The Man Who Was Afraid [52]
thus checking his words and his thoughts. At last he went so far, that the line of various physiognomies, stretched out by the table opposite him, seemed to him a long and wavy white strip besprinkled with laughing eyes, and all these eyes were pricking him unpleasantly and painfully.
Mayakin sat near the city mayor, waved his fork in the air quickly, and kept on talking all the time, now contracting, now expanding the wrinkles of his face. The mayor, a gray-headed, red-faced, short- necked man, stared at him like a bull, with obstinate attention and at times he rapped on the edge of the table with his big finger affirmatively. The animated talk and laughter drowned his godfather's bold speech, and Foma was unable to hear a single word of it, much more so that the tenor of the secretary was unceasingly ringing in his ears:
"Look, there, the archdeacon arose; he is filling his lungs with air; he will soon proclaim an eternal memory for Ignat Matveyich."
"May I not go away?" asked Foma in a low voice.
"Why not? Everybody will understand this."
The deacon's resounding voice drowned and seemed to have crushed the noise in the hail; the eminent merchants fixed their eyes on the big, wide-open mouth, from which a deep sound was streaming forth, and availing himself of this moment, Foma arose from his seat and left the hall.
After awhile he breathed freely and, sitting in his cab, thought sadly that there was no place for him amid these people. Inwardly, he called them polished. He did not like their brilliancy, their faces, their smiles or their words, but the freedom and the cleverness of their movements, their ability to speak much and on any subject, their pretty costumes--all this aroused in him a mixture of envy and respect for them. He felt sad and oppressed at the consciousness of being unable to talk so much and so fluently as all these people, and here he recalled that Luba Mayakina had more than once scoffed at him on this account.
Foma did not like Mayakin's daughter, and since he had learned from his father of Mayakin's intention to marry him to Luba, the young Gordyeeff began to shun her. But after his father's death he was almost every day at the Mayakins, and somehow Luba said to him one day:
"I am looking at you, and, do you know?--you do not resemble a merchant at all."
"Nor do you look like a merchant's daughter," said Foma, and looked at her suspiciously. He did not understand the meaning of her words; did she mean to offend him, or did she say these words without any kind thoughts?
"Thank God for this!" said she and smiled to him a kind, friendly smile.
"What makes you so glad?" he asked.
"The fact that we don't resemble our fathers."
Foma glanced at her in astonishment and kept silent.
"Tell me frankly," said she, lowering her voice, "you do not love my father, do you? You don't like him?"
"Not very much," said Foma, slowly.
"And I dislike him very much."
"What for?"
"For everything. When you grow wiser, you will know it yourself. Your father was a better man."
"Of course!" said Foma, proudly.
After this conversation an attachment sprang up between them almost immediately, and growing stronger from day to day, it soon developed into friendship, though a somewhat odd friendship it was.
Though Luba was not older than her god-brother, she nevertheless treated him as an older person would treat a little boy. She spoke to him condescendingly, often jesting at his expense; her talk was always full of words which were unfamiliar to Foma; and she pronounced these words with particular emphasis and with evident satisfaction. She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make him look like Aunt Anfisa's brave and noble robbers. Often, when complaining of her father, she said to Foma:
"You will also be just such a skinflint."
All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity. But at times she was straightforward, simple-minded, and particularly kind and
Mayakin sat near the city mayor, waved his fork in the air quickly, and kept on talking all the time, now contracting, now expanding the wrinkles of his face. The mayor, a gray-headed, red-faced, short- necked man, stared at him like a bull, with obstinate attention and at times he rapped on the edge of the table with his big finger affirmatively. The animated talk and laughter drowned his godfather's bold speech, and Foma was unable to hear a single word of it, much more so that the tenor of the secretary was unceasingly ringing in his ears:
"Look, there, the archdeacon arose; he is filling his lungs with air; he will soon proclaim an eternal memory for Ignat Matveyich."
"May I not go away?" asked Foma in a low voice.
"Why not? Everybody will understand this."
The deacon's resounding voice drowned and seemed to have crushed the noise in the hail; the eminent merchants fixed their eyes on the big, wide-open mouth, from which a deep sound was streaming forth, and availing himself of this moment, Foma arose from his seat and left the hall.
After awhile he breathed freely and, sitting in his cab, thought sadly that there was no place for him amid these people. Inwardly, he called them polished. He did not like their brilliancy, their faces, their smiles or their words, but the freedom and the cleverness of their movements, their ability to speak much and on any subject, their pretty costumes--all this aroused in him a mixture of envy and respect for them. He felt sad and oppressed at the consciousness of being unable to talk so much and so fluently as all these people, and here he recalled that Luba Mayakina had more than once scoffed at him on this account.
Foma did not like Mayakin's daughter, and since he had learned from his father of Mayakin's intention to marry him to Luba, the young Gordyeeff began to shun her. But after his father's death he was almost every day at the Mayakins, and somehow Luba said to him one day:
"I am looking at you, and, do you know?--you do not resemble a merchant at all."
"Nor do you look like a merchant's daughter," said Foma, and looked at her suspiciously. He did not understand the meaning of her words; did she mean to offend him, or did she say these words without any kind thoughts?
"Thank God for this!" said she and smiled to him a kind, friendly smile.
"What makes you so glad?" he asked.
"The fact that we don't resemble our fathers."
Foma glanced at her in astonishment and kept silent.
"Tell me frankly," said she, lowering her voice, "you do not love my father, do you? You don't like him?"
"Not very much," said Foma, slowly.
"And I dislike him very much."
"What for?"
"For everything. When you grow wiser, you will know it yourself. Your father was a better man."
"Of course!" said Foma, proudly.
After this conversation an attachment sprang up between them almost immediately, and growing stronger from day to day, it soon developed into friendship, though a somewhat odd friendship it was.
Though Luba was not older than her god-brother, she nevertheless treated him as an older person would treat a little boy. She spoke to him condescendingly, often jesting at his expense; her talk was always full of words which were unfamiliar to Foma; and she pronounced these words with particular emphasis and with evident satisfaction. She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make him look like Aunt Anfisa's brave and noble robbers. Often, when complaining of her father, she said to Foma:
"You will also be just such a skinflint."
All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity. But at times she was straightforward, simple-minded, and particularly kind and