The Man Who Was Afraid Part 35

"Well, I have just been at Shchurov's," he said, coming to Mayakin and seating himself by the table.

Mayakin, in a greasy morning-gown, a counting-board in his hand, began to move about in his leather-covered arm-chair impatiently, and said with animation:

"Pour out some tea for him, Lubava! Tell me, Foma, I must be in the City Council at nine o'clock; tell me all about it, make haste!"

Smiling, Foma related to him how Shchurov suggested to rewrite the notes.

"Eh!" exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich regretfully, with a shake of the head. "You've spoilt the whole ma.s.s for me, dear! How could you be so straightforward in your dealings with the man? Psha! The devil drove me to send you there! I should have gone myself. I would have turned him around my finger!"

"Hardly! He says, 'I am an oak.'"

"An oak? And I am a saw. An oak! An oak is a good tree, but its fruits are good for swine only. So it comes out that an oak is simply a blockhead."

"But it's all the same, we have to pay, anyway."

"Clever people are in no hurry about this; while you are ready to run as fast as you can to pay the money. What a merchant you are!"

Yakov Tarasovich was positively dissatisfied with his G.o.dson. He frowned and in an angry manner ordered his daughter, who was silently pouring out tea:

"Push the sugar nearer to me. Don't you see that I can't reach it?"

Lubov's face was pale, her eyes seemed troubled, and her hands moved lazily and awkwardly. Foma looked at her and thought:

"How meek she is in the presence of her father."

"What did he speak to you about?" asked Mayakin.

"About sins."

"Well, of course! His own affair is dearest to each and every man. And he is a manufacturer of sins. Both in the galleys and in h.e.l.l they have long been weeping and longing for him, waiting for him impatiently."

"He speaks with weight," said Foma, thoughtfully, stirring his tea.

"Did he abuse me?" inquired Mayakin, with a malicious grimace.

"Somewhat."

"And what did you do?"

"I listened."

"Mm! And what did you hear?"

"'The strong,' he says, 'will be forgiven; but there is no forgiveness for the weak.'"

"Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that."

For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man's face, he said with a grin:

"But he doesn't like you."

"n.o.body likes me, my dear," said Mayakin, proudly. "There is no reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me. And they respect only those they fear." And the old man winked at his G.o.dson boastfully.

"He speaks with weight," repeated Foma. "He is complaining. 'The real merchant,' says he, 'is pa.s.sing away. All people are taught the same thing,' he says: 'so that all may be equal, looking alike."'

"Does he consider it wrong?"

"Evidently so."

"Fo-o-o-l!" Mayakin drawled out, with contempt.

"Why? Is it good?" asked Foma, looking at his G.o.dfather suspiciously.

"We do not know what is good; but we can see what is wise. When we see that all sorts of people are driven together in one place and are all inspired there with one and the same idea--then must we acknowledge that it is wise. Because--what is a man in the empire? Nothing more than a simple brick, and all bricks must be of the same size. Do you understand? And those people that are of equal height and weight--I can place in any position I like."

"And whom does it please to be a brick?" said Foma, morosely.

"It is not a question of pleasing, it is a matter of fact. If you are made of hard material, they cannot plane you. It is not everybody's phiz that you can rub off. But some people, when beaten with a hammer, turn into gold. And if the head happens to crack--what can you do? It merely shows it was weak."

"He also spoke about toil. 'Everything,' he says, 'is done by machinery, and thus are men spoiled."'

"He is out of his wits!" Mayakin waved his hand disdainfully. "I am surprised, what an appet.i.te you have for all sorts of nonsense! What does it come from?"

"Isn't that true, either?" asked Foma, breaking into stern laughter.

"What true thing can he know? A machine! The old blockhead should have thought--'what is the machine made of?' Of iron! Consequently, it need not be pitied; it is wound up--and it forges roubles for you. Without any words, without trouble, you set it into motion and it revolves.

While a man, he is uneasy and wretched; he is often very wretched. He wails, grieves, weeps, begs. Sometimes he gets drunk. Ah, how much there is in him that is superfluous to me! While a machine is like an ars.h.i.+n (yardstick), it contains exactly so much as the work required. Well, I am going to dress. It is time."

He rose and went away, loudly sc.r.a.ping with his slippers along the floor. Foma glanced after him and said softly, with a frown:

"The devil himself could not see through all this. One says this, the other, that."

"It is precisely the same with books," said Lubov in a low voice.

Foma looked at her, smiling good-naturedly. And she answered him with a vague smile.

Her eyes looked fatigued and sad.

"You still keep on reading?" asked Foma.

"Yes," the girl answered sadly.

"And are you still lonesome?"

"I feel disgusted, because I am alone. There's no one here to say a word to."

"That's bad."