Максим Горький
The Man Who Was Afraid
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, O – O – O! 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! Oh 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. Oh 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! Oh 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.
