The Man Who Was Afraid [146]
Huge steamers, standing by the shore and emitting columns of smoke from their funnels, were already awaiting them. The troubled water of the river, closely obstructed with vessels, was softly and plaintively splashing against the shore, as though imploring for a minute of rest and repose.
"Your Honour!" a hoarse cry rang out near Foma's ears, "contribute some brandy in honour of the building!"
Foma glanced at the petitioner indifferently; he was a huge, bearded fellow, barefooted, with a torn shirt and a bruised, swollen face.
"Get away!" muttered Foma, and turned away from him.
"Merchant! When you die you can't take your money with you. Give me for one glass of brandy, or are you too lazy to put your hand into your pocket?"
Foma again looked at the petitioner; the latter stood before him, covered more with mud than with clothes, and, trembling with intoxication, waited obstinately, staring at Foma with blood- shot, swollen eyes.
"Is that the way to ask?" inquired Foma.
"How else? Would you want me to go down on my knees before you for a ten-copeck piece?" asked the bare-footed man, boldly.
"There!" and Foma gave him a coin.
"Thanks! Fifteen copecks. Thanks! And if you give me fifteen more I'll crawl on all fours right up to that tavern. Do you want me to?" proposed the barefooted man.
"Go, leave me alone!" said Foma, waving him off with his hand.
"He who gives not when he may, when he fain would, shall have nay," said the barefooted man, and stepped aside.
Foma looked at him as he departed, and said to himself:
"There is a ruined man and yet how bold he is. He asks alms as though demanding a debt. Where do such people get so much boldness?"
And heaving a deep sigh, he answered himself:
"From freedom. The man is not fettered. What is there that he should regret? What does he fear? And what do I fear? What is there that I should regret?"
These two questions seemed to strike Foma's heart and called forth in him a dull perplexity. He looked at the movement of the working people and kept on thinking: What did he regret? What did he fear?
"Alone, with my own strength, I shall evidently never come out anywhere. Like a fool I shall keep on tramping about among people, mocked and offended by all. If they would only jostle me aside; if they would only hate me, then--then--I would go out into the wide world! Whether I liked or not, I would have to go!"
From one of the landing wharves the merry "dubinushka" ["Dubinushka," or the "Oaken Cudgel," is a song popular with the Russian workmen.] had already been smiting the air for a long time. The carriers were doing a certain work, which required brisk movements, and were adapting the song and the refrain to them.
"In the tavern sit great merchants Drinking liquors strong,"
narrated the leader, in a bold recitative. The company joined in unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
And then the bassos smote the air with deep sounds:
"It goes, it goes."
And the tenors repeated:
"It goes, it goes."
Foma listened to the song and directed his footsteps toward it, on the wharf. There he noticed that the carriers, formed in two rows, were rolling out of the steamer's hold huge barrels of salted fish. Dirty, clad in red blouses, unfastened at the collar, with mittens on their hands, with arms bare to the elbow, they stood over the hold, and, merrily jesting, with faces animated by toil, they pulled the ropes, all together, keeping time to their song. And from the hold rang out the high, laughing voice of the invisible leader:
"But for our peasant throats There is not enough vodka."
And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly and in unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which was as harmonious as music. The slovenly faces of the carriers beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and the leader of the chorus was in his best vein. Foma thought that it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to the tune of
"Your Honour!" a hoarse cry rang out near Foma's ears, "contribute some brandy in honour of the building!"
Foma glanced at the petitioner indifferently; he was a huge, bearded fellow, barefooted, with a torn shirt and a bruised, swollen face.
"Get away!" muttered Foma, and turned away from him.
"Merchant! When you die you can't take your money with you. Give me for one glass of brandy, or are you too lazy to put your hand into your pocket?"
Foma again looked at the petitioner; the latter stood before him, covered more with mud than with clothes, and, trembling with intoxication, waited obstinately, staring at Foma with blood- shot, swollen eyes.
"Is that the way to ask?" inquired Foma.
"How else? Would you want me to go down on my knees before you for a ten-copeck piece?" asked the bare-footed man, boldly.
"There!" and Foma gave him a coin.
"Thanks! Fifteen copecks. Thanks! And if you give me fifteen more I'll crawl on all fours right up to that tavern. Do you want me to?" proposed the barefooted man.
"Go, leave me alone!" said Foma, waving him off with his hand.
"He who gives not when he may, when he fain would, shall have nay," said the barefooted man, and stepped aside.
Foma looked at him as he departed, and said to himself:
"There is a ruined man and yet how bold he is. He asks alms as though demanding a debt. Where do such people get so much boldness?"
And heaving a deep sigh, he answered himself:
"From freedom. The man is not fettered. What is there that he should regret? What does he fear? And what do I fear? What is there that I should regret?"
These two questions seemed to strike Foma's heart and called forth in him a dull perplexity. He looked at the movement of the working people and kept on thinking: What did he regret? What did he fear?
"Alone, with my own strength, I shall evidently never come out anywhere. Like a fool I shall keep on tramping about among people, mocked and offended by all. If they would only jostle me aside; if they would only hate me, then--then--I would go out into the wide world! Whether I liked or not, I would have to go!"
From one of the landing wharves the merry "dubinushka" ["Dubinushka," or the "Oaken Cudgel," is a song popular with the Russian workmen.] had already been smiting the air for a long time. The carriers were doing a certain work, which required brisk movements, and were adapting the song and the refrain to them.
"In the tavern sit great merchants Drinking liquors strong,"
narrated the leader, in a bold recitative. The company joined in unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
And then the bassos smote the air with deep sounds:
"It goes, it goes."
And the tenors repeated:
"It goes, it goes."
Foma listened to the song and directed his footsteps toward it, on the wharf. There he noticed that the carriers, formed in two rows, were rolling out of the steamer's hold huge barrels of salted fish. Dirty, clad in red blouses, unfastened at the collar, with mittens on their hands, with arms bare to the elbow, they stood over the hold, and, merrily jesting, with faces animated by toil, they pulled the ropes, all together, keeping time to their song. And from the hold rang out the high, laughing voice of the invisible leader:
"But for our peasant throats There is not enough vodka."
And the company, like one huge pair of lungs, heaved forth loudly and in unison:
"Oh, dubinushka, heave-ho!"
Foma felt pleased and envious as he looked at this work, which was as harmonious as music. The slovenly faces of the carriers beamed with smiles, the work was easy, it went on smoothly, and the leader of the chorus was in his best vein. Foma thought that it would be fine to work thus in unison, with good comrades, to the tune of