The Man Who Was Afraid Part 68

And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly and in unison:

"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"

Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which was as harmonious as music. The slovenly faces of the carriers beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and the leader of the chorus was in his best vein. Foma thought that it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to the tune of a cheerful song, to get tired from work to drink a gla.s.s of vodka and eat fat cabbage soup, prepared by the stout, sprightly matron of the company.

"Quicker, boys, quicker!" rang out beside him someone's unpleasant, hoa.r.s.e voice.

Foma turned around. A stout man, with an enormous paunch, tapped on the boards of the landing bridge with his cane, as he looked at the carriers with his small eyes and said:

"Bawl less and work faster."

His face and neck were covered with perspiration; he wiped it off every now and then with his left hand and breathed heavily, as though he were going uphill.

Foma cast at the man a hostile look and thought:

"Others are working and he is sweating. And I am still worse than he.

I'm like a crow on the fence, good for nothing."

From each and every impression there immediately stood out in his mind the painful thought of his unfitness for life. Everything that attracted his attention contained something offensive to him, and this something fell like a brick upon his breast. At one side of him, by the freight scales, stood two sailors, and one of them, a square-built, red-faced fellow, was telling the other:

"As they rushed on me it began for fair, my dear chap! There were four of them--I was alone! But I didn't give in to them, because I saw that they would beat me to death! Even a ram will kick out if you fleece it alive. How I tore myself away from them! They all rolled away in different directions."

"But you came in for a sound drubbing all the same?" inquired the other sailor.

"Of course! I caught it. I swallowed about five blows. But what's the difference? They didn't kill me. Well, thank G.o.d for it!"

"Certainly."

"To the stern, devils, to the stern, I'm telling you!" roared the perspiring man in a ferocious voice at two carriers who were rolling a barrel of fish along the deck.

"What are you yelling for?" Foma turned to him sternly, as he had started at the shout.

"Is that any of your business?" asked the perspiring man, casting a glance at Foma.

"It is my business! The people are working and your fat is melting away.

So you think you must yell at them?" said Foma, threateningly, moving closer toward him.

"You--you had better keep your temper."

The perspiring man suddenly rushed away from his place and went into his office. Foma looked after him and also went away from the wharf; filled with a desire to abuse some one, to do something, just to divert his thoughts from himself at least for a short while. But his thoughts took a firmer hold on him.

"That sailor there, he tore himself away, and he's safe and sound! Yes, while I--"

In the evening he again went up to the Mayakins. The old man was not at home, and in the dining-room sat Lubov with her brother, drinking tea.

On reaching the door Foma heard the hoa.r.s.e voice of Taras:

"What makes father bother himself about him?"

At the sight of Foma he stopped short, staring at his face with a serious, searching look. An expression of agitation was clearly depicted on Lubov's face, and she said with dissatisfaction and at the same time apologetically:

"Ah! So it's you?"

"They've been speaking of me," thought Foma, as he seated himself at the table. Taras turned his eyes away from him and sank deeper in the armchair. There was an awkward silence lasting for about a minute, and this pleased Foma.

"Are you going to the banquet?"

"What banquet?"

"Don't you know? Kononov is going to consecrate his new steamer. A ma.s.s will be held there and then they are going to take a trip up the Volga."

"I was not invited," said Foma.

"n.o.body was invited. He simply announced on the Exchange: 'Anybody who wishes to honour me is welcome!

"I don't care for it."

"Yes? But there will be a grand drinking bout," said Lubov, looking at him askance.

"I can drink at my own expense if I choose to do so."

"I know," said Lubov, nodding her head expressively.

Taras toyed with his teaspoon, turning it between his fingers and looking at them askance.

"And where's my G.o.dfather?" asked Foma.

"He went to the bank. There's a meeting of the board of directors today.

Election of officers is to take place.

"They'll elect him again."

"Of course."

And again the conversation broke off. Foma began to watch the brother and the sister. Having dropped the spoon, Taras slowly drank his tea in big sips, and silently moving the gla.s.s over to his sister, smiled to her. She, too, smiled joyously and happily, seized the gla.s.s and began to rinse it a.s.siduously. Then her face a.s.sumed a strained expression; she seemed to prepare herself for something and asked her brother in a low voice, almost reverently:

"Shall we return to the beginning of our conversation?"

"If you please," a.s.sented Taras, shortly.

"You said something, but I didn't understand. What was it? I asked: 'If all this is, as you say, Utopia, if it is impossible, dreams, then what is he to do who is not satisfied with life as it is?'"

The girl leaned her whole body toward her brother, and her eyes, with strained expectation, stopped on the calm face of her brother. He glanced at her in a weary way, moved about in his seat, and, lowering his head, said calmly and impressively:

"We must consider from what source springs that dissatisfaction with life. It seems to me that, first of all, it comes from the inability to work; from the lack of respect for work. And, secondly, from a wrong conception of one's own powers. The misfortune of most of the people is that they consider themselves capable of doing more than they really can. And yet only little is required of man: he must select for himself an occupation to suit his powers and must master it as well as possible, as attentively as possible. You must love what you are doing, and then labour, be it ever so rough, rises to the height of creativeness. A chair, made with love, will always be a good, beautiful and solid chair.

And so it is with everything. Read Smiles. Haven't you read him? It is a very sensible book. It is a sound book. Read Lubbock. In general, remember that the English people const.i.tute the nation most qualified for labour, which fact explains their astonis.h.i.+ng success in the domain of industry and commerce. With them labour is almost a cult. The height of culture stands always directly dependent upon the love of labour. And the higher the culture the more satisfied are the requirements of man, the fewer the obstacles on the road toward the further development of man's requirements. Happiness is possible--it is the complete satisfaction of requirements. There it is. And, as you see, man's happiness is dependent upon his relation toward his work."

Taras Mayakin spoke slowly and laboriously, as though it were unpleasant and tedious for him to speak. And Lubov, with knitted brow, leaning toward him, listened to his words with eager attention in her eyes, ready to accept everything and imbibe it into her soul.

"Well, and suppose everything is repulsive to a man?" asked Foma, suddenly, in a deep voice, casting a glance at Taras's face.