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 sitting. 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:

"Oh 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? Oh 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. Oh 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.

"Oh 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. Oh 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.
Oh 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! Oh 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