The Man Who Was Afraid [65]
again seated herself on the couch. Her face was serious, her lips were tightly compressed, but her eyes were lowered, and Foma could not see their expression. He thought that when he told her, "I know everything about you!" she would be frightened, she would feel ashamed and confused, would ask his forgiveness for having made sport of him. Then he would embrace her and forgive her. But that was not the case; it was he who was confused by her calmness. He looked at her, searching for words to resume his speech, but found them not.
"It is better," she repeated firmly and drily. "So you have learned everything, have you? And, of course, you've censured me, as I deserve. I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot justify myself."
She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.
Foma heaved a deep sigh. Her words had killed in him a certain hope--a hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it was dead. And shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach:
"There was a time when I looked at you and thought, 'How beautiful she is, how good, the dove!' And now you say yourself, 'I am guilty.' Ah!"
The voice of the youth broke down. And the woman began to laugh softly.
"How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you cannot understand all this!"
The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing words and melancholy smile. That cold, harsh something, which he had in his heart against her, was now melting before the warm light of her eyes. The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a child. She was saying something in a gentle voice as though imploring, and forever smiling, but he paid no attention to her words.
"I've come to you," said he, interrupting her words, "without pity. I meant to tell you everything. And yet I said nothing. I don't feel like doing it. My heart sank. You are breathing upon me so strangely. Eh, I should not have seen you! What are you to me? It would be better for me to go away, it seems."
"Wait, dearest, don't go away!" said the woman, hastily, holding out her hand to him. "Why so severe? Do not be angry at me! What am I to you? You need a different friend, a woman just as simple- minded and sound-souled as you are. She must be gay, healthy. I--I am already an old woman. I am forever worrying. My life is so empty and so weary, so empty! Do you know, when a person has grown accustomed to live merrily, and then cannot be merry, he feels bad! He desires to live cheerfully, he desires to laugh, yet he does not laugh--it is life that is laughing at him. And as to men. Listen! Like a mother, I advise you, I beg and implore you--obey no one except your own heart! Live in accordance with its promptings. Men know nothing, they cannot tell you anything that is true. Do not heed them."
Trying to speak as plainly and intelligibly as possible, she was agitated, and her words came incoherently hurriedly one after another. A pitiful smile played on her lips all the time, and her face was not beautiful.
"Life is very strict. It wants all people to submit to its requests, and only the very strong ones can resist it with impunity. It is yet questionable whether they can do it! Oh, if you knew how hard it is to live. Man goes so far that he begins to fear his own self. He is split into judge and criminal--he judges his own self and seeks justification before himself. And he is willing to pass days and nights with those that despise him, and that are repulsive to him--just to avoid being alone with himself."
Foma lifted his head and said distrustfully, with surprise:
"I cannot understand what it is! Lubov also says the same."
"Which Lubov? What does she say?"
"My foster-sister. She says the same,--she is forever complaining of life. It is impossible to live, she says."
"Oh, she is yet young! And it is a great happiness that she already speaks of this."
"Happiness!" Foma drawled out mockingly. "It must be a fine happiness that makes people
"It is better," she repeated firmly and drily. "So you have learned everything, have you? And, of course, you've censured me, as I deserve. I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot justify myself."
She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.
Foma heaved a deep sigh. Her words had killed in him a certain hope--a hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it was dead. And shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach:
"There was a time when I looked at you and thought, 'How beautiful she is, how good, the dove!' And now you say yourself, 'I am guilty.' Ah!"
The voice of the youth broke down. And the woman began to laugh softly.
"How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you cannot understand all this!"
The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing words and melancholy smile. That cold, harsh something, which he had in his heart against her, was now melting before the warm light of her eyes. The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a child. She was saying something in a gentle voice as though imploring, and forever smiling, but he paid no attention to her words.
"I've come to you," said he, interrupting her words, "without pity. I meant to tell you everything. And yet I said nothing. I don't feel like doing it. My heart sank. You are breathing upon me so strangely. Eh, I should not have seen you! What are you to me? It would be better for me to go away, it seems."
"Wait, dearest, don't go away!" said the woman, hastily, holding out her hand to him. "Why so severe? Do not be angry at me! What am I to you? You need a different friend, a woman just as simple- minded and sound-souled as you are. She must be gay, healthy. I--I am already an old woman. I am forever worrying. My life is so empty and so weary, so empty! Do you know, when a person has grown accustomed to live merrily, and then cannot be merry, he feels bad! He desires to live cheerfully, he desires to laugh, yet he does not laugh--it is life that is laughing at him. And as to men. Listen! Like a mother, I advise you, I beg and implore you--obey no one except your own heart! Live in accordance with its promptings. Men know nothing, they cannot tell you anything that is true. Do not heed them."
Trying to speak as plainly and intelligibly as possible, she was agitated, and her words came incoherently hurriedly one after another. A pitiful smile played on her lips all the time, and her face was not beautiful.
"Life is very strict. It wants all people to submit to its requests, and only the very strong ones can resist it with impunity. It is yet questionable whether they can do it! Oh, if you knew how hard it is to live. Man goes so far that he begins to fear his own self. He is split into judge and criminal--he judges his own self and seeks justification before himself. And he is willing to pass days and nights with those that despise him, and that are repulsive to him--just to avoid being alone with himself."
Foma lifted his head and said distrustfully, with surprise:
"I cannot understand what it is! Lubov also says the same."
"Which Lubov? What does she say?"
"My foster-sister. She says the same,--she is forever complaining of life. It is impossible to live, she says."
"Oh, she is yet young! And it is a great happiness that she already speaks of this."
"Happiness!" Foma drawled out mockingly. "It must be a fine happiness that makes people