The Man Who Was Afraid Part 7

"I discharged him. I ordered him away."

"For that?" queried Foma.

"Yes, for that very thing."

"And Petrovich, too?"

"Yes, I sent him the same way."

Foma was pleased with the fact that his father was able to change the men so quickly. He smiled to his father, and, coming out on the deck, walked up to a sailor, who sat on the floor, untwisting a piece of rope and making a swab.

"We have a new pilot here," announced Foma.

"I know. Good health to you, Foma Ignatich! How did you sleep?"

"And a new machinist, too."

"And a new machinist. Are you sorry for Petrovich?"

"Really? And he was so good to you."

"Well, why did he abuse my father?"

"Oh? Did he abuse him?"

"Of course he did. I heard it myself."

"Mm--and your father heard it, too?"

"No, I told him."

"You--so"--drawled the sailor and became silent, taking up his work again.

"And papa says to me: 'You,' he says, 'you are master here--you can drive them all away if you wish.'"

"So," said the sailor, gloomily looking at the boy, who was so enthusiastically boasting to him of his supreme power. From that day on Foma noticed that the crew did not regard him as before. Some became more obliging and kind, others did not care to speak to him, and when they did speak to him, it was done angrily, and not at all entertainingly, as before. Foma liked to watch while the deck was being washed: their trousers rolled up to their knees, or sometimes taken off altogether, the sailors, with swabs and brushes in their hands, cleverly ran about the deck, emptying pails of water on it, besprinkling one another, laughing, shouting, falling. Streams of water ran in every direction, and the lively noise of the men intermingled with the gray splash of the water. Before, the boy never bothered the sailors in this playful and light work; nay, he took an active part, besprinkling them with water and laughingly running away, when they threatened to pour water over him. But after Yakov and Petrovich had been discharged, he felt that he was in everybody's way, that no one cared to play with him and that no one regarded him kindly. Surprised and melancholy, he left the deck, walked up to the wheel, sat down there, and, offended, he thoughtfully began to stare at the distant green bank and the dented strip of woods upon it. And below, on the deck, the water was splas.h.i.+ng playfully, and the sailors were gaily laughing. He yearned to go down to them, but something held him back.

"Keep away from them as much as possible," he recalled his father's words; "you are their master." Then he felt like shouting at the sailors--something harsh and authoritative, so his father would scold them. He thought a long time what to say, but could not think of anything. Another two, three days pa.s.sed, and it became perfectly clear to him that the crew no longer liked him. He began to feel lonesome on the steamer, and amid the parti-coloured mist of new impressions, still more often there came up before Foma the image of his kind and gentle Aunt Anfisa, with her stories, and smiles, and soft, ringing laughter, which filled the boy's soul with a joyous warmth. He still lived in the world of fairy-tales, but the invisible and pitiless hand of reality was already at work tearing the beautiful, fine web of the wonderful, through which the boy had looked at everything about him. The incident with the machinist and the pilot directed his attention to his surroundings; Foma's eyes became more sharp-sighted. A conscious searchfulness appeared in them and in his questions to his father rang a yearning to understand which threads and springs were managing the deeds of men.

One day a scene took place before him: the sailors were carrying wood, and one of them, the young, curly-haired and gay Yefim, pa.s.sing the deck of the s.h.i.+p with hand-barrows, said loudly and angrily:

"No, he has no conscience whatever! There was no agreement that I should carry wood. A sailor--well, one's business is clear--but to carry wood into the bargain--thank you! That means for me to take off the skin I have not sold. He is without conscience! He thinks it is clever to sap the life out of us."

The boy heard this grumbling and knew that it was concerning his father.

He also noticed that although Yefim was grumbling, he carried more wood on his stretcher than the others, and walked faster than the others.

None of the sailors replied to Yefim's grumbling, and even the one who worked with him was silent, only now and then protesting against the earnestness with which Yefim piled up the wood on the stretchers.

"Enough!" he would say, morosely, "you are not loading a horse, are you?"

"And you had better keep quiet. You were put to the cart--cart it and don't kick--and should your blood be sucked--keep quiet again. What can you say?"

Suddenly Ignat appeared, walked up to the sailor and, stopping in front of him, asked sternly:

"What were you talking about?"

"I am talking--I know," replied Yefim, hesitating. "There was no agreement--that I must say nothing."

"And who is going to suck blood?" asked Ignat, stroking his beard.

The sailor understood that he had been caught unawares, and seeing no way out of it, he let the log of wood fall from his hands, rubbed his palms against his pants, and, facing Ignat squarely, said rather boldly:

"And am I not right? Don't you suck it?"

"I?"

"You."

Foma saw that his father swung his hand. A loud blow resounded, and the sailor fell heavily on the wood. He arose immediately and worked on in silence. Blood was trickling from his bruised face on to the white bark of the birch wood; he wiped the blood off his face with the sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt, looked at his sleeve and, heaving a sigh, maintained silence, and when he went past Foma with the hand-harrows, two big, turbid tears were trembling on his face, near the bridge of his nose, and Foma noticed them.

At dinner Foma was pensive and now and then glanced at his father with fear in his eyes.

"Why do you frown?" asked his father, gently.

"Frown?"

"Are you ill, perhaps? Be careful. If there is anything, tell me."

"You are strong," said Foma of a sudden musingly.

"I? That's right. G.o.d has favoured me with strength."

"How hard you struck him!" exclaimed the boy in a low voice, lowering his head.

Ignat was about to put a piece of bread with caviar into his mouth, but his hand stopped, held back by his son's exclamation; he looked interrogatively at Foma's drooping head and asked:

"You mean Yefim, don't you?"

"Yes, he was bleeding. And how he walked afterward, how he cried," said the boy in a low voice.

"Mm," roared Ignat, chewing a bite. "Well, are you sorry for him?"

"It's a pity!" said Foma, with tears in his voice.

"Yes. So that's the kind of a fellow you are," said Ignat.

Then, after a moment's silence, he filled a winegla.s.s with vodka, emptied it, and said sternly, in a slightly reprimanding tone:

"There is no reason why you should pity him. He brawled at random, and therefore got what he deserved. I know him: he is a good fellow, industrious, strong and not a bit foolish. But to argue is not his business; I may argue, because I am the master. It isn't simple to be master. A punch wouldn't kill him, but will make him wiser. That's the way. Eh, Foma! You are an infant, and you do not understand these things. I must teach you how to live. It may be that my days on earth are numbered."