One morning his godfather said to him on the Exchange:

"Anany has arrived. He would like to see you. Go up to him toward evening, and see that you hold your tongue. Anany will try to loosen it in order to make you talk on business matters. He is cunning, the old devil; he is a holy fox; he'll lift his eyes toward heaven, and meanwhile will put his paw into your pocket and grab your purse. Be on your guard."

"Do we owe him anything?" asked Foma.

"Of course! We haven't paid yet for the barge, and then fifty five-fathom beams were taken from him not long ago. If he wants everything at once—don't give. A rouble is a sticky thing; the longer it turns about in your hand, the more copecks will stick to it. A rouble is like a good pigeon—it goes up in the air, you turn around and see—it has brought a whole flock with it into the pigeon-house."

"But how can we help paying it now, if he demands it?"

"Let him cry and ask for it—and you roar—but don't give it to him."

"I'll go up there soon."

Anany Savvich Shchurov was a rich lumber-dealer, had a big saw-mill, built barges and ran rafts. He had had dealings with Ignat, and Foma had more than once seen this tall, heavily-bearded, long-armed, white-haired old man, who kept himself as erect as a pine-tree. His big, handsome figure, his open face and his clear eyes called forth in Foma a feeling of respect for Shchurov, although he heard it rumoured that this lumber-dealer had gained his wealth not by honest toil and that he was leading an evil life at home, in an obscure village of the forest district; and Ignat had told Foma that when Shchurov was young and was but a poor peasant, he sheltered a convict in the bath-house, in his garden, and that there the convict made counterfeit money for him. Since that time Anany began to grow rich. One day his bathhouse burned down, and in the ashes they discovered the corpse of a man with a fractured skull. There was a rumour in the village that Shchurov himself had killed his workman—killed and then burned him. Such things had happened more than once with the good-looking old man; but similar rumours were on foot with reference to many a rich man in town—they had all, it was said, hoarded up their millions by way of robberies, murders and, mainly, by passing counterfeit money. Foma had heard such stories in his childhood and he never before considered whether they were true or not.

He also knew that Shchurov had got rid of two wives—one of them died during the first night of the wedding, in Anany's embraces. Then he took his son's wife away from him, and his son took to drink for grief and would have perished in drunkenness had he not come to himself in time and gone off to save himself in a hermitage, in Irgiz. And when his mistress-daughter-in-law had passed away, Shchurov took into his house a dumb beggar-girl, who was living with him to this day, and who had recently borne him a dead child. On his way to the hotel, where Anany stayed, Foma involuntarily recalled all this, and felt that Shchurov had become strangely interesting to him.

When Foma opened the door and stopped respectfully on the threshold of the small room, whose only window overlooked the rusty roof of the neighbouring house, he noticed that the old Shchurov had just risen from sleep, and sitting on his bed, leaning his hands against it, he stared at the ground; and he was so bent that his long, white beard fell over his knees. But even bent, he was large.

"Who entered?" asked Anany in a hoarse and angry voice, without lifting his head.

"I. How do you do, Anany Savvich?"

The old man raised his head slowly and, winking his large eyes, looked at Foma.

"Ignat's son, is that right?"

"The same."

"Well, come over here, sit down by the window. Let me see how you've grown up. Will you not have a glass of tea with me?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"Waiter!" cried the old man, expanding his chest, and, taking his beard in his hand, he began to examine Foma in silence. Foma also looked at him stealthily.

The old man's lofty forehead was all covered with wrinkles, and its skin was dark. Gray, curly locks covered his temples and his sharp-pointed ears; his calm blue eyes lent the upper part of his face a wise and good expression. But his cheeks and his lips were thick and red, and seemed out of place on his face. His thin, long nose was turned downward as though it wished to hide itself in his white moustache; the old man moved his lips, and from beneath them small, yellow teeth were gleaming. He had on a pink calico shirt, a silk belt around his waist, and black, loose trousers, which were tucked into his boots. Foma stared at his lips and thought that the old man was surely such as he was said to be.

"As a boy you looked more like your father," said Shchurov suddenly, and sighed. Then, after a moment's silence, he asked: "Do you remember your father? Do you ever pray for him? You must, you must pray!" he went on, after he heard Foma's brief answer. "Ignat was a terrible sinner, and he died without repentance, taken unawares. He was a great sinner!"

"He was not more sinful than others," replied Foma, angrily, offended in his father's behalf.

"Than who, for instance?" demanded Shchurov, strictly.

"Are there not plenty of sinners?"

"There is but one man on earth more sinful than was the late Ignat—and that is that cursed heathen, your godfather Yashka," ejaculated the old man.

"Are you sure of it?" inquired Foma, smiling.

"I? Of course, I am!" said Shchurov, confidently, nodding his head, and his eyes became somewhat darker. "I will also appear before the Lord, and that not sinless. I shall bring with me a heavy burden before His holy countenance. I have been pleasing the devil myself, only I trust to God for His mercy, while Yashka believes in nothing, neither in dreams, nor in the singing of birds. Yashka does not believe in God, this I know! And for his non-belief he will yet receive his punishment on earth."

"Are you sure of this, too?"

"Yes, I am. And don't you think I also know that you consider it ludicrous to listen to me. What a sagacious fellow, indeed! But he who has committed many sins is always wise. Sin is a teacher. That's why Yashka Mayakin is extraordinarily clever."

Listening to the old man's hoarse and confident voice, Foma thought:

"He is scenting death, it seems."

The waiter, a small man, with a face which was pale and characterless, brought in the samovar and quickly hastened out of the room, with short steps. The old man was undoing some bundles on the window-sill and said, without looking at Foma:

"You are bold, and the look of your eyes is dark. Before, there used to be more light-eyed people, because then the souls used to be brighter. Before, everything was simpler—both the people and the sins, and now everything has become complicated. Eh, eh!"

He made tea, seated himself opposite Foma and went on again:

"Your father at your age was a water-pumper and stayed with the fleet near our village. At your age Ignat was as clear to me as glass. At a single glance you could tell what sort of a man he was. While you—here I am looking at you, but cannot see what you are. Who are you? You don't know it yourself, my lad, and that's why you'll suffer. Everybody nowadays must suffer, because they do not know themselves. Life is a mass of wind-fallen trees, and you must know how to find your way through it. Where is it? All are going astray, and the devil is delighted. Are you married?"

"Not yet," said Foma.

"There again, you are not married, and yet, I'm quite sure, you are not pure any longer. Well, are you working hard in your business?"

"Sometimes. Meanwhile I am with my godfather."

"What sort of work is it you have nowadays?" said the old man, shaking his head, and his eyes were constantly twinkling, now turning dark, now brightening up again. "You have no labour now! In former years the merchant travelled with horses on business. Even at night, in snowstorms, he used to go! Murderers used to wait for him on the road and kill him. And he died a martyr, washing his sins away with blood. Now they travel by rail; they are sending telegrams, or they've even invented something that a man may speak in his office and you can hear him five miles away. There the devil surely has a hand in it! A man sits, without motion, and commits sins merely because he feels lonesome, because he has nothing to do: the machine does all his work. He has no work, and without toil man is ruined! He has provided himself with machines and thinks it is good! While the machine is the devil's trap for you. He thus catches you in it. While toiling, you find no time for sin, but having a machine—you have freedom. Freedom kills a man, even as the sunbeams kill the worm, the dweller of the depth of earth. Freedom kills man!"

And pronouncing his words distinctly and positively, the old Anany struck the table four times with his finger. His face beamed triumphantly, his chest rose high, and over it the silver hair of his beard shook noiselessly. Dread fell on Foma as he looked at him and listened to his words, for there was a ring of firm faith in them, and it was the power of this faith that confused Foma. He had already forgotten all he knew about the old man, all of which he had but a while ago believed to be true.

"Whoever gives freedom to his body, kills his soul!" said Anany, looking at Foma so strangely as if he saw behind him somebody, who was grieved and frightened by his words; and whose fear and pain delighted him. "All you people of today will perish through freedom. The devil has captured you—he has taken toil away from you, and slipped machines and telegrams into your hands. How freedom eats into the souls of men! Just tell me, why are the children worse than their fathers? Because of their freedom, yes. That's why they drink and lead depraved lives with women. They have less strength because they have less work, and they have not the spirit of cheerfulness because they have no worries. Cheerfulness comes in time of rest, while nowadays no one is getting tired."

"Well," said Foma, softly, "they were leading depraved lives and drinking just as much in former days as now, I suppose."

"Do you know it? You should keep silence!" cried Anany, flashing his eyes sternly. "In former days man had more strength, and the sins were according to his strength. While you, of today, have less strength, and more sins, and your sins are more disgusting. Then men were like oak-trees. And God's judgment will also be in accordance with their strength. Their bodies will be weighed, and angels will measure their blood, and the angels of God will see that the weight of the sins does not exceed the weight of the body and the blood. Do you understand? God will not condemn the wolf for devouring a sheep, but if a miserable rat should be guilty of the sheep's death, God will condemn the rat!"

"How can a man tell how God will judge man?" asked Foma, thoughtfully. "A visible trial is necessary."

"Why a visible trial?"

"That people might understand."

"Who, but the Lord, is my judge?"

Foma glanced at the old man and lowering his head, became silent. He again recalled the fugitive convict, who was killed and burnt by Shchurov, and again he believed that it really was so. And the women—his wives and his mistresses—had surely been hastened toward their graves by this old man's caresses; he had crushed them with his bony chest, drunk the sap of their life with these thick lips of his which were scarlet yet from the clotted blood of the women, who died in the embraces of his long sinewy arms. And now, awaiting death, which was already somewhere beside him, he counts his sins, judges others, and perhaps judges himself, and says:

"Who, but the Lord, is my judge?"

"Is he afraid or not?" Foma asked himself and became pensive, stealthily scrutinising the old man.

"Yes, my lad! Think," spoke Shchurov, shaking his head, "think, how you are to live. The capital in your heart is small, and your habits are great, see that you are not reduced to bankruptcy before your own self! Ho-ho-ho!"

"How can you tell what and how much I have within my heart?" said Foma, gloomily, offended by his laughter.

"I can see it! I know everything, because I have lived long! Oh-ho-ho! How long I have lived! Trees have grown up and been cut down, and houses built out of them, and even the houses have grown old. While I have seen all this and am still alive, and when, at times, I recall my life, I think, 'Is it possible that one man could accomplish so much? Is it possible that I have witnessed all this?'" The old man glanced at Foma sternly, shook his head and became silent.

It became quiet. Outside the window something was softly rustling on the roof of the house; the rattle of wheels and the muffled sounds of conversation were heard from below, from the street. The samovar on the table sang a sad tune. Shchurov was fixedly staring into his glass of tea, stroking his beard, and one could hear that something rattled in his breast, as if some burden was turning about in it.

"It's hard for you to live without your father, isn't it?" said he.

"I am getting used to it," replied Foma.

"You are rich, and when Yakov dies, you will be richer still. He'll leave everything to you."

"I don't need it."

"To whom else should he leave it? He has but one daughter, and you ought to marry that daughter, and that she is your godsister and foster-sister—no matter! That can be arranged—and then you would be married. What good is there in the life you are now leading? I suppose you are forever running about with the girls?"

"No."

"You don't say! Eh, eh, eh! the merchant is passing away. A certain forester told me—I don't know whether he lied or not—that in former days the dogs were wolves, and then degenerated into dogs. It is the same with our calling; we will soon also be dogs. We will take up science, put stylish hats on our heads, we'll do everything that is necessary in order to lose our features, and there will be nothing by which to distinguish us from other people. It has become a custom to make Gymnasium students of all children. The merchants, the nobles, the commoners—all are adjusted to match the same colour. They dress them in gray and teach them all the same subjects. They grow man even as they grow a tree. Why do they do it? No one knows. Even a log could be told from another by its knot at least, while here they want to plane the people over so that all of them should look alike. The coffin is already waiting for us old people. Ye-es! It may be that about fifty years hence, no one will believe that I lived in this world. I, Anany, the son of Savva, by the surname of Shchurov. So! And that I, Anany, feared no one, save God. And that in my youth I was a peasant, that all the land I possessed then was two desyatins and a quarter; while toward my old age I have hoarded up eleven thousand desyatins, all forests, and perhaps two millions in cash."

"There, they always speak of money!" said Foma, with dissatisfaction. "What joy does man derive from money?" "Mm," bellowed Shchurov. "You will make a poor merchant, if you do not understand the power of money."

"Who does understand it?" asked Foma.

"I!" said Shchurov, with confidence. "And every clever man. Yashka understands it. Money? That is a great deal, my lad! Just spread it out before you and think, 'What does it contain?' Then will you know that all this is human strength, human mind. Thousands of people have put their life into your money and thousands more will do it. And you can throw it all into the fire and see how the money is burning, and at that moment you will consider yourself master."

"But nobody does this."

"Because fools have no money. Money is invested in business. Business gives bread to the masses. And you are master over all those masses. Wherefore did God create man? That man should pray to Him. He was alone and He felt lonesome, so He began to desire power, and as man was created in the image of the Lord, man also desires power. And what, save money, can give power? That's the way. Well, and you—have you brought me money?"

"No," answered Foma. From the words of the old man Foma's head was heavy and troubled, and he was glad that the conversation had, at last, turned to business matters.

"That isn't right," said Shchurov, sternly knitting his brow. "It is overdue—you must pay.

"You'll get a half of it tomorrow."

"Why a half? Why not all?"

"We are badly in need of money now."

"And haven't you any? But I also need it."

"Wait a little."

"Eh, my lad, I will not wait! You are not your father. Youngsters like you, milksops, are an unreliable lot. In a month you may break up the whole business. And I would be the loser for it. You give me all the money tomorrow, or I'll protest the notes. It wouldn't take me long to do it!"

Foma looked at Shchurov, with astonishment. It was not at all that same old man, who but a moment ago spoke so sagaciously about the devil. Then his face and his eyes seemed different, and now he looked fierce, his lips smiled pitilessly, and the veins on his cheeks, near his nostrils, were eagerly trembling. Foma saw that if he did not pay him at once, Shchurov would indeed not spare him and would dishonour the firm by protesting the notes.

"Evidently business is poor?" grinned Shchurov. "Well, tell the truth—where have you squandered your father's money?"

Foma wanted to test the old man:

"Business is none too brisk," said he, with a frown. "We have no contracts. We have received no earnest money, and so it is rather hard."

"So-o! Shall I help you out?"

"Be so kind. Postpone the day of payment," begged Foma, modestly lowering his eyes.

"Mm. Shall I assist you out of my friendship for your father? Well, be it so, I'll do it."

"And for how long will you postpone it?" inquired Foma.

"For six months."

"I thank you humbly."

"Don't mention it. You owe me eleven thousand six hundred roubles. Now listen: rewrite the notes for the amount of fifteen thousand, pay me the interest on this sum in advance. And as security I'll take a mortgage on your two barges."

Foma rose from the chair and said, with a smile:

"Send me the notes tomorrow. I'll pay you in full."

Shchurov also rose from his chair and, without lowering his eyes at Foma's sarcastic look, said, calmly scratching his chest:

"That's all right."

"Thank you for your kindness."

"That's nothing! You don't give me a chance, or I would have shown you my kindness!" said the old man lazily, showing his teeth.

"Yes! If one should fall into your hands—"

"He'd find it warm—"

"I am sure you'd make it warm for him."

"Well, my lad, that will do!" said Shchurov, sternly. "Though you consider yourself quite clever, it is rather too soon. You've gained nothing, and already you began to boast! But you just win from me—then you may shout for joy. Goodbye. Have all the money for tomorrow."

"Don't let that trouble you. Goodbye!"

"God be with you!"

When Foma came out of the room he heard that the old man gave a slow, loud yawn, and then began to hum in a rather hoarse bass:

"Open for us the doors of mercy. Oh blessed Virgin Mary!"

Foma carried away with him from the old man a double feeling. Shchurov pleased him and at the same time was repulsive to him.

He recalled the old man's words about sin, thought of the power of his faith in the mercy of the Lord, and the old man aroused in Foma a feeling akin to respect.

"He, too, speaks of life; he knows his sins; but does not weep over them, does not complain of them. He has sinned—and he is willing to stand the consequences. Yes. And she?" He recalled Medinskaya, and his heart contracted with pain.

"And she is repenting. It is hard to tell whether she does it purposely, in order to hide from justice, or whether her heart is really aching. 'Who, but the Lord,' says he, 'is to judge me?' That's how it is."

It seemed to Foma that he envied Anany, and the youth hastened to recall Shchurov's attempts to swindle him. This called forth in him an aversion for the old man He could not reconcile his feelings and, perplexed, he smiled.

"Well, I have just been at Shchurov's," he said, coming to Mayakin and seating himself by the table.

Mayakin, in a greasy morning-gown, a counting-board in his hand, began to move about in his leather-covered arm-chair impatiently, and said with animation:

"Pour out some tea for him, Lubava! Tell me, Foma, I must be in the City Council at nine o'clock; tell me all about it, make haste!"

Smiling, Foma related to him how Shchurov suggested to rewrite the notes.

"Eh!" exclaimed Yakov Tarasovich regretfully, with a shake of the head. "You've spoilt the whole mass for me, dear! How could you be so straightforward in your dealings with the man? Psha! The devil drove me to send you there! I should have gone myself. I would have turned him around my finger!"

"Hardly! He says, 'I am an oak.'"

"An oak? And I am a saw. An oak! An oak is a good tree, but its fruits are good for swine only. So it comes out that an oak is simply a blockhead."

"But it's all the same, we have to pay, anyway."

"Clever people are in no hurry about this; while you are ready to run as fast as you can to pay the money. What a merchant you are!"

Yakov Tarasovich was positively dissatisfied with his godson. He frowned and in an angry manner ordered his daughter, who was silently pouring out tea:

"Push the sugar nearer to me. Don't you see that I can't reach it?"

Lubov's face was pale, her eyes seemed troubled, and her hands moved lazily and awkwardly. Foma looked at her and thought:

"How meek she is in the presence of her father."

"What did he speak to you about?" asked Mayakin.

"About sins."

"Well, of course! His own affair is dearest to each and every man. And he is a manufacturer of sins. Both in the galleys and in hell they have long been weeping and longing for him, waiting for him impatiently."

"He speaks with weight," said Foma, thoughtfully, stirring his tea.

"Did he abuse me?" inquired Mayakin, with a malicious grimace.

"Somewhat."

"And what did you do?"

"I listened."

"Mm! And what did you hear?"

"'The strong,' he says, 'will be forgiven; but there is no forgiveness for the weak.'"

"Just think of it! What wisdom! Even the fleas know that."

For some reason or another, the contempt with which Mayakin regarded Shchurov, irritated Foma, and, looking into the old man's face, he said with a grin:

"But he doesn't like you."

"Nobody likes me, my dear," said Mayakin, proudly. "There is no reason why they should like me. I am no girl. But they respect me. And they respect only those they fear." And the old man winked at his godson boastfully.

"He speaks with weight," repeated Foma. "He is complaining. 'The real merchant,' says he, 'is passing away. All people are taught the same thing,' he says: 'so that all may be equal, looking alike."'

"Does he consider it wrong?"

"Evidently so."

"Fo-o-o-l!" Mayakin drawled out, with contempt.

"Why? Is it good?" asked Foma, looking at his godfather suspiciously.

"We do not know what is good; but we can see what is wise. When we see that all sorts of people are driven together in one place and are all inspired there with one and the same idea—then must we acknowledge that it is wise. Because—what is a man in the empire? Nothing more than a simple brick, and all bricks must be of the same size. Do you understand? And those people that are of equal height and weight—I can place in any position I like."

"And whom does it please to be a brick?" said Foma, morosely.

"It is not a question of pleasing, it is a matter of fact. If you are made of hard material, they cannot plane you. It is not everybody's phiz that you can rub off. But some people, when beaten with a hammer, turn into gold. And if the head happens to crack—what can you do? It merely shows it was weak."

"He also spoke about toil. 'Everything,' he says, 'is done by machinery, and thus are men spoiled."'

"He is out of his wits!" Mayakin waved his hand disdainfully. "I am surprised, what an appetite you have for all sorts of nonsense! What does it come from?"

"Isn't that true, either?" asked Foma, breaking into stern laughter.

"What true thing can he know? A machine! The old blockhead should have thought—'what is the machine made of?' Of iron! Consequently, it need not be pitied; it is wound up—and it forges roubles for you. Without any words, without trouble, you set it into motion and it revolves. While a man, he is uneasy and wretched; he is often very wretched. He wails, grieves, weeps, begs. Sometimes he gets drunk. Ah, how much there is in him that is superfluous to me! While a machine is like an arshin (yardstick), it contains exactly so much as the work required. Well, I am going to dress. It is time."

He rose and went away, loudly scraping with his slippers along the floor. Foma glanced after him and said softly, with a frown:

"The devil himself could not see through all this. One says this, the other, that."

"It is precisely the same with books," said Lubov in a low voice.

Foma looked at her, smiling good-naturedly. And she answered him with a vague smile.

Her eyes looked fatigued and sad.

"You still keep on reading?" asked Foma.

"Yes," the girl answered sadly.

"And are you still lonesome?"

"I feel disgusted, because I am alone. There's no one here to say a word to."

"That's bad."

She said nothing to this, but, lowering her head, she slowly began to finger the fringes of the towel.

"You ought to get married," said Foma, feeling that he pitied her.

"Leave me alone, please," answered Lubov, wrinkling her forehead.

"Why leave you alone? You will get married, I am sure."

"There!" exclaimed the girl softly, with a sigh. "That's just what I am thinking of—it is necessary. That is, I'll have to get married. But how? Do you know, I feel now as though a mist stood between other people and myself—a thick, thick mist!"

"That's from your books," Foma interposed confidently.

"Wait! And I cease to understand what is going on about me. Nothing pleases me. Everything has become strange to me. Nothing is as it should be. Everything is wrong. I see it. I understand it, yet I cannot say that it is wrong, and why it is so."

"It is not so, not so," muttered Foma. "That's from your books. Yes. Although I also feel that it's wrong. Perhaps that is because we are so young and foolish."

"At first it seemed to me," said Lubov, not listening to him, "that everything in the books was clear to me. But now—"

"Drop your books," suggested Foma, with contempt.

"Ah, don't say that! How can I drop them? You know how many different ideas there are in the world! O Lord! They're such ideas that set your head afire. According to a certain book everything that exists on earth is rational."

"Everything?" asked Foma.

"Everything! While another book says the contrary is true."

"Wait! Now isn't this nonsense?"

"What were you discussing?" asked Mayakin, appearing at the door, in a long frock-coat and with several medals on his collar and his breast.

"Just so," said Lubov, morosely.

"We spoke about books," added Foma.

"What kind of books?"

"The books she is reading. She read that everything on earth is rational."

"Really!"

"Well, and I say it is a lie!"

"Yes." Yakov Tarasovich became thoughtful, he pinched his beard and winked his eyes a little.

"What kind of a book is it?" he asked his daughter, after a pause.

"A little yellow-covered book," said Lubov, unwillingly.

"Just put that book on my table. That is said not without reflection—everything on earth is rational! See someone thought of it. Yes. It is even very cleverly expressed. And were it not for the fools, it might have been perfectly correct. But as fools are always in the wrong place, it cannot be said that everything on earth is rational. And yet, I'll look at the book. Maybe there is common sense in it. Goodbye, Foma! Will you stay here, or do you want to drive with me?"

"I'll stay here a little longer."

"Very well."

Lubov and Foma again remained alone.

"What a man your father is," said Foma, nodding his head toward the direction of his godfather.

"Well, what kind of a man do you think he is?"

"He retorts every call, and wants to cover everything with his words."

"Yes, he is clever. And yet he does not understand how painful my life is," said Lubov, sadly.

"Neither do I understand it. You imagine too much."

"What do I imagine?" cried the girl, irritated.

"Why, all these are not your own ideas. They are someone else's."

"Someone else's. Someone else's."

She felt like saying something harsh; but broke down and became silent. Foma looked at her and, setting Medinskaya by her side, thought sadly:

"How different everything is—both men and women—and you never feel alike."

They sat opposite each other; both were lost in thought, and neither one looked at the other. It was getting dark outside, and in the room it was quite dark already. The wind was shaking the linden-trees, and their branches seemed to clutch at the walls of the house, as though they felt cold and implored for shelter in the rooms.

"Luba!" said Foma, softly.

She raised her head and looked at him.

"Do you know, I have quarrelled with Medinskaya."

"Why?" asked Luba, brightening up.

"So. It came about that she offended me. Yes, she offended me."

"Well, it's good that you've quarrelled with her," said the girl, approvingly, "for she would have turned your head. She is a vile creature; she is a coquette, even worse than that. Oh, what things I know about her!"

"She's not at all a vile creature," said Foma, morosely. "And you don't know anything about her. You are all lying!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!"

"No. See here, Luba," said Foma, softly, in a beseeching tone, "don't speak ill of her in my presence. It isn't necessary. I know everything. By God! She told me everything herself."

"Herself!" exclaimed Luba, in astonishment. "What a strange woman she is! What did she tell you?"

"That she is guilty," Foma ejaculated with difficulty, with a wry smile.

"Is that all?" There was a ring of disappointment in the girl's question; Foma heard it and asked hopefully:

"Isn't that enough?"

"What will you do now?"

"That's just what I am thinking about."

"Do you love her very much?"

Foma was silent. He looked into the window and answered confusedly:

"I don't know. But it seems to me that now I love her more than before."

"Than before the quarrel?"

"Yes."

"I wonder how one can love such a woman!" said the girl, shrugging her shoulders.

"Love such a woman? Of course! Why not?" exclaimed Foma.

"I can't understand it. I think, you have become attached to her just because you have not met a better woman."

"No, I have not met a better one!" Foma assented, and after a moment's silence said shyly, "Perhaps there is none better."

"Among our people," Lubov interposed.

"I need her very badly! Because, you see, I feel ashamed before her."

"Why so?"

"Oh, in general, I fear her; that is, I would not want her to think ill of me, as of others. Sometimes I feel disgusted. I think—wouldn't it be a great idea to go out on such a spree that all my veins would start tingling. And then I recall her and I do not venture. And so everything else, I think of her, 'What if she finds it out?' and I am afraid to do it."

"Yes," the girl drawled out thoughtfully, "that shows that you love her. I would also be like this. If I loved, I would think of him—of what he might say..."

"And everything about her is so peculiar," Foma related softly. "She speaks in a way all her own. And, God! How beautiful she is! And then she is so small, like a child."

"And what took place between you?" asked Lubov.

Foma moved his chair closer to her, and stooping, he lowered his voice for some reason or other, and began to relate to her all that had taken place between him and Medinskaya. He spoke, and as he recalled the words he said to Medinskaya, the sentiments that called forth the words were also awakened in him.

"I told her, 'Oh, you! why did you make sport of me?'" he said angrily and with reproach.

And Luba, her cheeks aflame with animation, spurred him on, nodding her head approvingly:

"That's it! That's good! Well, and she?"

"She was silent!" said Foma, sadly, with a shrug of the shoulders. "That is, she said different things; but what's the use?"

He waved his hand and became silent. Luba, playing with her braid, was also silent. The samovar had already become cold. And the dimness in the room was growing thicker and thicker, outside the window it was heavy with darkness, and the black branches of the linden-trees were shaking pensively.

"You might light the lamp," Foma went on.

"How unhappy we both are," said Luba, with a sigh.

Foma did not like this.

"I am not unhappy," he objected in a firm voice. "I am simply—not yet accustomed to life."

"He who knows not what he is going to do tomorrow, is unhappy," said Luba, sadly. "I do not know it, neither do you. Whither go? Yet go we must, Why is it that my heart is never at ease? Some kind of a longing is always quivering within it."

"It is the same with me," said Foma. "I start to reflect, but on what? I cannot make it clear to myself. There is also a painful gnawing in my heart. Eh! But I must go up to the club."

"Don't go away," Luba entreated.

"I must. Somebody is waiting there for me. I am going. Goodbye!"

"Till we meet again!" She held out her hand to him and sadly looked into his eyes.

"Will you go to sleep now?" asked Foma, firmly shaking her hand.

"I'll read a little."

"You're to your books as the drunkard to his whisky," said the youth, with pity.

"What is there that is better?"

Walking along the street he looked at the windows of the house and in one of them he noticed Luba's face. It was just as vague as everything that the girl told him, even as vague as her longings. Foma nodded his head toward her and with a consciousness of his superiority over her, thought:

"She has also lost her way, like the other one."

At this recollection he shook his head, as though he wanted to frighten away the thought of Medinskaya, and quickened his steps.

Night was coming on, and the air was fresh. A cold, invigorating wind was violently raging in the street, driving the dust along the sidewalks and throwing it into the faces of the passers-by. It was dark, and people were hastily striding along in the darkness. Foma wrinkled his face, for the dust filled his eyes, and thought:

"If it is a woman I meet now—then it will mean that Sophya Pavlovna will receive me in a friendly way, as before. I am going to see her tomorrow. And if it is a man—I won't go tomorrow, I'll wait."

But it was a dog that came to meet him, and this irritated Foma to such an extent that he felt like striking him with his cane.

In the refreshment-room of the club, Foma was met by the jovial Ookhtishchev. He stood at the door, and chatted with a certain stout, whiskered man; but, noticing Gordyeeff, he came forward to meet him, saying, with a smile:

"How do you do, modest millionaire!" Foma rather liked him for his jolly mood, and was always pleased to meet him.

Firmly and kind-heartedly shaking Ookhtishchev's hand, Foma asked him:

"And what makes you think that I am modest?"

"What a question! A man, who lives like a hermit, who neither drinks, nor plays, nor likes any women. By the way, do you know, Foma Ignatyevich, that peerless patroness of ours is going abroad tomorrow for the whole summer?"

"Sophya Pavlovna?" asked Foma, slowly. "Of course! The sun of my life is setting. And, perhaps, of yours as well?"

Ookhtishchev made a comical, sly grimace and looked into Foma's face.

And Foma stood before him, feeling that his head was lowering on his breast, and that he was unable to hinder it.

"Yes, the radiant Aurora."

"Is Medinskaya going away?" a deep bass voice asked. "That's fine! I am glad."

"May I know why?" exclaimed Ookhtishchev. Foma smiled sheepishly and stared in confusion at the whiskered man, Ookhtishchev's interlocutor.

That man was stroking his moustache with an air of importance, and deep, heavy, repulsive words fell from his lips on Foma's ears.

"Because, you see, there will be one co-cot-te less in town."

"Shame, Martin Nikitich!" said Ookhtishchev, reproachfully, knitting his brow.

"How do you know that she is a coquette?" asked Foma, sternly, coming closer to the whiskered man. The man measured him with a scornful look, turned aside and moving his thigh, drawled out:

"I didn't say—coquette."

"Martin Nikitich, you mustn't speak that way about a woman who—" began Ookhtishchev in a convincing tone, but Foma interrupted him:

"Excuse me, just a moment! I wish to ask the gentleman, what is the meaning of the word he said?"

And as he articulated this firmly and calmly, Foma thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, threw his chest forward, which at once gave his figure an attitude of defiance. The whiskered gentleman again eyed Foma with a sarcastic smile.

"Gentlemen!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, softly.

"I said, co-cot-te," pronounced the whiskered man, moving his lips as if he tasted the word. "And if you don't understand it, I can explain it to you."

"You had better explain it," said Foma, with a deep sigh, not lifting his eyes off the man.

Ookhtishchev clasped his hands and rushed aside.

"A cocotte, if you want to know it, is a prostitute," said the whiskered man in a low voice, moving his big, fat face closer to Foma.

Foma gave a soft growl and, before the whiskered man had time to move away, he clutched with his right hand his curly, grayish hair. With a convulsive movement of the hand, Foma began to shake the man's head and his big, solid body; lifting up his left hand, he spoke in a dull voice, keeping time to the punishment:

"Don't abuse a person—in his absence. Abuse him—right in his face—straight in his eyes."

He experienced a burning delight, seeing how comically the stout arms were swinging in the air, and how the legs of the man, whom he was shaking, were bending under him, scraping against the floor. His gold watch fell out of the pocket and dangled on the chain, over his round paunch. Intoxicated with his own strength and with the degradation of the sedate man, filled with the burning feeling of malignancy, trembling with the happiness of revenge, Foma dragged him along the floor and in a dull voice, growled wickedly, in wild joy. In these moments he experienced a great feeling—the feeling of emancipation from the wearisome burden which had long oppressed his heart with grief and morbidness. He felt that he was seized by the waist and shoulders from behind, that someone seized his hand and bent it, trying to break it; that someone was crushing his toes; but he saw nothing, following with his bloodshot eyes the dark, heavy mass moaning and wriggling in his hand. Finally, they tore him away and downed him, and, as through a reddish mist, he noticed before him on the floor, at his feet, the man he had thrashed. Dishevelled, he was moving his legs over the floor, attempting to rise; two dark men were holding him by the arms, his hands were dangling in the air like broken wings, and, in a voice that was choking with sobs, he cried to Foma:

"You mustn't beat me! You mustn't! I have an...

"Order. You rascal! Oh, rascal! I have children.

"Everybody knows me! Scoundrel! Savage, O—O—O! You may expect a duel!"

And Ookhtishchev spoke loudly in Foma's ear:

"Come, my dear boy, for God's sake!"

"Wait, I'll give him a kick in the face," begged Foma. But he was dragged off. There was a buzzing in his ears, his heart beat fast, but he felt relieved and well. At the entrance of the club he heaved a deep sigh of relief and said to Ookhtishchev, with a good-natured smile:

"I gave him a sound drubbing, didn't I?"

"Listen!" exclaimed the gay secretary, indignantly. "You must pardon me but that was the act of a savage! The devil take it. I never witnessed such a thing before!"

"My dear man!" said Foma, friendly, "did he not deserve the drubbing? Is he not a scoundrel? How can he speak like that behind a person's back? No! Let him go to her and tell it plainly to her alone."

"Excuse me. The devil take you! But it wasn't for her alone that you gave him the drubbing?"

"That is, what do you mea,—not for her alone? For whom then?" asked Foma, amazed.

"For whom? I don't know. Evidently you had old accounts to settle! Oh Lord! That was a scene! I shall not forget it in all my life!"

"He—that man—who is he?" asked Foma, and suddenly burst out laughing. "How he roared, the fool!"

Ookhtishchev looked fixedly into his face and asked:

"Tell me, is it true, that you don't know whom you've thrashed? And is it really only for Sophya Pavlovna?"

"It is, by God!" avowed Foma.

"So, the devil knows what the result may be!" He stopped short, shrugged his shoulders perplexedly, waved his hand, and again began to pace the sidewalk, looking at Foma askance. "You'll pay for this, Foma Ignatyevich."

"Will he take me to court?"

"Would to God he does. He is the Vice-Governor's son-in-law."

"Is that so?" said Foma, slowly, and made a long face.

"Yes. To tell the truth, he is a scoundrel and a rascal. According to this fact I must admit, that he deserves a drubbing. But taking into consideration the fact that the lady you defended is also—"

"Sir!" said Foma, firmly, placing his hand on Ookhtishchev's shoulder, "I have always liked you, and you are now walking with me. I understand it and can appreciate it. But do not speak ill of her in my presence. Whatever she may be in your opinion, in my opinion, she is dear to me. To me she is the best woman. So I am telling you frankly. Since you are going with me, do not touch her. I consider her good, therefore she is good."

There was great emotion in Foma's voice. Ookhtishchev looked at him and said thoughtfully:

"You are a queer man, I must confess."

"I am a simple man—a savage. I have given him a thrashing and now I feel jolly, and as to the result, let come what will.'

"I am afraid that it will result in something bad. Do you know—to be frank, in return for your frankness—I also like you, although—Mm! It is rather dangerous to be with you. Such a knightly temper may come over you and one may get a thrashing at your hands."

"How so? This was but the first time. I am not going to beat people every day, am I?" said Foma, confused. His companion began to laugh.

"What a monster you are! Listen to me—it is savage to fight—you must excuse me, but it is abominable. Yet, I must tell you, in this case you made a happy selection. You have thrashed a rake, a cynic, a parasite—a man who robbed his nephews with impunity."

"Well, thank God for that!" said Foma with satisfaction. "Now I have punished him a little."

"A little? Very well, let us suppose it was a little. But listen to me, my child, permit me to give you advice. I am a man of the law. He, that Kayazev, is a rascal! True! But you must not thrash even a rascal, for he is a social being, under the paternal custody of the law. You cannot touch him until he transgresses the limits of the penal code. But even then, not you, but we, the judges, will give him his due. While you must have patience."

"And will he soon fall into your hands?" inquired Foma, naively.

"It is hard to tell. Being far from stupid, he will probably never be caught, and to the end of his days he will live with you and me in the same degree of equality before the law. Oh God, what I am telling you!" said Ookhtishchev, with a comical sigh.

"Betraying secrets?" grinned Foma.

"It isn't secrets; but I ought not to be frivolous. De-e-evil! But then, this affair enlivened me. Indeed, Nemesis is even then true to herself when she simply kicks like a horse."

Foma stopped suddenly, as though he had met an obstacle on his way.

"Nemesis—the goddess of Justice," babbled Ookhtishchev. "What's the matter with you?"

"And it all came about," said Foma, slowly, in a dull voice, "because you said that she was going away."

"Who?

"Sophya Pavlovna."

"Yes, she is going away. Well?"

He stood opposite Foma and stared at him, with a smile in his eyes. Gordyeeff was silent, with lowered head, tapping the stone of the sidewalk with his cane.

"Come," said Ookhtishchev.

Foma started, saying indifferently:

"Well, let her go. And I am alone." Ookhtishchev, waving his cane, began to whistle, looking at his companion.

"Sha'n't I be able to get along without her?" asked Foma, looking somewhere in front of him and then, after a pause, he answered himself softly and irresolutely:

"Of course, I shall."

"Listen to me!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev. "I'll give you some good advice. A man must be himself. While you, you are an epic man, so to say, and the lyrical is not becoming to you. It isn't your genre."

"Speak to me more simply, sir," said Foma, having listened attentively to his words.

"More simply? Very well. I want to say, give up thinking of this little lady. She is poisonous food for you."

"She told me the same," put in Foma, gloomily.

"She told you?" Ookhtishchev asked and became thoughtful. "Now, I'll tell you, shouldn't we perhaps go and have supper?"

"Let's go," Foma assented. And he suddenly roared obdurately, clinching his fists and waving them in the air: "Well, let us go, and I'll get wound up; I'll break loose, after all this, so you can't hold me back!"

"What for? We'll do it modestly."

"No! wait!" said Foma, anxiously, seizing him by the shoulder. "What's that? Am I worse than other people? Everybody lives, whirls, hustles about, has his own point. While I am weary. Everybody is satisfied with himself. And as to their complaining, they lie, the rascals! They are simply pretending for beauty's sake. I have no reason to pretend. I am a fool. I don't understand anything, my dear fellow. I simply wish to live! I am unable to think. I feel disgusted; one says this, another that! Pshaw! But she, eh! If you knew. My hope was in her. I expected of her—just what I expected, I cannot tell; but she is the best of women! And I had so much faith in her—when sometimes she spoke such peculiar words, all her own. Her eyes, my dear boy, are so beautiful! Oh Lord! I was ashamed to look upon them, and as I am telling you, she would say a few words, and everything would become clear to me. For I did not come to her with love alone—I came to her with all my soul! I sought—I thought that since she was so beautiful, consequently, I might become a man by her side!"

Ookhtishchev listened to the painful, unconnected words that burst from his companion's lips. He saw how the muscles of his face contracted with the effort to express his thoughts, and he felt that behind this bombast there was a great, serious grief. There was something intensely pathetic in the powerlessness of this strong and savage youth, who suddenly started to pace the sidewalk with big, uneven steps. Skipping along after him with his short legs, Ookhtishchev felt it his duty somehow to calm Foma. Everything Foma had said and done that evening awakened in the jolly secretary a feeling of lively curiosity toward Foma, and then he felt flattered by the frankness of the young millionaire. This frankness confused him with its dark power; he was disconcerted by its pressure, and though, in spite of his youth, he had a stock of words ready for all occasions in life, it took him quite awhile to recall them.

"I feel that everything is dark and narrow about me," said Gordyeeff. "I feel that a burden is falling on my shoulders, but what it is I cannot understand! It puts a restraint on me, and it checks the freedom of my movements along the road of life. Listening to people, you hear that each says a different thing. But she could have said—"

"Eh, my dear boy!" Ookhtishchev interrupted Foma, gently taking his arm. "That isn't right! You have just started to live and already you are philosophizing! No, that is not right! Life is given us to live! Which means—live and let others live. That's the philosophy! And that woman. Bah! Is she then the only one in the world? The world is large enough. If you wish, I'll introduce you to such a virile woman, that even the slightest trace of your philosophy would at once vanish from your soul! Oh, a remarkable woman! And how well she knows how to avail herself of life! Do you know, there's also something epic about her? She is beautiful; a Phryne, I may say, and what a match she would be to you! Ah, devil! It is really a splendid idea. I'll make you acquainted with her! We must drive one nail out with another."

"My conscience does not allow it," said Foma, sadly and sternly. "So long as she is alive, I cannot even look at women."

"Such a robust and healthy young man. Ho, ho!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, and in the tone of a teacher began to argue with Foma that it was essential for him to give his passion an outlet in a good spree, in the company of women.

"This will be magnificent, and it is indispensable to you. You may believe me. And as to conscience, you must excuse me. You don't define it quite properly. It is not conscience that interferes with you, but timidity, I believe. You live outside of society. You are bashful, and awkward. Youare dimly conscious of all this, and it is this consciousness that you mistake for conscience. In this case there can be no question about conscience. What has conscience to do here, since it is natural for man to enjoy himself, since it is his necessity and his right?"

Foma walked on, regulating his steps to those of his companion, and staring along the road, which lay between two rows of buildings, resembled an enormous ditch, and was filled with darkness. It seemed that there was no end to the road and that something dark, inexhaustible and suffocating was slowly flowing along it in the distance. Ookhtishchev's kind, suasive voice rang monotonously in Foma's ears, and though he was not listening to his words, he felt that they were tenacious in their way; that they adhered to him, and that he was involuntarily memorizing them. Notwithstanding that a man walked beside him, he felt as though he were alone, straying in the dark. And the darkness seized him and slowly drew him along, and he felt that he was drawn somewhere, and yet had no desire to stop. Some sort of fatigue hindered his thinking; there was no desire in him to resist the admonitions of his companion—and why should he resist them?

"It isn't for everyone to philosophize," said Ookhtishchev, swinging his cane in the air, and somewhat carried away by his wisdom. "For if everybody were to philosophize, who would live? And we live but once! And therefore it were best to make haste to live. By God! That's true! But what's the use of talking? Would you permit me to give you a shaking up? Let's go immediately to a pleasure-house I know. Two sisters live there. Ah, how they live! You will come?"

"Well, I'll go," said Foma, calmly, and yawned. "Isn't it rather late?" he asked, looking up at the sky which was covered with clouds.

"It's never too late to go to see them!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev, merrily.



CHAPTER VIII

ON the third day after the scene in the club, Foma found himself about seven versts from the town, on the timber-wharf of the merchant Zvantzev, in the company of the merchant's son of Ookhtishchev—a sedate, bald-headed and red-nosed gentleman with side whiskers—and four ladies. The young Zvantzev wore eyeglasses, was thin and pale, and when he stood, the calves of his legs were forever trembling as though they were disgusted at supporting the feeble body, clad in a long, checked top-coat with a cape, in whose folds a small head in a jockey cap was comically shaking. The gentleman with the side whiskers called him Jean and pronounced this name as though he was suffering from an inveterate cold. Jean's lady was a tall, stout woman with a showy bust. Her head was compressed on the sides, her low forehead receded, her long, sharp-pointed nose gave her face an expression somewhat bird-like. And this ugly face was perfectly motionless, and the eyes alone, small, round and cold, were forever smiling a penetrating and cunning smile. Ookhtishchev's lady's name was Vera; she was a tall, pale woman with red hair. She had so much hair, that it seemed as though the woman had put on her head an enormous cap which was coming down over her ears, her cheeks and her high forehead, from under which her large blue eyes looked forth calmly and lazily.

The gentleman with the side whiskers sat beside a young, plump, buxom girl, who constantly giggled in a ringing voice at something which he whispered in her ear as he leaned over her shoulder.

And Foma's lady was a stately brunette, clad all in black. Dark-complexioned, with wavy locks, she kept her head so erect and high and looked at everything about her with such condescending haughtiness, that it was at once evident that she considered herself the most important person there.

The company were seated on the extreme link of the raft, extending far into the smooth expanse of the river. Boards were spread out on the raft and in the centre stood a crudely constructed table; empty bottles, provision baskets, candy-wrappers and orange peels were scattered about everywhere. In the corner of the raft was a pile of earth, upon which a bonfire was burning, and a peasant in a short fur coat, squatting, warmed his hands over the fire, and cast furtive glances at the people seated around the table. They had just finished eating their sturgeon soup, and now wines and fruits were before them on the table.

Fatigued with a two-days' spree and with the dinner that had just been finished, the company was in a weary frame of mind. They all gazed at the river, chatting, but their conversation was now and again interrupted by long pauses.

The day was clear and bright and young, as in spring. The cold, clear sky stretched itself majestically over the turbid water of the gigantically-wide, overflowing river, which was as calm as the sky and as vast as the sea. The distant, mountainous shore was tenderly bathed in bluish mist. Through it, there, on the mountain tops, the crosses of churches were flashing like big stars. The river was animated at the mountainous shore; steamers were going hither and thither, and their noise came in deep moans toward the rafts and into the meadows, where the calm flow of the waves filled the air with soft and faint sounds. Gigantic barges stretched themselves one after another against the current, like huge pigs, tearing asunder the smooth expanse of the river. Black smoke came in ponderous puffs from the chimneys of the steamers, slowly melting in the fresh air, which was full of bright sunshine. At times a whistle resounded—it was like the roar of some huge, enraged animal, embittered by toil. And on the meadows near the rafts, all was calm and silent. Solitary trees that had been drowned by the flood, were now already covered with light-green spangles of foliage. Covering their roots and reflecting their tops, the water gave them the appearance of globes, and it seemed as though the slightest breeze would send them floating, fantastically beautiful, down the mirror-like bosom of the river.

The red-haired woman, pensively gazing into the distance, began to sing softly and sadly:

"Along the Volga river A little boat is flo-o-oating."

The brunette, snapping her large, stern eyes with contempt, said, without looking at her: "We feel gloomy enough without this."

"Don't touch her. Let her sing!" entreated Foma, kindly, looking into his lady's face. He was pale some spark seemed to flash up in his eyes now and then, and an indefinite, indolent smile played about his lips.

"Let us sing in chorus!" suggested the man with the side whiskers.

"No, let these two sing!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev with enthusiasm. "Vera, sing that song! You know, 'I will go at dawn.' How is it? Sing, Pavlinka!"

The giggling girl glanced at the brunette and asked her respectfully:

"Shall I sing, Sasha?"

"I shall sing myself," announced Foma's companion, and turning toward the lady with the birdlike face, she ordered:

"Vassa, sing with me!"

Vassa immediately broke off her conversation with Zvantzev, stroked her throat a little with her hand and fixed her round eyes on the face of her sister. Sasha rose to her feet, leaned her hand against the table, and her head lifted haughtily, began to declaim in a powerful, almost masculine voice:

"Life on earth is bright to him, Who knows no cares or woe, And whose heart is not consumed By passion's ardent glow!"

Her sister nodded her head and slowly, plaintively began to moan in a deep contralto:

"Ah me! Of me the maiden fair."

Flashing her eyes at her sister, Sasha exclaimed in her low-pitched notes:

"Like a blade of grass my heart has withered."

The two voices mingled and floated over the water in melodious, full sounds, which quivered from excess of power. One of them was complaining of the unbearable pain in the heart, and intoxicated by the poison of its plaint, it sobbed with melancholy and impotent grief; sobbed, quenching with tears the fire of the suffering. The other—the lower, more masculine voice—rolled powerfully through the air, full of the feeling of bloody mortification and of readiness to avenge. Pronouncing the words distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage, poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.

"I will requite him,"

sang Vassa, plaintively, closing her eyes.

"I will inflame him, I'll dry him up,"

Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows. And suddenly, changing the tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats:

"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down grass, Oi, the mown and dried-up grass."

Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flashing, like her eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:

"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with her."

Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.

"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"

entreated Vassa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes:

"The yearning and the pangs of love!"

When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.

"Well, was it a nice song?"

"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.

The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.

"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:

"Well, make me a present of something for the song."

"Very well, I will," Foma assented.

"What?"

"You tell me."

"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what I like—Oh, how I will love you!"

"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought to love me anyway."

She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said resolutely:

"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents. Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little—I'll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life."

Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. I cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh? The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog—altogether something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings. Ah! or the Italian."

"Excuse me, Ivan Nikolayevich," cried Ookhtishchev, agitated.

"I must agree with you, the Russian song is monotonous and gloomy. It has not, you know, that brilliancy of culture," said the man with the side whiskers wearily, as he sipped some wine out of his glass.

"But nevertheless, there is always a warm heart in it," put in the red-haired lady, as she peeled an orange.

The sun was setting. Sinking somewhere far beyond the forest, on the meadow shore, it painted the entire forest with purple tints and cast rosy and golden spots over the dark cold water. Foma gazed in that direction at this play of the sunbeams, watched how they quivered as they were transposed over the placid and vast expanse of waters, and catching fragments of conversation, he pictured to himself the words as a swarm of dark butterflies, busily fluttering in the air. Sasha, her head resting on his shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly. Aside from her, none of those assembled there interested him—while Zvantzev and the gentleman with the side whiskers were actually repulsive to him.

"What are you staring at? Eh?" he heard Ookhtishchev's jestingly-stern voice.

The peasant, at whom Ookhtishchev shouted, drew the cap from his head, clapped it against his knee and answered, with a smile:

"I came over to listen to the lady's song."

"Well, does she sing well?"

"What a question! Of course," said the peasant, looking at Sasha, with admiration in his eyes.

"That's right!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev.

"There is a great power of voice in that lady's breast," said the peasant, nodding his head.

At his words, the ladies burst out laughing and the men made some double-meaning remarks about Sasha.

After she had calmly listened to these and said nothing in reply, Sasha asked the peasant:

"Do you sing?"

"We sing a little!" and he waved his hand, "What songs do you know?"

"All kinds. I love singing." And he smiled apologetically.

"Come, let's sing something together, you and I."

"How can we? Am I a match for you?"

"Well, strike up!"

"May I sit down?"

"Come over here, to the table."

"How lively this is!" exclaimed Zvantzev, wrinkling his face.

"If you find it tedious, go and drown yourself," said Sasha, angrily flashing her eyes at him.

"No, the water is cold," replied Zvantzev, shrinking at her glance.

"As you please!" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "But it is about time you did it, and then, there's also plenty of water now, so that you wouldn't spoil it all with your rotten body."

"Fie, how witty!" hissed the youth, turning away from her, and added with contempt: "In Russia even the prostitutes are rude."

He addressed himself to his neighbour, but the latter gave him only an intoxicated smile in return. Ookhtishchev was also drunk. Staring into the face of his companion, with his eyes grown dim, he muttered something and heard nothing. The lady with the bird-like face was pecking candy, holding the box under her very nose. Pavlinka went away to the edge of the raft and, standing there, threw orange peels into the water.

"I never before participated in such an absurd outing and—company," said Zvantzev, to his neighbour, plaintively.

And Foma watched him with a smile, delighted that this feeble and ugly-looking man felt bored, and that Sasha had insulted him. Now and then he cast at her a kind glance of approval. He was pleased with the fact that she was so frank with everybody and that she bore herself proudly, like a real gentlewoman.

The peasant seated himself on the boards at her feet, clasped his knees in his hands, lifted his face to her and seriously listened to her words.

"You must raise your voice, when I lower mine, understand?"

"I understand; but, Madam, you ought to hand me some just to give me courage!"

"Foma, give him a glass of brandy!"

And when the peasant emptied it, cleared his throat with pleasure, licked his lips and said: "Now, I can do it," she ordered, knitting her brow:

"Begin!"

The peasant made a wry mouth, lifted his eyes to her face, and started in a high-pitched tenor:

"I cannot drink, I cannot eat."

Trembling in every limb, the woman sobbed out tremulously, with strange sadness:

"Wine cannot gladden my soul."

The peasant smiled sweetly, tossed his head to and fro, and closing his eyes, poured out into the air a tremulous wave of high-pitched notes:

"Oh, time has come for me to bid goodbye!"

And the woman, shuddering and writhing, moaned and wailed:

"Oi, from my kindred I must part."

Lowering his voice and swaying to and fro, the peasant declaimed in a sing-song with a remarkably intense expression of anguish:

"Alas, to foreign lands I must depart."

When the two voices, yearning and sobbing, poured forth into the silence and freshness of the evening, everything about them seemed warmer and better; everything seemed to smile the sorrowful smile of sympathy on the anguish of the man whom an obscure power is tearing away from his native soil into some foreign place, where hard labour and degradation are in store for him. It seemed as though not the sounds, nor the song, but the burning tears of the human heart in which the plaint had surged up—it seemed as though these tears moistened the air. Wild grief and pain from the sores of body and soul, which were wearied in the struggle with stern life; intense sufferings from the wounds dealt to man by the iron hand of want—all this was invested in the simple, crude words and was tossed in ineffably melancholy sounds toward the distant, empty sky, which has no echo for anybody or anything.

Foma had stepped aside from the singers, and stared at them with a feeling akin to fright, and the song, in a huge wave, poured forth into his breast, and the wild power of grief, with which it had been invested, clutched his heart painfully. He felt that tears would soon gush from his breast, something was clogging his throat and his face was quivering. He dimly saw Sasha's black eyes; immobile and flashing gloomily, they seemed to him enormous and still growing larger and larger. And it seemed to him that it was not two persons who were singing—that everything about him was singing and sobbing, quivering and palpitating in torrents of sorrow, madly striving somewhere, shedding burning tears, and all—and all things living seemed clasped in one powerful embrace of despair. And it seemed to him that he, too, was singing in unison with all of them—with the people, the river and the distant shore, whence came plaintive moans that mingled with the song.

Now the peasant went down on his knees, and gazing at Sasha, waved his hands, and she bent down toward him and shook her head, keeping time to the motions of his hands. Both were now singing without words, with sounds only, and Foma still could not believe that only two voices were pouring into the air these moans and sobs with such mighty power.

When they had finished singing, Foma, trembling with excitement, with a tear-stained face, gazed at them and smiled sadly.

"Well, did it move you?" asked Sasha. Pale with fatigue, she breathed quickly and heavily.

Foma glanced at the peasant. The latter was wiping the sweat off his brow and looking around him with such a wandering look as though he could not make out what had taken place.

All was silence. All were motionless and speechless.

"Oh Lord!" sighed Foma, rising to his feet. "Eh, Sasha! Peasant! Who are you?" he almost shouted.

"I am—Stepan," said the peasant, smiling confusedly, and also rose to his feet. "I'm Stepan. Of course!"

"How you sing! Ah!" Foma exclaimed in astonishment, uneasily shifting from foot to foot.

"Eh, your Honour!" sighed the peasant and added softly and convincingly: "Sorrow can compel an ox to sing like a nightingale. And what makes the lady sing like this, only God knows. And she sings, with all her veins—that is to say, so you might just lie down and die with sorrow! Well, that's a lady."

"That was sung very well!" said Ookhtishchev in a drunken voice.

"No, the devil knows what this is!" Zvantzev suddenly shouted, almost crying, irritated as he jumped up from the table. "I've come out here for a good time. I want to enjoy myself, and here they perform a funeral service for me! What an outrage! I can't stand this any longer. I'm going away!"

"Jean, I am also going. I'm weary, too," announced the gentleman with the side whiskers.

"Vassa," cried Zvantzev to his lady, "dress yourself!"

"Yes, it's time to go," said the red-haired lady to Ookhtishchev. "It is cold, and it will soon be dark."

"Stepan! Clear everything away!" commanded Vassa.

All began to bustle about, all began to speak of something. Foma stared at them in suspense and shuddered. Staggering, the crowd walked along the rafts. Pale and fatigued, they said to one another stupid, disconnected things. Sasha jostled them unceremoniously, as she was getting her things together.

"Stepan! Call for the horses!"

"And I'll drink some more cognac. Who wants some more cognac with me?" drawled the gentleman with the side whiskers in a beatific voice, holding a bottle in his hands.

Vassa was muffling Zvantzev's neck with a scarf. He stood in front of her, frowning, dissatisfied, his lips curled capriciously, the calves of his legs shivering. Foma became disgusted as he looked at them, and he went off to the other raft. He was astonished that all these people behaved as though they had not heard the song at all. In his breast the song was alive and there it called to life a restless desire to do something, to say something. But he had no one there to speak to.

The sun had set and the distance was enveloped in blue mist. Foma glanced thither and turned away. He did not feel like going to town with these people, neither did he care to stay here with them. And they were still pacing the raft with uneven steps, shaking from side to side and muttering disconnected words. The women were not quite as drunk as the men, and only the red-haired one could not lift herself from the bench for a long time, and finally, when she rose, she declared:

"Well, I'm drunk."

Foma sat down on a log of wood, and lifting the axe, with which the peasant had chopped wood for the fire, he began to play with it, tossing it up in the air and catching it.

"Oh, my God! How mean this is!" Zvantzev's capricious voice was heard.

Foma began to feel that he hated it, and him, and everybody, except Sasha, who awakened in him a certain uneasy feeling, which contained at once admiration for her and a fear lest she might do something unexpected and terrible.

"Brute!" shouted Zvantzev in a shrill voice, and Foma noticed that he struck the peasant on the chest, after which the peasant removed his cap humbly and stepped aside.

"Fo-o-ol!" cried Zvantzev, walking after him and lifting his hand.

Foma jumped to his feet and said threateningly, in a loud voice:

"Eh, you! Don't touch him!"

"Wha-a-at?" Zvantzev turned around toward him.

"Stepan, come over here," called Foma.

"Peasant!" Zvantzev hurled with contempt, looking at Foma.

Foma shrugged his shoulders and made a step toward him; but suddenly a thought flashed vividly through his mind! He smiled maliciously and inquired of Stepan, softly:

"The string of rafts is moored in three places, isn't it?

"In three, of course!"

"Cut the connections!"

"And they?"

"Keep quiet! Cut!"

"But—"

"Cut! Quietly, so they don't notice it!"

The peasant took the axe in his hands, slowly walked up to the place where one link was well fastened to another link, struck a few times with his axe, and returned to Foma.

"I'm not responsible, your Honour," he said.

"Don't be afraid."

"They've started off," whispered the peasant with fright, and hastily made the sign of the cross. And Foma gazed, laughing softly, and experienced a painful sensation that keenly and sharply stung his heart with a certain strange, pleasant and sweet fear.

The people on the raft were still pacing to and fro, moving about slowly, jostling one another, assisting the ladies with their wraps, laughing and talking, and the raft was meanwhile turning slowly and irresolutely in the water.

"If the current carries them against the fleet," whispered the peasant, "they'll strike against the bows—and they'll be smashed into splinters."

"Keep quiet!"

"They'll drown!"

"You'll get a boat, and overtake them."

"That's it! Thank you. What then? They're after all human beings. And we'll be held responsible for them." Satisfied now, laughing with delight, the peasant dashed in bounds across the rafts to the shore. And Foma stood by the water and felt a passionate desire to shout something, but he controlled himself, in order to give time for the raft to float off farther, so that those drunken people would not be able to jump across to the moored links. He experienced a pleasant caressing sensation as he saw the raft softly rocking upon the water and floating off farther and farther from him every moment. The heavy and dark feeling, with which his heart had been filled during this time, now seemed to float away together with the people on the raft. Calmly he inhaled the fresh air and with it something sound that cleared his brain. At the very edge of the floating raft stood Sasha, with her back toward Foma; he looked at her beautiful figure and involuntarily recalled Medinskaya. The latter was smaller in size. The recollection of her stung him, and he cried out in a loud, mocking voice:

"Eh, there! Good-bye! Ha! ha! ha!"

Suddenly the dark figures of the people moved toward him and crowded together in one group, in the centre of the raft. But by this time a clear strip of water, about three yards wide, was flashing between them and Foma.

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 basso:

"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 passed. 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 shore. 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 shore 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 unbuttoned, 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 brass 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. All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a disordered life."

"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.

"What do you mean by—not right?"

"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities! They don't want anything—all they strive for is justice—truth! They're not mosquitoes."

Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.

"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her. "You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me—who are they? No one knows! That Yozhov—what is he? Only God knows. All they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me—man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight—his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see well—here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face. You see, these newspapers give a samovar face to everything, and do not see the real one. And yet you believe them. But I know that my face on the samovar is distorted. No one can tell the real truth; man's throat is too delicate for this. And then, the real truth is known to nobody."

"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers they defend the general interests of all the people."

"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and that it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest is not defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows what I need? Who, but myself, understands my interests?"

"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute you, but I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with despair.

"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and there is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering! Everybody lives awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no harmony in life. All are yelling out of tune, in different voices. And not one understands what the other is in need of! There is a mist over everything—everybody inhales that mist, and that's why the blood of the people has become spoiled—hence the sores. Man is given great liberty to reason, but is not permitted to do anything—that's why man does not live; but rots and stinks."

"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on the table and bending toward her father.

"Everything!" cried the old man, passionately. "Do everything. Go ahead! Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that liberty must be given to man—complete freedom! Since there has come a time, when everyraw youth believes that he knows everything and was created for the complete arrangement of life—give him, give the rogue freedom! Here, Carrion, live! Come, come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow; feeling that his bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his ears, and like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe himself to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his spirit."

The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with a malicious smile:

"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll bristle up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides—and the poor fellow will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten—he, he, he! Here, he, he, he! The dear fellow will be caught by the real, worthy people, by those real people who are competent to be the actual civil masters, who will manage life not with a rod nor with a pen, but with a finger and with brains.

"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they will say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So—" and, raising his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an authoritative tone:

"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't squeak! Or we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree! Silence, dear fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to happen, Lubavka! He, he, he!"

The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and carried away by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and then, and smacked his lips as though tasting his own wisdom.

"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion will arrange life wisely, after their own fashion. Then things won't go at random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall not live to see it!"

The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes of a big strong net—they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl, unable to free herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by her father's words. Staring into his face with an intense look, she sought support for herself in his words and heard in them something similar to what she had read in books, and which seemed to her the real truth. But the malignant, triumphant laughter of her father stung her heart, and the wrinkles, which seemed to creep about on his face like so many dark little snakes, inspired her with a certain fear for herself in his presence. She felt that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so simple and so easy in her dreams.

"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort of a man—what in your opinion is Taras?"

Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:

"What sort of talk is this?"

"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.

I don't want to speak of him—and I also advise you not to speak of him! "—the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and angrily:

"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads. That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are unhappy because of this incompetence. Taraska. Yes. He must be about forty now. He is lost to me! A galley-slave—is that my son? A blunt-snouted young pig. He would not speak to his father, and—he stumbled."

"What did he do?" asked Lubov, eagerly listening to the old man's words.

"Who knows? It may be that now he cannot understand himself, if he became sensible, and he must have become a sensible man; he's the son of a father who's not stupid, and then he must have suffered not a little. They coddle them, the nihilists! They should have turned them over to me. I'd show them what to do. Into the desert! Into the isolated places—march! Come, now, my wise fellows, arrange life there according to your own will! Go ahead! And as authorities over them I'd station the robust peasants. Well, now, honourable gentlemen, you were given to eat and to drink, you were given an education—what have you learned? Pay your debts, pray. Yes, I would not spend a broken grosh on them. I would squeeze all the price out of them—give it up! You must not set a man at naught. It is not enough to imprison him! You transgressed the law, and are a gentleman? Never mind, you must work. Out of a single seed comes an ear of corn, and a man ought not be permitted to perish without being of use! An economical carpenter finds a place for each and every chip of wood—just so must every man be profitably used up, and used up entire, to the very last vein. All sorts of trash have a place in life, and man is never trash. Eh! it is bad when power lives without reason, nor is it good when reason lives without power. Take Foma now. Who is coming there—give a look."

Turning around, Lubov noticed the captain of the "Yermak," Yefim, coming along the garden path. He had respectfully removed his cap and bowed to her. There was a hopelessly guilty expression on his face and he seemed abashed. Yakov Tarasovich recognized him and, instantly grown alarmed, he cried:

"Where are you coming from? What has happened?"

"I—I have come to you!" said Yefim, stopping short at the table, with a low bow.

"Well, I see, you've come to me. What's the matter? Where's the steamer?"

"The steamer is there!" Yefim thrust his hand somewhere into the air and heavily shifted from one foot to the other.

"Where is it, devil? Speak coherently—what has happened?" cried the old man, enraged.

"So—a misfortune, Yakov."

"Have you been wrecked?"

"No, God saved us."

"Burned up? Well, speak more quickly."

Yefim drew air into his chest and said slowly:

"Barge No. 9 was sunk—smashed up. One man's back was broken, and one is altogether missing, so that he must have drowned. About five more were injured, but not so very badly, though some were disabled."

"So-o!" drawled out Mayakin, measuring the captain with an ill-omened look.

"Well, Yefimushka, I'll strip your skin off."

"It wasn't I who did it!" said Yefim, quickly.

"Not you?" cried the old man, shaking with rage. "Who then?"

"The master himself."

"Foma? And you. Where were you?"

"I was lying in the hatchway."

"Ah! You were lying."

"I was bound there."

"Wha-at?" screamed the old man in a shrill voice.

"Allow me to tell you everything as it happened. He was drunk and he shouted: "'Get away! I'll take command myself!' I said 'I can't! I am the captain.' 'Bind him!' said he. And when they had bound me, they lowered me into the hatchway, with the sailors. And as the master was drunk, he wanted to have some fun. A fleet of boats was coming toward us. Six empty barges towed by 'Cheruigorez.' So Foma Ignatyich blocked their way. They whistled. More than once. I must tell the truth—they whistled!"

"Well?"

"Well, and they couldn't manage it—the two barges in front crashed into us. And as they struck the side of our ninth, we were smashed to pieces. And the two barges were also smashed. But we fared much worse."

Mayakin rose from the chair and burst into jarring, angry laughter. And Yefim sighed, and, outstretching his hands, said: "He has a very violent character. When he is sober he is silent most of the time, and walks around thoughtfully, but when he wets his springs with wine—then he breaks loose. Then he is not master of himself and of his business—but their wild enemy—you must excuse me! And I want to leave, Yakov Tarasovich! I am not used to being without a master, I cannot live without a master!"

"Keep quiet!" said Mayakin, sternly. "Where's Foma?"

"There; at the same place. Immediately after the accident, he came to himself and at once sent for workmen. They'll lift the barge. They may have started by this time."

"Is he there alone?" asked Mayakin, lowering his head.

"Not quite," replied Yefim, softly, glancing stealthily at Lubov.

"Really?"

"There's a lady with him. A dark one."

"So."

"It looks as though the woman is out of her wits," said Yefim, with a sigh. "She's forever singing. She sings very well. It's very captivating."

"I am not asking you about her!" cried Mayakin, angrily. The wrinkles of his face were painfully quivering, and it seemed to Lubov that her father was about to weep.

"Calm yourself, papa!" she entreated caressingly. "Maybe the loss isn't so great."

"Not great?" cried Yakov Tarasovich in a ringing voice. "What do you understand, you fool? Is it only that the barge was smashed? Eh, you! A man is lost! That's what it is! And he is essential to me! I need him, dull devils that you are!" The old man shook his head angrily and with brisk steps walked off along the garden path leading toward the house.