The Man Who Was Afraid Part 47

"If a man cannot answer for himself, it means that he is afraid of himself, that his price is a grosh!"

"Do you refer to me?" asked Foma, after a pause.

"To you, too."

She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:

"You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could tell it! Only,--who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,--they're like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals--you cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire--just as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent."

Raising her hands she abruptly loosened her hair, and when it fell over her shoulders in heavy, black locks--the woman shook her head haughtily and said, with contempt:

"Never mind that I am leading a loose life! It often happens, that the man who lives in filth is purer than he who goes about in silks. If you only knew what I think of you, you dogs, what wrath I bear against you!

And because of this wrath--I am silent! For I fear that if I should sing it to you--my soul would become empty. I would have nothing to live on."

Foma looked at her, and now he was pleased with her. In her words there was something akin to his frame of mind. Laughing, he said to her, with satisfaction on his face and in his voice:

"And I also feel that something is growing within my soul. Eh, I too shall have my say, when the time comes."

"Against whom?" asked Sasha, carelessly.

"I--against everybody!" exclaimed Foma, jumping to his feet. "Against falsehood. I shall ask--"

"Ask whether the samovar is ready," Sasha ordered indifferently.

Foma glanced at her and cried, enraged:

"Go to the devil! Ask yourself."

"Well, all right, I shall. What are you snarling about?"

And she stepped out of the hut.

In piercing gusts the wind blew across the river, striking against its bosom, and covered with troubled dark waves, the river was spasmodically rushing toward the wind with a noisy splash, and all in the froth of wrath. The willow bushes on the sh.o.r.e bent low to the ground--trembling, they now were about to lie down on the ground, now, frightened, they thrust themselves away from it, driven by the blows of the wind. In the air rang a whistling, a howling, and a deep groaning sound, that burst from dozens of human b.r.e.a.s.t.s:

"It goes--it goes--it goes!"

This exclamation, abrupt as a blow, and heavy as the breath from an enormous breast, which is suffocating from exertion, was soaring over the river, falling upon the waves, as if encouraging their mad play with the wind, and they struck the sh.o.r.es with might.

Two empty barges lay anch.o.r.ed by the mountainous sh.o.r.e, and their tall masts, rising skyward, rocked in commotion from side to side, as though describing some invisible pattern in the air. The decks of both barges were enc.u.mbered with scaffolds, built of thick brown beams; huge sheaves were hanging everywhere; chains and ropes were fastened to them, and rocking in the air; the links of the chains were faintly clanging. A throng of peasants in blue and in red blouses pulled a large beam across the dock and, heavily stamping their feet, groaned with full chest:

"It goes--it goes--it goes!"

Here and there human figures clung to the scaffoldings, like big lumps of blue and red; the wind, blowing their blouses and their trousers, gave the men odd forms, making them appear now hump-backed, now round and puffed up like bladders. The people on the scaffolds and on the decks of the barges were making fast, hewing, sawing, driving in nails; and big arms, with shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows were seen everywhere. The wind scattered splinters of wood, and a varied, lively, brisk noise in the air; the saw gnawed the wood, choking with wicked joy; the beams, wounded by the axes, moaned and groaned drily; the boards cracked sickly as they split from the blows they received; the jointer squeaked maliciously. The iron clinking of the chains and the groaning creaking of the sheaves joined the wrathful roaring of the waves, and the wind howled loudly, scattering over the river the noise of toil and drove the clouds across the sky.

"Mishka-a! The deuce take you!" cried someone from the top of the scaffolding. And from the deck, a large-formed peasant, with his head thrown upward, answered:

"Wh-a-at?" And the wind, playing with his long, flaxen beard, flung it into his face.

"Hand us the end."

A resounding ba.s.so shouted as through a speaking-trumpet:

"See how you've fastened this board, you blind devil? Can't you see?

I'll rub your eyes for you!"

"Pull, my boys, come on!"

"Once more--brave--boys!" cried out some one in a loud, beseeching voice.

Handsome and stately, in a short cloth jacket and high boots, Foma stood, leaning his back against a mast, and stroking his beard with his trembling hand, admired the daring work of the peasants. The noise about him called forth in him a persistent desire to shout, to work together with the peasants, to hew wood, to carry burdens, to command--to compel everybody to pay attention to him, and to show them his strength, his skill, and the live soul within him. But he restrained himself.

And standing speechless, motionless, he felt ashamed and afraid of something. He was embarra.s.sed by the fact that he was master over everybody there, and that if he were to start to work himself, no one would believe that he was working merely to satisfy his desire, and not to spur them on in their work; to set them an example. And then, the peasants might laugh at him, in all probability.

A fair and curly-headed fellow, with his shirt collar unb.u.t.toned, was now and again running past him, now carrying a log on his shoulder, now an axe in his hands; he was skipping along, like a frolicsome goat, scattering about him cheerful, ringing laughter, jests, violent oaths, and working unceasingly, now a.s.sisting one, now another, as he was cleverly and quickly running across the deck, which was obstructed with timber and shavings. Foma watched him closely, and envied this merry fellow, who was radiant with something healthy and inspiring.

"Evidently he is happy," thought Foma, and this thought provoked in him a keen, piercing desire to insult him somehow, to embarra.s.s him. All those about him were seized with the zest of pressing work, all were unanimously and hastily fastening the scaffoldings, arranging the pulleys, preparing to raise the sunken barge from the bottom of the river; all were sound and merry--they all lived. While he stood alone, aside from them, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to do anything, feeling himself superfluous to this great toil. It vexed him to feel that he was superfluous among men, and the more closely he watched them, the more intense was this vexation. And he was stung most by the thought that all this was being done for him. And yet he was out of place there.

"Where is my place, then?" he thought gloomily. "Where is my work? Am I, then, some deformed being? I have just as much strength as any of them.

But of what use is it to me?" The chains clanged, the pulleys groaned, the blows of the axes resounded loud over the river, and the barges rocked from the shocks of the waves, but to Foma it seemed that he was rocking not because the barge was rocking under his feet, but rather because he was not able to stand firmly anywhere, he was not destined to do so.

The contractor, a small-sized peasant with a small pointed gray beard, and with narrow little eyes on his gray wrinkled face, came up to him and said, not loud, but p.r.o.nouncing his words with a certain tone from the bottom of the river. He wished that they might not succeed, that they might feel embarra.s.sed in his presence, and a wicked thought flashed through his mind:

"Perhaps the chains will break."

"Boys! Attention!" shouted the contractor. "Start all together. G.o.d bless us!" And suddenly, clasping his hands in the air, he cried in a shrill voice:

"Let--her--go-o-o!"

The labourers took up his shout, and all cried out in one voice, with excitement and exertion:

"Let her go! She moves."

The pulleys squeaked and creaked, the chains clanked, strained under the heavy weight that suddenly fell upon them; and the labourers, bracing their chests against the handle of the windla.s.ses, roared and tramped heavily. The waves splashed noisily between the barges as though unwilling to give up their prize to the men. Everywhere about Foma, chains and ropes were stretched and they quivered from the strain--they were creeping somewhere across the deck, past his feet, like huge gray worms; they were lifted upward, link after link, falling back with a rattling noise, and all these sounds were drowned by the deafening roaring of the labourers.

"It goes, it goes, it goes," they all sang in unison, triumphantly.

But the ringing voice of the contractor pierced the deep wave of their voices, and cut it even as a knife cuts bread.

"My boys! Go ahead, all at once, all at once."

Foma was seized with a strange emotion; pa.s.sionately he now longed to mingle with this excited roaring of the labourers, which was as broad and as powerful as the river--to blend with this irritating, creaking, squeaking, clanging of iron and turbulent splashing of waves.

Perspiration came out on his face from the intensity of his desire, and suddenly pale from agitation, he tore himself away from the mast, and rushed toward the windla.s.ses with big strides.

"All at once! At once!" he cried in a fierce voice. When he reached the lever of the windla.s.s, he dashed his chest against it with all his might, and not feeling the pain, he began to go around the windla.s.s, roaring, and firmly stamping his feet against the deck. Something powerful and burning rushed into his breast, replacing the efforts which he spent while turning the windla.s.s-lever! Inexpressible joy raged within him and forced itself outside in an agitated cry. It seemed to him that he alone, that only his strength was turning the lever, thus raising the weight, and that his strength was growing and growing.

Stooping, and lowering his head, like a bull he ma.s.sed the power of the weight, which threw him back, but yielded to him, nevertheless. Each step forward excited him the more, each expended effort was immediately replaced in him by a flood of burning and vehement pride. His head reeled, his eyes were blood-shot, he saw nothing, he only felt that they were yielding to him, that he would soon conquer, that he would overthrow with his strength something huge which obstructed his way--would overthrow, conquer and then breathe easily and freely, full of proud delight. For the first time in his life he experienced such a powerful, spiritualizing sensation, and he drank it with all the strength of a hungry, thirsty soul; he was intoxicated by it and he gave vent to his joy in loud, exulting cries in unison with the workers:

"It goes--it goes--it goes."

"Hold on! Fasten! Hold on, boys!"

Something dashed against Foma's chest, and he was hurled backward.