The Man Who Was Afraid [89]
a power--a power, the devils! And I am not the governor, and even he cannot put one's hand out of joint or tie one's tongue. Like mice, they gnaw us little by little. And we have to poison them not with matches, but with roubles. Yes! Well, who is it?"
"Do you remember, when I was going to school, a Gymnasium student used to come up to us. Yozhov? Such a dark little fellow!"
"Mm! Of course, I saw him. I know him. So it's he?"
"Yes."
"The little mouse! Even at that time one could see already that something wrong would come out of him. Even then he stood in the way of other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked after him then. Perhaps, I might have made a man of him."
Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly:
"And isn't he who writes for newspapers a man?"
For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter. Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished brass of the samovar. Then he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably:
"They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper- writers, these terrible Pharisees. They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more. Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From slowness of motion. Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp. All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a disordered life."
"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.
"What do you mean by--not right?"
"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities! They don't want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They're not mosquitoes."
Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.
"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her. "You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are they? No one knows! That Yozhov--what is he? Only God knows. All they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me--man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see well--here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face. You see, these newspapers give a samovar face to everything, and do not see the real one. And yet you believe them. But I know that my face on the samovar is distorted. No one can tell the real truth; man's throat is too delicate for this. And then, the real truth is known to nobody."
"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers they defend the general interests of all the people."
"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and that it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest is not defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows what I need? Who, but myself, understands my interests?"
"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute you, but I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with despair.
"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and there is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering! Everybody lives awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no harmony in life. All are yelling out of tune, in different voices. And not one understands what the other is in need of! There is a mist over everything--everybody inhales that mist, and that's why the blood of the people
"Do you remember, when I was going to school, a Gymnasium student used to come up to us. Yozhov? Such a dark little fellow!"
"Mm! Of course, I saw him. I know him. So it's he?"
"Yes."
"The little mouse! Even at that time one could see already that something wrong would come out of him. Even then he stood in the way of other people. A bold boy he was. I should have looked after him then. Perhaps, I might have made a man of him."
Lubov looked at her father, smiled inimically, and asked hotly:
"And isn't he who writes for newspapers a man?"
For a long while, the old man did not answer his daughter. Thoughtfully, he drummed with his fingers against the table and examined his face, which was reflected in the brightly polished brass of the samovar. Then he raised his head, winked his eyes and said impressively and irritably:
"They are not men, they are sores! The blood of the Russian people has become mixed, it has become mixed and spoiled, and from the bad blood have come all these book and newspaper- writers, these terrible Pharisees. They have broken out everywhere, and they are still breaking out, more and more. Whence comes this spoiling of the blood? From slowness of motion. Whence the mosquitoes, for instance? From the swamp. All sorts of uncleanliness multiply in stagnant waters. The same is true of a disordered life."
"That isn't right, papa!" said Lubov, softly.
"What do you mean by--not right?"
"Writers are the most unselfish people, they are noble personalities! They don't want anything--all they strive for is justice--truth! They're not mosquitoes."
Lubov grew excited as she lauded her beloved people; her face was flushed, and her eyes looked at her father with so much feeling, as though imploring him to believe her, being unable to convince him.
"Eh, you!" said the old man, with a sigh, interrupting her. "You've read too much! You've been poisoned! Tell me--who are they? No one knows! That Yozhov--what is he? Only God knows. All they want is the truth, you say? What modest people they are! And suppose truth is the very dearest thing there is? Perhaps everybody is seeking it in silence? Believe me--man cannot be unselfish. Man will not fight for what belongs not to him, and if he does fight--his name is 'fool,' and he is of no use to anybody. A man must be able to stand up for himself, for his own, then will he attain something! Here you have it! Truth! Here I have been reading the same newspaper for almost forty years, and I can see well--here is my face before you, and before me, there on the samovar is again my face, but it is another face. You see, these newspapers give a samovar face to everything, and do not see the real one. And yet you believe them. But I know that my face on the samovar is distorted. No one can tell the real truth; man's throat is too delicate for this. And then, the real truth is known to nobody."
"Papa!" exclaimed Lubov, sadly, "But in books and in newspapers they defend the general interests of all the people."
"And in what paper is it written that you are weary of life, and that it was time for you to get married? So, there your interest is not defended! Eh! You! Neither is mine defended. Who knows what I need? Who, but myself, understands my interests?"
"No, papa, that isn't right, that isn't right! I cannot refute you, but I feel that this isn't right!" said Lubov almost with despair.
"It is right!" said the old man, firmly. "Russia is confused, and there is nothing steadfast in it; everything is staggering! Everybody lives awry, everybody walks on one side, there's no harmony in life. All are yelling out of tune, in different voices. And not one understands what the other is in need of! There is a mist over everything--everybody inhales that mist, and that's why the blood of the people