The Man Who Was Afraid Part 45

"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 G.o.dfather, in a village hut, on the sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sing across the sky in an enormous flock. Now forming a solid ma.s.s, 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 pa.s.sing through his breast,--pa.s.sing, 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 can And then--e'en gra.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sions, 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 pa.s.s 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 gnas.h.i.+ng 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.