The Man Who Was Afraid [44]
purring like a well-fed tom-cat and exhaling a stream of steam into the air. Amid the silence and the fresh verdure of the garden, which had been washed by abundant rains the day before, this bright spot of the boldly shining, loud brass seemed to Foma as something unnecessary, as something which suited neither the time nor the place--nor the feeling that sprang up within him at the sight of the sickly, bent old man, who was dressed in white, and who sat alone underneath the mute, motionless, dark-green foliage, wherein red apples were modestly peeping.
"Be seated," said Ignat.
"We ought to send for a doctor." Foma advised him irresolutely, seating himself opposite him.
"It isn't necessary. It's a little better now in the open air. And now I'll sip some tea and perhaps that will do me more good," said Ignat, pouring out tea into the glasses, and Foma noticed that the teapot was trembling in his father's hand.
"Drink."
Silently moving up one glass for himself, Foma bent over it, blowing the foam off the surface of the tea, and with pain in his heart, hearing the loud, heavy breathing of his father. Suddenly something struck against the table with such force that the dishes began to rattle.
Foma shuddered, threw up his head and met the frightened, almost senseless look of his father's eyes. Ignat stared at his son and whispered hoarsely:
"An apple fell down (the devil take it!). It sounded like the firing of a gun."
"Won't you have some cognac in your tea?" Foma suggested.
"It is good enough without it."
They became silent. A flight of finches winged past over the garden, scattering a provokingly cheerful twittering in the air. And again the ripe beauty of the garden was bathed in solemn silence. The fright was still in Ignat's eyes.
"0h Lord, Jesus Christ!" said he in a low voice, making the sign of the cross. "Yes. There it is--the last hour of my life."
"Stop, papa!" whispered Foma.
"Why stop? We'll have our tea, and then send for the priest, and for Mayakin."
"I'd rather send for them now."
"They'll soon toll for the mass--the priest isn't home--and then there's no hurry, it may pass soon."
And he noisily started to sip the tea out of the saucer.
"I should live another year or two. You are young, and I am very much afraid for you. Live honestly and firmly; do not covet what belongs to other people, take good care of your own."
It was hard for him to speak, he stopped short and rubbed his chest with his hand.
"Do not rely upon others; expect but little from them. We all live in order to take, not to give. 0h Lord! Have mercy on the sinner!"
Somewhere in the distance the deep sound of the bell fell on the silence of the morning. Ignat and Foma crossed themselves three times.
After the first sound of the bell-tone came another, then a third, and soon the air was filled with sounds of the church-bells, coming from all sides--flowing, measured, calling aloud.
"There, they are tolling for the mass," said Ignat, listening to the echo of the bell-metal. "Can you tell the bells by their sounds?"
"No," answered Foma.
"Just listen. This one now--do you hear? the bass--this is from the Nikola Church. It was presented by Peter Mitrich Vyagin--and this, the hoarse one--this is at the church of Praskeva Pyatnitza."
The singing waves of the bell-tones agitated the air, which was filled with them, and they died away in the clear blue of the sky. Foma stared thoughtfully at his father's face and saw that the alarm was disappearing from his eyes, and that they were now brighter.
But suddenly the old man's face turned very red, his eyes distended and rolled out of their orbits, his mouth opened with fright, and from it issued a strange, hissing sound:
"F-F-A-A-ch."
Immediately after this Ignat's head fell back on his shoulder, and his heavy body slowly slipped down from the chair to the ground as if the earth had dragged him imperiously unto itself. Foma was motionless and silent for awhile, then he rushed up to Ignat, lifted his head from the ground and looked
"Be seated," said Ignat.
"We ought to send for a doctor." Foma advised him irresolutely, seating himself opposite him.
"It isn't necessary. It's a little better now in the open air. And now I'll sip some tea and perhaps that will do me more good," said Ignat, pouring out tea into the glasses, and Foma noticed that the teapot was trembling in his father's hand.
"Drink."
Silently moving up one glass for himself, Foma bent over it, blowing the foam off the surface of the tea, and with pain in his heart, hearing the loud, heavy breathing of his father. Suddenly something struck against the table with such force that the dishes began to rattle.
Foma shuddered, threw up his head and met the frightened, almost senseless look of his father's eyes. Ignat stared at his son and whispered hoarsely:
"An apple fell down (the devil take it!). It sounded like the firing of a gun."
"Won't you have some cognac in your tea?" Foma suggested.
"It is good enough without it."
They became silent. A flight of finches winged past over the garden, scattering a provokingly cheerful twittering in the air. And again the ripe beauty of the garden was bathed in solemn silence. The fright was still in Ignat's eyes.
"0h Lord, Jesus Christ!" said he in a low voice, making the sign of the cross. "Yes. There it is--the last hour of my life."
"Stop, papa!" whispered Foma.
"Why stop? We'll have our tea, and then send for the priest, and for Mayakin."
"I'd rather send for them now."
"They'll soon toll for the mass--the priest isn't home--and then there's no hurry, it may pass soon."
And he noisily started to sip the tea out of the saucer.
"I should live another year or two. You are young, and I am very much afraid for you. Live honestly and firmly; do not covet what belongs to other people, take good care of your own."
It was hard for him to speak, he stopped short and rubbed his chest with his hand.
"Do not rely upon others; expect but little from them. We all live in order to take, not to give. 0h Lord! Have mercy on the sinner!"
Somewhere in the distance the deep sound of the bell fell on the silence of the morning. Ignat and Foma crossed themselves three times.
After the first sound of the bell-tone came another, then a third, and soon the air was filled with sounds of the church-bells, coming from all sides--flowing, measured, calling aloud.
"There, they are tolling for the mass," said Ignat, listening to the echo of the bell-metal. "Can you tell the bells by their sounds?"
"No," answered Foma.
"Just listen. This one now--do you hear? the bass--this is from the Nikola Church. It was presented by Peter Mitrich Vyagin--and this, the hoarse one--this is at the church of Praskeva Pyatnitza."
The singing waves of the bell-tones agitated the air, which was filled with them, and they died away in the clear blue of the sky. Foma stared thoughtfully at his father's face and saw that the alarm was disappearing from his eyes, and that they were now brighter.
But suddenly the old man's face turned very red, his eyes distended and rolled out of their orbits, his mouth opened with fright, and from it issued a strange, hissing sound:
"F-F-A-A-ch."
Immediately after this Ignat's head fell back on his shoulder, and his heavy body slowly slipped down from the chair to the ground as if the earth had dragged him imperiously unto itself. Foma was motionless and silent for awhile, then he rushed up to Ignat, lifted his head from the ground and looked