The Man Who Was Afraid Part 73

Robustov was a stout, short merchant with a round face and cheerful blue eyes. Among these people there was hardly one about whom Foma did not know something disgraceful.

And he knew that they were all surely envying the successful Kononov, who was constantly increasing the number of his steamers from year to year. Many of those people were at daggers' points with one another, none of them would show mercy to the others in the battlefield of business, and all knew wicked and dishonest things about one another.

But now, when they gathered around Kononov, who was triumphant and happy, they blended in one dense, dark ma.s.s, and stood and breathed as one man, concentrated and silent, surrounded by something invisible yet firm, by something which repulsed Foma from them, and which inspired him with fear of them.

"Impostors!" thought he, thus encouraging himself.

And they coughed gently, sighed, crossed themselves, bowed, and, surrounding the clergy in a thick wall, stood immovable and firm, like big, black rocks.

"They are pretending!" Foma exclaimed to himself. Beside him stood the hump-backed, one-eyed Pavlin Gushchin--he who, not long before, had turned the children of his half-witted brother into the street as beggars--he stood there and whispered penetratingly as he looked at the gloomy sky with his single eye:

"Oh Lord! Do not convict me in Thy wrath, nor chastise me in Thy indignation."

And Foma felt that that man was addressing the Lord with the most profound and firm faith in His mercy.

"Oh Lord, G.o.d of our fathers, who hadst commanded Noah, Thy servant, to build an ark for the preservation of the world," said the priest in his deep ba.s.s voice, lifting his eyes and outstretching his hands skyward, "protect also this vessel and give unto it a guarding angel of good and peace. Guard those that will sail upon it."

The merchants in unison made the sign of the cross, with wide swings of their arms, and all their faces bore the expression of one sentiment--faith in the power of prayer. All these pictures took root in Foma's memory and awakened in him perplexity as to these people, who, being able to believe firmly in the mercy of G.o.d, were, nevertheless, so cruel unto man. He watched them persistently, wishing to detect their fraud, to convince himself of their falsehood.

Their grave firmness angered him, their unanimous self-confidence, their triumphant faces, their loud voices, their laughter. They were already seated by the tables, covered with luncheon, and were hungrily admiring the huge sturgeon, almost three yards in length, nicely sprinkled over with greens and large crabs. Trofim Zubov, tying a napkin around his neck, looked at the monster fish with happy, sweetly half-shut eyes, and said to his neighbour, the flour merchant, Yona Yushkov:

"Yona Nikiforich! Look, it's a regular whale! It's big enough to serve as a casket for your person, eh? Ha, ha! You could creep into it as a foot into a boot, eh? Ha, ha!"

The small-bodied and plump Yona carefully stretched out his short little hand toward the silver pail filled with fresh caviar, smacked his lips greedily, and squinted at the bottles before him, fearing lest he might overturn them.

Opposite Kononov, on a trestle, stood a half-vedro barrel of old vodka, imported from Poland; in a huge silver-mounted sh.e.l.l lay oysters, and a certain particoloured cake, in the shape of a tower, stood out above all the viands.

"Gentlemen! I entreat you! Help yourselves to whatever you please!"

cried Kononov. "I have here everything at once to suit the taste of everyone. There is our own, Russian stuff, and there is foreign, all at once! That's the best way! Who wishes anything? Does anybody want snails, or these crabs, eh? They're from India, I am told."

And Zubov said to his neighbour, Mayakin:

"The prayer 'At the Building of a Vessel' is not suitable for steam-tugs and river steamers, that is, not that it is not suitable, it isn't enough alone. A river steamer is a place of permanent residence for the crew, and therefore it ought to be considered as a house. Consequently it is necessary to make the prayer 'At the Building of a House,' in addition to that for the vessel. But what will you drink?"

"I am not much of a wine fiend. Pour me out some c.u.min vodka," replied Yakov Tarasovich.

Foma, seated at the end of the table among some timid and modest men who were unfamiliar to him, now and again felt on himself the sharp glances of the old man.

"He's afraid I'll make a scandal," thought Foma. "Brethren!" roared the monstrously stout ship builder Yashchurov, in a hoa.r.s.e voice, "I can't do without herring! I must necessarily begin with herring, that's my nature."

"Musicians! strike up 'The Persian March!'"

"Hold on! Better 'How Glorious!'"

"Strike up 'How Glorious.'"

The puffing of the engine and the clatter of the steamer's wheels, mingling with the sounds of the music, produced in the air something which sounded like the wild song of a snow-storm. The whistle of the flute, the shrill singing of the clarionets, the heavy roaring of the ba.s.ses, the ruffling of the little drum and the drones of the blows on the big one, all this fell on the monotonous and dull sounds of the wheels, as they cut the water apart, smote the air rebelliously, drowned the noise of the human voices and hovered after the steamer, like a hurricane, causing the people to shout at the top of their voices. At times an angry hissing of steam rang out within the engine, and there was something irritable and contemptuous in this sound as it burst unexpectedly upon the chaos of the drones and roars and shouts.

"I shall never forget, even unto my grave, that you refused to discount the note for me," cried some one in a fierce voice.

"That will do! Is this a place for accounts?" rang out Bobrov's ba.s.s.

"Brethren! Let us have some speeches!"

"Musicians, bush!"

"Come up to the bank and I'll explain to you why I didn't discount it."

"A speech! Silence!"

"Musicians, cease playing!"

"Strike up 'In the Meadows.'"

"Madame Angot!"

"No! Yakov Tarasovich, we beg of you!"

"That's called Stra.s.sburg pastry."

"We beg of you! We beg of you!"

"Pastry? It doesn't look like it, but I'll taste it all the same."

"Tarasovich! Start."

"Brethren! It is jolly! By G.o.d."

"And in 'La Belle Helene' she used to come out almost naked, my dear,"

suddenly Robustov's shrill and emotional voice broke through the noise.

"Look out! Jacob cheated Esau? Aha!"

"I can't! My tongue is not a hammer, and I am no longer young.

"Yasha! We all implore you!"

"Do us the honour!"

"We'll elect you mayor!"

"Tarasovich! don't be capricious!"

"Sh! Silence! Gentlemen! Yakov Tarasovich will say a few words!"

"Sh!"

And just at the moment the noise subsided some one's loud, indignant whisper was heard:

"How she pinched me, the carrion."