"We can do everything, my dear."

Foma lowered his head, and casting a furtive glance at his
godfather's face, shuddered, thinking:

"He'll do it; he won't spare me."

"If you play the fool seriously I must also deal with you
seriously. I promised your father to make a man of you, and I
will do it; if you cannot stand on your feet, I'll put you in
irons. Then you will stand. Though I know all these holy words of
yours are but ugly caprices that come from excessive drinking.
But if you do not give that up, if you keep on behaving
indecently, if you ruin, out of wantonness, the property
accumulated by your father, I'll cover you all up. I'll have a
bell forged over you. It is very inconvenient to fool with me."

Mayakin spoke gently. The wrinkles of his cheeks all rose upward,
and his small eyes in their dark sockets were smiling
sarcastically, coldly. And the wrinkles on his forehead formed an
odd pattern, rising up to his bald crown. His face was stern and
merciless, and breathed melancholy and coldness upon Foma's soul.

"So there's no way out for me?" asked Foma, gloomily. "You are
blocking all my ways?"

"There is a way. Go there! I shall guide you. Don't worry, it
will be right! You will come just to your proper place."

This self-confidence, this unshakable boastfulness aroused Foma's
indignation. Thrusting his hands into his pockets in order not to
strike the old man, he straightened himself in his chair and
clinching his teeth, said, facing Mayakin closely:

"Why are you boasting? What are you boasting of? Your own son,
where is he? Your daughter, what is she? Eh, you--you life-
builder! Well, you are clever. You know everything. Tell me, what
for do you live? What for are you accumulating money? Do you
think you are not going to die? Well, what then? You've captured
me. You've taken hold of me, you've conquered me. But wait, I may
yet tear myself away from you! It isn't the end yet! Eh, you!
What have you done for life? By what will you be remembered? My
father, for instance, donated a lodging-house, and you--what have
you done?"

Mayakin's wrinkles quivered and sank downward, wherefore his face
assumed a sickly, weeping expression.

"How will you justify yourself?" asked Foma, softly, without
lifting his eyes from him.

"Hold your tongue, you puppy!" said the old man in a low voice,
casting a glance of alarm about the room.

"I've said everything! And now I'm going! Hold me back!"

Foma rose from his chair, thrust his cap on his head, and
measured the old man with abhorrence.

"You may go; but I'll--I'll catch you! It will come out as I
say!" said Yakov Tarasovich in a broken voice.

"And I'll go on a spree! I'll squander all!"

"Very well, we'll see!"

"Goodbye! you hero," Foma laughed.

"Goodbye, for a short while! I'll not go back on my own. I love
it. I love you, too. Never mind, you're a good fellow!" said
Mayakin, softly, and as though out of breath.

"Do not love me, but teach me. But then, you cannot teach me the
right thing!" said Foma, as he turned his back on the old man and
left the hall.

Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin remained in the tavern alone. He sat by
the table, and, bending over it, made drawings of patterns on the
tray, dipping his trembling finger in the spilt kvass, and his
sharp-pointed head was sinking lower and lower over the table, as
though he did not decipher, and could not make out what his bony
finger was drawing on the tray.

Beads of perspiration glistened on his bald crown, and as usual
the wrinkles on his cheeks quivered with frequent, irritable
starts.

In the tavern a resounding tumult smote the air so that the
window-panes were rattling. From the Volga were wafted the
whistlings of steamers, the dull beating of the wheels upon the
water, the shouting of the loaders--life was moving onward
unceasingly and unquestionably.

Summoning the waiter with a nod Yakov Tarasovich asked him with
peculiar intensity and impressiveness

"How much do I owe for all this?"

CHAPTER X

PREVIOUS to his quarrel with Mayakin, Foma had caroused because
of the weariness of life, out of curiosity, and half
indifferently; now he led a dissipated life out of spite, almost
in despair; now he was filled with a feeling of vengeance and
with a certain insolence toward men, an insolence which
astonished even himself at times. He saw that the people about
him, like himself, lacked support and reason, only they did not
understand this, or purposely would not understand it, so as not
to hinder themselves from living blindly, and from giving
themselves completely, without a thought, to their dissolute
life. He found nothing firm in them, nothing steadfast; when
sober, they seemed to him miserable and stupid; when intoxicated,
they were repulsive to him, and still more stupid. None of them
inspired him with respect, with deep, hearty interest; he did not
even ask them what their names were; he forgot where and when he
made their acquaintance, and regarding them with contemptuous
curiosity, always longed to say and do something that would
offend them. He passed days and nights with them in different
places of amusement, and his acquaintances always depended just
upon the category of each of these places. In the expensive and
elegant restaurants certain sharpers of the better class of
society surrounded him--gamblers, couplet singers, jugglers,
actors, and property-holders who were ruined by leading depraved
lives. At first these people treated him with a patronizing air,
and boasted before him of their refined tastes, of their
knowledge of the merits of wine and food, and then they courted
favours of him, fawned upon him, borrowed of him money which he
scattered about without counting, drawing it from the banks, and
already borrowing it on promissory notes. In the cheap taverns
hair-dressers, markers, clerks, functionaries and choristers
surrounded him like vultures; and among these people he always
felt better--freer. In these he saw plain people, not so
monstrously deformed and distorted as that "clean society" of the
elegant restaurants; these were less depraved, cleverer, better
understood by him. At times they evinced wholesome, strong
emotions, and there was always something more human in them. But,
like the "clean society," these were also eager for money, and
shamelessly fleeced him, and he saw it and rudely mocked them.

To be sure, there were women. Physically healthy, but not
sensual, Foma bought them, the dear ones and the cheap ones, the
beautiful and the ugly, gave them large sums of money, changed
them almost every week, and in general, he treated the women
better than the men. He laughed at them, said to them disgraceful
and offensive words, but he could never, even when half-drunk,
rid himself of a certain bashfulness in their presence. They all,
even the most brazen-faced, the strongest and the most shameless,
seemed to him weak and defenseless, like small children. Always
ready to thrash any man, he never laid a hand on women, although
when irritated by something he sometimes abused them indecently.
He felt that he was immeasurably stronger than any woman, and
every woman seemed to him immeasurably more miserable than he
was. Those of the women who led their dissolute lives
audaciously, boasting of their depravity, called forth in Foma a
feeling of bashfulness, which made him timid and awkward. One
evening, during supper hour, one of these women, intoxicated and
impudent, struck Foma on the cheek with a melon-rind. Foma was
half-drunk. He turned pale with rage, rose from his chair, and
thrusting his hands into his pockets, said in a fierce voice
which trembled with indignation:

"You carrion, get out. Begone! Someone else would have broken
your head for this. And you know that I am forbearing with you,
and that my arm is never raised against any of your kind. Drive
her away to the devil!"

A few days after her arrival in Kazan, Sasha became the mistress
of a certain vodka-distiller's son, who was carousing together
with Foma. Going away with her new master to some place on the
Kama, she said to Foma:

"Goodbye, dear man! Perhaps we may meet again. We're both going
the same way! But I advise you not to give your heart free rein.
Enjoy yourself without looking back at anything. And then, when
the gruel is eaten up, smash the bowl on the ground. Goodbye!"

And she impressed a hot kiss upon his lips, at which her eyes
looked still darker.

Foma was glad that she was leaving him, he had grown tired of her
and her cold indifference frightened him. But now something
trembled within him, he turned aside from her and said in a low
voice:

"Perhaps you will not live well together, then come back to me."

"Thank you!" she replied, and for some reason or other burst into
hoarse laughter, which was uncommon with her.

Thus lived Foma, day in and day out, always turning around on one
and the same place, amid people who were always alike, and who
never inspired him with any noble feelings. And then he
considered himself superior to them, because the thoughts of the
possibility of freeing himself from this life was taking deeper
and deeper root in his mind, because the yearning for freedom
held him in an ever firmer embrace, because ever brighter were
the pictures as he imagined himself drifting away to the border
of life, away from this tumult and confusion. More than once, by
night, remaining all by himself, he would firmly close his eyes
and picture to himself a dark throng of people, innumerably great
and even terrible in its immenseness. Crowded together somewhere
in a deep valley, which was surrounded by hillocks, and filled
with a dusty mist, this throng jostled one another on the same
place in noisy confusion, and looked like grain in a hopper. It
was as though an invisible millstone, hidden beneath the feet of
the crowd, were grinding it, and people moved about it like
waves-- now rushing downward to be ground the sooner and
disappear, now bursting upward in the effort to escape the
merciless millstone. There were also people who resembled crabs
just caught and thrown into a huge basket--clutching at one
another, they twined about heavily, crawled somewhere and
interfered with one another, and could do nothing to free
themselves from captivity.

Foma saw familiar faces amid the crowd: there his father is
walking boldly, sturdily pushing aside and overthrowing everybody
on his way; he is working with his long paws, massing everything
with his chest, and laughing in thundering tones. And then he
disappears, sinking somewhere in the depth, beneath the feet of
the people. There, wriggling like a snake, now jumping on
people's shoulders, now gliding between their feet, his godfather
is working with his lean, but supple and sinewy body. Here Lubov
is crying and struggling, following her father, with abrupt but
faint movements, now remaining behind him, now nearing him again.
Striding softly with a kind smile on her face, stepping aside
from everybody, and making way for everyone, Aunt Anfisa is
slowly moving along. Her image quivers in the darkness before
Foma, like the modest flame of a wax candle. And it dies out and
disappears in the darkness. Pelagaya is quickly going somewhere
along a straight road. There Sophya Pavlovna Medinskaya is
standing, her hands hanging impotently, just as she stood in her
drawing-room when he saw her last. Her eyes were large, but some
great fright gleams in them. Sasha, too, is here. Indifferent,
paying no attention to the jostling, she is stoutly going
straight into the very dregs of life, singing her songs at the
top of her voice, her dark eyes fixed in the distance before her.
Foma hears tumult, howls, laughter, drunken shouts, irritable
disputes about copecks--songs and sobs hover over this enormous
restless heap of living human bodies crowded into a pit. They
jump, fall, crawl, crush one another, leap on one another's
shoulders, grope everywhere like blind people, stumbling
everywhere over others like themselves, struggle, and, falling,
disappear from sight. Money rustles, soaring like bats over the
heads of the people, and the people greedily stretch out their
hands toward it, the gold and silver jingles, bottles rattle,
corks pop, someone sobs, and a melancholy female voice sings:

"And so let us live while we can,
And then--e'en grass may cease to grow!"

This wild picture fastened itself firmly in Foma's mind, and
growing clearer, larger and more vivid with each time it arose
before him, rousing in his breast something chaotic, one great
indefinite feeling into which fell, like streams into a river,
fear and revolt and compassion and wrath and many another thing.
All this boiled up within his breast into strained desire, which
was thrusting it asunder into a desire whose power was choking
him, and his eyes were filled with tears; he longed to shout, to
howl like a beast, to frighten all the people, to check their
senseless bustle, to pour into the tumult and vanity of their
life something new, his own-- to tell them certain loud firm
words, to guide them all into one direction, and not one against
another. He desired to seize them by their heads, to tear them
apart one from another, to thrash some, to fondle others, to
reproach them all, to illumine them with a certain fire.

There was nothing in him, neither the necessary words, nor the
fire; all he had was the longing which was clear to him, but
impossible of fulfillment. He pictured himself above life outside
of the deep valley, wherein people were bustling about; he saw
himself standing firmly on his feet and--speechless. He might
have cried to the people:

"See how you live! Aren't you ashamed?"

And he might have abused them. But if they were to ask on hearing
his voice:

"And how ought we to live?"

It was perfectly clear to him that after such a question he would
have to fly down head foremost from the heights there, beneath
the feet of the throng, upon the millstone. And laughter would
accompany him to his destruction.

Sometimes he was delirious under the pressure of this nightmare.
Certain meaningless and unconnected words burst from his lips; he
even perspired from this painful struggle within him. At times it
occurred to him that he was going mad from intoxication, and that
that was the reason why this terrible and gloomy picture was
forcing itself into his mind. With a great effort of will he
brushed aside these pictures and excitements; but as soon as he
was alone and not very drunk, he was again seized by his delirium
and again grew faint under its weight. And his thirst for freedom
was growing more and more intense, torturing him by its force.
But tear himself away from the shackles of his wealth he could
not. Mayakin, who had Foma's full power of attorney to manage his
affairs, acted now in such a way that Foma was bound to feel
almost every day the burden of the obligations which rested upon
him. People were constantly applying to him for payments,
proposing to him terms for the transportation of freight. His
employees overwhelmed him in person and by letter with trifles
with which he had never before concerned himself, as they used to
settle these trifles at their own risk. They looked for him and
found him in the taverns, questioned him as to what and how it
should be done; he would tell them sometimes without at all
understanding in what way this or that should be done. He noticed
their concealed contempt for him, and almost always saw that they
did not do the work as he had ordered, but did it in a different
and better way. In this he felt the clever hand of his godfather,
and understood that the old man was thus pressing him in order to
turn him to his way. And at the same time he noticed that he was
not the master of his business, but only a component part of it,
and an insignificant part at that. This irritated him and moved
him farther away from the old man, it augumented his longing to
tear himself away from his business, even at the cost of his own
ruin. Infuriated, he flung money about the taverns and dives, but
this did not last long. Yakov Tarasovich closed his accounts in
the banks, withdrawing all deposits. Soon Foma began to feel that
even on promissory notes, they now gave him the money not quite
as willingly as before. This stung his vanity; and his
indignation was roused, and he was frightened when he learned
that his godfather had circulated a rumour in the business world
that he, Foma, was out of his mind, and that, perhaps, it might
become necessary to appoint a guardian for him. Foma did not know
the limits of his godfather's power, and did not venture to take
anyone's counsel in this matter. He was convinced that in the
business world the old man was a power, and that he could do
anything he pleased. At first it was painful for him to feel
Mayakin's hand over him, but later he became reconciled to this,
renounced everything, and resumed his restless, drunken life,
wherein there was only one consolation--the people. With each
succeeding day he became more and more convinced that they were
more irrational and altogether worse than he--that they were not
the masters of life, but its slaves, and that it was turning them
around, bending and breaking them at its will, while they
succumbed to it unfeelingly and resignedly, and none of them but
he desired freedom. But he wanted it, and therefore proudly
elevated himself above his drinking companions, not desiring to
see in them anything but wrong.

One day in a tavern a certain half-intoxicated man complained to
him of his life. This was a small-sized, meagre man, with dim,
frightened eyes, unshaven, in a short frock coat, and with a
bright necktie. He blinked pitifully, his ears quivered
spasmodically, and his soft little voice also trembled.

"I've struggled hard to make my way among men; I've tried
everything, I've worked like a bull. But life jostled me aside,
crushed me under foot, gave me no chance. All my patience gave
way. Eh! and so I've taken to drink. I feel that I'll be ruined.
Well, that's the only way open to me!"

"Fool!" said Foma with contempt. "Why did you want to make your
way among men? You should have kept away from them, to the right.
Standing aside, you might have seen where your place was among
them, and then gone right to the point!"

"I don't understand your words." The little man shook his close-
cropped, angular head.

Foma laughed, self-satisfied.

"Is it for you to understand it?""No; do you know, I think that
he whom God decreed--"

"Not God, but man arranges life!" Foma blurted out, and was even
himself astonished at the audacity of his words. And the little
man glancing at him askance also shrank timidly.

"Has God given you reason?" asked Foma, recovering from his
embarrassment.

"Of course; that is to say, as much as is the share of a small
man," said Foma's interlocutor irresolutely.

"Well, and you have no right to ask of Him a single grain more!
Make your own life by your own reason. And God will judge you. We
are all in His service. And in His eyes we are all of equal
value. Understand?"

It happened very often that Foma would suddenly say something
which seemed audacious even to himself, and which, at the same
time, elevated him in his own eyes. There were certain
unexpected, daring thoughts and words, which suddenly flashed
like sparks, as though an impression produced them from Foma's
brains. And he noticed more than once that whatever he had
carefully thought out beforehand was expressed by him not quite
so well, and more obscure, than that which suddenly flashed up in
his heart.

Foma lived as though walking in a swamp, in danger of sinking at
each step in the mire and slime, while his godfather, like a
river loach, wriggled himself on a dry, firm little spot,
vigilantly watching the life of his godson from afar.

After his quarrel with Foma, Yakov Tarasovich returned home,
gloomy and pensive. His eyes flashed drily, and he straightened
himself like a tightly-stretched string. His wrinkles shrank
painfully, his face seemed to have become smaller and darker, and
when Lubov saw him in this state it appeared to her that he was
seriously ill, but that he was forcing and restraining himself.
Mutely and nervously the old man flung himself about the room,
casting in reply to his daughter's questions, dry curt words, and
finally shouted to her:

"Leave me alone! You see it has nothing to do with you."

She felt sorry for him when she noticed the gloomy and melancholy
expression of his keen, green eyes; she made it her duty to
question him as to what had happened to him, and when he seated
himself at the dinner-table she suddenly approached him, placed
her hands on his shoulders, and looking down into his face, asked
him tenderly and anxiously:

"Papa, are you ill? tell me!"

Her caresses were extremely rare; they always softened the lonely
old man, and though he did not respond to them for some reason or
other he nevertheless could not help appreciating them. And now
he shrugged his shoulders, thus throwing off her hands and said:

"Go, go to your place. How the itching curiosity of Eve gives you
no rest."

But Lubov did not go away; persistingly looking into his eyes,
she asked, with an offended tone in her voice:

"Papa, why do you always speak to me in such a way as though I
were a small child, or very stupid?"

"Because you are grown up and yet not very clever. Yes! That's
the whole story! Go, sit down and eat!"

She walked away and silently seated herself opposite her father,
compressing her lips for affront. Contrary to his habits Mayakin
ate slowly, stirring his spoon in his plate of cabbage-soup for a
long time, and examining the soup closely.

"If your obstructed mind could but comprehend your father's
thoughts!" said he, suddenly, as he sighed with a sort of
whistling sound.

Lubov threw her spoon aside and almost with tears in her voice,
said:

"Why do you insult me, papa? You see that I am alone, always
alone! You understand how difficult my life is, and you never say
a single kind word to me. You never say anything to me! And you
are also lonely; life is difficult for you too, I can see it. You
find it very hard to live, but you alone are to blame for it! You
alone!

"Now Balaam's she-ass has also started to talk!" said the old
man, laughing. "Well! what will be next?"

"You are very proud of your wisdom, papa."

"And what else?"

"That isn't good; and it pains me greatly. Why do you repulse me?
You know that, save you, I have no one."

Tears leaped to her eyes; her father noticed them, and his face
quivered.

"If you were not a girl!" he exclaimed. "If you had as much
brains as Marfa Poosadnitza, for instance. Eh, Lubov? Then I'd
laugh at everybody, and at Foma. Come now, don't cry!"

She wiped her eyes and asked:

"What about Foma?"

"He's rebellious. Ha! ha! he says: 'Take away my property, give
me freedom!' He wants to save his soul in the kabak. That's what
entered Foma's head."

"Well, what is this?" asked Lubov, irresolutely. She wanted to
say that Foma's desire was good, that it was a noble desire if it
were earnest, but she feared to irritate her father with her
words, and she only gazed at him questioningly.

"What is it?" said Mayakin, excitedly, trembling. "That either
comes to him from excessive drinking, or else--Heaven forbid--
from his mother, the orthodox spirit. And if this heathenish
leaven is going to rise in him I'll have to struggle hard with
him! There will be a great conflict between us. He has come out,
breast foremost, against me; he has at once displayed great
audacity. He's young-- there's not much cunning in him as yet. He
says: 'I'll drink away everything, everything will go up in
smoke! I'll show you how to drink!

Mayakin lifted his hand over his head, and, clenching his fist,
threatened furiously.

"How dare you? Who established the business? Who built it up?
You? Your father. Forty years of labour were put into it, and you
wish to destroy it? We must all go to our places here all
together as one man, there cautiously, one by one. We merchants,
tradesmen, have for centuries carried Russia on our shoulders,
and we are still carrying it. Peter the Great was a Czar of
divine wisdom, he knew our value. How he supported us! He had
printed books for the express purpose of teaching us business.
There I have a book which was printed at his order by Polidor
Virgily Oorbansky, about inventory, printed in 1720. Yes, one
must understand this. He understood it, and cleared the way for
us. And now we stand on our own feet, and we feel our place.
Clear the way for us! We have laid the foundation of life,
instead of bricks we have laid ourselves in the earth. Now we
must build the stories. Give us freedom of action! That's where
we must hold our course. That's where the problem lies; but Foma
does not comprehend this. But he must understand it, must resume
the work. He has his father's means. When I die mine will be
added to his. Work, you puppy! And he is raving. No, wait! I'll
lift you up to the proper point!"

The old man was choking with agitation and with flashing eyes
looked at his daughter so furiously as though Foma were sitting
in her place. His agitation frightened Lubov, but she lacked the
courage to interrupt her father, and she looked at his stern and
gloomy face in silence.

"The road has been paved by our fathers, and you must walk on it.
I have worked for fifty years to what purpose? That my children
may resume it after I am gone. My children! Where are my
children?"

The old man drooped his head mournfully, his voice broke down,
and he said sadly, as if he were speaking unto himself:

"One is a convict, utterly ruined; the other, a drunkard. I have
little hope in him. My daughter, to whom, then, shall I leave my
labour before my death? If I had but a son-in-law. I thought Foma
would become a man and would be sharpened up, then I would give
you unto him, and with you all I have--there! But Foma is good
for nothing, and I see no one else in his stead. What sort of
people we have now! In former days the people were as of iron,
while now they are of india-rubber. They are all bending now. And
nothing--they have no firmness in them. What is it? Why is it
so?"

Mayakin looked at his daughter with alarm. She was silent.

"Tell me," he asked her, "what do you need? How, in your opinion,
is it proper to live? What do you want? You have studied, read,
tell me what is it that you need?"

The questions fell on Lubov's head quite unexpectedly to her, and
she was embarrassed. She was pleased that her father asked her
about this matter, and was at the same time afraid to reply, lest
she should be lowered in his estimation. And then, gathering
courage, as though preparing to jump across the table, she said
irresolutely and in a trembling voice:

"That all the people should be happy and contented; that all the
people should be equal, all the people have an equal right to
life, to the bliss of life, all must have freedom, even as they
have air. And equality ineverything!"

At the beginning of her agitated speech her father looked at her
face with anxious curiosity in his eyes, but as she went on
hastily hurling her words at him his eyes assumed an altogether
different expression, and finally he said to her with calm
contempt:

"I knew it before--you are a gilded fool!"

She lowered her head, but immediately raised it and exclaimed
sadly:

"You have said so yourself--freedom."

"You had better hold your tongue!" the old man shouted at her
rudely. "You cannot see even that which is visibly forced outside
of each man. How can all the people be happy and equal, since
each one wants to be above the other? Even the beggar has his
pride and always boasts of something or other before other
people. A small child, even he wants to be first among his
playmates. And one man will never yield to another; only fools
believe in it. Each man has his own soul, and his own face; only
those who love not their souls and care not for their faces can
be planed down to the same size. Eh, you! You've read much trash,
and you've devoured it!"

Bitter reproach and biting contempt were expressed on the old
man's face. He noisily pushed his chair away from the table,
jumped up, and folding his hands behind his back, began to dart
about in the room with short steps, shaking his head and saying
something to himself in an angry, hissing whisper. Lubov, pale
with emotion and anger, feeling herself stupid and powerless
before him, listening to his whisper, and her heart palpitated
wildly.

"I am left alone, alone, like Job. 0h Lord! What shall I do? Oh,
alone! Am I not wise? Am I not clever? But life has outwitted me
also. What does it love? Whom does it fondle? It beats the good,
and suffers not the bad to go unpunished, and no one understands
life's justice."

The girl began to feel painfully sorry for the old man; she was
seized with an intense yearning to help him; she longed to be of
use to him.

Following him with burning eyes, she suddenly said in a low
voice:

"Papa, dear! do not grieve. Taras is still alive. Perhaps he--"

Mayakin stopped suddenly as though nailed to the spot, and he
slowly lifted his head.

"The tree that grew crooked in its youth and could not hold out
will certainly break when it's old. But nevertheless, even Taras
is a straw to me now. Though I doubt whether he is better than
Foma. Gordyeeff has a character, he has his father's daring. He
can take a great deal on himself. But Taraska, you recalled him
just in time. Yes!"

And the old man, who a moment ago had lost his courage to the
point of complaining, and, grief-stricken had run about the room
like a mouse in a trap, now calmly and firmly walked up with a
careworn face to the table, carefully adjusted his chair, and
seated himself, saying:

"We'll have to sound Taraska. He lives in Usolye at some factory.
I was told by some merchants--they're making soda there, I
believe. I'll find out the particulars. I'll write to him."

"Allow me to write to him, papa!" begged Lubov, softly, flushing,
trembling with joy.

"You?" asked Mayakin, casting a brief glance at her; he then
became silent, thought awhile and said:

"That's all right. That's even better! Write to him. Ask him
whether he isn't married, how he lives, what he thinks. But then
I'll tell you what to write when the time has come."

"Do it at once, papa," said the girl.

"It is necessary to marry you off the sooner. I am keeping an eye
on a certain red-haired fellow. He doesn't seem to be stupid.
He's been polished abroad, by the way.

"Is it Smolin, papa?" asked Lubov, inquisitively and anxiously.

"And supposing it is he, what of it?" inquired Yakov Tarasovich
in a business-like tone.

"Nothing, I don't know him," replied Lubov, indefinitely.

"We'll make you acquainted. It's time, Lubov, it's time. Our
hopes for Foma are poor, although I do not give him up."

"I did not reckon on Foma--what is he to me?"

"That's wrong. If you had been cleverer perhaps he wouldn't have
gone astray! Whenever I used to see you together, I thought: 'My
girl will attract the fellow to herself! That will be a fine
affair!' But I was wrong. I thought that you would know what is
to your advantage without being told of it. That's the way, my
girl!" said the father, instructively.

She became thoughtful as she listened to his impressive speech.
Robust and strong, Lubov was thinking of marriage more and more
frequently of late, for she saw no other way out of her
loneliness. The desire to forsake her father and go away
somewhere in order to study something, to do something. This
desire she had long since overcome, even as she conquered in
herself many another longing just as keen, but shallow and
indefinite. From the various books she had read a thick sediment
remained within her, and though it was something live it had the
life of a protoplasm. This sediment developed in the girl a
feeling of dis-satisfaction with her life, a yearning toward
personal independence, a longing to be freed from the heavy
guardianship of her father, but she had neither the power to
realize these desires, nor the clear conception of their
realization. But nature had its influence on her, and at the
sight of young mothers with children in their arms Lubov often
felt a sad and mournful languor within her. At times stopping
before the mirror she sadly scrutinized in it her plump, fresh
face with dark circles around her eyes, and she felt sorry for
herself. She felt that life was going past her, forgetting her
somewhere on the side. Now listening to her father's words she
pictured to herself what sort of man Smolin might be. She had met
him when he was yet a Gymnasium student, his face was covered
with freckles, he was snub-nosed, always clean, sedate and
tiresome. He danced heavily, awkwardly, he talked
uninterestingly. A long time had passed since then, he had been
abroad, had studied something there, how was he now? From Smolin
her thoughts darted to her brother, and with a sinking heart she
thought: what would he say in reply to her letter? What sort of a
man was he? The image of her brother as she had pictured it to
herself prevented her from seeing both her father and Smolin, and
she had already made up her mind not to consent to marry before
meeting Taras, when suddenly her father shouted to her:

"Eh, Lubovka! Why are you thoughtful? What are you thinking of
mostly?"

"So, everything goes so swiftly," replied Luba, with a smile.

"What goes swiftly?"

"Everything. A week ago it was impossible to speak with you about
Taras, while now--"

"'Tis need, my girl! Need is a power, it bends a steel rod into a
spring. And steel is stubborn. Taras, we'll see what he is! Man
is to be appreciated by his resistance to the power of life; if
it isn't life that wrings him, but he that wrings life to suit
himself, my respects to that man! Allow me to shake your hand,
let's run our business together. Eh, I am old. And how very brisk
life has become now! With each succeeding year there is more and
more interest in it, more and more relish to it! I wish I could
live forever, I wish I could act all the time!" The old man
smacked his lips, rubbed his hands, and his small eyes gleamed
greedily.

"But you are a thin-blooded lot! Ere you have grown up you are
already overgrown and withered. You live like an old radish. And
the fact that life is growing fairer and fairer is
incomprehensible to you. I have lived sixty-seven years on this
earth, and though I am now standing close to my grave I can see
that in former years, when I was young, there were fewer flowers
on earth, and the flowers were not quite as beautiful as they are
now. Everything is growing more beautiful! What buildings we have
now! What different trade implements. What huge steamers! A world
of brains has been put into everything! You look and think; what
clever fellows you are-- 0h people! You merit reward and respect!
You've arranged life cleverly. Everything is good, everything is
pleasant. Only you, our successors, you are devoid of all live
feelings! Any little charlatan from among the commoners is
cleverer than you! Take that Yozhov, for instance, what is he?
And yet he represents himself as judge over us, and even over
life itself--he has courage. But you, pshaw! You live like
beggars! In your joy you are beasts, in your misfortune vermin!
You are rotten! They ought to inject fire into your veins, they
ought to take your skin off and strew salt upon your raw flesh,
then you would have jumped!"

Yakov Tarasovich, small-sized, wrinkled and bony, with black,
broken teeth in his mouth, bald-headed and dark, as though burned
by the heat of life and smoked in it, trembled in vehement
agitation, showering jarring words of contempt upon his daughter,
who was young, well-grown and plump. She looked at him with a
guilty expression in her eyes, smiled confusedly, and in her
heart grew a greater and greater respect for the live old man who
was so steadfast in his desires.

..  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

And Foma went on straying and raving, passing his days and nights
in taverns and dens, and mastering more and more firmly his
contemptuously-hateful bearing toward the people that surrounded
him. At times they awakened in him a sad yearning to find among
them some sort of resistance to his wicked feeling, to meet a
worthy and courageous man who would cause him to blush with shame
by his burning reproach. This yearning became clearer--each time
it sprang up in him it was a longing for assistance on the part
of a man who felt that he had lost his way and was perishing.

"Brethren!" he cried one day, sitting by the table in a tavern,
half-intoxicated, and surrounded by certain obscure and greedy
people, who ate and drank as though they had not had a piece of
bread in their mouths for many a long day before.

"Brethren! I feel disgusted. I am tired of you! Beat me
unmercifully, drive me away! You are rascals, but you are nearer
to one another than to me. Why? Am I not a drunkard and a rascal
as well? And yet I am a stranger to you! I can see I am a
stranger. You drink out of me and secretly you spit upon me. I
can feel it! Why do you do it?"

To be sure, they could treat him in a different way. In the depth
of his soul perhaps not one of them considered himself lower than
Foma, but he was rich, and this hindered them from treating him
more as a companion, and then he always spoke certain comically
wrathful, conscience-rending words, and this embarrassed them.
Moreover, he was strong and ready to fight, and they dared not
say a word against him. And that was just what he wanted. He
wished more and more intensely that one of these people he
despised would stand up against him, face to face, and would tell
him something strong, which, like a lever, would turn him aside
from the sloping road, whose danger he felt, and whose filth he
saw, being filled with helpless aversion for it.

And Foma found what he needed.

One day, irritated by the lack of attention for him, he cried to
his drinking-companions:

"You boys, keep quiet, every one of you! Who gives you to drink
and to eat? Have you forgotten it? I'll bring you in order! I'll
show you how to respect me! Convicts! When I speak you must all
keep quiet!"

And, indeed, all became silent; either for fear lest they might
lose his good will, or, perhaps, afraid that he, that healthy and
strong beast, might beat them. They sat in silence about a
minute, concealing their anger at him, bending over the plates
and attempting to hide from him their fright and embarrassment.
Foma measured them with a self-satisfied look, and gratified by
their slavish submissiveness, said boastfully:

"Ah! You've grown dumb now, that's the way! I am strict! I--"

"You sluggard!" came some one's calm, loud exclamation.

"Wha-at?" roared Foma, jumping up from his chair. "Who said
that?"

Then a certain, strange, shabby-looking man arose at the end of
the table; he was tall, in a long frock-coat, with a heap of
grayish hair on his large head. His hair was stiff, standing out
in all directions in thick locks, his face was yellow, unshaven,
with a long, crooked nose. To Foma it seemed that he resembled a
swab with which the steamer decks are washed, and this amused the
half-intoxicated fellow.

"How fine!" said he, sarcastically. "What are you snarling at,
eh? Do you know who I am?"

With the gesture of a tragic actor the man stretched out to Foma
his hand, with its long, pliant fingers like those of a juggler,
and he said in a deep hoarse basso:

"You are the rotten disease of your father, who, though he was a
plunderer, was nevertheless a worthy man in comparison with you."

Because of the unexpectedness of this, and because of his wrath,
Foma's heart shrank. He fiercely opened his eyes wide and kept
silent, finding no words to reply to this insolence. And the man,
standing before him, went on hoarsely, with animation, beastlike
rolling his large, but dim and swollen, eyes:

"You demand of us respect for you, you fool! How have you merited
it? Who are you? A drunkard, drinking away the fortune of your
father. You savage! You ought to be proud that I, a renowned
artist, a disinterested and faithful worshipper at the shrine of
art, drink from the same bottle with you! This bottle contains
sandal and molasses, infused with snuff-tobacco, while you think
it is port wine. It is your license for the name of savage and
ass."

"Eh, you jailbird!" roared Foma, rushing toward the artist. But
he was seized and held back. Struggling in the arms of those that
seized him, he was compelled to listen without replying, to the
thundering, deep and heavy bass of the man who resembled a swab.

"You have thrown to men a few copecks out of the stolen roubles,
and you consider yourself a hero! You are twice a thief. You have
stolen the roubles and now you are stealing gratitude for your
few copecks! But I shall not give it to you! I, who have devoted
all my life to the condemnation of vice, I stand before you and
say openly: 'You are a fool and a beggar because you are too
rich! Here lies the wisdom: all the rich are beggars.' That's how
the famous coupletist, Rimsky-Kannibalsky, serves Truth!"

Foma was now standing meekly among the people that had closely
surrounded him, and he eagerly listened to the coupletist's
thundering words, which now aroused in him a sensation as though
somebody was scratching a sore spot, and thus soothing the acute
itching of the pain. The people were excited; some attempted to
check the coupletist's flow of eloquence, others wanted to lead
Foma away somewhere. Without saying a word he pushed them aside
and listened, more and more absorbed by the intense pleasure of
humiliation which he felt in the presence of these people. The
pain irritated by the words of the coupletist, caressed Foma's
soul more and more passionately, and the coupletist went on
thundering, intoxicated with the impurity of his accusation:

"You think that you are the master of life? You are the low slave
of the rouble."

Someone in the crowd hiccoughed, and, evidently displeased with
himself for this, cursed each time he hiccoughed:

"0h devil."

And a certain, unshaven, fat-faced man took pity on Foma, or,
perhaps, became tired of witnessing that scene, and, waving his
hands, he drawled out plaintively:

"Gentlemen, drop that! It isn't good! For we are all sinners!
Decidedly all, believe me!"

"Well, speak on!" muttered Foma. "Say everything! I won't touch
you."

The mirrors on the walls reflected this drunken confusion, and
the people, as reflected in the mirrors, seemed more disgusting
and hideous than they were in reality.

"I do not want to speak! "exclaimed the coupletist, "I do not
want to cast the pearls of truth and of my wrath before you."

He rushed forward, and raising his head majestically, turned
toward the door with tragic footsteps.

"You lie!" said Foma, attempting to follow him. "Hold on! you
have made me agitated, now calm me."

They seized him, surrounded him and shouted something to him
while he was rushing forward, overturning everybody. When he met
tactile obstacles on his way the struggle with them gave him
ease, uniting all his riotous feelings into one yearning to
overthrow that which hindered him. And now, after he had jostled
them all aside and rushed out into the street, he was already
less agitated. Standing on the sidewalk he looked about the
street and thought with shame:

"How could I permit that swab to mock me and abuse my father as a
thief?"

It was dark and quiet about him, the moon was shining brightly,
and a light refreshing breeze was blowing. Foma held his face to
the cool breeze as he walked against the wind with rapid strides,
timidly looking about on all sides, and wishing that none of the
company from the tavern would follow him. He understood that he
had lowered himself in the eyes of all these people. As he walked
he thought of what he had come to: a sharper had publicly abused
him in disgraceful terms, while he, the son of a well-known
merchant, had not been able to repay him for his mocking.

"It serves me right!" thought Foma, sadly and bitterly. "That
serves me right! Don't lose your head, understand. And then
again, I wanted it myself. I interfered with everybody, so now,
take your share!" These thoughts made him feel painfully sorry
for himself. Seized and sobered by them he kept on strolling
along the streets, and searching for something strong and firm in
himself. But everything within him was confused; it merely
oppressed his heart, without assuming any definite forms. As in a
painful dream he reached the river, seated himself on the beams
by the shore, and began to look at the calm dark water, which was
covered with tiny ripples. Calmly and almost noiselessly flowed
on the broad, mighty river, carrying enormous weights upon its
bosom. The river was all covered with black vessels, the signal
lights and the stars were reflected in its water; the tiny
ripples, murmuring softly, were gently breaking against the shore
at the very feet of Foma. Sadness was breathed down from the sky,
the feeling of loneliness oppressed Foma.

"0h Lord Jesus Christ!" thought he, sadly gazing at the sky.
"What a failure I am. There is nothing in me. God has put nothing
into me. Of what use am I? Oh Lord Jesus!"

At the recollection of Christ Foma felt somewhat better--his
loneliness seemed alleviated, and heaving a deep sigh, he began
to address God in silence:

"0h Lord Jesus Christ! Other people do not understand anything
either, but they think that all is known to them, and therefore
it is easier for them to live. While I--I have no justification.
Here it is night, and I am alone, I have no place to go, I am
unable to say anything to anybody. I love no one--only my
godfather, and he is soulless. If Thou hadst but punished him
somehow! He thinks there is none cleverer and better on earth
than himself. While Thou sufferest it. And the same with me. If
some misfortune were but sent to me. If some illness were to
overtake me. But here I am as strong as iron. I am drinking,
leading a gay life. I live in filth, but the body does not even
rust, and only my soul aches. Oh Lord! To what purpose is such a
life?"

Vague thoughts of protest flashed one after another through the
mind of the lonely, straying man, while the silence about him was
growing deeper, and night ever darker and darker. Not far from
the shore lay a boat at anchor; it rocked from side to side, and
something was creaking in it as though moaning.

"How am I to free myself from such a life as this?" reflected
Foma, staring at the boat. "And what occupation is destined to be
mine? Everybody is working."

And suddenly he was struck by a thought which appeared great to
him:

"And hard work is cheaper than easy work! Some man will give
himself up entire to his work for a rouble, while another takes a
thousand with one finger."

He was pleasantly roused by this thought. It seemed to him that
he discovered another falsehood in the life of man, another fraud
which they conceal. He recalled one of his stokers, the old man
Ilya, who, for ten copecks, used to be on watch at the fireplace
out of his turn, working for a comrade eight hours in succession,
amid suffocating heat. One day, when he had fallen sick on
account of overwork, he was lying on the bow of the steamer, and
when Foma asked him why he was thus ruining himself, Ilya replied
roughly and sternly:

"Because every copeck is more necessary to me than a hundred
roubles to you. That's why!"

And, saying this, the old man turned his body, which was burning
with pain, with its back to Foma.

Reflecting on the stoker his thoughts suddenly and without any
effort, embraced all those petty people that were doing hard
work. He wondered, Why do they live? What pleasure is it for them
to live on earth? They constantly do but their dirty, hard work,
they eat poorly, are poorly clad, they drink. One man is sixty
years old, and yet he keeps on toiling side by side with the
young fellows. And they all appeared to Foma as a huge pile of
worms, which battled about on earth just to get something to eat.
In his memory sprang up his meetings with these people, one after
another--their remarks about life--now sarcastic and mournful,
now hopelessly gloomy remarks--their wailing songs. And now he
also recalled how one day in the office Yefim had said to the
clerk who hired the sailors:

"Some Lopukhin peasants have come here to hire themselves out, so
don't give them more than ten roubles a month. Their place was
burned down to ashes last summer, and they are now in dire need--
they'll work for ten roubles."

Sitting on the beams, Foma rocked his whole body to and fro, and
out of the darkness, from the river, various human figures
appeared silently before him--sailors, stokers, clerks, waiters,
half-intoxicated painted women, and tavern-loungers. They floated
in the air like shadows; something damp and brackish came from
them, and the dark, dense throng moved on slowly, noiselessly and
swiftly, like clouds in an autumn sky. The soft splashing of the
waves poured into his soul like sadly sighing music. Far away,
somewhere on the other bank of the river, burned a wood-pile;
embraced by the darkness on all sides, it was at times almost
absorbed by it, and in the darkness it trembled, a reddish spot
scarcely visible to the eye. But now the fire flamed up again,
the darkness receded, and it was evident that the flame was
striving upward. And then it sank again.

"0h Lord, 0h Lord!" thought Foma, painfully and bitterly, feeling
that grief was oppressing his heart with ever greater power.
"Here I am, alone, even as that fire. Only no light comes from
me, nothing but fumes and smoke. If I could only meet a wise man!
Someone to speak to. It is utterly impossible for me to live
alone. I cannot do anything. I wish I might meet a man."

Far away, on the river, two large purple fires appeared, and high
above them was a third. A dull noise resounded in the distance,
something black was moving toward Foma.

"A steamer going up stream," he thought. "There may be more than
a hundred people aboard, and none of them give a single thought
to me. They all know whither they are sailing. Every one of them
has something that is his own. Every one, I believe, understands
what he wants. But what do I want? And who will tell it to me?
Where is such a man?"

The lights of the steamer were reflected in the river, quivering
in it; the illumined water rushed away from it with a dull
murmur, and the steamer looked like a huge black fish with fins
of fire.

A few days elapsed after this painful night, and Foma caroused
again. It came about by accident and against his will. He had
made up his mind to restrain himself from drinking, and so went
to dinner in one of the most expensive hotels in town, hoping to
find there none of his familiar drinking-companions, who always
selected the cheaper and less respectable places for their
drinking bouts. But his calculation proved to be wrong; he at
once came into the friendly joyous embrace of the brandy-
distiller's son, who had taken Sasha as mistress.

He ran up to Foma, embraced him and burst into merry laughter.

"Here's a meeting! This is the third day I have eaten here, and I
am wearied by this terrible lonesomeness. There is not a decent
man in the whole town, so I have had to strike up an acquaintance
with newspaper men. They're a gay lot, although at first they
played the aristocrat and kept sneering at me. After awhile we
all got dead drunk. They'll be here again today--I swear by the
fortune of my father! I'll introduce you to them. There is one
writer of feuilletons here; you know, that some one who always
lauded you, what's his name? An amusing fellow, the devil take
him! Do you know it would be a good thing to hire one like that
for personal use! Give him a certain sum of money and order him
to amuse! How's that? I had a certain coupletist in my employ,--
it was rather entertaining to be with him. I used to say to him
sometimes: 'Rimsky! give us some couplets!' He would start, I
tell you, and he'd make you split your sides with laughter. It's
a pity, he ran off somewhere. Have you had dinner?"

"Not yet. And how's Aleksandra?" asked Foma, somewhat deafened by
the loud speech of this tall, frank, red-faced fellow clad in a
motley costume.

"Well, do you know," said the latter with a frown, "that
Aleksandra of yours is a nasty woman! She's so obscure, it's
tiresome to be with her, the devil take her! She's as cold as a
frog,--brrr! I guess I'll send her away."

"Cold--that's true," said Foma and became pensive. "Every person
must do his work in a first class manner," said the distiller's
son, instructively. "And if you become some one's s mistress you
must perform your duty in the best way possible, if you are a
decent woman. Well, shall we have a drink?"

They had a drink. And naturally they got drunk. A large and noisy
company gathered in the hotel toward evening. And Foma,
intoxicated, but sad and calm, spoke to them with heavy voice:

"That's the way I understand it: some people are worms, others
sparrows. The sparrows are the merchants. They peck the worms.
Such is their destined lot. They are necessary But I and you--all
of you--are to no purpose. We live so that we cannot be compared
to anything--without justification, merely at random. And we are
utterly unnecessary. But even these here, and everybody else, to
what purpose are they? You must understand that. Brethren! We
shall all burst! By God! And why shall we burst? Because there is
always something superfluous in us, there is something
superfluous in our souls. And all our life is superfluous!
Comrades! I weep. To what purpose am I? I am unnecessary! Kill
me, that I may die; I want to die."

And he wept, shedding many drunken tears. A drunken, small-sized,
swarthy man sat down close to him, began to remind him of
something, tried to kiss him, and striking a knife against the
table, shouted:

"True! Silence! These are powerful words! Let the elephants and
the mammoths of the disorder of life speak! The raw Russian
conscience speaks holy words! Roar on, Gordyeeff! Roar at
everything!" And again he clutched at Foma's shoulders, flung
himself on his breast, raising to Foma's face his round, black,
closely-cropped head, which was ceaselessly turning about on his
shoulders on all sides, so that Foma was unable to see his face,
and he was angry at him for this, and kept on pushing him aside,
crying excitedly:

"Get away! Where is your face? Go on!"

A deafening, drunken laughter smote the air about them, and
choking with laughter, the son of the brandy-distiller roared to
someone hoarsely:

"Come to me! A hundred roubles a month with board and lodging!
Throw the paper to the dogs. I'll give you more!"

And everything rocked from side to side in rhythmic, wave-like
movement. Now the people moved farther away from Foma, now they
came nearer to him, the ceiling descended, the floor rose, and it
seemed to Foma that he would soon be flattened and crushed. Then
he began to feel that he was floating somewhere over an immensely
wide and stormy river, and, staggering, he cried out in fright:

"Where are we floating? Where is the captain?"

He was answered by the loud, senseless laughter of the drunken
crowd, and by the shrill, repulsive shout of the swarthy little
man:

"True! we are all without helm and sails. Where is the captain?
What? Ha, ha, ha!"

Foma awakened from this nightmare in a small room with two
windows, and the first thing his eyes fell upon was a withered
tree. It stood near the window; its thick trunk, barkless, with a
rotten heart, prevented the light from entering the room; the
bent, black branches, devoid of leaves, stretched themselves
mournfully and helplessly in the air, and shaking to and fro,
they creaked softly, plaintively. A rain was falling; streams of
water were beating against the window-panes, and one could hear
how the water was falling to the ground from the roof, sobbing
there. This sobbing sound was joined by another sound--a shrill,
often interrupted, hasty scratching of a pen over paper, and then
by a certain spasmodic grumbling.

When he turned with difficulty his aching, heavy head on the
pillow, Foma noticed a small, swarthy man, who sat by the table
hastily scratching with his pen over the paper, shaking his round
head approvingly, wagging it from side to side, shrugging his
shoulders, and, with all his small body clothed in night garments
only, constantly moving about in his chair, as though he were
sitting on fire, and could not get up for some reason or other.
His left hand, lean and thin, was now firmly rubbing his
forehead, now making certain incomprehensible signs in the air;
his bare feet scraped along the floor, a certain vein quivered on
his neck, and even his ears were moving. When he turned toward
Foma, Foma saw his thin lips whispering something, his sharp-
pointed nose turned down to his thin moustache, which twitched
upward each time the little man smiled. His face was yellow,
bloated, wrinkled, and his black, vivacious small sparkling eyes
did not seem to belong to him.

Having grown tired of looking at him, Foma slowly began to
examine the room with his eyes. On the large nails, driven into
the walls, hung piles of newspapers, which made the walls look as
though covered with swellings. The ceiling was pasted with paper
which had been white once upon a time; now it was puffed up like
bladders, torn here and there, peeled off and hanging in dirty
scraps; clothing, boots, books, torn pieces of paper lay
scattered on the floor. Altogether the room gave one the
impression that it had been scalded with boiling water.

The little man dropped the pen, bent over the table, drummed
briskly on its edge with his fingers and began to sing softly in
a faint voice:

"Take the drum and fear not,--
And kiss the sutler girl aloud--
That's the sense of learning--
And that's philosophy."

Foma heaved a deed sigh and said:

"May I have some seltzer?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the little man, and jumping up from his chair,
appeared at the wide oilcloth-covered lounge, where Foma lay.
"How do you do, comrade! Seltzer? Of course! With cognac or
plain?"

"Better with cognac," said Foma, shaking the lean, burning hand
which was outstretched to him, and staring fixedly into the face
of the little man.

"Yegorovna!" cried the latter at the door, and turning to Foma,
asked: "Don't you recognise me, Foma Ignatyevich?"

"I remember something. It seems to me we had met somewhere
before."

"That meeting lasted for four years, but that was long ago!
Yozhov."

"0h Lord!" exclaimed Foma, in astonishment, slightly rising from
the lounge. "Is it possible that it is you?"

"There are times, dear, when I don't believe it myself, but a
real fact is something from which doubt jumps back as a rubber
ball from iron."

Yozhov's face was comically distorted, and for some reason or
other his hands began to feel his breast.

"Well, well!" drawled out Foma. "But how old you have grown! Ah-
ah! How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"And you look as though you were fifty, lean, yellow. Life isn't
sweet to you, it seems? And you are drinking, too, I see."

Foma felt sorry to see his jolly and brisk schoolmate so worn
out, and living in this dog-hole, which seemed to be swollen from
burns. He looked at him, winked his eyes mournfully and saw that
Yozhov's face was for ever twitching, and his small eyes were
burning with irritation. Yozhov was trying to uncork the bottle
of water, and thus occupied, was silent; he pressed the bottle
between his knees and made vain efforts to take out the cork. And
his impotence moved Foma.

"Yes; life has sucked you dry. And you have studied. Even science
seems to help man but little," said Gordyeeff plaintively.

"Drink!" said Yozhov, turning pale with fatigue, and handing him
the glass. Then he wiped his forehead, seated himself on the
lounge beside Foma, and said:

"Leave science alone! Science is a drink of the gods; but it has
not yet fermented sufficiently, and, therefore is not fit for
use, like vodka which has not yet been purified from empyreumatic
oil. Science is not ready for man's happiness, my friend. And
those living people that use it get nothing but headaches. Like
those you and I have at present. Why do you drink so rashly?"

"I? What else am I to do?" asked Foma, laughing. Yozhov looked at
Foma searchingly with his eyes half closed, and he said:

"Connecting your question with everything you jabbered last
night, I feel within my troubled soul that you, too, my friend,
do not amuse yourself because life is cheerful to you."

"Eh!" sighed Foma, heavily, rising from the lounge. "What is my
life? It is something meaningless. I live alone. I understand
nothing. And yet there is something I long for. I yearn to spit
on all and then disappear somewhere! I would like to run away
from everything. I am so weary!"

"That's interesting!" said Yozhov, rubbing his hands and turning
about in all directions. "This is interesting, if it is true and
deep, for it shows that the holy spirit of dissatisfaction with
life has already penetrated into the bed chambers of the
merchants, into the death chambers of souls drowned in fat
cabbage soup, in lakes of tea and other liquids. Give me a
circumstantial account of it. Then, my dear, I shall write a
novel."

"I have been told that you have already written something about
me?" inquired Foma, with curiosity, and once more attentively
scrutinized his old friend unable to understand what so wretched
a creature could write.

"Of course I have! Did you read it?"

"No, I did not have the chance."

"And what have they told you?"

"That you gave me a clever scolding."

"Hm! And doesn't it interest you to read it yourself?" inquired
Yozhov, scrutinizing Gordyeeff closely.

"I'll read it!" Foma assured him, feeling embarrassed before
Yozhov, and that Yozhov was offended by such regard for his
writings. "Indeed, it is interesting since it is about myself,"
he added, smiling kindheartedly at his comrade.

In saying this he was not at all interested, and he said it
merely out of pity for Yozhov. There was quite another feeling in
him; he wished to know what sort of a man Yozhov was, and why he
had become so worn out. This meeting with Yozhov gave rise in him
to a tranquil and kind feeling; it called forth recollections of
his childhood, and these flashed now in his memory,--flashed like
modest little lights, timidly shining at him from the distance of
the past. Yozhov walked up to the table on which stood a boiling
samovar, silently poured out two glasses of tea as strong as tar,
and said to Foma:

"Come and drink tea. And tell me about yourself."

"I have nothing to tell you. I have not seen anything in life.
Mine is an empty life! You had better tell me about yourself. I
am sure you know more than I do, at any rate."

Yozhov became thoughtful, not ceasing to turn his whole body and
to waggle his head. In thoughtfulness his face became motionless,
all its wrinkles gathered near his eyes and seemed to surround
them with rays, and because of this his eyes receded deeper under
his forehead.

"Yes, my dear, I have seen a thing or two, and I know a great
deal," he began, with a shake of the head. "And perhaps I know
even more than it is necessary for me to know, and to know more
than it is necessary is just as harmful to man as it is to be
ignorant of what it is essential to know. Shall I tell you how I
have lived? Very well; that is, I'll try. I have never told any
one about myself, because I have never aroused interest in
anyone. It is most offensive to live on earth without arousing
people's interest in you!"

"I can see by your face and by everything else that your life has
not been a smooth one!" said Foma, feeling pleased with the fact
that, to all appearances, life was not sweet to his comrade as
well. Yozhov drank his tea at one draught, thrust the glass on
the saucer, placed his feet on the edge of the chair, and
clasping his knees in his hands, rested his chin upon them. In
this pose, small sized and flexible as rubber, he began:

"The student Sachkov, my former teacher, who is now a doctor of
medicine, a whist-player and a mean fellow all around, used to
tell me whenever I knew my lesson well: 'You're a fine fellow,
Kolya! You are an able boy. We proletariats, plain and poor
people, coming from the backyard of life, we must study and
study, in order to come to the front, ahead of everybody. Russia
is in need of wise and honest people. Try to be such, and you
will be master of your fate and a useful member of society. On us
commoners rest the best hopes of the country. We are destined to
bring into it light, truth,' and so on. I believed him, the
brute. And since then about twenty years have elapsed. We
proletariats have grown up, but have neither appropriated any
wisdom, nor brought light into life. As before, Russia is still
suffering from its chronic disease--a superabundance of rascals;
while we, the proletariats, take pleasure in filling their dense
throngs. My teacher, I repeat, is a lackey, a characterless and
dumb creature, who must obey the orders of the mayor. While 1 am
a clown in the employ of society. Fame pursues me here in town,
dear. I walk along the street and I hear one driver say to
another: 'There goes Yozhov! How cleverly he barks, the deuce
take him!' Yes! Even this cannot be so easily attained."

Yozhov's face wrinkled into a bitter grimace, and he began to
laugh, noiselessly, with his lips only. Foma did not understand
his words, and, just to say something, he remarked at random:

"You didn't hit, then, what you aimed at?"

"Yes, I thought I would grow up higher. And so I should! So I
should, I say!"

He jumped up from his chair and began to run about in the room,
exclaiming briskly in a shrill voice:

"But to preserve one's self pure for life and to be a free man in
it, one must have vast powers! I had them. I had elasticity,
cleverness. I have spent all these in order to learn something
which is absolutely unnecessary to me now. I have wasted the
whole of myself in order to preserve something within myself. 0h
devil! I myself and many others with me, we have all robbed
ourselves for the sake of saving up something for life. Just
think of it: desiring to make of myself a valuable man, I have
underrated my individuality in every way possible. In order to
study, and not die of starvation, I have for six years in
succession taught blockheads how to read and write, and had to
bear a mass of abominations at the hands of various papas and
mammas, who humiliated me without any constraint. Earning my
bread and tea, I could not, I had not the time to earn my shoes,
and I had to turn to charitable institutions with humble
petitions for loans on the strength of my poverty. If the
philanthropists could only reckon up how much of the spirit they
kill in man while supporting the life of his body! If they only
knew that each rouble they give for bread contains ninety-nine
copecks' worth of poison for the soul! If they could only burst
from excess of their kindness and pride, which they draw from
their holy activity! There is none on earth more disgusting and
repulsive than he who gives alms, even as there is none more
miserable than he who accepts it!"

Yozhov staggered about in the room like a drunken man, seized
with madness, and the paper under his feet was rustling, tearing,
flying in scraps. He gnashed his teeth, shook his head, his hands
waved in the air like broken wings of a bird, and altogether it
seemed as though he were being boiled in a kettle of hot water.
Foma looked at him with a strange, mixed sensation; he pitied
Yozhov, and at the same time he was pleased to see him suffering.

"I am not alone, he is suffering, too," thought Foma, as Yozhov
spoke. And something clashed in Yozhov's throat, like broken
glass, and creaked like an unoiled hinge.

"Poisoned by the kindness of men, I was ruined through the fatal
capacity of every poor fellow during the making of his career,
through the capacity of being reconciled with little in the
expectation of much. Oh! Do you know, more people perish through
lack of proper self-appreciation than from consumption, and
perhaps that is why the leaders of the masses serve as district
inspectors!"

"The devil take the district inspectors!" said Foma, with a wave
of the hand. "Tell me about yourself."

"About myself! I am here entire!" exclaimed Yozhov, stopping
short in the middle of the room, and striking his chest with his
hands. "I have already accomplished all I could accomplish. I
have attained the rank of the public's entertainer--and that is
all I can do! To know what should be done, and not to be able to
do it, not to have the strength for your work--that is torture!"

"That's it! Wait awhile! "said Foma, enthusiastically. "Now tell
me what one should do in order to live calmly; that is, in order
to be satisfied with one's self."

To Foma these words sounded loud, but empty, and their sounds
died away without stirring any emotion in his heart, without
giving rise to a single thought in his mind.

"You must always be in love with something unattainable to you. A
man grows in height by stretching himself upwards."

Now that he had ceased speaking of himself, Yozhov began to talk
more calmly, in a different voice. His voice was firm and
resolute, and his face assumed an expression of importance and
sternness. He stood in the centre of the room, his hand with
outstretched fingers uplifted, and spoke as though he were
reading:

"Men are base because they strive for satiety. The well-fed man
is an animal because satiety is the self-contentedness of the
body. And the self-contentedness of the spirit also turns man
into animal."

Again he started as though all his veins and muscles were
suddenly strained, and again he began to run about the room in
seething agitation.

"A self-contented man is the hardened swelling on the breast of
society. He is my sworn enemy. He fills himself up with cheap
truths, with gnawed morsels of musty wisdom, and he exists like a
storeroom where a stingy housewife keeps all sorts of rubbish
which is absolutely unnecessary to her, and worthless. If you
touch such a man, if you open the door into him, the stench of
decay will be breathed upon you, and a stream of some musty trash
will be poured into the air you breathe. These unfortunate people
call themselves men of firm character, men of principles and
convictions. And no one cares to see that convictions are to them
but the clothes with which they cover the beggarly nakedness of
their souls. On the narrow brows of such people there always
shines the inscription so familiar to all: calmness and
confidence. What a false inscription! Just rub their foreheads
with firm hand and then you will see the real sign-board, which
reads: 'Narrow mindedness and weakness of soul!'"

Foma watched Yozhov bustling about the room, and thought
mournfully:

"Whom is he abusing? I can't understand; but I can see that he
has been terribly wounded."

"How many such people have I seen!" exclaimed Yozhov, with wrath
and terror. "How these little retail shops have multiplied in
life! In them you will find calico for shrouds, and tar, candy
and borax for the extermination of cockroaches, but you will not
find anything fresh, hot, wholesome! You come to them with an
aching soul exhausted by loneliness; you come, thirsting to hear
something that has life in it. And they offer to you some worm
cud, ruminated book-thoughts, grown sour with age. And these dry,
stale thoughts are always so poor that, in order to give them
expression, it is necessary to use a vast number of high-sounding
and empty words. When such a man speaks I say to myself: 'There
goes a well-fed, but over-watered mare, all decorated with bells;
she's carting a load of rubbish out of the town, and the
miserable wretch is content with her fate.'"

"They are superfluous people, then," said Foma. Yozhov stopped
short in front of him and said with a biting smile on his lips:

"No, they are not superfluous, oh no! They exist as an example,
to show what man ought not to be. Speaking frankly, their proper
place is the anatomical museums, where they preserve all sorts of
monsters and various sickly deviations from the normal. In life
there is nothing that is superfluous, dear. Even I am necessary!
Only those people, in whose souls dwells a slavish cowardice
before life, in whose bosoms there are enormous ulcers of the
most abominable self-adoration, taking the places of their dead
hearts--only those people are superfluous; but even they are
necessary, if only for the sake of enabling me to pour my hatred
upon them."

All day long, until evening, Yozhov was excited, venting his
blasphemy on men he hated, and his words, though their contents
were obscure to Foma, infected him with their evil heat, and
infecting called forth in him an eager desire for combat. At
times there sprang up in him distrust of Yozhov, and in one of
these moments he asked him plainly:

"Well! And can you speak like that in the face of men?"

"I do it at every convenient occasion. And every Sunday in the
newspaper. I'll read some to you if you like."

Without waiting for Foma's reply, he tore down from the wall a
few sheets of paper, and still continuing to run about the room,
began to read to him. He roared, squeaked, laughed, showed his
teeth and looked like an angry dog trying to break the chain in
powerless rage. Not grasping the ideals in his friend's
creations, Foma felt their daring audacity, their biting sarcasm,
their passionate malice, and he was as well pleased with them as
though he had been scourged with besoms in a hot bath.

"Clever!" he exclaimed, catching some separate phrase. "That's
cleverly aimed!"

Every now and again there flashed before him the familiar names
of merchants and well-known citizens, whom Yozhov had stung, now
stoutly and sharply, now respectfully and with a fine needle-like
sting.

Foma's approbation, his eyes burning with satisfaction, and his
excited face gave Yozhov still more inspiration, and he cried and
roared ever louder and louder, now falling on the lounge from
exhaustion, now jumping up again and rushing toward Foma.

"Come, now, read about me!" exclaimed Foma, longing to hear
it.Yozhov rummaged among a pile of papers, tore out one sheet,
and holding it in both hands, stopped in front of Foma, with his
legs straddled wide apart, while Foma leaned back in the broken-
seated armchair and listened with a smile.

The notice about Foma started with a description of the spree on
the rafts, and during the reading of the notice Foma felt that
certain particular words stung him like mosquitoes. His face
became more serious, and he bent his head in gloomy silence. And
the mosquitoes went on multiplying.

"Now that's too much! "said he, at length, confused and
dissatisfied. "Surely you cannot gain the favour of God merely
because you know how to disgrace a man."

"Keep quiet! Wait awhile!" said Yozhov, curtly, and went on
reading.

Having established in his article that the merchant rises beyond
doubt above the representatives of other classes of society in
the matter of nuisance and scandal-making, Yozhov asked: "Why is
this so?" and replied:

"It seems to me that this predilection for wild pranks comes from
the lack of culture in so far as it is dependent upon the excess
of energy and upon idleness. There cannot be any doubt that our
merchant class, with but few exceptions, is the healthiest and,
at the same time, most inactive class."

"That's true!" exclaimed Foma, striking the table with his fist.
"That's true! I have the strength of a bull and do the work of a
sparrow."

"Where is the merchant to spend his energy? He cannot spend much
of it on the Exchange, so he squanders the excess of his muscular
capital in drinking-bouts in kabaky; for he has no conception of
other applications of his strength, which are more productive,
more valuable to life. He is still a beast, and life has already
become to him a cage, and it is too narrow for him with his
splendid health and predilection for licentiousness. Hampered by
culture he at once starts to lead a dissolute life. The debauch
of a merchant is always the revolt of a captive beast. Of course
this is bad. But, ah! it will be worse yet, when this beast, in
addition to his strength, shall have gathered some sense and
shall have disciplined it. Believe me, even then he will not
cease to create scandals, but they will be historical events.
Heaven deliver us from such events! For they will emanate from
the merchant's thirst for power; their aim will be the
omnipotence of one class, and the merchant will not be particular
about the means toward the attainment of this aim.

"Well, what do you say, is it true?" asked Yozhov, when he had
finished reading the newspaper, and thrown it aside.

"I don't understand the end," replied Foma. "And as to strength,
that is true! Where am I to make use of my strength since there
is no demand for it! I ought to fight with robbers, or turn a
robber myself. In general I ought to do something big. And that
should be done not with the head, but with the arms and the
breast. While here we have to go to the Exchange and try to aim
well to make a rouble. What do we need it for? And what is it,
anyway? Has life been arranged in this form forever? What sort of
life is it, if everyone is grieved and finds it too narrow for
him? Life ought to be according to the taste of man. If it is
narrow for me, I must move it asunder that I may have more room.
I must break it and reconstruct it. But nod? That's where the
trouble lies! What ought to be done that life may be freer? That
I do not understand, and that's all there is to it."

"Yes!" drawled out Yozhov. "So that's where you've gone! That,
dear, is a good thing! Ah, you ought to study a little! How are
you about books? Do you read any?"

"No, I don't care for them. I haven't read any."

"That's just why you don't care for them.""I am even afraid to
read them. I know one--a certain girl--it's worse than drinking
with her! And what sense is there in books? One man imagines
something and prints it, and others read it. If it is
interesting, it's all right. But learn from a book how to live!--
that is something absurd. It was written by man, not by God, and
what laws and examples can man establish for himself?"

"And how about the Gospels? Were they not written by men?"

"Those were apostles. Now there are none."

"Good, your refutation is sound! It is true, dear, there are no
apostles. Only the Judases remained, and miserable ones at that."

Foma felt very well, for he saw that Yozhov was attentively
listening to his words and seemed to be weighing each and every
word he uttered. Meeting such bearing toward him for the first
time in his life, Foma unburdened himself boldly and freely
before his friend, caring nothing for the choice of words, and
feeling that he would be understood because Yozhov wanted to
understand him.

"You are a curious fellow!" said Yozhov, about two days after
their meeting. "And though you speak with difficulty, one feels
that there is a great deal in you--great daring of heart! If you
only knew a little about the order of life! Then you would speak
loud enough, I think. Yes!"

"But you cannot wash yourself clean with words, nor can you then
free yourself," remarked Foma, with a sigh. "You have said
something about people who pretend that they know everything, and
can do everything. I also know such people. My godfather, for
instance. It would be a good thing to set out against them, to
convict them; they're a pretty dangerous set!"

"I cannot imagine, Foma, how you will get along in life if you
preserve within you that which you now have," said Yozhov,
thoughtfully.

"It's very hard. I lack steadfastness. Of a sudden I could
perhaps do something. I understand very well that life is
difficult and narrow for every one of us. I know that my
godfather sees that, too! But he profits by this narrowness. He
feels well in it; he is sharp as a needle, and he'll make his way
wherever he pleases. But I am a big, heavy man, that's why I am
suffocating! That's why I live in fetters. I could free myself
from everything with a single effort: just to move my body with
all my strength, and then all the fetters will burst!"

"And what then?" asked Yozhov.

"Then?" Foma became pensive, and, after a moment's thought, waved
his hand. "I don't know what will be then. I shall see!"

"We shall see!" assented Yozhov.

He was given to drink, this little man who was scalded by life.
His day began thus: in the morning at his tea he looked over the
local newspapers and drew from the news notices material for his
feuilleton, which he wrote right then and there on the corner of
the table. Then he ran to the editorial office, where he made up
"Provincial Pictures" out of clippings from country newspapers.
On Friday he had to write his Sunday feuilleton. For all they
paid him a hundred and twenty-five roubles a month; he worked
fast, and devoted all his leisure time to the "survey and study
of charitable institutions." Together with Foma he strolled about
the clubs, hotels and taverns till late at night, drawing
material everywhere for his articles, which he called "brushes
for the cleansing of the conscience of society." The censor he
styled as superintendent of the diffusion of truth and
righteousness in life," the newspaper he called "the go-between,
engaged in introducing the reader to dangerous ideas," and his
own work, "the sale of a soul in retail," and "an inclination to
audacity against holy institutions."

Foma could hardly make out when Yozhov jested and when he was in
earnest. He spoke of everything enthusiastically and
passionately, he condemned everything harshly, and Foma liked it.
But often, beginning to argue enthusiastically, he refuted and
contradicted himself with equal enthusiasm or wound up his speech
with some ridiculous turn. Then it appeared to Foma that that man
loved nothing, that nothing was firmly rooted within him, that
nothing guided him. Only when speaking of himself he talked in a
rather peculiar voice, and the more impassioned he was in
speaking of himself, the more merciless and enraged was he in
reviling everything and everybody. And his relation toward Foma
was dual; sometimes he gave him courage and spoke to him hotly,
quivering in every limb.

"Go ahead! Refute and overthrow everything you can! Push forward
with all your might. There is nothing more valuable than man,
know this! Cry at the top of your voice: 'Freedom! Freedom!"

But when Foma, warmed up by the glowing sparks of these words,
began to dream of how he should start to refute and overthrow
people who, for the sake of personal profit, do not want to
broaden life, Yozhov would often cut him short:

"Drop it! You cannot do anything! People like you are not needed.
Your time, the time of the strong but not clever, is past, my
dear! You are too late! There is no place for you in life."

"No? You are lying!" cried Foma, irritated by contradiction.

"Well, what can you accomplish?"

"I?"

"You!"

"Why, I can kill you!" said Foma, angrily, clenching his fist.

"Eh, you scarecrow!" said Yozhov, convincingly and pitifully,
with a shrug of the shoulder. "Is there anything in that? Why, I
am anyway half dead already from my wounds."

And suddenly inflamed with melancholy malice, he stretched
himself and said:

"My fate has wronged me. Why have I lowered myself, accepting the
sops of the public? Why have I worked like a machine for twelve
years in succession in order to study? Why have I swallowed for
twelve long years in the Gymnasium and the University the dry and
tedious trash and the contradictory nonsense which is absolutely
useless to me? In order to become feuilleton-writer, to play the
clown from day to day, entertaining the public and convincing
myself that that is necessary and useful to them. Where is the
powder of my youth? I have fired off all the charge of my soul at
three copecks a shot. What faith have I acquired for myself? Only
faith in the fact that everything in this life is worthless, that
everything must be broken, destroyed. What do I love? Myself. And
I feel that the object of my love does not deserve my love. What
can I accomplish?"

He almost wept, and kept on scratching his breast and his neck
with his thin, feeble hands.

But sometimes he was seized with a flow of courage, and then he
spoke in a different spirit:

"I? Oh, no, my song is not yet sung to the end! My breast has
imbibed something, and I'll hiss like a whip! Wait, I'll drop the
newspaper, I'll start to do serious work, and write one small
book, which I will entitle 'The Passing of the Soul'; there is a
prayer by that name, it is read for the dying. And before its
death this society, cursed by the anathema of inward impotence,
will receive my book like incense."

Listening to each and every word of his, watching him and
comparing his remarks, Foma saw that Yozhov was just as weak as
he was, that he, too, had lost his way. But Yozhov's mood still
infected Foma, his speeches enriched Foma's vocabulary, and
sometimes he noticed with joyous delight how cleverly and
forcibly he had himself expressed this or that idea. He often met
in Yozhov's house certain peculiar people, who, it seemed to him,
knew everything, understood everything, contradicted everything,
and saw deceit and falsehood in everything. He watched them in
silence, listened to their words; their audacity pleased him, but
he was embarrassed and repelled by their condescending and
haughty bearing toward him. And then he clearly saw that in
Yozhov's room they were all cleverer and better than they were in
the street and in the hotels. They held peculiar conversations,
words and gestures for use in the room, and all this was changed
outside the room, into the most commonplace and human. Sometimes,
in the room, they all blazed up like a huge woodpile, and Yozhov
was the brightest firebrand among them; but the light of this
bonfire illuminated but faintly the obscurity of Foma Gordyeeff's
soul.

One day Yozhov said to him:

"Today we will carouse! Our compositors have formed a union, and
they are going to take all the work from the publisher on a
contract. There will be some drinking on this account, and I am
invited. It was I who advised them to do it. Let us go? You will
give them a good treat."

"Very well!" said Foma, to whom it was immaterial with whom he
passed the time, which was a burden to him.

In the evening of that day Foma and Yozhov sat in the company of
rough-faced people, on the outskirts of a grove, outside the
town. There were twelve compositors there, neatly dressed; they
treated Yozhov simply, as a comrade, and this somewhat surprised
and embarrassed Foma, in whose eyes Yozhov was after all
something of a master or superior to them, while they were really
only his servants. They did not seem to notice Gordyeeff,
although, when Yozhov introduced Foma to them, they shook hands
with him and said that they were glad to see him. He lay down
under a hazel-bush, and watched them all, feeling himself a
stranger in this company, and noticing that even Yozhov seemed to
have got away from him deliberately, and was paying but little
attention to him. He perceived something strange about Yozhov;
the little feuilleton-writer seemed to imitate the tone and the
speech of the compositors. He bustled about with them at the
woodpile, uncorked bottles of beer, cursed, laughed loudly and
tried his best to resemble them. He was even dressed more simply
than usual.

"Eh, brethren!" he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. "I feel well with
you! I'm not a big bird, either. I am only the son of the
courthouse guard, and noncommissioned officer, Matvey Yozhov!"

"Why does he say that?" thought Foma. "What difference does it
make whose son a man is? A man is not respected on account of his
father, but for his brains."

The sun was setting like a huge bonfire in the sky, tinting the
clouds with hues of gold and of blood. Dampness and silence were
breathed from the forest, while at its outskirts dark human
figures bustled about noisily. One of them, short and lean, in a
broad-brimmed straw hat, played the accordion; another one, with
dark moustache and with his cap on the back of his head, sang an
accompaniment softly. Two others tugged at a stick, testing their
strength. Several busied themselves with the basket containing
beer and provisions; a tall man with a grayish beard threw
branches on the fire, which was enveloped in thick, whitish
smoke. The damp branches, falling on the fire, crackled and
rustled plaintively, and the accordion teasingly played a lively
tune, while the falsetto of the singer reinforced and completed
its loud tones.

Apart from them all, on the brink of a small ravine, lay three
young fellows, and before them stood Yozhov, who spoke in a
ringing voice:

"You bear the sacred banner of labour. And I, like yourselves, am
a private soldier in the same army. We all serve Her Majesty, the
Press. And we must live in firm, solid friendship."

"That's true, Nikolay Matveyich!" some one's thick voice
interrupted him. "And we want to ask you to use your influence
with the publisher! Use your influence with him! Illness and
drunkenness cannot be treated as one and the same thing. And,
according to his system, it comes out thus; if one of us gets
drunk he is fined to the amount of his day's earnings; if he
takes sick the same is done. We ought to be permitted to present
the doctor's certificate, in case of sickness, to make it
certain; and he, to be just, ought to pay the substitute at least
half the wages of the sick man. Otherwise, it is hard for us.
What if three of us should suddenly be taken sick at once?"

"Yes; that is certainly reasonable," assented Yozhov. "But, my
friends, the principle of cooperation--"

Foma ceased listening to the speech of his friend, for his
attention was diverted by the conversation of others. Two men
were talking; one was a tall consumptive, poorly dressed and
angry-looking man; the other a fair-haired and fair-bearded young
man.

"In my opinion," said the tall man sternly, and coughing, "it is
foolish! How can men like us marry? There will be children. Do we
have enough to support them? The wife must be clothed--and then
you can't tell what sort of a woman you may strike."

"She's a fine girl," said the fair-haired man, softly. "Well,
it's now that she is fine. A betrothed girl is one thing, a wife
quite another. But that isn't the main point. You can try--
perhaps she will really be good. But then you'll be short of
means. You will kill yourself with work, and you will ruin her,
too. Marriage is an impossible thing for us. Do you mean to say
that we can support a family on such earnings? Here, you see, I
have only been married four years, and my end is near. I have
seen no joy--nothing but worry and care."

He began to cough, coughed for a long time, with a groan, and
when he had ceased, he said to his comrade in a choking voice:

"Drop it, nothing will come of it!"

His interlocutor bent his head mournfully, while Foma thought:

"He speaks sensibly. It's evident he can reason well."

The lack of attention shown to Foma somewhat offended him and
aroused in him at the same time a feeling of respect for these
men with dark faces impregnated with lead-dust. Almost all of
them were engaged in practical serious conversation, and their
remarks were studded with certain peculiar words. None of them
fawned upon him, none bothered him with ov, with his back to the
fire, and he saw before him a row of brightly illuminated,
cheerful and simple faces. They were all excited from drinking,
but were not yet intoxicated; they laughed, jested, tried to
sing, drank, and ate cucumbers, white bread and sausages. All
this had for Foma a particularly pleasant flavour; he grew
bolder, seized by the general good feeling, and he longed to say
something good to these people, to please them all in some way or
other. Yozhov, sitting by his side, moved about on the ground,
jostled him with his shoulder and, shaking his head, muttered
something indistinctly.

Brethren!" shouted the stout fellow. "Let's strike up the student
song. Well, one, two!"

"Swift as the waves,"

Someone roared in his bass voice:

"Are the days of our life."

"Friends!" said Yozhov, rising to his feet, a glass in his hand.
He staggered, and leaned his other hand against Foma's head. The
started song was broken off, and all turned their heads toward
him.

"Working men! Permit me to say a few words, words from the heart.
I am happy in your company! I feel well in your midst. That is
because you are men of toil, men whose right to happiness is not
subject to doubt, although it is not recognised. In your
ennobling midst, 0h honest people, the lonely man, who is
poisoned by life, breathes so easily, so freely."

Yozhov's voice quivered and quaked, and his head began to shake.
Foma felt that something warm trickled down on his hand, and he
looked up at the wrinkled face of Yozhov, who went on speaking,
trembling in every limb:

"I am not the only one. There are many like myself, intimidated
by fate, broken and suffering. We are more unfortunate than you
are, because we are weaker both in body and in soul, but we are
stronger than you because we are armed with knowledge, which we
have no opportunity to apply. We are gladly ready to come to you
and resign ourselves to you and help you to live. There is
nothing else for us to do! Without you we are without ground to
stand on; without us, you are without light! Comrades! we were
created by Fate itself to complete one another!"

"What does he beg of them?" thought Foma, listening to Yozhov's
words with perplexity. And examining the faces of the compositors
he saw that they also looked at the orator inquiringly,
perplexedly, wearily.

"The future is yours, my friends!" said Yozhov, faintly, shaking
his head mournfully as though feeling sorry for the future, and
yielding to these people against his will the predominance over
it. "The future belongs to the men of honest toil. You have a
great task before you! You have to create a new culture,
everything free, vital and bright! I, who am one of you in flesh
and in spirit; who am the son of a soldier; I propose a toast to
your future! Hurrah!"

Yozhov emptied his glass and sank heavily to the ground. The
compositors unanimously took up his broken exclamation, and a
powerful, thundering shout rolled through the air, causing the
leaves on the trees to tremble.

"Let's start a song now," proposed the stout fellow again.

"Come on!" chimed in two or three voices. A noisy dispute ensued
as to what to sing. Yozhov listened to the noise, and, turning
his head from one side to another, scrutinized them all.

"Brethren," Yozhov suddenly cried again, "answer me. Say a few
words in reply to my address of welcome."

Again--though not at once--all became silent, some looking at him
with curiosity, others concealing a grin, still others with an
expression of dissatisfaction plainly written on their faces. And
he again rose from the ground and said, hotly:

"Two of us here are cast away by life--I and that other one. We
both desire the same regard for man and the happiness of feeling
ourselves useful unto others. Comrades! And that big, stupid man-
-"

"Nikolay Matveyich, you had better not insult our guest!" said
someone in a deep, displeased voice.

"Yes, that's unnecessary," affirmed the stout fellow, who had
invited Foma to the fireside. "Why use offensive language?"

A third voice rang out loudly and distinctly:

"We have come together to enjoy ourselves--to take a rest."

"Fools!" laughed Yozhov, faintly. "Kind-hearted fools! Do you
pity him? But do you know who he is? He is of those people who
suck your blood."

"That will do, Nikolay Matveyich!" they cried to Yozhov. And all
began to talk, paying no further attention to him. Foma felt so
sorry for his friend that he did not even take offence. He saw
that these people who defended him from Yozhov's attacks were now
purposely ignoring the feuilleton-writer, and he understood that
this would pain Yozhov if he were to notice it. And in order to
take his friend away from possible unpleasantness, he nudged him
in the side and said, with a kind-hearted laugh:

"Well, you grumbler, shall we have a drink? Or is it time to go
home?"

"Home? Where is the home of the man who has no place among men?"
asked Yozhov, and shouted again: "Comrades!"

Unanswered, his shout was drowned in the general murmur. Then he
drooped his head and said to Foma:

"Let's go from here."

"Let's go. Though I don't mind sitting a little longer. It's
interesting. They behave so nobly, the devils. By God!"

"I can't bear it any longer. I feel cold. I am suffocating."

"Well, come then."

Foma rose to his feet, removed his cap, and, bowing to the
compositors, said loudly and cheerfully:

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your hospitality! Good-bye!"

They immediately surrounded him and spoke to him persuasively:

"Stay here! Where are you going? We might sing all together, eh?"

"No, I must go, it would be disagreeable to my friend to go
alone. I am going to escort him. I wish you a jolly feast!"

"Eh, you ought to wait a little!" exclaimed the stout fellow, and
then whispered:

"Some one will escort him home!"

The consumptive also remarked in a low voice:

"You stay here. We'll escort him to town, and get him into a cab
and--there you are!"

Foma felt like staying there, and at the same time was afraid of
something. While Yozhov rose to his feet, and, clutching at the
sleeves of his overcoat, muttered:

"Come, the devil take them!"

"Till we meet again, gentlemen! I'm going!" said Foma and
departed amid exclamations of polite regret.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Yozhov burst out laughing when he had got about
twenty steps away from the fire. "They see us off with sorrow,
but they are glad that I am going away. I hindered them from
turning into beasts."

"It's true, you did disturb them," said Foma. "Why do you make
such speeches? People have come out to enjoy themselves, and you
obtrude yourself upon them. That bores them!"

"Keep quiet! You don't understand anything!" cried Yozhov,
harshly. "You think I am drunk? It's my body that is intoxicated,
but my soul is sober, it is always sober; it feels everything.
Oh, how much meanness there is in the world, how much stupidity
and wretchedness! And men--these stupid, miserable men."

Yozhov paused, and, clasping his head with his hands, stood for
awhile, staggering.

"Yes!" drawled out Foma. "They are very much unlike one another.
Now these men, how polite they are, like gentlemen. And they
reason correctly, too, and all that sort of thing. They have
common sense. Yet they are only labourers."

In the darkness behind them the men struck up a powerful choral
song. Inharmonious at first, it swelled and grew until it rolled
in a huge, powerful wave through the invigorating nocturnal air,
above the deserted field.

"My God!" said Yozhov, sadly and softly, heaving a sigh. "Whereby
are we to live? Whereon fasten our soul? Who shall quench its
thirsts for friendship brotherhood, love, for pure and sacred
toil?"

"These simple people," said Foma, slowly and pensively, without
listening to his companion s words, absorbed as he was in his own
thoughts, "if one looks into these people, they're not so bad!
It's even very--it is interesting. Peasants, labourers, to look
at them plainly, they are just like horses. They carry burdens,
they puff and blow."

"They carry our life on their backs," exclaimed Yozhov with
irritation. "They carry it like horses, submissively, stupidly.
And this submissiveness of theirs is our misfortune, our curse!"

And Foma, carried away by his own thought, argued:

"They carry burdens, they toil all their life long for mere
trifles. And suddenly they say something that wouldn't come into
your mind in a century. Evidently they feel. Yes, it is
interesting to be with them."

Staggering, Yozhov walked in silence for a long time, and
suddenly he waved his hand in the air and began to declaim in a
dull, choking voice, which sounded as though it issued from his
stomach:

"Life has cruelly deceived me,
I have suffered so much pain."

"These, dear boy, are my own verses," said he, stopping short and
nodding his head mournfully. "How do they run? I've forgotten.
There is something there about dreams, about sacred and pure
longings, which are smothered within my breast by the vapour of
life. Oh!"

"The buried dreams within my breast
Will never rise again."

"Brother! You are happier than I, because you are stupid. While
I--"

"Don't be rude!" said Foma, irritated. "You would better listen
how they are singing."

"I don't want to listen to other people's songs," said Yozhov,
with a shake of the head. "I have my own, it is the song of a
soul rent in pieces by life."

And he began to wail in a wild voice:

The buried dreams within my breast
Will never rise again. . .
How great their number is!"

"There was a whole flower garden of bright, living dreams and
hopes. They perished, withered and perished. Death is within my
heart. The corpses of my dreams are rotting there. Oh! oh!"

Yozhov burst into tears, sobbing like a woman. Foma pitied him,
and felt uncomfortable with him. He jerked at his shoulder
impatiently, and said:

"Stop crying! Come, how weak you are, brother!" Clasping his head
in his hand Yozhov straightened up his stooping frame, made an
effort and started again mournfully and wildly:

"How great their number is!
Their sepulchre how narrow!
I clothed them all in shrouds of rhyme
And many sad and solemn songs
O'er them I sang from time to time!"

"0h, Lord!" sighed Foma in despair. "Stop that, for Christ's
sake! By God, how sad!"

In the distance the loud choral song was rolling through the
darkness and the silence. Some one was whistling, keeping time to
the refrain, and this shrill sound, which pierced the ear, ran
ahead of the billow of powerful voices. Foma looked in that
direction and saw the tall, black wall of forest, the bright
fiery spot of the bonfire shining upon it, and the misty figures
surrounding the fire. The wall of forest was like a breast, and
the fire like a bloody wound in it. It seemed as though the
breast was trembling, as the blood coursed down in burning
streams. Embraced in dense gloom from all sides the people seemed
on the background of the forest, like little children; they, too,
seemed to burn, illuminated by the blaze of the bonfire. They
waved their hands and sang their songs loudly, powerfully.

And Yozhov, standing beside Foma, spoke excitedly:

"You hard-hearted blockhead! Why do you repulse me? You ought to
listen to the song of the dying soul, and weep over it, for, why
was it wounded, why is it dying? Begone from me, begone! You
think I am drunk? I am poisoned, begone!"

Without lifting his eyes off the forest and the fire, so
beautiful in the darkness, Foma made a few steps aside from
Yozhov and said to him in a low voice:

"Don't play the fool. Why do you abuse me at random?"

"I want to remain alone, and finish singing my song."

Staggering, he, too, moved aside from Foma, and after a few
seconds again exclaimed in a sobbing voice:

"My song is done! And nevermore
Shall I disturb their sleep of death,
Oh Lord, 0h Lord, repose my soul!
For it is hopeless in its wounds,
Oh Lord, repose my soul."

Foma shuddered at the sounds of their gloomy wailing, and he
hurried after Yozhov; but before he overtook him the little
feuilleton-writer uttered a hysterical shriek, threw himself
chest down upon the ground and burst out sobbing plaintively and
softly, even as sickly children cry.

"Nikolay!" said Foma, lifting him by the shoulders. "Cease
crying; what's the matter? 0h Lord. Nikolay! Enough, aren't you
ashamed?"

But Yozhov was not ashamed; he struggled on the ground, like a
fish just taken from the water, and when Foma had lifted him to
his feet, he pressed close to Foma's breast, clasping his sides
with his thin arms, and kept on sobbing.

"Well, that's enough!" said Foma, with his teeth tightly
clenched. "Enough, dear."

And agitated by the suffering of the man who was wounded by the
narrowness of life, filled with wrath on his account, he turned
his face toward the gloom where the lights of the town were
glimmering, and, in an outburst of wrathful grief, roared in a
deep, loud voice:

"A-a-ana-thema! Be cursed! Just wait. You, too, shall choke! Be
cursed!"

CHAPTER XI

"LUBAVKA!" said Mayakin one day when he came home from the
Exchange, "prepare yourself for this evening. I am going to bring
you a bridegroom! Prepare a nice hearty little lunch for us. Put
out on the table as much of our old silverware as possible, also
bring out the fruit-vases, so that he is impressed by our table!
Let him see that each and everything we have is a rarity!"

Lubov was sitting by the window darning her father's socks, and
her head was bent low over her work.

"What is all this for, papa?" she asked, dissatisfied and
offended.

"Why, for sauce, for flavour. And then, it's in due order. For a
girl is not a horse; you can't dispose of her without the
harness."

All aflush with offence, Lubov tossed her head nervously, and
flinging her work aside, cast a glance at her father; and, taking
up the socks again, she bent her head still lower over them. The
old man paced the room to and fro, plucking at his fiery beard
with anxiety; his eyes stared somewhere into the distance, and it
was evident that he was all absorbed in some great complicated
thought. The girl understood that he would not listen to her and
would not care to comprehend how degrading his words were for
her. Her romantic dreams of a husband-friend, an educated man,
who would read with her wise books and help her to find herself
in her confused desires, these dreams were stifled by her
father's inflexible resolution to marry her to Smolin. They had
been killed and had become decomposed, settling down as a bitter
sediment in her soul. She had been accustomed to looking upon
herself as better and higher than the average girl of the
merchant class, than the empty and stupid girl who thinks of
nothing but dresses, and who marries almost always according to
the calculation of her parents, and but seldom in accordance with
the free will of her heart. And now she herself is about to marry
merely because it was time, and also because her father needed a
son-in-law to succeed him in his business. And her father
evidently thought that she, by herself, was hardly capable of
attracting the attention of a man, and therefore adorned her with
silver. Agitated, she worked nervously, pricked her fingers,
broke needles, but maintained silence, being aware that whatever
she should say would not reach her father's heart.

And the old man kept on pacing the room to and fro, now humming
psalms softly, now impressively instructing his daughter how to
behave with the bridegroom. And then he also counted something on
his fingers, frowned and smiled.

"Mm! So! Try me, 0h Lord, and judge me. From the unjust and the
false man, deliver me. Yes! Put on your mother's emeralds,
Lubov."

"Enough, papa!" exclaimed the girl, sadly. "Pray, leave that
alone."

"Don't you kick! Listen to what I'm telling you."

And he was again absorbed in his calculations, snapping his green
eyes and playing with his fingers in front of his face.

"That makes thirty-five percent. Mm! The fellow's a rogue. Send
down thy light and thy truth."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, mournfully and with fright.

"What?"

"You--are you pleased with him?"

"With whom?

"Smolin."

"Smolin? Yes, he's a rogue, he's a clever fellow, a splendid
merchant! Well, I'm off now. So be on your guard, arm yourself."

When Lubov remained alone she flung her work aside and leaned
against the back of her chair, closing her eyes tightly. Her
hands firmly clasped together lay on her knees, and their fingers
twitched. Filled with the bitterness of offended vanity, she felt
an alarming fear of the future, and prayed in silence:

"My God! 0h Lord! If he were only a kind man! Make him kind,
sincere. 0h Lord! A strange man comes, examines you, and takes
you unto himself for years, if you please him! How disgraceful
that is, how terrible. 0h Lord, my God! If I could only run away!
If I only had someone to advise me what to do! Who is he? How can
I learn to know him? I cannot do anything! And I have thought,
ah, how much I have thought! I have read. To what purpose have I
read? Why should I know that it is possible to live otherwise, so
as I cannot live? And it may be that were it not for the books my
life would be easier, simpler. How painful all this is! What a
wretched, unfortunate being I am! Alone. If Taras at least were
here."

At the recollection of her brother she felt still more grieved,
still more sorry for herself. She had written to Taras a long,
exultant letter, in which she had spoken of her love for him, of
her hope in him; imploring her brother to come as soon as
possible to see his father, she had pictured to him plans of
arranging to live together, assuring Taras that their father was
extremely clever and understood everything; she told about his
loneliness, had gone into ecstasy over his aptitude for life and
had, at the same time, complained of his attitude toward her.

For two weeks she impatiently expected a reply, and when she had
received and read it she burst out sobbing for joy and
disenchantment. The answer was dry and short; in it Taras said
that within a month he would be on the Volga on business and
would not fail to call on his father, if the old man really had
no objection to it. The letter was cold, like a block of ice;
with tears in her eyes she perused it over and over again,
rumpled it, creased it, but it did not turn warmer on this
account, it only became wet. From the sheet of stiff note paper
which was covered with writing in a large, firm hand, a wrinkled
and suspiciously frowning face, thin and angular like that of her
father, seemed to look at her.

On Yakov Tarasovich the letter of his son made a different
impression. On learning the contents of Taras's reply the old man
started and hastily turned to his daughter with animation and
with a peculiar smile:

"Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise
men write. Where are my spectacles? Mm! 'Dear sister!' Yes."

The old man became silent; he read to himself the message of his
son, put it on the table, and, raising his eyebrows, silently
paced the room to and fro, with an expression of amazement on his
countenance. Then he read the letter once more, thoughtfully
tapped the table with his fingers and spoke:

"That letter isn't bad--it is sound, without any unnecessary
words. Well? Perhaps the man has really grown hardened in the
cold. The cold is severe there. Let him come, we'll take a look
at him. It's interesting. Yes. In the psalm of David concerning
the mysteries of his son it is said: 'When Thou hast returned my
enemy'--I've forgotten how it reads further. 'My enemy's weapons
have weakened in the end, and his memory hath perished amid
noise. Well, we'll talk it over with him without noise.

The old man tried to speak calmly and with a contemptuous smile,
but the smile did not come; his wrinkles quivered irritably, and
his small eyes had a particularly clear brilliancy.

"Write to him again, Lubovka. 'Come along!' write him, 'don't be
afraid to come!'"

Lubov wrote Taras another letter, but this time it was shorter
and more reserved, and now she awaited a reply from day to day,
attempting to picture to herself what sort of man he must be,
this mysterious brother of hers. Before she used to think of him
with sinking heart, with that solemn respect with which believers
think of martyrs, men of upright life; now she feared him, for he
had acquired the right to be judge over men and life at the price
of painful sufferings, at the cost of his youth, which was ruined
in exile. On coming, he would ask her:

"You are marrying of your own free will, for love, are you not?"

What should she tell him? Would he forgive her faint-heartedness?
And why does she marry? Can it really be possible that this is
all she can do in order to change her life?

Gloomy thoughts sprang up one after another in the head of the
girl and confused and tortured her, impotent as she was to set up
against them some definite, all-conquering desire. Though she was
in an anxious and  compressing her lips. Smolin rose from his
chair, made a step toward her and bowed respectfully. She was
rather pleased with this low and polite bow, also with the costly
frock coat, which fitted Smolin's supple figure splendidly. He
had changed but slightly--he was the same red-headed, closely-
cropped, freckled youth; only his moustache had become long, and
his eyes seemed to have grown larger.

"Now he's changed, eh?" exclaimed Mayakin to his daughter,
pointing at the bridegroom. And Smolin shook hands with her, and
smiling, said in a ringing baritone voice:

"I venture to hope that you have not forgotten your old friend?"

It's all right! You can talk of this later," said the old man,
scanning his daughter with his eyes.

"Lubova, you can make your arrangements here, while we finish our
little conversation. Well then, African Mitrich, explain
yourself."

"You will pardon me, Lubov Yakovlevna, won't you?" asked Smolin,
gently.

"Pray do not stand upon ceremony," said Lubov. "He's polite and
clever," she remarked to herself; and, as she walked about in the
room from the table to the sideboard, she began to listen
attentively to Smolin's words. He spoke softly, confidently, with
a simplicity, in which was felt condescendence toward the
interlocutor. "Well then, for four years I have carefully studied
the condition of Russian leather in foreign markets. It's a sad
and horrid condition! About thirty years ago our leather was
considered there as the standard, while now the demand for it is
constantly falling off, and, of course, the price goes hand in
hand with it. And that is perfectly natural. Lacking the capital
and knowledge all these small leather producers are not able to
raise their product to the proper standard, and, at the same
time, to reduce the price. Their goods are extremely bad and
dear. And they are all to blame for having spoiled Russia's
reputation as manufacturer of the best leather. In general, the
petty producer, lacking the technical knowledge and capital, is
consequently placed in a position where he is unable to improve
his products in proportion to the development of the technical
side. Such a producer is a misfortune for the country, the
parasite of her commerce."

"Hm!" bellowed the old man, looking at his guest with one eye,
and watching his daughter with the other. "So that now your
intention is to build such a great factory that all the others
will go to the dogs?"

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Smolin, warding off the old man's words with
an easy wave of the hand. "Why wrong others? What right have I to
do so? My aim is to raise the importance and price of Russian
leather abroad, and so equipped with the knowledge as to the
manufacture, I am building a model factory, and fill the markets
with model goods. The commercial honour of the country!"

"Does it require much capital, did you say?" asked Mayakin,
thoughtfully.

"About three hundred thousand."

"Father won't give me such a dowry," thought Lubov.

"My factory will also turn out leather goods, such as trunks,
foot-wear, harnesses, straps and so forth."

"And of what per cent, are you dreaming?"

"I am not dreaming, I am calculating with all the exactness
possible under conditions in Russia," said Smolin, impressively.
"The manufacturer should be as strictly practical as the mechanic
who is creating a machine. The friction of the tiniest screw must
be taken into consideration, if you wish to do a serious thing
seriously. I can let you read a little note which I have drawn
up, based upon my personal study of cattle-breeding and of the
consumption of meat in Russia."

"How's that!" laughed Mayakin. "Bring me that note, it's
interesting! It seems you did not spend your time for nothing in
Western Europe. And now, let's eat something, after the Russian
fashion."

"How are you passing the time, Lubov Yakovlevna?" asked Smolin,
arming himself with knife and fork.

"She is rather lonesome here with me," replied Mayakin for his
daughter. "My housekeeper, all the household is on her shoulders,
so she has no time to amuse herself."

"And no place, I must add," said Lubov. "I am not fond of the
balls and entertainments given by the merchants."

"And the theatre?" asked Smolin.

"I seldom go there. I have no one to go with."

"The theatre!" exclaimed the old man. "Tell me, pray, why has it
become the fashion then to represent the merchant as a savage
idiot? It is very amusing, but it is incomprehensible, because it
is false! Am I a fool, if I am master in the City Council, master
in commerce, and also owner of that same theatre? You look at the
merchant on the stage and you see--he isn't life-life! Of course,
when they present something historical, such as: 'Life for the
Czar,' with song and dance, or 'Hamlet,' 'The Sorceress,' or
'Vasilisa,' truthful reproduction is not required, because
they're matters of the past and don't concern us. Whether true or
not, it matters little so long as they're good, but when you
represent modern times, then don't lie! And show the man as he
really is."

Smolin listened to the old man's words with a covetous smile on
his lips, and cast at Lubov glances which seemed to invite her to
refute her father. Somewhat embarrassed, she said:

"And yet, papa, the majority of the merchant class is uneducated
and savage."

"Yes," remarked Smolin with regret, nodding his head
affirmatively, "that is the sad truth."

"Take Foma, for instance," went on the girl.

"0h!" exclaimed Mayakin. "Well, you are young folks, you can have
books in your hands."

"And do you not take interest in any of the societies?" Smolin
asked Lubov. "You have so many different societies here."

"Yes," said Lubov with a sigh, "but I live rather apart from
everything."

"Housekeeping!" interposed the father. "We have here such a store
of different things, everything has to be kept clean, in order,
and complete as to number."

With a self-satisfied air he nodded first at the table, which was
set with brilliant crystal and silverware, and then at the
sideboard, whose shelves were fairly breaking under the weight of
the articles, and which reminded one of the display in a store
window. Smolin noted all these and an ironical smile began to
play upon his lips. Then he glanced at Lubov's face: in his look
she caught something friendly, sympathetic to her. A faint flush
covered her cheeks, and she said to herself with timid joy:

"Thank God!"

The light of the heavy bronze lamp now seemed to flash more
brilliantly on the sides of the crystal vases, and it became
brighter in the room.

"I like our dear old town!" said Smolin, looking at the girl with
a kindly smile, "it is so beautiful, so vigorous; there is
cheerfulness about it that inspires one to work. Its very
picturesqueness is somewhat stimulating. In it one feels like
leading a dashing life. One feels like working much and
seriously. And then, it is an intelligent town. Just see what a
practical newspaper is published here. By the way, we intend to
purchase it."

"Whom do you mean by You?" asked Mayakin.

"I, Urvantzov, Shchukin--"

"That's praiseworthy!" said the old man, rapping the table with
his hand. "That's very practical! It is time to stop their
mouths, it was high time long ago! Particularly that Yozhov; he's
like a sharp-toothed saw. Just put the thumb-screw on him! And do
it well!"

Smolin again cast at Lubov a smiling glance, and her heart
trembled with joy once more. With flushing face she said to her
father, inwardly addressing herself to the bridegroom:

"As far as I can understand, African Dmitreivich, he wishes to
buy the newspaper not at all for the sake of stopping its mouth
as you say."

"What then can be done with it?" asked the old man, shrugging his
shoulders. "There's nothing in it but empty talk and agitation.
Of course, if the practical people, the merchants themselves,
take to writing for it--"

"The publication of a newspaper," began Smolin, instructively,
interrupting the old man, "looked at merely from the commercial
point of view, may be a very profitable enterprise. But aside
from this, a newspaper has another more important aim--that is,
to protect the right of the individual and the interests of
industry and commerce."

"That's just what I say, if the merchant himself will manage the
newspaper, then it will be useful."

"Excuse me, papa," said Lubov.

She began to feel the need of expressing herself before Smolin;
she wanted to assure him that she understood the meaning of his
words, that she was not an ordinary merchant-daughter, interested
in dresses and balls only. Smolin pleased her. This was the first
time she had seen a merchant who had lived abroad for a long
time, who reasoned so impressively, who bore himself so properly,
who was so well dressed, and who spoke to her father, the
cleverest man in town, with the condescending tone of an adult
towards a minor.

"After the wedding I'll persuade him to take me abroad," thought
Lubov, suddenly, and, confused at this thought she forgot what
she was about to say to her father. Blushing deeply, she was
silent for a few seconds, seized with fear lest Smolin might
interpret this silence in a way unflattering to her.

"On account of your conversation, you have forgotten to offer
some wine to our guest," she said at last, after a few seconds of
painful silence.

"That's your business. You are hostess," retorted the old man.

"0h, don't disturb yourself!" exclaimed Smolin, with animation.
"I hardly drink at all."

"Really?" asked Mayakin.

"I assure you! Sometimes I drink a wine glass or two in case of
fatigue or illness. But to drink wine for pleasure's sake is
incomprehensible to me. There are other pleasures more worthy of
a man of culture."

"You mean ladies, I suppose?" asked the old man with a wink.

Smolin's cheeks and neck became red with the colour which leaped
to his face. With apologetic eyes he glanced at Lubov, and said
to her father drily:

"I mean the theatre, books, music."

Lubov became radiant with joy at his words.

The old man looked askance at the worthy young man, smiled keenly
and suddenly blurted out:

"Eh, life is going onward! Formerly the dog used to relish a
crust, now the pug dog finds the cream too thin; pardon me for my
sour remark, but it is very much to the point. It does not
exactly refer to yourself, but in general."

Lubov turned pale and looked at Smolin with fright. He was calm,
scrutinising an ancient salt box, decorated with enamel; he
twisted his moustache and looked as though he had not heard the
old man's words. But his eyes grew darker, and his lips were
compressed very tightly, and his clean-shaven chin obstinately
projected forward.

"And so, my future leading manufacturer," said Mayakin, as though
nothing had happened, "three hundred thousand roubles, and your
business will flash up like a fire?"

"And within a year and a half I shall send out the first lot of
goods, which will be eagerly sought for," said Smolin, simply,
with unshakable confidence, and he eyed the old man with a cold
and firm look.

"So be it; the firm of Smolin and Mayakin, and that's all? So.
Only it seems rather late for me to start a new business, doesn't
it? I presume the grave has long been prepared for me; what do
you think of it?"

Instead of an answer Smolin burst into a rich, but indifferent
and cold laughter, and then said:

"Oh, don't say that."

The old man shuddered at his laughter, and started back with
fright, with a scarcely perceptible movement of his body. After
Smolin's words all three maintained silence for about a minute.

"Yes," said Mayakin, without lifting his head, which was bent
low. "It is necessary to think of that. I must think of it."
Then, raising his head, he closely scrutinised his daughter and
the bridegroom, and, rising from his chair, he said sternly and
brusquely: "I am going away for awhile to my little cabinet. You
surely won't feel lonesome without me."

And he went out with bent back and drooping head, heavily
scraping with his feet.

The young people, thus left alone, exchanged a few empty phrases,
and, evidently conscious that these only helped to remove them
further from each other, they maintained a painful, awkward and
expectant silence. Taking an orange, Lubov began to peel it with
exaggerated attention, while Smolin, lowering his eyes, examined
his moustaches, which he carefully stroked with his left hand,
toyed with a knife and suddenly asked the girl in a lowered
voice:

"Pardon me for my indiscretion. It is evidently really difficult
for you, Lubov Yakovlevna, to live with your father. He's a man
with old-fashioned views and, pardon me, he's rather hard-
hearted!"

Lubov shuddered, and, casting at the red-headed man a grateful
look, said:

"It isn't easy, but I have grown accustomed to it. He also has
his good qualities."

"Oh, undoubtedly! But to you who are so young, beautiful and
educated, to you with your views... You see, I have heard
something about you."

He smiled so kindly and sympathetically, and his voice was so
soft, a breath of soul-cheering warmth filled the room. And in
the heart of the girl there blazed up more and more brightly the
timid hope of finding happiness, of being freed from the close
captivity of solitude.

CHAPTER XII

A DENSE, grayish fog lay over the river, and a steamer, now and
then uttering a dull whistle, was slowly forging up against the
current. Damp and cold clouds, of a monotone pallor, enveloped
the steamer from all sides and drowned all sounds, dissolving
them in their troubled dampness. The brazen roaring of the
signals came out in a muffled, melancholy drone, and was oddly
brief as it burst forth from the whistle. The sound seemed to
find no place for itself in the air, which was soaked with heavy
dampness, and fell downward, wet and choked. And the splashing of
the steamer's wheels sounded so fantastically dull that it seemed
as though it were not begotten near by, at the sides of the
vessel, but somewhere in the depth, on the dark bottom of the
river. From the steamer one could see neither the water, nor the
shore, nor the sky; a leaden-gray gloominess enwrapped it on all
sides; devoid of shadings, painfully monotonous, the gloominess
was motionless, it oppressed the steamer with immeasurable
weight, slackened its movements and seemed as though preparing
itself to swallow it even as it was swallowing the sounds. In
spite of the dull blows of the paddles upon the water and the
measured shaking of the body of the vessel, it seemed that the
steamer was painfully struggling on one spot, suffocating in
agony, hissing like a fairy tale monster breathing his last,
howling in the pangs of death, howling with pain, and in the fear
of death.

Lifeless were the steamer lights. About the lantern on the mast a
yellow motionless spot had formed; devoid of lustre, it hung in
the fog over the steamer, illuminating nothing save the gray
mist. The red starboard light looked like a huge eye crushed out
by some one's cruel fist, blinded, overflowing with blood. Pale
rays of light fell from the steamer's windows into the fog, and
only tinted its cold, cheerless dominion over the vessel, which
was pressed on all sides by the motionless mass of stifling
dampness.

The smoke from the funnel fell downwards, and, together with
fragments of the fog, penetrated into all the cracks of the deck,
where the third-class passengers were silently muffling
themselves in their rags, and forming groups, like sheep. From
near the machinery were wafted deep, strained groans, the
jingling of bells, the dull sounds of orders and the abrupt words
of the machinist:

"Yes--slow! Yes--half speed!"

On the stern, in a corner, blocked up by barrels of salted fish,
a group of people was assembled, illuminated by a small electric
lamp. Those were sedate, neatly and warmly clad peasants. One of
them lay on a bench, face down; another sat at his feet, still
another stood, leaning his back against a barrel, while two
others seated themselves flat on the deck. Their faces, pensive
and attentive, were turned toward a round-shouldered man in a
short cassock, turned yellow, and a torn fur cap. That man sat on
some boxes with his back bent, and staring at his feet, spoke in
a low, confident voice:

"There will come an end to the long forbearance of the Lord, and
then His wrath will burst forth upon men. We are like worms
before Him, and how are we then to ward off His wrath, with what
wailing shall we appeal to His mercy?"

Oppressed by his gloominess, Foma had come down on the deck from
his cabin, and, for some time, had been standing in the shadow of
some wares covered with tarpaulin, and listened to the admonitive
and gentle voice of the preacher. Pacing the deck he had chanced
upon this group, and attracted by the figure of the pilgrim, had
paused near it. There was something familiar to him in that
large, strong body, in that stern, dark face, in those large,
calm eyes. The curly, grayish hair, falling from under the skull-
cap, the unkempt bushy beard, which fell apart in thick locks,
the long, hooked nose, the sharp-pointed ears, the thick lips--
Foma had seen all these before, but could not recall when and
where.

"Yes, we are very much in arrears before the Lord!" remarked one
of the peasants, heaving a deep sigh.

"We must pray," whispered the peasant who lay on the bench, in a
scarcely audible voice.

"Can you scrape your sinful wretchedness off your soul with words
of prayer?" exclaimed someone loudly, almost with despair in his
voice.

No one of those that formed the group around the pilgrim turned
at this voice, only their heads sank lower on their breasts, and
for a long time these people sat motionless and speechless:

The pilgrim measured his audience with a serious and meditative
glance of his blue eyes, and said softly:

"Ephraim the Syrian said: 'Make thy soul the central point of thy
thoughts and strengthen thyself with thy desire to be free from
sin.

And again he lowered his head, slowly fingering the beads of the
rosary.

"That means we must think," said one of the peasants; "but when
has a man time to think during his life on earth?"

"Confusion is all around us."

"We must flee to the desert," said the peasant who lay on the
bench.

"Not everybody can afford it."

The peasants spoke, and became silent again. A shrill whistle
resounded, a little bell began to jingle at the machine.
Someone's loud exclamation rang out:

"Eh, there! To the water-measuring poles."

"0h Lord! 0h Queen of Heaven!"--a deep sigh was heard.

And a dull, half-choked voice shouted:

"Nine! nine!"

Fragments of the fog burst forth upon the deck and floated over
it like cold, gray smoke.

"Here, kind people, give ear unto the words of King David," said
the pilgrim, and shaking his head, began to read distinctly:
"'Lead me, Oh Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies;
make thy way straight before my face. For there is no
faithfulness in their mouths; their inward part is very
wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with
their tongue. Destroy thou them, 0h God; let them fall by their
own counsels.'"

"Eight! seven!" Like moans these exclamations resounded in the
distance.

The steamer began to hiss angrily, and slackened its speed. The
noise of the hissing of the steam deafened the pilgrim's words,
and Foma saw only the movement of his lips.

"Get off!" a loud, angry shout was heard. "It's my place!"

"Yours?"

"Here you have yours!"

"I'll rap you on the jaw; then you'll find your place. What a
lord!"

"Get away!"

An uproar ensued. The peasants who were listening to the pilgrim
turned their heads toward the direction where the row was going
on, and the pilgrim heaved a sigh and became silent. Near the
machine a loud and lively dispute blazed up as though dry
branches, thrown upon a dying bonfire, had caught the flame.

"I'll give it to you, devils! Get away, both of you."

"Take them away to the captain."

"Ha! ha! ha! That's a fine settlement for you!"

"That was a good rap he gave him on the neck!"

"The sailors are a clever lot."

"Eight! nine!" shouted the man with the measuring pole.

"Yes, increase speed!" came the loud exclamation of the engineer.

Swaying because of the motion of the steamer, Foma stood leaning
against the tarpaulin, and attentively listened to each and every
sound about him. And everything was blended into one picture,
which was familiar to him. Through fog and uncertainty,
surrounded on all sides by gloom impenetrable to the eye, life of
man is moving somewhere slowly and heavily. And men are grieved
over their sins, they sigh heavily, and then fight for a warm
place, and asking each other for the sake of possessing the
place, they also receive blows from those who strive for order in
life. They timidly search for a free road toward the goal.

"Nine! eight!"

The wailing cry is softly wafted over the vessel. "And the holy
prayer of the pilgrim is deafened by the tumult of life. And
there is no relief from sorrow, there is no joy for him who
reflects on his fate."

Foma felt like speaking to this pilgrim, in whose softly uttered
words there rang sincere fear of God, and all manner of fear for
men before His countenance. The kind, admonitive voice of the
pilgrim possessed a peculiar power, which compelled Foma to
listen to its deep tones.

"I'd like to ask him where he lives," thought Foma, fixedly
scrutinizing the huge stooping figure. "And where have I seen him
before? Or does he resemble some acquaintance of mine?"

Suddenly it somehow struck Foma with particular vividness that
the humble preacher before him was no other than the son of old
Anany Shchurov. Stunned by this conjecture, he walked up to the
pilgrim and seating himself by his side, inquired freely:

"Are you from Irgiz, father?"

The pilgrim raised his head, turned his face toward Foma slowly
and heavily, scrutinized him and said in a calm and gentle voice:

"I was on the Irgiz, too."

"Are you a native of that place?"

"Are you now coming from there?"

"No, I am coming from Saint Stephen."

The conversation broke off. Foma lacked the courage to ask the
pilgrim whether he was not Shchurov.

"We'll be late on account of the fog," said some one.

"How can we help being late!"

All were silent, looking at Foma. Young, handsome, neatly and
richly dressed, he aroused the curiosity of the bystanders by his
sudden appearance among them; he was conscious of this curiosity,
he understood that they were all waiting for his words, that they
wanted to understand why he had come to them, and all this
confused and angered him.

"It seems to me that I've met you before somewhere, father," said
he at length.

The pilgrim replied, without looking at him:

"Perhaps."

"I would like to speak to you," announced Foma, timidly, in a low
voice.

"Well, then, speak."

"Come with me."

"Whither?"

"To my cabin."

The pilgrim looked into Foma's face, and, after a moment's
silence, assented:

"Come."

On leaving, Foma felt the looks of the peasants on his back, and
now he was pleased to know that they were interested in him.

In the cabin he asked gently:

"Would you perhaps eat something? Tell me. I will order it."

"God forbid. What do you wish?"

This man, dirty and ragged, in a cassock turned red with age, and
covered with patches, surveyed the cabin with a squeamish look,
and when he seated himself on the plush-covered lounge, he turned
the skirt of the cassock as though afraid to soil it by the
plush.

"What is your name, father?" asked Foma, noticing the expression
of squeamishness on the pilgrim's face.

"Miron."

"Not Mikhail?"

"Why Mikhail?" asked the pilgrim.

"There was in our town the son of a certain merchant Shchurov, he
also went off to the Irgiz. And his name was Mikhail."

Foma spoke and fixedly looked at Father Miron; but the latter was
as calm as a deaf-mute--

"I never met such a man. I don't remember, I never met him," said
he, thoughtfully. "So you wished to inquire about him?"

"Yes."

"No, I never met Mikhail Shchurov. Well, pardon me for Christ's
sake!" and rising from the lounge, the pilgrim bowed to Foma and
went toward the door.

"But wait awhile, sit down, let's talk a little!" exclaimed Foma,
rushing at him uneasily. The pilgrim looked at him searchingly
and sank down on the lounge. From the distance came a dull sound,
like a deep groan, and immediately after it the signal whistle of
the steamer drawled out as in a frightened manner over Foma's and
his guest's heads. From the distance came a more distant reply,
and the whistle overhead again gave out abrupt, timorous sounds.
Foma opened the window. Through the fog, not far from their
steamer, something was moving along with deep noise; specks of
fantastic lights floated by, the fog was agitated and again sank
into dead immobility.

"How terrible!" exclaimed Foma, shutting the window.

"What is there to be afraid of?" asked the pilgrim. "You see! It
is neither day nor night, neither darkness nor light! We can see
nothing, we are sailing we know not whither, we are straying on
the river."

"Have inward fire within you, have light within your soul, and
you shall see everything," said the pilgrim, sternly and
instructively.

Foma was displeased with these cold words and looked at the
pilgrim askance. The latter sat with drooping head, motionless,
as though petrified in thought and prayer. The beads of his
rosary were softly rustling in his hands.

The pilgrim's attitude gave birth to easy courage in Foma's
breast, and he said:

"Tell me, Father Miron, is it good to live, having full freedom,
without work, without relatives, a wanderer, like yourself?"

Father Miron raised his head and softly burst into the caressing
laughter of a child. All his face, tanned from wind and sunburn,
brightened up with inward joy, was radiant with tranquil joy; he
touched Foma's knee with his hand and said in a sincere tone:

"Cast aside from you all that is worldly, for there is no
sweetness in it. I am telling you the right word--turn away from
evil. Do you remember it is said:

'Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the
ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners.' Turn away, refresh
your soul with solitude and fill yourself with the thought of
God. For only by the thought of Him can man save his soul from
profanation."

"That isn't the thing!" said Foma. "I have no need of working out
my salvation. Have I sinned so much? Look at others. What I would
like is to comprehend things."

"And you will comprehend if you turn away from the world. Go
forth upon the free road, on the fields, on the steppes, on the
plains, on the mountains. Go forth and look at the world from
afar, from your freedom."

"That's right!" cried Foma. "That's just what I think. One can
see better from the side!"

And Miron, paying no attention to his words, spoke softly, as
though of some great mystery, known only to him, the pilgrim:

"The thick slumbering forests around you will start to rustle in
sweet voices about the wisdom of the Lord; God's little birds
will sing before you of His holy glory, and the grasses of the
steppe will burn incense to the Holy Virgin."

The pilgrim's voice now rose and quivered from excess of emotion,
now sank to a mysterious whisper. He seemed as though grown
younger; his eyes beamed so confidently and clearly, and all his
face was radiant with the happy smile of a man who has found
expression for his joy and was delighted while he poured it
forth.

"The heart of God throbs in each and every blade of grass; each
and every insect of the air and of the earth, breathes His holy
spirit. God, the Lord, Jesus Christ, lives everywhere! What
beauty there is on earth, in the fields and in the forests! Have
you ever been on the Kerzhenz? An incomparable silence reigns
there supreme, the trees, the grass there are like those of
paradise."

Foma listened, and his imagination, captivated by the quiet,
charming narrative, pictured to him those wide fields and dense
forests, full of beauty and soul-pacifying silence.

"You look at the sky, as you rest somewhere under a little bush,
and the sky seems to descend upon you as though longing to
embrace you. Your soul is warm, filled with tranquil joy, you
desire nothing, you envy nothing. And it actually seems to you
that there is no one on earth save you and God."

The pilgrim spoke, and his voice and sing-song speech reminded
Foma of the wonderful fairy-tales of Aunt Anfisa. He felt as
though, after a long journey on a hot day, he drank the clear,
cold water of a forest brook, water that had the fragrance of the
grasses and the flowers it has bathed. Even wider and wider grew
the pictures as they unfolded upon him; here is a path through
the thick, slumbering forest; the fine sunbeams penetrate through
the branches of the trees, and quiver in the air and under the
feet of the wanderer. There is a savoury odour of fungi and
decaying foliage; the honeyed fragrance of the flowers, the
intense odour of the pine-tree invisibly rise in the air and
penetrate the breast in a warm, rich stream. All is silence: only
the birds are singing, and the silence is so wonderful that it
seems as though even the birds were singing in your breast. You
go, without haste, and your life goes on like a dream. While here
everything is enveloped in a gray, dead fog, and we are foolishly
struggling about in it, yearning for freedom and light. There
below they have started to sing something in scarcely audible
voices; it was half song, half prayer. Again someone is shouting,
scolding. And still they seek the way:

"Seven and a half. Seven!"

"And you have no care," spoke the pilgrim, and his voice murmured
like a brook. "Anybody will give you a crust of bread; and what
else do you need in your freedom? In the world, cares fall upon
the soul like fetters."

"You speak well," said Foma with a sigh.

"My dear brother!" exclaimed the pilgrim, softly, moving still
closer toward him. "Since the soul has awakened, since it yearns
toward freedom, do not lull it to sleep by force; hearken to its
voice. The world with its charms has no beauty and holiness
whatever, wherefore, then, obey its laws? In John Chrysostom it
is said: 'The real shechinah is man!' Shechinah is a Hebrew word
and it means the holy of holies. Consequently--"

A prolonged shrill sound of the whistle drowned his voice. He
listened, rose quickly from the lounge and said:

"We are nearing the harbour. That's what the whistle meant. I
must be off! Well, goodbye, brother! May God give you strength
and firmness to act according to the will of your soul! Goodbye,
my dear boy!"

He made a low bow to Foma. There was something feminine,
caressing and soft in his farewell words and bow. Foma also bowed
low to him, bowed and remained as though petrified, standing with
drooping head, his hand leaning against the table.

"Come to see me when you are in town," he asked the pilgrim, who
was hastily turning the handle of the cabin door.

"I will! I will come! Goodbye! Christ save you!"

When the steamer's side touched the wharf Foma came out on the
deck and began to look downward into the fog. From the steamer
people were walking down the gang-planks, but Foma could not
discern the pilgrim among those dark figures enveloped in the
dense gloom. All those that left the steamer looked equally
indistinct, and they all quickly disappeared from sight, as
though they had melted in the gray dampness. One could see
neither the shore nor anything else solid; the landing bridge
rocked from the commotion caused by the steamer; above it the
yellow spot of the lantern was swaying; the noise of the
footsteps and the bustle of the people were dull.

The steamer put off and slowly moved along into the clouds. The
pilgrim, the harbour, the turmoil of people's voices--all
suddenly disappeared like a dream, and again there remained only
the dense gloom and the steamer heavily turning about in it. Foma
stared before him into the dead sea of fog and thought of the
blue, cloudless and caressingly warm sky--where was it?

On the next day, about noon, he sat In Yozhov's small room and
listened to the local news from the mouth of his friend. Yozhov
had climbed on the table, which was piled with newspapers, and,
swinging his feet, narrated:

"The election campaign has begun. The merchants are putting your
godfather up as mayor--that old devil! Like the devil, he is
immortal, although he must be upwards of a hundred and fifty
years old already. He marries his daughter to Smolin. You
remember that red-headed fellow. They say that he is a decent
man, but nowadays they even call clever scoundrels decent men,
because there are no men. Now Africashka plays the enlightened
man; he has already managed to get into intelligent society,
donated something to some enterprise or another and thus at once
came to the front. Judging from his face, he is a sharper of the
highest degree, but he will play a prominent part, for he knows
how to adapt himself. Yes, friend, Africashka is a liberal. And a
liberal merchant is a mixture of a wolf and a pig with a toad and
a snake."

"The devil take them all!" said Foma, waving his hand
indifferently. "What have I to do with them? How about yourself--
do you still keep on drinking?"

"I do! Why shouldn't I drink?"

Half-clad and dishevelled, Yozhov looked like a plucked bird,
which had just had a fight and had not yet recovered from the
excitement of the conflict.

"I drink because, from time to time, I must quench the fire of my
wounded heart. And you, you damp stump, you are smouldering
little by little?"

"I have to go to the old man," said Foma, wrinkling his face.

"Chance it!"

"I don't feel like going. He'll start to lecture me."

"Then don't go!"

"But I must."

"Then go!"

"Why do you always play the buffoon? " said Foma, with
displeasure, "as though you were indeed merry."

"By God, I feel merry!" exclaimed Yozhov, jumping down from the
table. "What a fine roasting I gave a certain gentleman in the
paper yesterday! And then--I've heard a clever anecdote: A
company was sitting on the sea-shore philosophizing at length
upon life. And a Jew said to them: 'Gentlemen, why do you employ
so many different words? I'll tell it to you all at once: Our
life is not worth a single copeck, even as this stormy sea! '"

"Eh, the devil take you!" said Foma. "Good-bye. I am going."

"Go ahead! I am in a fine frame of mind to-day and I will not
moan with you. All the more so considering you don't moan, but
grunt."

Foma went away, leaving Yozhov singing at the top of his voice:

"Beat the drum and fear not."

"Drum? You are a drum yourself;" thought Foma, with irritation,
as he slowly came out on the street.

At the Mayakins he was met by Luba. Agitated and animated, she
suddenly appeared before him, speaking quickly:

"You? My God! How pale you are! How thin you've grown! It seems
you have been leading a fine life."

Then her face became distorted with alarm and she exclaimed
almost in a whisper:

"Ah, Foma. You don't know. Do you hear? Someone is ringing the
bell. Perhaps it is he."

And she rushed out of the room, leaving behind her in the air the
rustle of her silk gown, and the astonished Foma, who had not
even had a chance to ask her where her father was. Yakov
Tarasovich was at home. Attired in his holiday clothes, in a long
frock coat with medals on his breast, he stood on the threshold
with his hands outstretched, clutching at the door posts. His
green little eyes examined Foma, and, feeling their look upon
him, Foma raised his head and met them.

"How do you do, my fine gentleman?" said the old man, shaking his
head reproachfully. "Where has it pleased you to come from, may I
ask? Who has sucked off that fat of yours? Or is it true that a
pig looks for a puddle, and Foma for a place which is worse?"

"Have you no other words for me?" asked Foma, sternly, looking
straight into the old man's face. And suddenly he noticed that
his godfather shuddered, his legs trembled, his eyes began to
blink repeatedly, and his hands clutched the door posts with an
effort. Foma advanced toward him, presuming that the old man was
feeling ill, but Yakov Tarasovich said in a dull and angry voice:

"Stand aside. Get out of the way."

And his face assumed its usual expression.

Foma stepped back and found himself side by side with a rather
short, stout man, who bowed to Mayakin, and said in a hoarse
voice:

"How do you do, papa?"

"How are you, Taras Yakovlich, how are you?" said the old man,
bowing, smiling distractedly, and still clinging to the door
posts.

Foma stepped aside in confusion, seated himself in an armchair,
and, petrified with curiosity, wide-eyed, began to watch the
meeting of father and son.

The father, standing in the doorway, swayed his feeble body,
leaning his hands against the door posts, and, with his head bent
on one side and eyes half shut, stared at his son in silence. The
son stood about three steps away from him; his head already gray,
was lifted high; he knitted his brow and gazed at his father with
large dark eyes. His small, black, pointed beard and his small
moustache quivered on his meagre face, with its gristly nose,
like that of his father. And the hat, also, quivered in his hand.
From behind his shoulder Foma saw the pale, frightened and joyous
face of Luba--she looked at her father with beseeching eyes and
it seemed she was on the point of crying out. For a few moments
all were silent and motionless, crushed as they were by the
immensity of their emotions. The silence was broken by the low,
but dull and quivering voice of Yakov Tarasovich:

"You have grown old, Taras."

The son laughed in his father's face silently, and, with a swift
glance, surveyed him from head to foot.

The father tearing his hands from the door posts, made a step
toward his son and suddenly stopped short with a frown. Then
Taras Mayakin, with one huge step, came up to his father and gave
him his hand.

"Well, let us kiss each other," suggested the father, softly.

The two old men convulsively clasped each other in their arms,
exchanged warm kisses and then stepped apart. The wrinkles of the
older man quivered, the lean face of the younger was immobile,
almost stern. The kisses had changed nothing in the external side
of this scene, only Lubov burst into a sob of joy, and Foma
awkwardly moved about in his seat, feeling as though his breath
were failing him.

"Eh, children, you are wounds to the heart--you are not its joy,"
complained Yakov Tarasovich in a ringing voice, and he evidently
invested a great deal in these words, for immediately after he
had pronounced them he became radiant, more courageous, and he
said briskly, addressing himself to his daughter:

"Well, have you melted with joy? You had better go and prepare
something for us--tea and so forth. We'll entertain the prodigal
son. You must have forgotten, my little old man, what sort of a
man your father is?"

Taras Mayakin scrutinized his parent with a meditative look of
his large eyes and he smiled, speechless, clad in black,
wherefore the gray hair on his head and in his beard told more
strikingly.

"Well, be seated. Tell me--how have you lived, what have you
done? What are you looking at? Ah! That's my godson. Ignat
Gordyeeff's son, Foma. Do you remember Ignat?"

"I remember everything," said Taras.

"Oh! That's good, if you are not bragging. Well, are you
married?"

"I am a widower."

"Have you any children?"

"They died. I had two."

"That's a pity. I would have had grandchildren."

"May I smoke?" asked Taras.

"Go ahead. Just look at him, you're smoking cigars."

"Don't you like them?"

"I? Come on, it's all the same to me. I say that it looks rather
aristocratic to smoke cigars."

"And why should we consider ourselves lower than the
aristocrats?" said Taras, laughing.

"Do, I consider ourselves lower?" exclaimed the old man. "I
merely said it because it looked ridiculous to me, such a sedate
old fellow, with beard trimmed in foreign fashion, cigar in his
mouth. Who is he? My son--he-he-he!" the old man tapped Taras on
the shoulder and sprang away from him, as though frightened lest
he were rejoicing too soon, lest that might not be the proper way
to treat that half gray man. And he looked searchingly and
suspiciously into his son's large eyes, which were surrounded by
yellowish swellings.

Taras smiled in his father's face an affable and warm smile, and
said to him thoughtfully:

"That's the way I remember you--cheerful and lively. It looks as
though you had not changed a bit during all these years."

The old man straightened himself proudly, and, striking his
breast with his fist, said:

"I shall never change, because life has no power over him who
knows his own value. Isn't that so?"

"Oh! How proud you are!"

"I must have taken after my son," said the old man with a cunning
grimace. "Do you know, dear, my son was silent for seventeen
years out of pride."

"That's because his father would not listen to him," Taras
reminded him.

"It's all right now. Never mind the past. Only God knows which of
us is to blame. He, the upright one, He'll tell it to you--wait!
I shall keep silence. This is not the time for us to discuss that
matter. You better tell me-- what have you been doing all these
years? How did you come to that soda factory? How have you made
your way?"

"That's a long story," said Taras with a sigh; and emitting from
his mouth a great puff of smoke, he began slowly: "When I
acquired the possibility to live at liberty, I entered the office
of the superintendent of the gold mines of the Remezovs."

"I know; they're very rich. Three brothers. I know them all. One
is a cripple, the other a fool, and the third a miser. Go on!"

"I served under him for two years. And then I married his
daughter," narrated Mayakin in a hoarse voice.

"The superintendent's? That wasn't foolish at all." Taras became
thoughtful and was silent awhile. The old man looked at his sad
face and understood his son.

"And so you lived with your wife happily," he said. "Well, what
can you do? To the dead belongs paradise, and the living must
live on. You are not so very old as yet. Have you been a widower
long?"

"This is the third year."

"So? And how did you chance upon the soda factory?"

"That belongs to my father-in-law."

"Aha! What is your salary?"

"About five thousand."

"Mm. That's not a stale crust. Yes, that's a galley slave for
you!"

Taras glanced at his father with a firm look and asked him drily:

"By the way, what makes you think that I was a convict?"

The old man glanced at his son with astonishment, which was
quickly changed into joy:

"Ah! What then? You were not? The devil take them! Then--how was
it? Don't take offence! How could I know? They said you were in
Siberia! Well, and there are the galleys!"

"To make an end of this once for all," said Taras, seriously and
impressively, clapping his hand on his knee, "I'll tell you right
now how it all happened. I was banished to Siberia to settle
there for six years, and, during all the time of my exile, I
lived in the mining region of the Lena. In Moscow I was
imprisoned for about nine months. That's all!"

"So-o! But what does it mean?" muttered Yakov Tarasovich, with
confusion and joy.

"And here they circulated that absurd rumour."

"That's right--it is absurd indeed!" said the old man,
distressed.

"And it did a pretty great deal of harm on a certain occasion."

"Really? Is that possible?"

"Yes. I was about to go into business for myself, and my credit
was ruined on account of--"

"Pshaw!" said Yakov Tarasovich, as he spat angrily. "Oh, devil!
Come, come, is that possible?"

Foma sat all this time in his corner, listening to the
conversation between the Mayakins, and, blinking perplexedly, he
fixedly examined the newcomer. Recalling Lubov's bearing toward
her brother, and influenced, to a certain degree, by her stories
about Taras, he expected to see in him something unusual,
something unlike the ordinary people. He had thought that Taras
would speak in some peculiar way, would dress in a manner
peculiar to himself; and in general he would be unlike other
people. While before him sat a sedate, stout man, faultlessly
dressed, with stern eyes, very much like his father in face, and
the only difference between them was that the son had a cigar in
his mouth and a black beard. He spoke briefly in a business-like
way of everyday things--where was, then, that peculiar something
about him? Now he began to tell his father of the profits in the
manufacture of soda. He had not been a galley slave--Lubov had
lied! And Foma was very much pleased when he pictured to himself
how he would speak to Lubov about her brother.

Now and then she appeared in the doorway during the conversation
between her father and her brother. Her face was radiant with
happiness, and her eyes beamed with joy as she looked at the
black figure of Taras, clad in such a peculiarly thick frock
coat, with pockets on the sides and with big buttons. She walked
on tiptoe, and somehow always stretched her neck toward her
brother. Foma looked at her questioningly, but she did not notice
him, constantly running back and forth past the door, with plates
and bottles in her hands.

It so happened that she glanced into the room just when her
brother was telling her father about the galleys. She stopped as
though petrified, holding a tray in her outstretched hands and
listened to everything her brother said about the punishment
inflicted upon him. She listened, and slowly walked away, without
catching Foma's astonished and sarcastic glance. Absorbed in his
reflections on Taras, slightly offended by the lack of attention
shown him, and by the fact that since the handshake at the
introduction Taras had not given him a single glance, Foma ceased
for awhile to follow the conversation of the Mayakins, and
suddenly he felt that someone seized him by the shoulder. He
trembled and sprang to his feet, almost felling his godfather,
who stood before him with excited face:

"There--look! That is a man! That's what a Mayakin is! They have
seven times boiled him in lye; they have squeezed oil out of him,
and yet he lives! Understand? Without any aid--alone--he made his
way and found his place and--he is proud! That means Mayakin! A
Mayakin means a man who holds his fate in his own hands. Do you
understand? Take a lesson from him! Look at him! You cannot find
another like him in a hundred; you'd have to look for one in a
thousand. What? Just bear this in mind: You cannot forge a
Mayakin from man into either devil or angel."

Stupefied by this tempestuous shock, Foma became confused and did
not know what to say in reply to the old man's noisy song of
praise. He saw that Taras, calmly smoking his cigar, was looking
at his father, and that the corners of his lips were quivering
with a smile. His face looked condescendingly contented, and all
his figure somewhat aristocratic and haughty. He seemed to be
amused by the old man's joy.

And Yakov Tarasovich tapped Foma on the chest with his finger and
said:

"I do not know him, my own son. He has not opened his soul to me.
It may be that such a difference had grown up between us that not
only an eagle, but the devil himself cannot cross it. Perhaps his
blood has overboiled; that there is not even the scent of the
father's blood in it. But he is a Mayakin! And I can feel it at
once! I feel it and say: 'Today thou forgivest Thy servant, 0h
Lord!'"

The old man was trembling with the fever of his exultation, and
fairly hopped as he stood before Foma.

"Calm yourself, father!" said Taras, slowly rising from his chair
and walking up to his father. "Why confuse the young man? Come,
let us sit down."

He gave Foma a fleeting smile, and, taking his father by the arm,
led him toward the table.

"I believe in blood," said Yakov Tarasovich; "in hereditary
blood. Therein lies all power! My father, I remember, told me:
'Yashka, you are my genuine blood!' There. The blood of the
Mayakins is thick--it is transferred from father to father and no
woman can ever weaken it. Let us drink some champagne! Shall we?
Very well, then! Tell me more--tell me about yourself. How is it
there in Siberia?"

And again, as though frightened and sobered by some thought, the
old man fixed his searching eyes upon the face of his son. And a
few minutes later the circumstantial but brief replies of his son
again aroused in him a noisy joy. Foma kept on listening and
watching, as he sat quietly in his corner.

"Gold mining, of course, is a solid business," said Taras,
calmly, with importance, "but it is a rather risky operation and
one requiring a large capital. The earth says not a word about
what it contains within it. It is very profitable to deal with
foreigners. Dealings with them, under any circumstances, yield an
enormous percentage. That is a perfectly infallible enterprise.
But a weary one, it must be admitted. It does not require much
brains; there is no room in it for an extraordinary man; a man
with great enterprising power cannot develop in it."

Lubov entered and invited them all into the dining-room. When the
Mayakins stepped out Foma imperceptibly tugged Lubov by the
sleeve, and she remained with him alone, inquiring hastily:

"What is it?"

"Nothing," said Foma, with a smile. "I want to ask you whether
you are glad?"

"Of course I am!" exclaimed Lubov.

"And what about?"

"That is, what do you mean?"

"Just so. What about?"

"You're queer!" said Lubov, looking at him with astonishment.
"Can't you see?"

"What?" asked Foma, sarcastically.

"What's the trouble with you?" said Lubov, looking at him
uneasily.

"Eh, you!" drawled out Foma, with contemptuous pity. "Can your
father, can the merchant class beget anything good? Can you
expect a radish to bring forth raspberries? And you lied to me.
Taras is this, Taras is that. What is in him? A merchant, like
the other merchants, and his paunch is also that of the real
merchant. He-he!" He was satisfied, seeing that the girl,
confused by his words, was biting her lips, now flushing, now
turning pale.

"You--you, Foma," she began, in a choking voice, and suddenly
stamping her foot, she cried:

"Don't you dare to speak to me!"

On reaching the threshold of the room, she turned her angry face
to him, and ejaculated in a low voice, emphatically:

"Oh, you malicious man!"

Foma burst into laughter. He did not feel like going to the
table, where three happy people were engaged in a lively
conversation. He heard their merry voices, their contented
laughter, the rattle of the dishes, and he understood that, with
that burden on his heart, there was no place for him beside them.
Nor was there a place for him anywhere. If all people only hated
him, even as Lubov hated him now, he would feel more at ease in
their midst, he thought. Then he would know how to behave with
them, would find something to say to them. While now he could not
understand whether they were pitying him or whether they were
laughing at him, because he had lost his way and could not
conform himself to anything. As he stood awhile alone in the
middle of the room, he unconsciously resolved to leave this house
where people were rejoicing and where he was superfluous. On
reaching the street, he felt himself offended by the Mayakins.
After all, they were the only people near to him in the world.
Before him arose his godfather's face, on which the wrinkles
quivered with agitation, and illuminated by the merry glitter of
his green eyes, seemed to beam with phosphoric light.

"Even a rotten trunk of a tree stands out in the dark!" reflected
Foma, savagely. Then he recalled the calm and serious face of
Taras and beside it the figure of Lubov bowing herself hastily
toward him. That aroused in him feelings of envy and sorrow.

"Who will look at me like that? There is not a soul to do it."

He came to himself from his broodings on the shore, at the
landing-places, aroused by the bustle of toil. All sorts of
articles and wares were carried and carted in every direction;
people moved about hastily, care-worn, spurring on their horses
excitedly, shouting at one another, filling the street with
unintelligible bustle and deafening noise of hurried work. They
busied themselves on a narrow strip of ground, paved with stone,
built up on one side with tall houses, and the other side cut off
by a steep ravine at the river, and their seething bustle made
upon Foma an impression as though they had all prepared
themselves to flee from this toil amid filth and narrowness and
tumult--prepared themselves to flee and were now hastening to
complete the sooner the unfinished work which would not release
them. Huge steamers, standing by the shore and emitting columns
of smoke from their funnels, were already awaiting them. The
troubled water of the river, closely obstructed with vessels, was
softly and plaintively splashing against the shore, as though
imploring for a minute of rest and repose.

"Your Honour!" a hoarse cry rang out near Foma's ears,
"contribute some brandy in honour of the building!"

Foma glanced at the petitioner indifferently; he was a huge,
bearded fellow, barefooted, with a torn shirt and a bruised,
swollen face.

"Get away!" muttered Foma, and turned away from him.

"Merchant! When you die you can't take your money with you. Give
me for one glass of brandy, or are you too lazy to put your hand
into your pocket?"

Foma again looked at the petitioner; the latter stood before him,
covered more with mud than with clothes, and, trembling with
intoxication, waited obstinately, staring at Foma with blood-
shot, swollen eyes.

"Is that the way to ask?" inquired Foma.

"How else? Would you want me to go down on my knees before you
for a ten-copeck piece?" asked the bare-footed man, boldly.

"There!" and Foma gave him a coin.

"Thanks! Fifteen copecks. Thanks! And if you give me fifteen more
I'll crawl on all fours right up to that tavern. Do you want me
to?" proposed the barefooted man.

"Go, leave me alone!" said Foma, waving him off with his hand.

"He who gives not when he may, when he fain would, shall have
nay," said the barefooted man, and stepped aside.

Foma looked at him as he departed, and said to himself:

"There is a ruined man and yet how bold he is. He asks alms as
though demanding a debt. Where do such people get so much
boldness?"

And heaving a deep sigh, he answered himself:

"From freedom. The man is not fettered. What is there that he
should regret? What does he fear? And what do I fear? What is
there that I should regret?"

These two questions seemed to strike Foma's heart and called
forth in him a dull perplexity. He looked at the movement of the
working people and kept on thinking: What did he regret? What did
he fear?

"Alone, with my own strength, I shall evidently never come out
anywhere. Like a fool I shall keep on tramping about among
people, mocked and offended by all. If they would only jostle me
aside; if they would only hate me, then--then--I would go out
into the wide world! Whether I liked or not, I would have to go!"

From one of the landing wharves the merry "dubinushka"
["Dubinushka," or the "Oaken Cudgel," is a song popular with the
Russian workmen.] had already been smiting the air for a long
time. The carriers were doing a certain work, which required
brisk movements, and were adapting the song and the refrain to
them.

"In the tavern sit great merchants
Drinking liquors strong,"

narrated the leader, in a bold recitative. The company joined in
unison:

"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"

And then the bassos smote the air with deep sounds:

"It goes, it goes."

And the tenors repeated:

"It goes, it goes."

Foma listened to the song and directed his footsteps toward it,
on the wharf. There he noticed that the carriers, formed in two
rows, were rolling out of the steamer's hold huge barrels of
salted fish. Dirty, clad in red blouses, unfastened at the
collar, with mittens on their hands, with arms bare to the elbow,
they stood over the hold, and, merrily jesting, with faces
animated by toil, they pulled the ropes, all together, keeping
time to their song. And from the hold rang out the high, laughing
voice of the invisible leader:

"But for our peasant throats
There is not enough vodka."

And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly
and in unison:

"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"

Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which
was as harmonious as music. The slovenly faces of the carriers
beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and
the leader of the chorus was in his best vein. Foma thought that
it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to
the tune of a cheerful song, to get tired from work to drink a
glass of vodka and eat fat cabbage soup, prepared by the stout,
sprightly matron of the company.

"Quicker, boys, quicker!" rang out beside him someone's
unpleasant, hoarse voice.

Foma turned around. A stout man, with an enormous paunch, tapped
on the boards of the landing bridge with his cane, as he looked
at the carriers with his small eyes and said:

"Bawl less and work faster."

His face and neck were covered with perspiration; he wiped it off
every now and then with his left hand and breathed heavily, as
though he were going uphill.

Foma cast at the man a hostile look and thought:

"Others are working and he is sweating. And I am still worse than
he. I'm like a crow on the fence, good for nothing."

From each and every impression there immediately stood out in his
mind the painful thought of his unfitness for life. Everything
that attracted his attention contained something offensive to
him, and this something fell like a brick upon his breast. At one
side of him, by the freight scales, stood two sailors, and one of
them, a square-built, red-faced fellow, was telling the other:

"As they rushed on me it began for fair, my dear chap! There were
four of them--I was alone! But I didn't give in to them, because
I saw that they would beat me to death! Even a ram will kick out
if you fleece it alive. How I tore myself away from them! They
all rolled away in different directions."

"But you came in for a sound drubbing all the same?" inquired the
other sailor.

"Of course! I caught it. I swallowed about five blows. But what's
the difference? They didn't kill me. Well, thank God for it!"

"Certainly."

"To the stern, devils, to the stern, I'm telling you!" roared the
perspiring man in a ferocious voice at two carriers who were
rolling a barrel of fish along the deck.

"What are you yelling for?" Foma turned to him sternly, as he had
started at the shout.

"Is that any of your business?" asked the perspiring man, casting
a glance at Foma.

"It is my business! The people are working and your fat is
melting away. So you think you must yell at them?" said Foma,
threateningly, moving closer toward him.

"You--you had better keep your temper."

The perspiring man suddenly rushed away from his place and went
into his office. Foma looked after him and also went away from
the wharf; filled with a desire to abuse some one, to do
something, just to divert his thoughts from himself at least for
a short while. But his thoughts took a firmer hold on him.

"That sailor there, he tore himself away, and he's safe and
sound! Yes, while I--"

In the evening he again went up to the Mayakins. The old man was
not at home, and in the dining-room sat Lubov with her brother,
drinking tea. On reaching the door Foma heard the hoarse voice of
Taras:

"What makes father bother himself about him?"

At the sight of Foma he stopped short, staring at his face with a
serious, searching look. An expression of agitation was clearly
depicted on Lubov's face, and she said with dissatisfaction and
at the same time apologetically:

"Ah! So it's you?"

"They've been speaking of me," thought Foma, as he seated himself
at the table. Taras turned his eyes away from him and sank deeper
in the armchair. There was an awkward silence lasting for about a
minute, and this pleased Foma.

"Are you going to the banquet?"

"What banquet?"

"Don't you know? Kononov is going to consecrate his new steamer.
A mass will be held there and then they are going to take a trip
up the Volga."

"I was not invited," said Foma.

"Nobody was invited. He simply announced on the Exchange:
'Anybody who wishes to honour me is welcome!

"I don't care for it."

"Yes? But there will be a grand drinking bout," said Lubov,
looking at him askance.

"I can drink at my own expense if I choose to do so."

"I know," said Lubov, nodding her head expressively.

Taras toyed with his teaspoon, turning it between his fingers and
looking at them askance.

"And where's my godfather?" asked Foma.

"He went to the bank. There's a meeting of the board of directors
today. Election of officers is to take place.

"They'll elect him again."

"Of course."

And again the conversation broke off. Foma began to watch the
brother and the sister. Having dropped the spoon, Taras slowly
drank his tea in big sips, and silently moving the glass over to
his sister, smiled to her. She, too, smiled joyously and happily,
seized the glass and began to rinse it assiduously. Then her face
assumed a strained expression; she seemed to prepare herself for
something and asked her brother in a low voice, almost
reverently:

"Shall we return to the beginning of our conversation?"

"If you please," assented Taras, shortly.

"You said something, but I didn't understand. What was it? I
asked: 'If all this is, as you say, Utopia, if it is impossible,
dreams, then what is he to do who is not satisfied with life as
it is?'"

The girl leaned her whole body toward her brother, and her eyes,
with strained expectation, stopped on the calm face of her
brother. He glanced at her in a weary way, moved about in his
seat, and, lowering his head, said calmly and impressively:

"We must consider from what source springs that dissatisfaction
with life. It seems to me that, first of all, it comes from the
inability to work; from the lack of respect for work. And,
secondly, from a wrong conception of one's own powers. The
misfortune of most of the people is that they consider themselves
capable of doing more than they really can. And yet only little
is required of man: he must select for himself an occupation to
suit his powers and must master it as well as possible, as
attentively as possible. You must love what you are doing, and
then labour, be it ever so rough, rises to the height of
creativeness. A chair, made with love, will always be a good,
beautiful and solid chair. And so it is with everything. Read
Smiles. Haven't you read him? It is a very sensible book. It is a
sound book. Read Lubbock. In general, remember that the English
people constitute the nation most qualified for labour, which
fact explains their astonishing success in the domain of industry
and commerce. With them labour is almost a cult. The height of
culture stands always directly dependent upon the love of labour.
And the higher the culture the more satisfied are the
requirements of man, the fewer the obstacles on the road toward
the further development of man's requirements. Happiness is
possible--it is the complete satisfaction of requirements. There
it is. And, as you see, man's happiness is dependent upon his
relation toward his work."

Taras Mayakin spoke slowly and laboriously, as though it were
unpleasant and tedious for him to speak. And Lubov, with knitted
brow, leaning toward him, listened to his words with eager
attention in her eyes, ready to accept everything and imbibe it
into her soul.

"Well, and suppose everything is repulsive to a man?" asked Foma,
suddenly, in a deep voice, casting a glance at Taras's face.

"But what, in particular, is repulsive to the man?" asked
Mayakin, calmly, without looking at Foma.

Foma bent his head, leaned his arms against the table and thus,
like a bull, went on to explain himself:

"Nothing pleases him--business, work, all people and deeds.
Suppose I see that all is deceit, that business is not business,
but merely a plug that we prop up with it the emptiness of our
souls; that some work, while others only give orders and sweat,
but get more for that. Why is it so? Eh?"

"I cannot grasp your idea," announced Taras, when Foma paused,
feeling on himself Lubov's contemptuous and angry look.

"You do not understand?" asked Foma, looking at Taras with a
smile. "Well, I'll put it in this way:

A man is sailing in a boat on the river. The boat may be good,
but under it there is always a depth all the same. The boat is
sound, but if the man feels beneath him this dark depth, no boat
can save him."

Taras looked at Foma indifferently and calmly. He looked in
silence, and softly tapped his fingers on the edge of the table.
Lubov was uneasily moving about in her chair. The pendulum of the
clock told the seconds with a dull, sighing sound. And Foma's
heart throbbed slowly and painfully, as though conscious that
here no one would respond with a warm word to its painful
perplexity.

"Work is not exactly everything for a man," said he, more to
himself than to these people who had no faith in the sincerity of
his words. "It is not true that in work lies justification. There
are people who do not work at all during all their lives long,
and yet they live better than those that do work. How is that?
And the toilers--they are merely unfortunate--horses! Others ride
on them, they suffer and that's all. But they have their
justification before God. They will be asked: 'To what purpose
did you live?' Then they will say: 'We had no time to think of
that. We worked all our lives.' And I--what justification have I?
And all those people who give orders--how will they justify
themselves? To what purpose have they lived? It is my idea that
everybody necessarily ought to know, to know firmly what he is
living for."

He became silent, and, tossing his head up, exclaimed in a heavy
voice:

"Can it be that man is born merely to work, acquire money, build
a house, beget children and--die? No, life means something. A man
is born, he lives and dies. What for? It is necessary, by God, it
is necessary for all of us to consider what we are living for.
There is no sense in our life. No sense whatever! Then things are
not equal, that can be seen at once. Some are rich--they have
money enough for a thousand people, and they live in idleness.
Others bend their backs over their work all their lives, and yet
they have not even a grosh. And the difference in people is very
insignificant. There are some that have not even any trousers and
yet they reason as though they were attired in silks."

Carried away by his thoughts, Foma would have continued to give
them utterance, but Taras moved his armchair away from the table,
rose and said softly, with a sigh:

"No, thank you! I don't want any more."

Foma broke off his speech abruptly, shrugged his shoulders and
looked at Lubov with a smile.

"Where have you picked up such philosophy?" she asked,
suspiciously and drily.

"That is not philosophy. That is simply torture!" said Foma in an
undertone. "Open your eyes and look at everything. Then you will
think so yourself."

"By the way, Luba, turn your attention to the fact," began Taras,
standing with his back toward the table and scrutinizing the
clock, "that pessimism is perfectly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon
race. That which they call pessimism in Swift and in Byron is
only a burning, sharp protest against the imperfection of life
and man. But you cannot find among them the cold, well weighed
and passive pessimism."

Then, as though suddenly recalling Foma, he turned to him,
clasping his hands behind his back, and, wriggling his thigh,
said:

"You raise very important questions, and if you are seriously
interested in them you must read books. In them will you find
many very valuable opinions as to the meaning of life. How about
you--do you read books?"

"No!" replied Foma, briefly.

"Ah!"

"I don't like them."

"Aha! But they might nevertheless be of some help to you," said
Taras, and a smile passed across his lips.

"Books? Since men cannot help me in my thoughts books can
certainly do nothing for me," ejaculated Foma, morosely.

He began to feel awkward and weary with this indifferent man. He
felt like going away, but at the same time he wished to tell
Lubov something insulting about her brother, and he waited till
Taras would leave the room. Lubov washed the dishes; her face was
concentrated and thoughtful; her hands moved lazily. Taras was
pacing the room, now and then he stopped short before the
sideboard on which was the silverware, whistled, tapped his
fingers against the window-panes and examined the articles with
his eyes half shut. The pendulum of the clock flashed beneath the
glass door of the case like some broad, grinning face, and
monotonously told the seconds. When Foma noticed that Lubov
glanced at him a few times questioningly, with expectant and
hostile looks, he understood that he was in her way and that she
was impatiently expecting him to leave.

"I am going to stay here over night," said he, with a smile. "I
must speak with my godfather. And then it is rather lonesome in
my house alone."

"Then go and tell Marfusha to make the bed for you in the corner
room," Lubov hastened to advise him.

"I shall."

He arose and went out of the dining-room. And he soon heard that
Taras asked his sister about something in a low voice.

"About me!" he thought. Suddenly this wicked thought flashed
through his mind: "It were but right to listen and hear what wise
people have to say."

He laughed softly, and, stepping on tiptoe, went noiselessly into
the other room, also adjoining the dining-room. There was no
light there, and only a thin band of light from the dining-room,
passing through the unclosed door, lay on the dark floor. Softly,
with sinking heart and malicious smile, Foma walked up close to
the door and stopped.

"He's a clumsy fellow," said Taras.

Then came Lubov's lowered and hasty speech:

"He was carousing here all the time. He carried on dreadfully! It
all started somehow of a sudden. The first thing he did was to
thrash the son-in-law of the Vice-Governor at the Club. Papa had
to take the greatest pains to hush up the scandal, and it was a
good thing that the Vice-Governor's son-in-law is a man of very
bad reputation. He is a card-sharper and in general a shady
personality, yet it cost father more than two thousand roubles.
And while papa was busying himself about that scandal Foma came
near drowning a whole company on the Volga."

"Ha-ha! How monstrous! And that same man busies himself with
investigating as to the meaning of life."

"On another occasion he was carousing on a steamer with a company
of people like himself. Suddenly he said to them: 'Pray to God!
I'll fling every one of you overboard!' He is frightfully strong.
They screamed, while he said: 'I want to serve my country. I want
to clear the earth of base people.'"

"Really? That's clever!"

"He's a terrible man! How many wild pranks he has perpetrated
during these years! How much money he has squandered!"

"And, tell me, on what conditions does father manage his affairs
for him? Do you know?"

"No, I don't. He has a full power of attorney. Why do you ask?"

"Simply so. It's a solid business. Of course it is conducted in
purely Russian fashion; in other words, it is conducted
abominably. But it is a splendid business, nevertheless. If it
were managed properly it would be a most profitable gold mine."

"Foma does absolutely nothing. Everything is in father's hands."

"Yes? That's fine."

"Do you know, sometimes it occurs to me that his thoughtful frame
of mind--that these words of his are sincere, and that he can be
very decent. But I cannot reconcile his scandalous life with his
words and arguments. I cannot do it under any circumstances!"

"It isn't even worthwhile to bother about it. The stripling and
lazy bones seeks to justify his laziness."

"No. You see, at times he is like a child. He was particularly so
before."

"Well, that's what I have said: he's a stripling. Is it worth
while talking about an ignoramus and a savage, who wishes to
remain an ignoramus and a savage, and does not conceal the fact?
You see: he reasons as the bear in the fable bent the shafts."

"You are very harsh."

"Yes, I am harsh! People require that. We Russians are all
desperately loose. Happily, life is so arranged that, whether we
will it or not, we gradually brace up. Dreams are for the lads
and maidens, but for serious people there is serious business."

"Sometimes I feel very sorry for Foma. What will become of him?"

"That does not concern me. I believe that nothing in particular
will become of him--neither good nor bad. The insipid fellow will
squander his money away, and will be ruined. What else? Eh, the
deuce take him! Such people as he is are rare nowadays. Now the
merchant knows the power of education. And he, that foster-
brother of yours, he will go to ruin."

"That's true, sir!" said Foma, opening the door and appearing on
the threshold.

Pale, with knitted brow and quivering lips, he stared straight
into Taras's face and said in a dull voice: "True! I will go to
ruin and--amen! The sooner the better!"

Lubov sprang up from the chair with frightened face, and ran up
to Taras, who stood calmly in the middle of the room, with his
hands thrust in his pockets.

"Foma! Oh! Shame! You have been eavesdropping. Oh, Foma!" said
she in confusion.

"Keep quiet, you lamb!" said Foma to her.

"Yes, eavesdropping is wrong!" ejaculated Taras, slowly, without
lifting from Foma his look of contempt.

"Let it be wrong!" said Foma, with a wave of the hand. "Is it my
fault that the truth can be learned by eavesdropping only?"

"Go away, Foma, please!" entreated Lubov, pressing close to her
brother.

"Perhaps you have something to say to me?" asked Taras, calmly.

"I?" exclaimed Foma. "What can I say? I cannot say anything. It
is you who--you, I believe, know everything."

"You have nothing then to discuss with me?" asked Taras again.

"I am very pleased."

He turned sideways to Foma and inquired of Lubov:

"What do you think--will father return soon?"

Foma looked at him, and, feeling something akin to respect for
the man, deliberately left the house. He did not feel like going
to his own huge empty house, where each step of his awakened a
ringing echo, he strolled along the street, which was enveloped
in the melancholy gray twilight of late autumn. He thought of
Taras Mayakin.

"How severe he is. He takes after his father. Only he's not so
restless. He's also a cunning rogue, I think, while Lubka
regarded him almost as a saint. That foolish girl! What a sermon
he read to me! A regular judge. And she--she was kind toward me."
But all these thoughts stirred in him no feelings--neither hatred
toward Taras nor sympathy for Lubov. He carried with him
something painful and uncomfortable, something incomprehensible
to him, that kept growing within his breast, and it seemed to him
that his heart was swollen and was gnawing as though from an
abscess. He hearkened to that unceasing and indomitable pain,
noticed that it was growing more and more acute from hour to
hour, and, not knowing how to allay it, waited for the results.

Then his godfather's trotter passed him. Foma saw in the carriage
the small figure of Yakov Mayakin, but even that aroused no
feeling in him. A lamplighter ran past Foma, overtook him, placed
his ladder against the lamp post and went up. The ladder suddenly
slipped under his weight, and he, clasping the lamp post, cursed
loudly and angrily. A girl jostled Foma in the side with her
bundle and said:

"Excuse me."

He glanced at her and said nothing. Then a drizzling rain began
to fall from the sky--tiny, scarcely visible drops of moisture
overcast the lights of the lanterns and the shop windows with
grayish dust. This dust made him breathe with difficulty.

"Shall I go to Yozhov and pass the night there? I might drink
with him," thought Foma and went away to Yozhov, not having the
slightest desire either to see the feuilleton-writer or to drink
with him.

At Yozhov's he found a shaggy fellow sitting on the lounge. He
had on a blouse and gray pantaloons. His face was swarthy, as
though smoked, his eyes were large, immobile and angry, his thick
upper lip was covered with a bristle-like, soldier moustache. He
was sitting on the lounge, with his feet clasped in his huge arms
and his chin resting on his knees. Yozhov sat sideways in a
chair, with his legs thrown across the arm of the chair. Among
books and newspapers on the table stood a bottle of vodka and
there was an odour of something salty in the room.

"Why are you tramping about?" Yozhov asked Foma, and, nodding at
him, said to the man on the lounge: "Gordyeeff!"

The man glanced at the newcomer and said in a harsh, shrill
voice: "Krasnoshchokov."

Foma seated himself on a corner of the lounge and said to Yozhov:

"I have come to stay here over night."

"Well? Go on, Vasily."

The latter glanced at Foma askance and went on in a creaking
voice:

"In my opinion, you are attacking the stupid people in vain.
Masaniello was a fool, but what had to be performed was done in
the best way possible. And that Winkelried was certainly a fool
also, and yet had he not thrust the imperial spears into himself
the Swiss would have been thrashed. Have there not been many
fools like that? Yet they are the heroes. And the clever people
are the cowards. Where they ought to deal the obstacle a blow
with all their might they stop to reflect: 'What will come of it?
Perhaps we may perish in vain?' And they stand there like posts--
until they breathe their last. And the fool is brave! He rushes
headforemost against the wall--bang! If his skull breaks--what of
it? Calves' heads are not dear. And if he makes a crack in the
wall the clever people will pick it open into gates, will pass
and credit themselves with the honour. No, Nikolay Matveyich,
bravery is a good thing even though it be without reason."

"Vasily, you are talking nonsense!" said Yozhov, stretching his
hand toward him.

"Ah, of course!" assented Vasily. "How am I to sip cabbage soup
with a bast shoe? And yet I am not blind. I can see. There is
plenty of brains, but no good comes of it. During the time the
clever people think and reflect as to how to act in the wisest
way, the fools will down them. That's all."

"Wait a little!" said Yozhov.

"I can't! I am on duty today. I am rather late as it is. I'll
drop in tomorrow--may I?"

"Come! I'll give a roasting!"

"That's exactly your business."

Vasily adjusted himself slowly, rose from the lounge, took
Yozhov's yellow, thin little hand in his big, swarthy paw and
pressed it.

"Goodbye!"

Then he nodded toward Foma and went through the door sideways.

"Have you seen?" Yozhov asked Foma, pointing his hand at the
door, behind which the heavy footsteps still resounded.

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Assistant machinist, Vaska Krasnoshchokov. Here, take an example
from him: At the age of fifteen he began to study, to read and
write, and at twenty-eight he has read the devil knows how many
good books, and has mastered two languages to perfection. Now
he's going abroad."

"What for?" inquired Foma.

"To study. To see how people live there, while you languish here-
-what for?"

"He spoke sensibly of the fools," said Foma, thoughtfully.

"I don't know, for I am not a fool."

"That was well said. The stupid man ought to act at once. Rush
forward and overturn."

"There, he's broken loose!" exclaimed Yozhov. "You better tell me
whether it is true that Mayakin's son has returned?"

"Yes."

"Why do you ask?"

"Nothing."

"I can see by your face that there is something."

"We know all about his son; we've heard about him."

"But I have seen him."

"Well? What sort of man is he?"

"The devil knows him! What have I to do with him?"

"Is he like his father?"

"He's stouter, plumper; there is more seriousness about him; he
is so cold."

"Which means that he will be even worse than Yashka. Well, now,
my dear, be on your guard or they will suck you dry."

"Well, let them do it!"

"They'll rob you. You'll become a pauper. That Taras fleeced his
father-in-law in Yekateringburg so cleverly."

"Let him fleece me too, if he likes. I shall not say a word to
him except 'thanks.'"

"You are still singing that same old tune?"

"Yes."

"To be set at liberty."

"Yes."

"Drop it! What do you want freedom for? What will you do with it?
Don't you know that you are not fit for anything, that you are
illiterate, that you certainly cannot even split a log of wood?
Now, if I could only free myself from the necessity of drinking
vodka and eating bread!"

Yozhov jumped to his feet, and, stopping in front of Foma, began
to speak in a loud voice, as though declaiming:

"I would gather together the remains of my wounded soul, and
together with the blood of my heart I would spit them into the
face of our intelligent society, the devil take it! I would say
to them:

'You insects, you are the best sap of my country! The fact of
your existence has been repaid by the blood and the tears of
scores of generations of Russian people. 0, you nits! How dearly
your country has paid for you! What are you doing for its sake in
return? Have you transformed the tears of the past into pearls?
What have you contributed toward life? What have you
accomplished? You have permitted yourselves to be conquered? What
are you doing? You permit yourselves to be mocked."'

He stamped his feet with rage, and setting his teeth together
stared at Foma with burning, angry looks, and resembled an
infuriated wild beast.

"I would say to them: 'You! You reason too much, but you are not
very wise, and you are utterly powerless, and you are all
cowards! Your hearts are filled up with morality and noble
intentions, but they are as soft and warm as feather beds; the
spirit of creativeness sleeps within them a profound and calm
sleep, and your hearts do not throb, they merely rock slowly,
like cradles.' Dipping my finger in the blood of my heart, I
would smear upon their brows the brands of my reproaches, and
they, paupers in spirit, miserable in their self-contentment,
they would suffer. Oh, how they would suffer! My scourge is
sharp, my hand is firm! And I love too deeply to have compassion!
They would suffer! And now they do not suffer, for they speak of
their sufferings too much, too often, and too loud! They lie!
Genuine suffering is mute, and genuine passion knows no bounds!
Passions, passions! When will they spring up in the hearts of
men? We are all miserable because of apathy."

Short of breath he burst into a fit of coughing, he coughed for a
long time, hopping about hither and thither, waving his hands
like a madman. And then he again stopped in front of Foma with
pale face and blood-shot eyes. He breathed heavily, his lips
trembled now and then, displaying his small, sharp teeth.
Dishevelled, with his head covered with short heir, he looked
like a perch just thrown out of the water. This was not the first
time Foma saw him in such a state, and, as always, he was
infected by his agitation. He listened to the fiery words of the
small man, silently, without attempting to understand their
meaning, having no desire to know against whom they were
directed, absorbing their force only. Yozhov's words bubbled on
like boiling water, and heated his soul.

"I will say to them, to those miserable idlers:

'Look! Life goes onward, leaving you behind!"'

"Eh! That's fine!" exclaimed Foma, ecstatically, and began to
move about on the lounge. "You're a hero, Nikolay! Oh! Go ahead!
Throw it right into their faces!"

But Yozhov was not in need of encouragement, it seemed even as
though he had not heard at all Foma's exclamations, and he went
on:

"I know the limitations of my powers. I know they'll shout at me:
'Hold your peace!' They'll tell me: 'Keep silence!' They will say
it wisely, they will say it calmly, mocking me, they will say it
from the height of their majesty. I know I am only a small bird,
0h, I am not a nightingale! Compared with them I am an ignorant
man, I am only a feuilleton-writer, a man to amuse the public.
Let them cry and silence me, let them do it! A blow will fall on
my cheek, but the heart will nevertheless keep on throbbing! And
I will say to them:

"'Yes, I am an ignorant man! And my first advantage over you is
that I do not know a single book-truth dearer to me than a man!
Man is the universe, and may he live forever who carries the
whole world within him! And you,'I will say, 'for the sake of a
word which, perhaps, does not always contain a meaning
comprehensible to you, for the sake of a word you often inflict
sores and wounds on one another, for the sake of a word you spurt
one another with bile, you assault the soul. For this, believe
me, life will severely call you to account: a storm will break
loose, and it will whisk and wash you off the earth, as wind and
rain whisk and wash the dust off a tree I There is in human
language only one word whose meaning is clear and dear to
everybody, and when that word is pronounced, it sounds thus:
'Freedom!'"

"Crush on!" roared Foma, jumping up from the lounge and grasping
Yozhov by the shoulders. With flashing eyes he gazed into
Yozhov's face, bending toward him, and almost moaned with grief
and affliction: "Oh! Nikolay! My dear fellow, I am mortally sorry
for you! I am more sorry than words can tell!"

"What's this? What's the matter with you?" cried Yozhov, pushing
him away, amazed and shifted from his position by Foma's
unexpected outburst and strange words.

"Oh, brother!" said Foma, lowering his voice, which thus sounded
deeper, more persuasive. "Oh, living soul, why do you sink to
ruin?"

"Who? I? I sink? You lie!"

"My dear boy! You will not say anything to anybody! There is no
one to speak to! Who will listen to you? Only I!"

"Go to the devil!" shouted Yozhov, angrily, jumping away from him
as though he had been scorched.

And Foma went toward him, and spoke convincingly, with intense
sorrow:

"Speak! speak to me! I shall carry away your words to the proper
place. I understand them. And, ah! how I will scorch the people!
Just wait! My opportunity will come."

"Go away!" screamed Yozhov, hysterically, squeezing his back to
the wall, under Foma's pressure. Perplexed, crushed, and
infuriated he stood and waved off Foma's arms outstretched toward
him. And at this time the door of the room opened, and on the
threshold appeared a woman all in black. Her face was angry-
looking and excited, her cheek was tied up with a kerchief. She
tossed her head back, stretched out her hand toward Yozhov and
said, in ahissing and shrill voice:

"Nikolay Matveyich! Excuse me, but this is impossible! Such
beast-like howling and roaring. Guests everyday. The police are
coming. No, I can't bear it any longer! I am nervous. Please
vacate the lodgings to-morrow. You are not living in a desert,
there are people about you here. And an educated man at that! A
writer! All people require rest. I have a toothache. I request
you to move tomorrow. I'll paste up a notice, I'll notify the
police."

She spoke rapidly, and the majority of her words were lost in the
hissing and whistling of her voice; only those words were
distinct, which she shrieked out in a shrill, irritated tone. The
corners of her kerchief protruded on her head like small horns,
and shook from the movement of her jaws. At the sight of her
agitated and comical figure Foma gradually retreated toward the
lounge, while Yozhov stood, and wiping his forehead, stared at
her fixedly, and listened to her words:

"So know it now!" she screamed, and behind the door, she said
once more:

"Tomorrow! What an outrage."

"Devil!" whispered Yozhov, staring dully at the door.

"Yes! what a woman! How strict!" said Foma, looking at him in
amazement, as he seated himself on the lounge.

Yozhov, raising his shoulders, walked up to the table, poured out
a half a tea-glass full of vodka, emptied it and sat down by the
table, bowing his head low. There was silence for about a minute.
Then Foma said, timidly and softly:

"How it all happened! We had no time even to wink an eye, and,
suddenly, such an outcome. Ah!"

"You!" said Yozhov in an undertone, tossing up his head, and
staring at Foma angrily and wildly. "Keep quiet! You, the devil
take you. Lie down and sleep! You monster. Nightmare. Oh!"

And he threatened Foma with his fist. Then he filled the glass
with more brandy, and emptied it again.

A few minutes later Foma lay undressed on the lounge, and, with
half-shut eyes, followed Yozhov who sat by the table in an
awkward pose. He stared at the floor, and his lips were quietly
moving. Foma was astonished, he could not make out why Yozhov had
become angry at him. It could not be because he had been ordered
to move out. For it was he himself who had been shouting.

"0h devil!" whispered Yozhov, and gnashed his teeth.

Foma quietly lifted his head from the pillow. Yozhov deeply and
noisily sighing, again stretched out his hand toward the bottle.
Then Foma said to him softly:

"Let's go to some hotel. It isn't late yet."

Yozhov looked at him, and, rubbing his head with his hands, began
to laugh strangely. Then he rose from his chair and said to Foma
curtly:

"Dress yourself!"

And seeing how clumsily and slowly he turned on the lounge,
Yozhov shouted with anger and impatience:

"Well, be quicker! You personification of stupidity. You
symbolical cart-shaft."

"Don't curse!" said Foma, with a peaceable smile. "Is it
worthwhile to be angry because a woman has cackled?"

Yozhov glanced at him, spat and burst into harsh laughter.

CHAPTER XIII

"ARE all here?" asked Ilya Yefimovich Kononov, standing on the
bow of his new steamer, and surveying the crowd of guests with
beaming eyes.

"It seems to be all!"

And raising upward his stout, red, happy-looking face, he shouted
to the captain, who was already standing on the bridge, beside
the speaking-tube:

"Cast off, Petrukha!"

"Yes, sir!"

The captain bared his huge, bald head, made the sign of the
cross, glancing up at the sky, passed his hand over his wide,
black beard, cleared his throat, and gave the command:

"Back!"

The guests watched the movements of the captain silently and
attentively, and, emulating his example, they also began to cross
themselves, at which performance their caps and high hats flashed
through the air like a flock of black birds.

Give us Thy blessing, 0h Lord!" exclaimed Kononov with emotion.

"Let go astern! Forward!" ordered the captain. The massive "Ilya
Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white
steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream
easily, like a swan.

"How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial
counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking
man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!"

"Half speed!"

"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh
the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and
principal usurer in town.

It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was
reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden
colouring. Flashing in the freshness of its paint the steamer
sailed along the monotonous background of the river like a huge
bright spot, and the black smoke of its breath hung in the air
like a heavy cloud. All white, with pink paddle-boxes and bright
red blades, the steamer easily cut through the cold water with
its bow and drove it apart toward the shores, and the round
window-panes on the sides of the steamer and the cabin glittered
brilliantly, as though smiling a self-satisfied, triumphant
smile.

"Gentlemen of this honourable company!" exclaimed Kononov,
removing his hat, and making a low bow to the guests. "As we have
now rendered unto God, so to say, what is due to God, would you
permit that the musicians render now unto the Emperor what is due
to the Emperor?"

And, without waiting for an answer from his guests, he placed his
fist to his mouth, and shouted:

"Musicians! Play 'Be Glorious!'"

The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the
march.

And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local
commercial bank, began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time
with his fingers on his enormous paunch:

"Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar--tra-rata! Boom!"

"I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he,
he! I entreat you humbly," said Kononov, pushing himself through
the dense group of guests.

There were about thirty of them, all sedate men, the cream of the
local merchants. The older men among them, bald-headed and gray,
wore old-fashioned frock-coats, caps and tall boots. But there
were only few of these; high silk hats, shoes and stylish coats
reigned supreme. They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer,
and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved
towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables
spread with lunch. Lup Reznikov walked arm in arm with Yakov
Mayakin, and, bending over to his ear, whispered something to
him, while the latter listened and smiled. Foma, who had been
brought to the festival by his godfather, after long admonitions,
found no companion for himself among these people who were
repulsive to him, and, pale and gloomy, held himself apart from
them. During the past two days he had been drinking heavily with
Yozhov, and now he had a terrible headache. He felt ill at ease
in the sedate and yet jolly company; the humming of the voices,
the thundering of the music and the clamour of the steamer, all
these irritated him.

He felt a pressing need to doze off, and he could find no rest
from the thought as to why his godfather was so kind to him
today, and why he brought him hither into the company of the
foremost merchants of the town. Why had he urged so persuasively,
and even entreated him to attend Kononov's mass and banquet?

"Don't be foolish, come!" Foma recalled his godfather's
admonitions. "Why do you fight shy of people? Man gets his
character from nature, and in riches you are lower than very few.
You must keep yourself on an equal footing with the others.
Come!"

"But when are you going to speak seriously with me, papa?" Foma
had asked, watching the play of his godfather's face and green
eyes.

"You mean about setting you free from the business? Ha, ha! We'll
talk it over, we'll talk it over, my friend! What a queer fellow
you are. Well? Will you enter a monastery when you have thrown
away your wealth? After the example of the saints? Eh?"

"I'll see then!" Foma had answered.

"So. Well, and meanwhile, before you go to the monastery, come
along with me! Get ready quickly. Rub your phiz with something
wet, for it is very much swollen. Sprinkle yourself with cologne,
get it from Lubov, to drive away the smell of the kabak. Go
ahead!"

Arriving on the steamer while the mass was in progress, Foma took
up a place on the side and watched the merchants during the whole
service.

They stood in solemn silence; their faces had an expression of
devout concentration; they prayed with fervour, deeply sighing,
bowing low, devoutly lifting their eyes heavenward. And Foma
looked now at one, now at another, and recalled what he knew
about them.

There was Lup Reznikov; he had begun his career as a brothel-
keeper, and had become rich all of a sudden. They said he had
strangled one of his guests, a rich Siberian. Zubov's business in
his youth had been to purchase thread from the peasants. He had
failed twice. Kononov had been tried twenty years ago for arson,
and even now he was indicted for the seduction of a minor.
Together with him, for the second time already, on a similar
charge, Zakhar Kirillov Robustov had been dragged to court.
Robustov was a stout, short merchant with a round face and
cheerful blue eyes. Among these people there was hardly one about
whom Foma did not know something disgraceful.

And he knew that they were all surely envying the successful
Kononov, who was constantly increasing the number of his steamers
from year to year. Many of those people were at daggers' points
with one another, none of them would show mercy to the others in
the battlefield of business, and all knew wicked and dishonest
things about one another. But now, when they gathered around
Kononov, who was triumphant and happy, they blended in one dense,
dark mass, and stood and breathed as one man, concentrated and
silent, surrounded by something invisible yet firm, by something
which repulsed Foma from them, and which inspired him with fear
of them.

"Impostors!" thought he, thus encouraging himself.

And they coughed gently, sighed, crossed themselves, bowed, and,
surrounding the clergy in a thick wall, stood immovable and firm,
like big, black rocks.

"They are pretending!" Foma exclaimed to himself. Beside him
stood the hump-backed, one-eyed Pavlin Gushchin--he who, not long
before, had turned the children of his half-witted brother into
the street as beggars--he stood there and whispered penetratingly
as he looked at the gloomy sky with his single eye:

"0h Lord! Do not convict me in Thy wrath, nor chastise me in Thy
indignation."

And Foma felt that that man was addressing the Lord with the most
profound and firm faith in His mercy.

"0h Lord, God of our fathers, who hadst commanded Noah, Thy
servant, to build an ark for the preservation of the world," said
the priest in his deep bass voice, lifting his eyes and
outstretching his hands skyward, "protect also this vessel and
give unto it a guarding angel of good and peace. Guard those that
will sail upon it."

The merchants in unison made the sign of the cross, with wide
swings of their arms, and all their faces bore the expression of
one sentiment--faith in the power of prayer. All these pictures
took root in Foma's memory and awakened in him perplexity as to
these people, who, being able to believe firmly in the mercy of
God, were, nevertheless, so cruel unto man. He watched them
persistently, wishing to detect their fraud, to convince himself
of their falsehood.

Their grave firmness angered him, their unanimous self-
confidence, their triumphant faces, their loud voices, their
laughter. They were already seated by the tables, covered with
luncheon, and were hungrily admiring the huge sturgeon, almost
three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over with greens and
large crabs. Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his neck, looked
at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and said
to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov:

"Yona Nikiforich! Look, it's a regular whale! It's big enough to
serve as a casket for your person, eh? Ha, ha! You could creep
into it as a foot into a boot, eh? Ha, ha!"

The small-bodied and plump Yona carefully stretched out his short
little hand toward the silver pail filled with fresh caviar,
smacked his lips greedily, and squinted at the bottles before
him, fearing lest he might overturn them.

Opposite Kononov, on a trestle, stood a half-vedro barrel of old
vodka, imported from Poland; in a huge silver-mounted shell lay
oysters, and a certain particoloured cake, in the shape of a
tower, stood out above all the viands.

"Gentlemen! I entreat you! Help yourselves to whatever you
please!" cried Kononov. "I have here everything at once to suit
the taste of everyone. There is our own, Russian stuff, and there
is foreign, all at once! That's the best way! Who wishes
anything? Does anybody want snails, or these crabs, eh? They're
from India, I am told."

And Zubov said to his neighbour, Mayakin:

"The prayer 'At the Building of a Vessel' is not suitable for
steam-tugs and river steamers, that is, not that it is not
suitable, it isn't enough alone. A river steamer is a place of
permanent residence for the crew, and therefore it ought to be
considered as a house. Consequently it is necessary to make the
prayer 'At the Building of a House,' in addition to that for the
vessel. But what will you drink?"

"I am not much of a wine fiend. Pour me out some cumin vodka,"
replied Yakov Tarasovich.

Foma, seated at the end of the table among some timid and modest
men who were unfamiliar to him, now and again felt on himself the
sharp glances of the old man.

"He's afraid I'll make a scandal," thought Foma. "Brethren!"
roared the monstrously stout ship builder Yashchurov, in a hoarse
voice," I can't do without herring! I must necessarily begin with
herring, that's my nature."

"Musicians! strike up 'The Persian March!"

"Hold on! Better 'How Glorious!'"

"Strike up 'How Glorious."'

The puffing of the engine and the clatter of the steamer's
wheels, mingling with the sounds of the music, produced in the
air something which sounded like the wild song of a snow-storm.
The whistle of the flute, the shrill singing of the clarionets,
the heavy roaring of the basses, the ruffling of the little drum
and the drones of the blows on the big one, all this fell on the
monotonous and dull sounds of the wheels, as they cut the water
apart, smote the air rebelliously, drowned the noise of the human
voices and hovered after the steamer, like a hurricane, causing
the people to shout at the top of their voices. At times an angry
hissing of steam rang out within the engine, and there was
something irritable and contemptuous in this sound as it burst
unexpectedly upon the chaos of the drones and roars and shouts.

"I shall never forget, even unto my grave, that you refused to
discount the note for me," cried some one in a fierce voice.

"That will do! Is this a place for accounts?" rang out Bobrov's
bass.

"Brethren! Let us have some speeches!"

"Musicians, bush!"

"Come up to the bank and I'll explain to you why I didn't
discount it."

"A speech! Silence!"

"Musicians, cease playing!"

"Strike up 'In the Meadows.'"

"Madame Angot!"

"No! Yakov Tarasovich, we beg of you!"

"That's called Strassburg pastry."

"We beg of you! We beg of you!"

"Pastry? It doesn't look like it, but I'll taste it all the
same."

"Tarasovich! Start."

"Brethren! It is jolly! By God."

"And in 'La Belle Helene' she used to come out almost naked, my
dear," suddenly Robustov's shrill and emotional voice broke
through the noise.

"Look out! Jacob cheated Esau? Aha!"

"I can't! My tongue is not a hammer, and I am no longer young.

"Yasha! We all implore you!"

"Do us the honour!"

"We'll elect you mayor!"

"Tarasovich! don't be capricious!"

"Sh! Silence! Gentlemen! Yakov Tarasovich will say a few words!"

"Sh!"

And just at the moment the noise subsided some one's loud,
indignant whisper was heard:

"How she pinched me, the carrion."

And Bobrov inquired in his deep basso:

"Where did she pinch you?"

All burst into ringing laughter, but soon fell silent, for Yakov
Tarasovich Mayakin, rising to his feet, cleared his throat, and,
stroking his bald crown, surveyed the merchants with a serious
look expecting attention.

"Well, brethren, open your ears!" shouted Kononov, with
satisfaction.

"Gentlemen of the merchant class!" began Mayakin with a smile.
"There is a certain foreign word in the language of intelligent
and learned people, and that word is 'culture.' So now I am going
to talk to you about that word in all the simplicity of my soul."

"So, that's where he is aiming to!" some ones satisfied
exclamation was heard.

"Sh! Silence!"

"Dear gentlemen!" said Mayakin, raising his voice, "in the
newspapers they keep writing about us merchants, that we are not
acquainted with this 'culture,' that we do not want it, and do
not understand it. And they call us savage, uncultured people.
What is culture? It pains me, old man as I am, to hear such
words, and one day I made it my business to look up that word, to
see what it really contains." Mayakin became silent, surveyed the
audience with his eyes, and went on distinctly, with a triumphant
smile:

"It proved, upon my researches, that this word means worship,
that is, love, great love for business and order in life. 'That's
right!' I thought, 'that's right!' That means that he is a
cultured man who loves business and order, who, in general, loves
to arrange life, loves to live, knows the value of himself and of
life. Good!" Yakov Tarasovich trembled, his wrinkles spread over
his face like beams, from his smiling eyes to his lips, and his
bald head looked like some dark star.

The merchants stared silently and attentively at his mouth, and
all faces bespoke intense attention. The people seemed petrified
in the attitudes in which Mayakin's speech had overtaken them.

"But if that word is to be interpreted precisely thus, and not
otherwise, if such is the case-- then the people who call us
uncultured and savage, slander and blaspheme us! For they love
only the word, but not its meaning; while we love the very root
of the word, we love its real essence, we love activity. We have
within us the real cult toward life, that is, the worship of
life; we, not they! They love reasoning' we love action. And
here, gentlemen of the merchant class, here is an example of our
culture, of our love for action. Take the Volga! Here she is, our
dear own mother! With each and every drop of her water she can
corroborate our honour and refute the empty blasphemy spattered
on us. Only one hundred years have elapsed, my dear sirs, since
Emperor Peter the Great launched decked barks on this river, and
now thousands of steamships sail up and down the river. Who has
built them? The Russian peasant, an utterly unlettered man! All
these enormous steamers, barges--whose are they? Ours! Who has
invented them? We! Everything here is ours, everything here is
the fruit of our minds, of our Russian shrewdness, and our great
love for action! Nobody has assisted us in anything! We ourselves
exterminated piracy on the Volga; at our own expense we hired
troops; we exterminated piracy and sent out on the Volga
thousands of steamers and various vessels over all the
thousands of miles of her course. Which is the best town on the
Volga? The one that has the most merchants. Whose are the best
houses in town? The merchants! Who takes the most care of the
poor? The merchant! He collects groshes and copecks, and donates
hundreds of thousands of roubles. Who has erected the churches?
We! Who contributes the most money to the government? The
merchants! Gentlemen! to us alone is the work dear for its own
sake, for the sake of our love for the arrangement of life, and
we alone love order and life! And he who talks about us merely
talks, and that's all! Let him talk! When the wind blows the
willow rustles; when the wind subsides the willow is silent; and
neither a cart-shaft, nor a broom can be made out of the willow;
it is a useless tree! And from this uselessness comes the noise.
What have they, our judges, accomplished; how have they adorned
life? We do not know it. While our work is clearly evident!
Gentlemen of the merchant class! Seeing in you the foremost men
in life, most industrious and loving your labours, seeing in you
the men who can accomplish and have accomplished everything, I
now heartily, with respect and love for you, lift my brimming
goblet, to the glorious, strong-souled, industrious Russian
merchant class. Long may you live! May you succeed for the glory
of Mother Russia! Hurrah!"

The shrill, jarring shout of Mayakin called forth a deafening,
triumphant roar from the merchants. All these big, fleshy bodies,
aroused by wine and by the old man's words, stirred and uttered
from their chests such a unanimous, massive shout that everything
around them seemed to tremble and to quake.

"Yakov! you are the trumpet of the Lord!" cried Zubov, holding
out his goblet toward Mayakin.

Overturning the chairs, jostling the tables, thus causing the
dishes and the bottles to rattle and fall, the merchants,
agitated, delighted, some with tears in their eyes, rushed toward
Mayakin with goblets in their hands.

"Ah! Do you understand what has been said here?" asked Kononov,
grasping Robustov by the shoulder and shaking him. "Understand
it! That was a great speech!"

"Yakov Tarasovich! Come, let me embrace you!"

"Let's toss, Mayakin!

"Strike up the band."

"Sound a flourish! A march. 'The Persian March."'

"We don't want any music! The devil take it!"

"Here is the music! Eh, Yakov Tarasovich! What a mind!"

"I was small among my brethren, but I was favoured with
understanding."

"You lie, Trofim!"

"Yakov! you'll die soon. Oh, what a pity! Words can't express how
sorry we are!"

"But what a funeral that is going to be!"

"Gentlemen! Let us establish a Mayakin fund! I put up a
thousand!"

"Silence! Hold on!"

"Gentlemen!" Yakov Tarasovich began to speak again, quivering in
every limb. "And, furthermore, we are the foremost men in life
and the real masters in our fatherland because we are--peasants!'

"Corr-rect!"

"That's right! Dear mother! That's an old man for you!"

"Hold on! Let him finish."

"We are primitive Russian people, and everything that comes from
us is truly Russian! Consequently it is the most genuine, the
most useful and obligatory."

"As true as two and two make four!"

"It's so simple."

"He is as wise as a serpent!"

"And as meek as a--"

"As a hawk. Ha, ha, ha!"

The merchants encircled their orator in a close ring, they looked
at him with their oily eyes, and were so agitated that they could
no longer listen to his words calmly. Around him a tumult of
voices smote the air, and mingling with the noise of the engine,
and the beating of the wheels upon the water, it formed a
whirlwind of sounds which drowned the jarring voice of the old
man. The excitement of the merchants was growing more and more
intense; all faces were radiant with triumph; hands holding out
goblets were outstretched toward Mayakin; the merchants clapped
him on the shoulder, jostled him, kissed him, gazed with emotion
into his face. And some screamed ecstatically:

"The kamarinsky. The national dance!"

"We have accomplished all that!" cried Yakov Tarasovich, pointing
at the river. "It is all ours! We have built up life!"

Suddenly rang out a loud exclamation which drowned all sounds:

"Ah! So you have done it? Ah, you."

And immediately after this, a vulgar oath resounded through the
air, pronounced distinctly with great rancour, in a dull but
powerful voice. Everyone heard it and became silent for a moment,
searching with their eyes the man who had abused them. At this
moment nothing was heard save the deep sighs of the engines and
the clanking of the rudder chains.

"Who's snarling there?" asked Kononov with a frown.

"We can't get along without scandals!" said Reznikov, with a
contrite sigh.

"Who was swearing here at random?"

The faces of the merchants mirrored alarm, curiosity,
astonishment, reproach, and all the people began to bustle about
stupidly. Only Yakov Tarasovich alone was calm and seemed even
satisfied with what had occurred. Rising on tiptoe, with his neck
outstretched, he stared somewhere toward the end of the table,
and his eyes flashed strangely, as though he saw there something
which was pleasing to him.

"Gordyeeff" said Yona Yushkov, softly.

And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov
Tarasovich was staring.

There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma. His face
distorted with wrath, his teeth firmly set together, he silently
surveyed the merchants with his burning, wide-open eyes. His
lower jaw was trembling, his shoulders were quivering, and the
fingers of his hands, firmly clutching the edge of the table, were
nervously scratching the tablecloth. At the sight of his wolf-
like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again
became silent for a moment.

"What are you gaping at?" asked Foma, and again accompanied his
question with a violent oath.

"He's drunk!" said Bobrov, with a shake of the head.

"And why was he invited?" whispered Reznikov, softly.

"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Kononov, sedately, "you mustn't create
any scandals. If your head is reeling--go, my dear boy, quietly
and peacefully into the cabin and lie down! Lie down, and--"

"Silence, you!" roared Foma, and turned his eye at him. "Do not
dare to speak to me! I am not drunk. I am soberer than any one of
you here! Do you understand?"

"But wait awhile, my boy. Who invited you here?" asked Kononov,
reddening with offence.

"I brought him!" rang out Mayakin's voice.

"Ah! Well, then, of course. Excuse me, Foma Ignatyevich. But as
you brought him, Yakov, you ought to subdue him. Otherwise it's
no good."

Foma maintained silence and smiled. And the merchants, too, were
silent, as they looked at him.

"Eh, Fomka!" began Mayakin. "Again you disgrace my old age."

"Godfather!" said Foma, showing his teeth, "I have not done
anything as yet, so it is rather early to read me a lecture. I am
not drunk, I have drunk nothing, but I have heard everything.
Gentlemen merchants! Permit me to make a speech! My godfather,
whom you respect so much, has spoken. Now listen to his godson."

"What--speeches?" said Reznikov. "Why have any discourses? We
have come together to enjoy ourselves."

"Come, you had better drop that, Foma Ignatyevich."

"Better drink something."

"Let's have a drink! Ah, Foma, you're the son of a fine father!"

Foma recoiled from the table, straightened himself and
continuously smiling, listened to the kind, admonitory words.
Among all those sedate people he was the youngest and the
handsomest. His well-shaped figure, in a tight-fitting frock
coat, stood out, to his advantage, among the mass of stout bodies
with prominent paunches. His swarthy face with large eyes was
more regularly featured, more full of life than the shrivelled or
red faces of those who stood before him with astonishment and
expectancy. He threw his chest forward, set his teeth together,
and flinging the skirts of his frock coat apart, thrust his hands
into his pockets.

"You can't stop up my mouth now with flattery and caresses!" said
he, firmly and threateningly, "Whether you will listen or not, I
am going to speak all the same. You cannot drive me away from
here."

He shook his head, and, raising his shoulders, announced calmly:

"But if any one of you dare to touch me, even with a finger, I'll
kill him! I swear it by the Lord. I'll kill as many as I can!"

The crowd of people that stood opposite him swayed back, even as
bushes rocked by the wind. They began to talk in agitated
whispers. Foma's face grew darker, his eyes became round.

"Well, it has been said here that you have built up life, and
that you have done the most genuine and proper things."

Foma heaved a deep sigh, and with inexpressible aversion
scrutinized his listeners' faces, which suddenly became strangely
puffed up, as though they were swollen. The merchants were
silent, pressing closer and closer to one another. Some one in
the back rows muttered:

"What is he talking about? Ah! From a paper, or by heart?"

"Oh, you rascals!" exclaimed Gordyeeff, shaking his head. "What
have you made? It is not life that you have made, but a prison.
It is not order that you have established, you have forged
fetters on man. It is suffocating, it is narrow, there is no room
for a living soul to turn. Man is perishing! You are murderers!
Do you understand that you exist today only through the patience
of mankind?"

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Reznikov, clasping his hands in
rage and indignation. "Ilya Yefimov, what's this? I can't bear to
hear such words."

"Gordyeeff!" cried Bobrov. "Look out, you speak improper words."

"For such words you'll get--oi, oi, oi! " said Zubov,
insinuatingly.

"Silence!" roared Foma, with blood-shot eyes. "Now they're
grunting."

"Gentlemen!" rang out Mayakin's calm, malicious voice, like the
screech of a smooth-file on iron. "Don't touch him! I entreat you
earnestly, do not hinder him. Let him snarl. Let him amuse
himself. His words cannot harm you."

"Well, no, I humbly thank you! "cried Yushkov. And close at
Foma's side stood Smolin and whispered in his ear:

"Stop, my dear boy! What's the matter with you? Are you out of
your wits? They'll do you--!"

"Get away!" said Foma, firmly, flashing his angry eyes at him.
"You go to Mayakin and flatter him, perhaps something will come
your way!"

Smolin whistled through his teeth and stepped aside. And the
merchants began to disperse on the steamer, one by one. This
irritated Foma still more he wished he could chain them to the
spot by his words, but he could not find such powerful words.

"You have built up life!" he shouted. "Who are you?
Swindlers, robbers."

A few men turned toward Foma, as if he had called them.

"Kononov! are they soon going to try you for that little girl?
They'll convict you to the galleys. Goodbye, Ilya! You are
building your steamers in vain. They'll transport you to Siberia
on a government vessel."

Kononov sank into a chair; his blood leaped to his face, and he
shook his fist in silence. Foma said hoarsely:

"Very well. Good. I shall not forget it."

Foma saw his distorted face with its trembling lips, and
understood with what weapons he could deal these men the most
forcible blows.

"Ha, ha, ha! Builders of life! Gushchin, do you give alms to your
little nephews and nieces? Give them at least a copeck a day. You
have stolen sixty-seven thousand roubles from them. Bobrov! why
did you lie about that mistress of yours, saying that she had
robbed you, and then send her to prison? If you had grown tired
of her, you might have given her over to your son. Anyway he has
started an intrigue with that other mistress of yours. Didn't you
know it? Eh, you fat pig, ha, ha! And you, Lup, open again a
brothel, and fleece your guests there as before. And then the
devil will fleece you, ha, ha! It is good to be a rascal with a
pious face like yours! Whom did you kill then, Lup?"

Foma spoke, interrupting his speech with loud, malevolent
laughter, and saw that his words were producing an impression on
these people. Before, when he had spoken to all of them they
turned away from him, stepping aside, forming groups, and looking
at their accuser from afar with anger and contempt. He saw smiles
on their faces, he felt in their every movement something
scornful, and understood that while his words angered them they
did not sting as deep as he wished them to. All this had chilled
his wrath, and within him there was already arising the bitter
consciousness of the failure of his attack on them. But as soon
as he began to speak of each one separately, there was a swift
and striking change in the relation of his hearers toward him.

When Kononov sank heavily in the chair, as though he were unable
to withstand the weight of Foma's harsh words, Foma noticed that
bitter and malicious smiles crossed the faces of some of the
merchants. He heard some one's whisper of astonishment and
approval:

"That's well aimed!"

This whisper gave strength to Foma, and he confidently and
passionately began to hurl reproaches, jeers and abuses at those
who met his eyes. He growled joyously, seeing that his words were
taking effect. He was listened to silently, attentively; several
men moved closer toward him.

Exclamations of protest were heard, but these were brief, not
loud, and each time Foma shouted some one's name, all became
silent, listening, casting furtive, malicious glances in the
direction of their accused comrade.

Bobrov laughed perplexedly, but his small eyes bored into Foma as
gimlets. And Lup Reznikov, waving his hands, hopped about
awkwardly and, short of breath, said:

"Be my witnesses. What's this! No-o! I will not forgive this!
I'll go to court. What's that?" and suddenly he screamed in a
shrill voice, out-stretching his hand toward Foma:

"Bind him!"

Foma was laughing.

"You cannot bind the truth, you can't do it! Even bound, truth
will not grow dumb!"

"Go-o-od!" drawled out Kononov in a dull, broken voice.

"See here, gentlemen of the merchant class!" rang out Mayakin's
voice. "I ask! you to admire him, that's the kind of a fellow he
is!"

One after another the merchants moved toward Foma, and on their
faces he saw wrath, curiosity, a malicious feeling of
satisfaction, fear. Some one of those modest people among whom
Foma was sitting, whispered to him:

"Give it to them. God bless you. Go ahead! That will be to
your credit."

"Robustov!" cried Foma. "What are you laughing at? What makes you
glad? You will also go to the galleys."

"Put him ashore!" suddenly roared Robustov, springing to his
feet.

And Kononov shouted to the captain:

"Back! To the town! To the Governor."

And someone insinuatingly, in a voice trembling with feeling:

"That's a collusive agreement. That was done on purpose. He was
instigated, and made drunk to give him courage."

"No, it's a revolt!"

"Bind him! Just bind him!"

Foma grasped a champagne bottle and swung it in the air.

"Come on now! No, it seems that you will have to listen to me."

With renewed fury, frantic with joy at seeing these people
shrinking and quailing under the blows of his words, Foma again
started to shout names and vulgar oaths, and the exasperated
tumult was hushed once more. The men, whom Foma did not know,
gazed at him with eager curiosity, with approval, while some
looked at him even with joyous surprise. One of them, a gray-
haired little old man with rosy cheeks and small mouse eyes,
suddenly turned toward the merchants, who had been abused by
Foma, and said in a sweet voice:

"These are words from the conscience! That's nothing! You must
endure it. That's a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell
the truth we are very--"

He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He
made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd.

"Zubov!" cried Foma. "How many people have you fleeced and turned
to beggars? Do you ever dream of Ivan Petrov Myakinnikov, who
strangled himself because of you? Is it true that you steal at
every mass ten roubles out of the church box?"

Zubov had not expected the attack, and he remained as petrified,
with his hand uplifted. But he immediately began to scream in a
shrill voice, as he jumped up quickly:

"Ah! You turn against me also? Against me, too?

And suddenly he puffed up his cheeks and furiously began to shake
his fist at Foma, as he screamed in a shrill voice:

"The fool says in his heart there is no God! I'll go to the
bishop! Infidel! You'll get the galleys!"

The tumult on the steamer grew, and at the sight of these
enraged, perplexed and insulted people, Foma felt himself a
fairy-tale giant, slaying monsters. They bustled about, waving
their arms, talking to one another--some red with anger, others
pale, yet all equally powerless to check the flow of his jeers at
them.

"Send the sailors over here!" cried Reznikov, tugging Kononov by
the shoulder. "What's the matter with you, Ilya? Ah? Have you
invited us to be ridiculed?"

"Against one puppy," screamed Zubov.

A crowd had gathered around Yakov Tarasovitch Mayakin, and
listened to his quiet speech with anger, and nodded their heads
affirmatively.

"Act, Yakov!" said Robustov, loudly. "We are all witnesses. Go
ahead!"

And above the general tumult of voices rang out Foma's loud,
accusing voice:

"It was not life that you have built--you have made a cesspool!
You have bred filth and putrefaction by your deeds! Have you a
conscience? Do you remember God? Money--that's your God! And your
conscience you have driven away. Whither have you driven it away?
Blood-suckers! You live on the strength of others. You work with
other people's hands! You shall pay for all this! When you
perish, you will be called to account for everything! For
everything, even to a teardrop. How many people have wept blood
at those great deeds of yours? And according to your deserts,
even hell is too good a place for you, rascals. Not in fire, but
in boiling mud you shall be scorched. Your sufferings shall last
for centuries. The devils will hurl you into a boiler and will
pour into it--ha, ha, ha! they'll pour into it--ha, ha, ha!
Honourable merchant class! Builders of Life. Oh, you devils!"

Foma burst into ringing laughter, and, holding his sides,
staggered, tossing his head up high.

At that moment several men quickly exchanged glances,
simultaneously rushed on Foma and downed him with their weight. A
racket ensued.

"Now you're caught!" ejaculated some one in a suffocating voice.

"Ah! Is that the way you're doing it?" cried Foma, hoarsely.

For about a half a minute a whole heap of black bodies bustled
about on one spot, heavily stamping their feet, and dull
exclamations were heard:

"Throw him to the ground!"

"Hold his hand, his hand! Oh!"

"By the beard?"

"Get napkins, bind him with napkins."

"You'll bite, will you?"

"So! Well, how's it? Aha!"

"Don't strike! Don't dare to strike."

"Ready!"

"How strong he is!"

"Let's carry him over there toward the side."

"Out in the fresh air, ha, ha!"

They dragged Foma away to one side, and having placed him against
the wall of the captain's cabin, walked away from him, adjusting
their costumes, and mopping their sweat-covered brows. Fatigued
by the struggle, and exhausted by the disgrace of his defeat,
Foma lay there in silence, tattered, soiled with something,
firmly bound, hand and foot, with napkins and towels. With round,
blood-shot eyes he gazed at the sky; they were dull and
lustreless, as those of an idiot, and his chest heaved unevenly
and with difficulty.

Now came their turn to mock him. Zubov began. He walked up to
him, kicked him in the side and asked in a soft voice, all
trembling with the pleasure of revenge:

"Well, thunder-like prophet, how is it? Now you can taste the
sweetness of Babylonian captivity, he, he, he!"

"Wait," said Foma, hoarsely, without looking at him. "Wait until
I'm rested. You have not tied up my tongue."

But saying this, Foma understood that he could no longer do
anything, nor say anything. And that not because they had bound
him, but because something had burned out within him, and his
soul had become dark and empty.

Zubov was soon joined by Reznikov. Then one after another the
others began to draw near. Bobrov, Kononov and several others
preceded by Yakov Mayakin went to the cabin, anxiously discussing
something in low tones.

The steamer was sailing toward the town at full speed. The
bottles on the tables trembled and rattled from the vibration of
the steamer, and Foma heard this jarring, plaintive sound above
everything else. Near him stood a throng of people, saying
malicious, offensive things.

But Foma saw them as though through a fog, and their words did
not touch him to the quick. A vast, bitter feeling was now
springing up within him, from the depth of his soul; he followed
its growth and though he did not yet understand it, he already
experienced something melancholy and degrading.

"Just think, you charlatan! What have you done to yourself?" said
Reznikov. "What sort of a life is now possible to you? Do you
know that now no one of us would care even as much as to spit on
you?"

"What have I done?" Foma tried to understand. The merchants stood
around him in a dense, dark mass.

"Well," said Yashchurov, "now, Fomka, your work is done."

"Wait, we'll see," bellowed Zubov in a low voice.

"Let me free!" said Foma.

"Well, no! we thank you humbly!"

"Untie me."

"It's all right! You can lie that way as well."

"Call up my godfather."

But Yakov Tarasovich came up at this moment. He came up, stopped
near Foma, sternly surveyed with his eyes the outstretched figure
of his godson, and heaved a deep sigh.

"Well, Foma," he began.

"Order them to unbind me," entreated Foma, softly, in a mournful
voice.

"So you can be turbulent again? No, no, you'd better lie this
way," his godfather replied.

"I won't say another word. I swear it by God! Unbind me. I am
ashamed! For Christ's sake. You see I am not drunk. Well, you
needn't untie my hands."

"You swear that you'll not be troublesome?" asked Mayakin.

"0h Lord! I will not, I will not," moaned Foma.

They untied his feet, but left his hands bound. When he rose, he
looked at them all, and said softly with a pitiful smile:

"You won."

"We always shall!" replied his godfather, smiling sternly.

Foma bent, with his hands tied behind his back, advanced toward
the table silently, without lifting his eyes to anyone. He seemed
shorter in stature and thinner. His dishevelled hair fell on his
forehead and temples; the torn and crumpled bosom of his shirt
protruding from under his vest, and the collar covered his lips.
He turned his head to push the collar down under his chin, and
was unable to do it. Then the gray-headed little old man walked
up to him, adjusted what was necessary, looked into his eyes with
a smile and said:

"You must endure it."

Now, in Mayakin's presence, those who had mocked Foma were
silent, looking at the old man questioningly, with curiosity and
expectancy. He was calm but his eyes gleamed in a way not at all
becoming to the occasion, contentedly and brightly.

"Give me some vodka," begged Foma, seating himself at the table,
and leaning his chest against its edge. His bent figure look
piteous and helpless. Around they were talking in whispers,
passing this way and that cautiously. And everyone looked now at
him, now at Mayakin, who had seated himself opposite him. The old
man did not give Foma the vodka at once. First he surveyed him
fixedly, then he slowly poured out a wine glassful, and finally,
without saying a word, raised it to Foma's lips. Foma drank the
vodka, and asked:

"Some more!"

"That's enough!" replied Mayakin.

And immediately after this there fell a minute of perfect,
painful silence. People were coming up to the table noiselessly,
on tiptoe, and when they were near they stretched their necks to
see Foma.

"Well, Fomka, do you understand now what you have done?" asked
Mayakin. He spoke softly, but all heard his question.

Foma nodded his head and maintained silence.

"There's no forgiveness for you!" Mayakin went on firmly, and
raising his voice. "Though we are all Christians, yet you will
receive no forgiveness at our hands. Just know this."

Foma lifted his head and said pensively:

"I have quite forgotten about you, godfather. You have not heard
anything from me."

"There you have it!" exclaimed Mayakin, bitterly, pointing at his
godson. "You see?"

A dull grumble of protest burst forth.

"Well, it's all the same!" resumed Foma with a sigh. "It's all
the same! Nothing--no good came out of it anyway."

And again he bent over the table.

"What did you want?" asked Mayakin, sternly.

"What I wanted?" Foma raised his head, looked at the merchants
and smiled. "I wanted--"

"Drunkard! Nasty scamp!"

"I am not drunk!" retorted Foma, morosely. "I have drank only two
glasses. I was perfectly sober."

"Consequently," said Bobrov, "you are right, Yakov Tarasovich, he
is insane."

"I?" exclaimed Foma.

But they paid no attention to him. Reznikov, Zubov and Bobrov
leaned over to Mayakin and began to talk in low tones.

"Guardianship!" Foma's ears caught this one word. "I am in my
right mind!" he said, leaning back in his chair and staring at
the merchants with troubled eyes. "I understand what I wanted. I
wanted to speak the truth. I wanted to accuse you."

He was again seized with emotion, and he suddenly jerked his
hands in an effort to free them.

"Eh! Hold on!" exclaimed Bobrov, seizing him by the shoulders.
"Hold him."

"Well, hold me!" said Foma with sadness and bitterness. "Hold me-
-what do you need me for?"

"Sit still!" cried his godfather, sternly.

Foma became silent. He now understood that what he had done was
of no avail, that his words had not staggered the merchants. Here
they stood, surrounding him in a dense throng, and he could not
see anything for them. They were calm, firm, treating him as a
drunkard and a turbulent fellow, and were plotting something
against him. He felt himself pitiful, insignificant, crushed by
that dark mass of strong-souled, clever and sedate people. It
seemed to him that a long time had passed since he had abused
them, so long a time that he himself seemed as a stranger,
incapable of comprehending what he had done to these people, and
why he had done it. He even experienced in himself a certain
feeling of offence, which resembled shame at himself in his own
eyes. There was a tickling sensation in his throat, and he felt
there was something foreign in his breast, as though some dust or
ashes were strewn upon his heart, and it throbbed unevenly and
with difficulty. Wishing to explain to himself his act, he said
slowly and thoughtfully, without looking at anyone:

"I wanted to speak the truth. Is this life?"

"Fool!" said Mayakin, contemptuously. "What truth can you speak?
What do you understand?"

"My heart is wounded, that I understand! What justification have
you all in the eyes of God? To what purpose do you live? Yes, I
feel--I felt the truth!"

"He is repenting!" said Reznikov, with a sarcastic smile.

"Let him!" replied Bobrov, with contempt.

Some one added:

"It is evident, from his words, that he is out of his wits."

"To speak the truth, that's not given to everyone!" said Yakov
Tarasovich, sternly and instructively, lifting his hand upward.
"It is not the heart that grasps truth; it is the mind; do you
understand that? And as to your feeling, that's nonsense! A cow
also feels when they twist her tail. But you must understand,
understand everything! Understand also your enemy. Guess what he
thinks even in his dreams, and then go ahead!"

According to his wont, Mayakin was carried away by the exposition
of his practical philosophy, but he realised in time that a
conquered man is not to be taught how to fight, and he stopped
short. Foma cast at him a dull glance, and shook his head
strangely.

"Lamb!" said Mayakin.

"Leave me alone!" entreated Foma, plaintively. "It's all yours!
Well, what else do you want? Well, you crushed me, bruised me,
that serves me right! Who am I? 0 Lord!"

All listened attentively to his words, and in that attention
there was something prejudiced, something malicious.

"I have lived," said Foma in a heavy voice. "I have observed. I
have thought; my heart has become wounded with thoughts! And
here--the abscess burst. Now I am utterly powerless! As though
all my blood had gushed out. I have lived until this day, and
still thought that now I will speak the truth. Well, I have
spoken it."

He talked monotonously, colourlessly, and his speech resembled
that of one in delirium.

"I have spoken it, and I have only emptied myself, that's all.
Not a trace have my words left behind them. Everything is
uninjured. And within me something blazed up; it has burned out,
and there's nothing more there. What have I to hope for now? And
everything remains as it was."

Yakov Tarasovich burst into bitter laughter.

"What then, did you think to lick away a mountain with your
tongue? You armed yourself with malice enough to fight a bedbug,
and you started out after a bear, is that it? Madman! If your
father were to see you now. Eh!"

"And yet," said Foma, suddenly, loudly, with assurance, and his
eyes again flared up, "and yet it is all your fault! You have
spoiled life! You have made everything narrow. We are suffocating
because of you! And though my truth against you is weak, it is
truth, nevertheless! You are godless wretches! May you all be
cursed!"

He moved about in his chair, attempting to free his hands, and
cried out, flashing his eyes with fury:

"Unbind my hands!"

They came closer to him; the faces of the merchants became more
severe, and Reznikov said to him impressively:

"Don't make a noise, don't be bothersome! We'll soon be in town.
Don't disgrace yourself, and don't disgrace us either. We are not
going to take you direct from the wharf to the insane asylum."

"So!" exclaimed Foma. "So you are going to put me into an insane
asylum?"

No one replied. He looked at their faces and hung his head.

"Behave peacefully! We'll unbind you!" said someone.

"It's not necessary!" said Foma in a low voice. "It's all the
same. I spit on it! Nothing will happen."

And his speech again assumed the nature of a delirium.

"I am lost, I know it! Only not because of your power, but rather
because of my weakness. Yes! You, too, are only worms in the eyes
of God. And, wait! You shall choke. I am lost through blindness.
I saw much and I became blind, like an owl. As a boy, I remember,
I chased an owl in a ravine; it flew about and struck against
something. The sun blinded it. It was all bruised and it
disappeared, and my father said to me then: 'It is the same with
man; some man bustles about to and fro, bruises himself, exhausts
himself, and then throws himself anywhere, just to rest.' Hey I
unbind my hands."

His face turned pale, his eyes closed, his shoulders quivered.
Tattered and crumpled he rocked about in the chair, striking his
chest against the edge of the table, and began to whisper
something.

The merchants exchanged significant glances. Some, nudging one
another in the sides, shook their heads at Foma in silence. Yakov
Mayakin's face was dark and immobile as though hewn out of stone.

"Shall we perhaps unbind him?" whispered Bobrov.

"When we get a little nearer."

"No, it's not necessary," said Mayakin in an undertone- "We'll
leave him here. Let someone send for a carriage. We'll take him
straight to the asylum."

"And where am I to rest?" Foma muttered again. "Whither shall I
fling myself?" And he remained as though petrified in a broken,
uncomfortable attitude, all distorted, with an expression of pain
on his face.

Mayakin rose from his seat and went to the cabin, saying softly:

"Keep an eye on him, he might fling himself overboard."

"I am sorry for the fellow," said Bobrov, looking at Yakov
Tarasovich as he departed.

"No one is to blame for his madness," replied Reznikov, morosely.

"And Yakov," whispered Zubov, nodding his head in the direction
of Mayakin.

"What about Yakov? He loses nothing through it."

"Yes, now he'll, ha, ha!"

"He'll be his guardian, ha, ha, ha!"

Their quiet laughter and whisper mingled with the groaning of the
engine did not seem to reach Foma's ear. Motionlessly he stared
into the distance before him with a dim look, and only his lips
were slightly quivering.

"His son has returned," whispered Bobrov.

"I know his son," said Yashchurov. "I met him in Perm."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"A business-like, clever fellow."

"Is that so?"

"He manages a big business in Oosolye."

"Consequently Yakov does not need this one. Yes. So that's it."

"Look, he's weeping!"

"Oh?"

Foma was sitting leaning against the back of the chair, and
drooping his head on the shoulder. His eyes were shut, and from
under his eyelids tears were trickling one after another. They
coursed down his cheeks into his moustache. Foma's lips quivered
convulsively, and the tears fell from his moustache upon his
breast. He was silent and motionless, only his chest heaved
unevenly, and with difficulty. The merchants looked at his pale,
tear-stained face, grown lean with suffering, with the corners of
his lips lowered downward, and walked away from him quietly and
mutely.

And then Foma remained alone, with his hands tied behind his
back, sitting at the table which was covered with dirty dishes
and different remains of the feast. At times he slowly opened his
heavy, swollen eyelids, and his eyes, through tears, looked dimly
and mournfully at the table where everything was dirty, upset,
ruined.

..  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Three years have passed.

About a year ago Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin died. He died in full
consciousness, and remained true to himself; a few hours before
his death he said to his son, daughter and son-in-law:

"Well, children, live in richness! Yakov has tasted everything,
so now it is time for Yakov to go. You see, I am dying, yet I am
not despondent; and the Lord will set that down to my credit. I
have bothered Him, the Most Gracious One, with jests only, but
never with moans and complaints! 0h Lord! I am glad that I have
lived with understanding through Thy mercy! Farewell, my
children. Live in harmony, and don't philosophize too much. Know
this, not he is holy who hides himself from sin and lies calm.
With cowardice you cannot defend yourself against sin, thus also
says the parable of the talents. But he who wants to attain his
goal in life fears not sin. God will pardon him an error. God has
appointed man as the builder of life, but has not endowed him
with too much wisdom. Consequently, He will not call in his
outstanding debts severely. For He is holy and most merciful."

He died after a short but very painful agony.

Yozhov was for some reason or other banished from the town soon
after the occurrence on the steamer.

A great commercial house sprang up in the town under the firm-
name of "Taras Mayakin & African Smolin."

Nothing had been heard of Foma during these three years. It was
rumoured that upon his discharge from the asylum Mayakin had sent
him away to some relatives of his mother in the Ural.

Not long ago Foma appeared in the streets of the town. He is worn
out, shabby and half-witted. Almost always intoxicated, he
appears now gloomy, with knitted brow, and with head bent down on
his breast, now smiling the pitiful and melancholy smile of a
silly fanatic. Sometimes he is turbulent, but that happens
rarely. He lives with his foster-sister in a little wing in the
yard. His acquaintances among the merchants and citizens often
ridicule him. As Foma walks along the street, suddenly someone
shouts to him:

"Eh, you prophet, come here!"

Yet he rarely goes to those who call him; he shuns people and
does not care to speak with them. But when he does approach them
they say to him:

"Well, tell us something about doomsday, won't you? Ha, ha, ha!
Prophet!"





Project Gutenberg Etext of Foma Gordeev/Gordyeeff, by Maxim Gorky

