The Man Who Was Afraid [43]
her husband. Then dark and contradicting feelings sprang up within him: he felt like insulting the architect, and at the same time he envied and respected him. Medinskaya now seemed to him less beautiful and more accessible; he began to feel sorry for her, and yet he thought malignantly:
"She must surely feel disgusted when he kisses her."
And after all this he sometimes perceived in himself some bottomless and oppressive emptiness, which could not be filled up by anything-- neither by the impressions of the day just gone by nor by the recollection of the past; and the Exchange, and his affairs, and his thoughts of Medinskaya--all were swallowed up by this emptiness. It alarmed him: in the dark depth of this emptiness he suspected some hidden existence of a hostile power, as yet formless but already carefully and persistently striving to become incarnate.
In the meantime Ignat, changing but little outwardly, was growing ever more restless and querulous and was complaining more often of being ill.
"I lost my sleep. It used to be so sound that even though you had torn off my skin, I would not have felt it. While now I toss about from side to side, and I fall asleep only toward morning. And every now and then I awaken. My heart beats unevenly, now, though tired out; often thus: tuk-tuk-tuk. And sometimes it sinks of a sudden--and it seems as though it would soon tear itself away and fall somewhere into the deep; into the bosom. 0h Lord, have pity upon me through Thy great mercy." And heaving a penitent sigh, he would lift heavenward his stern eyes, grown dim now, devoid of their bright, sparkling glitter.
"Death keeps an eye on me somewhere close by," he said one day morosely, but humbly. And indeed, it soon felled his big, sturdy body to the ground.
This happened in August, early in the morning. Foma was sound asleep when suddenly he felt somebody shaking him by the shoulder, and a hoarse voice called at his ear:
"Get up."
He opened his eyes and saw that his father was seated in a chair near his bed, monotonously repeating in a dull voice:
"Get up, get up."
The sun had just risen, and its light, falling on Ignat's white linen shirt, had not yet lost its rosy tints.
"It's early," said Foma, stretching himself.
"Well, you'll sleep enough later."
Lazily muffling himself in the blanket, Foma asked:
"Why do you need me?"
"Get up, dear, will you, please?" exclaimed Ignat, adding, somewhat offended: "It must be necessary, since I am waking you."
When Foma looked closely at his father's face, he noticed that it was gray and weary.
"Are you ill? "
"Slightly."
"Shall we send for a doctor?"
"The devil take him!" Ignat waved his hand. "I am not a young man any longer. I know it as well without him."
"What?"
"Oh, I know it!" said the old man, mysteriously, casting a strange glance around the room. Foma was dressing himself, and his father, with lowered head, spoke slowly:
"I am afraid to breathe. Something tells me that if I should now heave a deep sigh, my heart would burst. Today is Sunday! After the morning mass is over, send for the priest."
"What are you talking about, papa?" Foma smiled.
"Nothing. Wash yourself and go into the garden. I ordered the samovar to be brought there. We'll drink our tea in the morning coolness. I feel like drinking now hot, strong tea. Be quicker."
The old man rose with difficulty from the chair, and, bent and barefooted, left the room in a staggering gait. Foma looked at his father, and a shooting chill of fear made his heart shrink. He washed himself in haste, and hurried out into the garden.
There, under an old, spreading apple-tree sat Ignat in a big oaken armchair. The light of the sun fell in thin stripes through the branches of the trees upon the white figure of the old man clad in his night-garments. There was such a profound silence in the garden that even the rustle of a branch, accidentally touched by Foma's clothes, seemed to him like a loud sound and he shuddered. On the table, before his father, stood the samovar,
"She must surely feel disgusted when he kisses her."
And after all this he sometimes perceived in himself some bottomless and oppressive emptiness, which could not be filled up by anything-- neither by the impressions of the day just gone by nor by the recollection of the past; and the Exchange, and his affairs, and his thoughts of Medinskaya--all were swallowed up by this emptiness. It alarmed him: in the dark depth of this emptiness he suspected some hidden existence of a hostile power, as yet formless but already carefully and persistently striving to become incarnate.
In the meantime Ignat, changing but little outwardly, was growing ever more restless and querulous and was complaining more often of being ill.
"I lost my sleep. It used to be so sound that even though you had torn off my skin, I would not have felt it. While now I toss about from side to side, and I fall asleep only toward morning. And every now and then I awaken. My heart beats unevenly, now, though tired out; often thus: tuk-tuk-tuk. And sometimes it sinks of a sudden--and it seems as though it would soon tear itself away and fall somewhere into the deep; into the bosom. 0h Lord, have pity upon me through Thy great mercy." And heaving a penitent sigh, he would lift heavenward his stern eyes, grown dim now, devoid of their bright, sparkling glitter.
"Death keeps an eye on me somewhere close by," he said one day morosely, but humbly. And indeed, it soon felled his big, sturdy body to the ground.
This happened in August, early in the morning. Foma was sound asleep when suddenly he felt somebody shaking him by the shoulder, and a hoarse voice called at his ear:
"Get up."
He opened his eyes and saw that his father was seated in a chair near his bed, monotonously repeating in a dull voice:
"Get up, get up."
The sun had just risen, and its light, falling on Ignat's white linen shirt, had not yet lost its rosy tints.
"It's early," said Foma, stretching himself.
"Well, you'll sleep enough later."
Lazily muffling himself in the blanket, Foma asked:
"Why do you need me?"
"Get up, dear, will you, please?" exclaimed Ignat, adding, somewhat offended: "It must be necessary, since I am waking you."
When Foma looked closely at his father's face, he noticed that it was gray and weary.
"Are you ill? "
"Slightly."
"Shall we send for a doctor?"
"The devil take him!" Ignat waved his hand. "I am not a young man any longer. I know it as well without him."
"What?"
"Oh, I know it!" said the old man, mysteriously, casting a strange glance around the room. Foma was dressing himself, and his father, with lowered head, spoke slowly:
"I am afraid to breathe. Something tells me that if I should now heave a deep sigh, my heart would burst. Today is Sunday! After the morning mass is over, send for the priest."
"What are you talking about, papa?" Foma smiled.
"Nothing. Wash yourself and go into the garden. I ordered the samovar to be brought there. We'll drink our tea in the morning coolness. I feel like drinking now hot, strong tea. Be quicker."
The old man rose with difficulty from the chair, and, bent and barefooted, left the room in a staggering gait. Foma looked at his father, and a shooting chill of fear made his heart shrink. He washed himself in haste, and hurried out into the garden.
There, under an old, spreading apple-tree sat Ignat in a big oaken armchair. The light of the sun fell in thin stripes through the branches of the trees upon the white figure of the old man clad in his night-garments. There was such a profound silence in the garden that even the rustle of a branch, accidentally touched by Foma's clothes, seemed to him like a loud sound and he shuddered. On the table, before his father, stood the samovar,