Максим Горький
The Man Who Was Afraid
“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: “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 lookedlong at the clouds and finally began to feel as though silent cloudswere also passing through his breast, – passing, breathing a dampcoldness upon his heart and oppressing him. There was something impotentin the motion of the clouds across the sky. And he felt the same withinhim. Without thinking, he pictured to himself all he had gone throughduring the past months. It seemed to him as though he had fallen into aturbid, boiling stream, and now he had been seized by dark waves, thatresembled these clouds in the sky; had been seized and carried awaysomewhere, even as the clouds were carried by the wind. In the darknessand the tumult which surrounded him, he saw as though through a mistthat certain other people were hastening together with him – to-day notthose of yesterday, new ones each day, yet all looking alike – equallypitiful and repulsive. Intoxicated, noisy, greedy, they flew abouthim as in a whirlwind, caroused at his expense, abused him, fought, screamed, and even wept more than once. And he beat them. He rememberedthat one day he had struck somebody on the face, torn someone’s coat offand thrown it into the water and that some one had kissed his hands withwet, cold lips as disgusting as frogs. Had kissed and wept, imploringhim not to kill. Certain faces flashed through his memory, certainsounds and words rang in it. A woman in a yellow silk waist, unfastenedat the breast, had sung in a loud, sobbing voice:
“And so let us live while we can
And 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. Oh 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.”
“I 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:
