The Man Who Was Afraid [100]
in the soul as in a cellar--dark, damp and empty--there is nothing at all in it! It is even terrible--I feel then as though I were not a man, but a bottomless ravine. You ask me what I want?"
Sasha looked at him askance and pensively began to sing softly:
"Eh, when the wind blows--mist comes from the sea."
"I don't want to carouse--it is repulsive! Always the same--the people, the amusements, the wine. When I grow malicious--I'd thrash everybody. I am not pleased with men--what are they? It is impossible to understand them--why do they keep on living? And when they speak the truth--to whom are we to listen? One says this, another that. While I--I cannot say anything."
"Eh, without thee, dear, my life is weary,"
sang Sasha, staring at the wall before her. And Foma kept on rocking and said:
"There are times when I feel guilty before men. Everybody lives, makes noise, while I am frightened, staggered--as if I did not feel the earth under me. Was it, perhaps, my mother that endowed me with apathy? My godfather says that she was as cold as ice-- that she was forever yearning towards something. I am also yearning. Toward men I am yearning. I'd like to go to them and say: 'Brethren, help me! Teach me! I know not how to live!. And if I am guilty--forgive me!' But looking about, I see there's no one to speak to. No one wants it--they are all rascals! And it seems they are even worse than I am. For I am, at least, ashamed of living as I am, while they are not! They go on."
Foma uttered some violent, unbecoming invectives and became silent. Sasha broke off her song and moved still farther away from him. The wind was raging outside the window, hurling dust against the window-panes. Cockroaches were rustling on the oven as they crawled over a bunch of pine wood splinters. Somewhere in the yard a calf was lowing pitifully.
Sasha glanced at Foma, with a sarcastic smile, and said:
"There's another unfortunate creature lowing. You ought to go to him; perhaps you could sing in unison. And placing her hand on his curly head she jestingly pushed it on the side.
"What are people like yourself good for? That's what you ought to think of. What are you groaning about? You are disgusted with being idle--occupy yourself, then, with business."
"0h Lord!" Foma nodded his head. "It is hard for one to make himself understood. Yes, it is hard!" And irritated, he almost cried out: "What business? I have no yearning toward business! What is business? Business is merely a name--and if you should look into the depth, into the root of it--you'll find it is nothing but absurdity! Do I not understand it? I understand everything, I see everything, I feel everything! Only my tongue is dumb. What aim is there in business? Money? I have plenty of it! I could choke you to death with it, cover you with it. All this business is nothing but fraud. I meet business people--well, and what about them? Their greediness is immense, and yet they purposely whirl about in business that they might not see themselves. They hide themselves, the devils. Try to free them from this bustle--what will happen? Like blind men they will grope about hither and thither; they'll lose their mind--they'll go mad! I know it! Do you think that business brings happiness into man? No, that's not so--something else is missing here. This is not everything yet! The river flows that men may sail on it; the tree grows--to be useful; the dog--to guard the house. There is justification for everything in the world! And men, like cockroaches, are altogether superfluous on earth. Everything is for them, and they--what are they for? Aha! Wherein is their justification? Ha, ha, ha!"
Foma was triumphant. It seemed to him that he had found something good for himself, something severe against men. And feeling that, because of this, there was great joy in him, he laughed loudly.
"Does not your head ache?" inquired Sasha, anxiously, scrutinizing his face.
"My soul aches!" exclaimed Foma, passionately. "And it aches because it is upright--because it is not to be satisfied
Sasha looked at him askance and pensively began to sing softly:
"Eh, when the wind blows--mist comes from the sea."
"I don't want to carouse--it is repulsive! Always the same--the people, the amusements, the wine. When I grow malicious--I'd thrash everybody. I am not pleased with men--what are they? It is impossible to understand them--why do they keep on living? And when they speak the truth--to whom are we to listen? One says this, another that. While I--I cannot say anything."
"Eh, without thee, dear, my life is weary,"
sang Sasha, staring at the wall before her. And Foma kept on rocking and said:
"There are times when I feel guilty before men. Everybody lives, makes noise, while I am frightened, staggered--as if I did not feel the earth under me. Was it, perhaps, my mother that endowed me with apathy? My godfather says that she was as cold as ice-- that she was forever yearning towards something. I am also yearning. Toward men I am yearning. I'd like to go to them and say: 'Brethren, help me! Teach me! I know not how to live!. And if I am guilty--forgive me!' But looking about, I see there's no one to speak to. No one wants it--they are all rascals! And it seems they are even worse than I am. For I am, at least, ashamed of living as I am, while they are not! They go on."
Foma uttered some violent, unbecoming invectives and became silent. Sasha broke off her song and moved still farther away from him. The wind was raging outside the window, hurling dust against the window-panes. Cockroaches were rustling on the oven as they crawled over a bunch of pine wood splinters. Somewhere in the yard a calf was lowing pitifully.
Sasha glanced at Foma, with a sarcastic smile, and said:
"There's another unfortunate creature lowing. You ought to go to him; perhaps you could sing in unison. And placing her hand on his curly head she jestingly pushed it on the side.
"What are people like yourself good for? That's what you ought to think of. What are you groaning about? You are disgusted with being idle--occupy yourself, then, with business."
"0h Lord!" Foma nodded his head. "It is hard for one to make himself understood. Yes, it is hard!" And irritated, he almost cried out: "What business? I have no yearning toward business! What is business? Business is merely a name--and if you should look into the depth, into the root of it--you'll find it is nothing but absurdity! Do I not understand it? I understand everything, I see everything, I feel everything! Only my tongue is dumb. What aim is there in business? Money? I have plenty of it! I could choke you to death with it, cover you with it. All this business is nothing but fraud. I meet business people--well, and what about them? Their greediness is immense, and yet they purposely whirl about in business that they might not see themselves. They hide themselves, the devils. Try to free them from this bustle--what will happen? Like blind men they will grope about hither and thither; they'll lose their mind--they'll go mad! I know it! Do you think that business brings happiness into man? No, that's not so--something else is missing here. This is not everything yet! The river flows that men may sail on it; the tree grows--to be useful; the dog--to guard the house. There is justification for everything in the world! And men, like cockroaches, are altogether superfluous on earth. Everything is for them, and they--what are they for? Aha! Wherein is their justification? Ha, ha, ha!"
Foma was triumphant. It seemed to him that he had found something good for himself, something severe against men. And feeling that, because of this, there was great joy in him, he laughed loudly.
"Does not your head ache?" inquired Sasha, anxiously, scrutinizing his face.
"My soul aches!" exclaimed Foma, passionately. "And it aches because it is upright--because it is not to be satisfied