The Man Who Was Afraid [155]
noisily sighing, again stretched out his hand toward the bottle. Then Foma said to him softly:
"Let's go to some hotel. It isn't late yet."
Yozhov looked at him, and, rubbing his head with his hands, began to laugh strangely. Then he rose from his chair and said to Foma curtly:
"Dress yourself!"
And seeing how clumsily and slowly he turned on the lounge, Yozhov shouted with anger and impatience:
"Well, be quicker! You personification of stupidity. You symbolical cart-shaft."
"Don't curse!" said Foma, with a peaceable smile. "Is it worthwhile to be angry because a woman has cackled?"
Yozhov glanced at him, spat and burst into harsh laughter.
CHAPTER XIII
"ARE all here?" asked Ilya Yefimovich Kononov, standing on the bow of his new steamer, and surveying the crowd of guests with beaming eyes.
"It seems to be all!"
And raising upward his stout, red, happy-looking face, he shouted to the captain, who was already standing on the bridge, beside the speaking-tube:
"Cast off, Petrukha!"
"Yes, sir!"
The captain bared his huge, bald head, made the sign of the cross, glancing up at the sky, passed his hand over his wide, black beard, cleared his throat, and gave the command:
"Back!"
The guests watched the movements of the captain silently and attentively, and, emulating his example, they also began to cross themselves, at which performance their caps and high hats flashed through the air like a flock of black birds.
Give us Thy blessing, 0h Lord!" exclaimed Kononov with emotion.
"Let go astern! Forward!" ordered the captain. The massive "Ilya Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream easily, like a swan.
"How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!"
"Half speed!"
"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and principal usurer in town.
It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden colouring. Flashing in the freshness of its paint the steamer sailed along the monotonous background of the river like a huge bright spot, and the black smoke of its breath hung in the air like a heavy cloud. All white, with pink paddle-boxes and bright red blades, the steamer easily cut through the cold water with its bow and drove it apart toward the shores, and the round window-panes on the sides of the steamer and the cabin glittered brilliantly, as though smiling a self-satisfied, triumphant smile.
"Gentlemen of this honourable company!" exclaimed Kononov, removing his hat, and making a low bow to the guests. "As we have now rendered unto God, so to say, what is due to God, would you permit that the musicians render now unto the Emperor what is due to the Emperor?"
And, without waiting for an answer from his guests, he placed his fist to his mouth, and shouted:
"Musicians! Play 'Be Glorious!'"
The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the march.
And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local commercial bank, began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time with his fingers on his enormous paunch:
"Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar--tra-rata! Boom!"
"I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he, he! I entreat you humbly," said Kononov, pushing himself through the dense group of guests.
There were about thirty of them, all sedate men, the cream of the local merchants. The older men among them, bald-headed and gray, wore old-fashioned frock-coats, caps and tall boots. But there were only few of these; high silk hats, shoes and stylish coats reigned supreme. They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch. Lup
"Let's go to some hotel. It isn't late yet."
Yozhov looked at him, and, rubbing his head with his hands, began to laugh strangely. Then he rose from his chair and said to Foma curtly:
"Dress yourself!"
And seeing how clumsily and slowly he turned on the lounge, Yozhov shouted with anger and impatience:
"Well, be quicker! You personification of stupidity. You symbolical cart-shaft."
"Don't curse!" said Foma, with a peaceable smile. "Is it worthwhile to be angry because a woman has cackled?"
Yozhov glanced at him, spat and burst into harsh laughter.
CHAPTER XIII
"ARE all here?" asked Ilya Yefimovich Kononov, standing on the bow of his new steamer, and surveying the crowd of guests with beaming eyes.
"It seems to be all!"
And raising upward his stout, red, happy-looking face, he shouted to the captain, who was already standing on the bridge, beside the speaking-tube:
"Cast off, Petrukha!"
"Yes, sir!"
The captain bared his huge, bald head, made the sign of the cross, glancing up at the sky, passed his hand over his wide, black beard, cleared his throat, and gave the command:
"Back!"
The guests watched the movements of the captain silently and attentively, and, emulating his example, they also began to cross themselves, at which performance their caps and high hats flashed through the air like a flock of black birds.
Give us Thy blessing, 0h Lord!" exclaimed Kononov with emotion.
"Let go astern! Forward!" ordered the captain. The massive "Ilya Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream easily, like a swan.
"How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!"
"Half speed!"
"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and principal usurer in town.
It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden colouring. Flashing in the freshness of its paint the steamer sailed along the monotonous background of the river like a huge bright spot, and the black smoke of its breath hung in the air like a heavy cloud. All white, with pink paddle-boxes and bright red blades, the steamer easily cut through the cold water with its bow and drove it apart toward the shores, and the round window-panes on the sides of the steamer and the cabin glittered brilliantly, as though smiling a self-satisfied, triumphant smile.
"Gentlemen of this honourable company!" exclaimed Kononov, removing his hat, and making a low bow to the guests. "As we have now rendered unto God, so to say, what is due to God, would you permit that the musicians render now unto the Emperor what is due to the Emperor?"
And, without waiting for an answer from his guests, he placed his fist to his mouth, and shouted:
"Musicians! Play 'Be Glorious!'"
The military orchestra, behind the engine, thundered out the march.
And Makar Bobrov, the director and founder of the local commercial bank, began to hum in a pleasant basso, beating time with his fingers on his enormous paunch:
"Be glorious, be glorious, our Russian Czar--tra-rata! Boom!"
"I invite you to the table, gentlemen! Please! Take pot-luck, he, he! I entreat you humbly," said Kononov, pushing himself through the dense group of guests.
There were about thirty of them, all sedate men, the cream of the local merchants. The older men among them, bald-headed and gray, wore old-fashioned frock-coats, caps and tall boots. But there were only few of these; high silk hats, shoes and stylish coats reigned supreme. They were all crowded on the bow of the steamer, and little by little, yielding to Kononov's requests, moved towards the stern covered with sailcloth, where stood tables spread with lunch. Lup