The Man Who Was Afraid Part 43

There was a silence lasting for a few seconds.

Then suddenly a hurricane of shrill, repulsively pitiful sounds, which were full of animal fright, was hurled at Foma, and louder than all and more repulsive than all, Zvantzev's shrill, jarring cry pierced the ear:

"He-e-elp!"

Some one--in all probability, the sedate gentleman with the side whiskers--roared in his ba.s.so:

"Drowning! They're drowning people!"

"Are you people?" cried Foma, angrily, irritated by their screams which seemed to bite him. And the people ran about on the raft in the madness of fright; the raft rocked under their feet, floated faster on account of this, and the agitated water was loudly splashing against and under it. The screams rent the air, the people jumped about, waving their hands, and the stately figure of Sasha alone stood motionless and speechless on the edge of the raft.

"Give my regards to the crabs!" cried Foma. Foma felt more and more cheerful and relieved in proportion as the raft was floating away from him.

"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Ookhtishchev in a faint, but sober voice, "look out, this is a dangerous joke. I'll make a complaint."

"When you are drowned? You may complain!" answered Foma, cheerfully.

"You are a murderer!" exclaimed Zvantzev, sobbing. But at this time a ringing splash of water was heard as though it groaned with fright or with astonishment. Foma shuddered and became as though petrified.

Then rang out the wild, deafening shrieks of the women, and the terror-stricken screams of men, and all the figures on the raft remained petrified in their places. And Foma, staring at the water, felt as though he really were petrified. In the water something black, surrounded with splashes, was floating toward him.

Rather instinctively than consciously, Foma threw himself with his chest on the beams of the raft, and stretched out his hands, his head hanging down over the water. Several incredibly long seconds pa.s.sed. Cold, wet arms clasped his neck and dark eyes flashed before him. Then he understood that it was Sasha.

The dull horror, which had suddenly seized him, vanished, replaced now by wild, rebellious joy. Having dragged the woman out of the water, he grasped her by the waist, clasped her to his breast, and, not knowing what to say to her, he stared into her eyes with astonishment. She smiled at him caressingly.

"I am cold," said Sasha, softly, and quivered in every limb.

Foma laughed gaily at the sound of her voice, lifted her into his arms and quickly, almost running, dashed across the rafts to the sh.o.r.e. She was wet and cold, but her breathing was hot, it burned Foma's cheek and filled his breast with wild joy.

"You wanted to drown me?" said she, firmly, pressing close to him. "It was rather too early. Wait!"

"How well you have done it," muttered Foma, as he ran.

"You're a fine, brave fellow! And your device wasn't bad, either, though you seem to be so peaceable."

"And they are still roaring there, ha! ha!"

"The devil take them! If they are drowned, we'll be sent to Siberia,"

said the woman, as though she wanted to console and encourage him by this. She began to shiver, and the shudder of her body, felt by Foma, made him hasten his pace.

Sobs and cries for help followed them from the river. There, on the placid water, floated in the twilight a small island, withdrawing from the sh.o.r.e toward the stream of the main current of the river, and on that little island dark human figures were running about.

Night was closing down upon them.

CHAPTER IX

ONE Sunday afternoon, Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin was drinking tea in his garden and talking to his daughter. The collar of his shirt unb.u.t.toned, a towel wound round his neck, he sat on a bench under a canopy of verdant cherry-trees, waved his hands in the air, wiped the perspiration off his face, and incessantly poured forth into the air his brisk speech.

"The man who permits his belly to have the upper hand over him is a fool and a rogue! Is there nothing better in the world than eating and drinking? Upon what will you pride yourself before people, if you are like a hog?"

The old man's eyes sparkled irritably and angrily, his lips twisted with contempt, and the wrinkles of his gloomy face quivered.

"If Foma were my own son, I would have made a man of him!"

Playing with an acacia branch, Lubov mutely listened to her father's words, now and then casting a close and searching look in his agitated, quivering face. Growing older, she changed, without noticing it, her suspicious and cold relation toward the old man. In his words she now began to find the same ideas that were in her books, and this won her over on her father's side, involuntarily causing the girl to prefer his live words to the cold letters of the book. Always overwhelmed with business affairs, always alert and clever, he went his own way alone, and she perceived his solitude, knew how painful it was, and her relations toward her father grew in warmth. At times she even entered into arguments with the old man; he always regarded her remarks contemptuously and sarcastically; but more tenderly and attentively from time to time.

"If the deceased Ignat could read in the newspapers of the indecent life his son is leading, he would have killed Foma!" said Mayakin, striking the table with his fists. "How they have written it up! It's a disgrace!"

"He deserves it," said Lubov.

"I don't say it was done at random! They've barked at him, as was necessary. And who was it that got into such a fit of anger?"

"What difference does it make to you?" asked the girl.

"It's interesting to know. How cleverly the rascal described Foma's behaviour. Evidently he must have been with him and witnessed all the indecency himself."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't go with Foma on a spree!' said Lubov, confidently, and blushed deeply at her father's searching look.

"So! You have fine acquaintances, Lubka!" said Mayakin with humorous bitterness. "Well, who wrote it?"

"What do you wish to know it for, papa?"

"Come, tell me!"

She had no desire to tell, but the old man persisted, and his voice was growing more and more dry and angry. Then she asked him uneasily:

"And you will not do him any ill for it?"

"I? I will--bite his head off! Fool! What can I do to him? They, these writers, are not a foolish lot and are therefore a power--a power, the devils! And I am not the governor, and even he cannot put one's hand out of joint or tie one's tongue. Like mice, they gnaw us little by little.

And we have to poison them not with matches, but with roubles. Yes!

Well, who is it?"

"Do you remember, when I was going to school, a Gymnasium student used to come up to us. Yozhov? Such a dark little fellow!"

"Mm! Of course, I saw him. I know him. So it's he?"

"Yes."

"The little mouse! Even at that time one could see already that something wrong would come out of him. Even then he stood in the way of other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked after him then.

Perhaps, I might have made a man of him."

Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly:

"And isn't he who writes for newspapers a man?"

For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter. Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished bra.s.s of the samovar. Then he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably:

"They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper-writers, these terrible Pharisees. They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more. Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From slowness of motion. Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp.