The Man Who Was Afraid Part 44

All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a disordered life."

"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.

"What do you mean by--not right?"

"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are n.o.ble personalities!

They don't want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They're not mosquitoes."

Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.

"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her. "You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are they? No one knows!

That Yozhov--what is he? Only G.o.d knows. All they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me--man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see well--here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face. You see, these newspapers give a samovar face to everything, and do not see the real one. And yet you believe them. But I know that my face on the samovar is distorted. No one can tell the real truth; man's throat is too delicate for this. And then, the real truth is known to n.o.body."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers they defend the general interests of all the people."

"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and that it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest is not defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows what I need? Who, but myself, understands my interests?"

"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute you, but I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with despair.

"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and there is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering! Everybody lives awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no harmony in life. All are yelling out of tune, in different voices. And not one understands what the other is in need of! There is a mist over everything--everybody inhales that mist, and that's why the blood of the people has become spoiled--hence the sores. Man is given great liberty to reason, but is not permitted to do anything--that's why man does not live; but rots and stinks."

"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on the table and bending toward her father.

"Everything!" cried the old man, pa.s.sionately. "Do everything. Go ahead!

Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that liberty must be given to man--complete freedom! Since there has come a time, when everyraw youth believes that he knows everything and was created for the complete arrangement of life--give him, give the rogue freedom! Here, Carrion, live! Come, come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow; feeling that his bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his ears, and like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe himself to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his spirit."

The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with a malicious smile:

"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll bristle up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides--and the poor fellow will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten--he, he, he! Here, he, he, he! The dear fellow will be caught by the real, worthy people, by those real people who are competent to be the actual civil masters, who will manage life not with a rod nor with a pen, but with a finger and with brains.

"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they will say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So--" and, raising his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an authoritative tone:

"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't squeak! Or we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree! Silence, dear fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to happen, Lubavka! He, he, he!"

The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and carried away by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and then, and smacked his lips as though tasting his own wisdom.

"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion will arrange life wisely, after their own fas.h.i.+on. Then things won't go at random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall not live to see it!"

The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes of a big strong net--they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl, unable to free herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by her father's words.

Staring into his face with an intense look, she sought support for herself in his words and heard in them something similar to what she had read in books, and which seemed to her the real truth. But the malignant, triumphant laughter of her father stung her heart, and the wrinkles, which seemed to creep about on his face like so many dark little snakes, inspired her with a certain fear for herself in his presence. She felt that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so simple and so easy in her dreams.

"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort of a man--what in your opinion is Taras?"

Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:

"What sort of talk is this?"

"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.

I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak of him!

"--the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and angrily:

"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads. That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are unhappy because of this incompetence. Taraska. Yes. He must be about forty now. He is lost to me! A galley-slave--is that my son? A blunt-snouted young pig. He would not speak to his father, and--he stumbled."

"What did he do?" asked Lubov, eagerly listening to the old man's words.

"Who knows? It may be that now he cannot understand himself, if he became sensible, and he must have become a sensible man; he's the son of a father who's not stupid, and then he must have suffered not a little.

They coddle them, the nihilists! They should have turned them over to me. I'd show them what to do. Into the desert! Into the isolated places--march! Come, now, my wise fellows, arrange life there according to your own will! Go ahead! And as authorities over them I'd station the robust peasants. Well, now, honourable gentlemen, you were given to eat and to drink, you were given an education--what have you learned? Pay your debts, pray. Yes, I would not spend a broken grosh on them. I would squeeze all the price out of them--give it up! You must not set a man at naught. It is not enough to imprison him! You transgressed the law, and are a gentleman? Never mind, you must work. Out of a single seed comes an ear of corn, and a man ought not be permitted to perish without being of use! An economical carpenter finds a place for each and every chip of wood--just so must every man be profitably used up, and used up entire, to the very last vein. All sorts of trash have a place in life, and man is never trash. Eh! it is bad when power lives without reason, nor is it good when reason lives without power. Take Foma now. Who is coming there--give a look."

Turning around, Lubov noticed the captain of the "Yermak," Yefim, coming along the garden path. He had respectfully removed his cap and bowed to her. There was a hopelessly guilty expression on his face and he seemed abashed. Yakov Tarasovich recognized him and, instantly grown alarmed, he cried:

"Where are you coming from? What has happened?"

"I--I have come to you!" said Yefim, stopping short at the table, with a low bow.

"Well, I see, you've come to me. What's the matter? Where's the steamer?"

"The steamer is there!" Yefim thrust his hand somewhere into the air and heavily s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other.

"Where is it, devil? Speak coherently--what has happened?" cried the old man, enraged.

"So--a misfortune, Yakov."

"Have you been wrecked?"

"No, G.o.d saved us."

"Burned up? Well, speak more quickly."

Yefim drew air into his chest and said slowly:

"Barge No. 9 was sunk--smashed up. One man's back was broken, and one is altogether missing, so that he must have drowned. About five more were injured, but not so very badly, though some were disabled."

"So-o!" drawled out Mayakin, measuring the captain with an ill-omened look.

"Well, Yefimushka, I'll strip your skin off."

"It wasn't I who did it!" said Yefim, quickly.

"Not you?" cried the old man, shaking with rage. "Who then?"

"The master himself."

"Foma? And you. Where were you?"

"I was lying in the hatchway."

"Ah! You were lying."