The Man Who Was Afraid [90]
has become spoiled--hence the sores. Man is given great liberty to reason, but is not permitted to do anything--that's why man does not live; but rots and stinks."
"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on the table and bending toward her father.
"Everything!" cried the old man, passionately. "Do everything. Go ahead! Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that liberty must be given to man--complete freedom! Since there has come a time, when everyraw youth believes that he knows everything and was created for the complete arrangement of life-- give him, give the rogue freedom! Here, Carrion, live! Come, come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow; feeling that his bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his ears, and like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe himself to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his spirit."
The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with a malicious smile:
"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll bristle up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides--and the poor fellow will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten--he, he, he! Here, he, he, he! The dear fellow will be caught by the real, worthy people, by those real people who are competent to be the actual civil masters, who will manage life not with a rod nor with a pen, but with a finger and with brains.
"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they will say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So-- "and, raising his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an authoritative tone:
"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't squeak! Or we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree! Silence, dear fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to happen, Lubavka! He, he, he!"
The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and carried away by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and then, and smacked his lips as though tasting his own wisdom.
"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion will arrange life wisely, after their own fashion. Then things won't go at random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall not live to see it!"
The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes of a big strong net--they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl, unable to free herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by her father's words. Staring into his face with an intense look, she sought support for herself in his words and heard in them something similar to what she had read in books, and which seemed to her the real truth. But the malignant, triumphant laughter of her father stung her heart, and the wrinkles, which seemed to creep about on his face like so many dark little snakes, inspired her with a certain fear for herself in his presence. She felt that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so simple and so easy in her dreams.
"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort of a man--what in your opinion is Taras?"
Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:
"What sort of talk is this?"
"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.
I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak of him! "--the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and angrily:
"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads. That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are unhappy because of this incompetence. Taraska. Yes. He must be about forty now. He
"What ought one to do, then?" asked Lubov, resting her elbows on the table and bending toward her father.
"Everything!" cried the old man, passionately. "Do everything. Go ahead! Let each man do whatever he knows best! But for that liberty must be given to man--complete freedom! Since there has come a time, when everyraw youth believes that he knows everything and was created for the complete arrangement of life-- give him, give the rogue freedom! Here, Carrion, live! Come, come, live! Ah! Then such a comedy will follow; feeling that his bridle is off, man will then rush up higher than his ears, and like a feather will fly hither and thither. He'll believe himself to be a miracle worker, and then he'll start to show his spirit."
The old man paused awhile and, lowering his voice, went on, with a malicious smile:
"But there is very little of that creative spirit in him! He'll bristle up for a day or two, stretch himself on all sides--and the poor fellow will soon grow weak. For his heart is rotten--he, he, he! Here, he, he, he! The dear fellow will be caught by the real, worthy people, by those real people who are competent to be the actual civil masters, who will manage life not with a rod nor with a pen, but with a finger and with brains.
"What, they will say. Have you grown tired, gentlemen? What, they will say, your spleens cannot stand a real fire, can they? So-- "and, raising his voice, the old man concluded his speech in an authoritative tone:
"Well, then, now, you rabble, hold your tongues, and don't squeak! Or we'll shake you off the earth, like worms from a tree! Silence, dear fellows! Ha, ha, ha! That's how it's going to happen, Lubavka! He, he, he!"
The old man was in a merry mood. His wrinkles quivered, and carried away by his words, he trembled, closed his eyes now and then, and smacked his lips as though tasting his own wisdom.
"And then those who will take the upper hand in the confusion will arrange life wisely, after their own fashion. Then things won't go at random, but as if by rote. It's a pity that we shall not live to see it!"
The old man's words fell one after another upon Lubov like meshes of a big strong net--they fell and enmeshed her, and the girl, unable to free herself from them, maintained silence, dizzied by her father's words. Staring into his face with an intense look, she sought support for herself in his words and heard in them something similar to what she had read in books, and which seemed to her the real truth. But the malignant, triumphant laughter of her father stung her heart, and the wrinkles, which seemed to creep about on his face like so many dark little snakes, inspired her with a certain fear for herself in his presence. She felt that he was turning her aside from what had seemed so simple and so easy in her dreams.
"Papa!" she suddenly asked the old man, in obedience to a thought and a desire that unexpectedly flashed through her mind. "Papa! and what sort of a man--what in your opinion is Taras?"
Mayakin shuddered. His eyebrows began to move angrily, he fixed his keen, small eyes on his daughter's face and asked her drily:
"What sort of talk is this?"
"Must he not even be mentioned?" said Lubov, softly and confusedly.
I don't want to speak of him--and I also advise you not to speak of him! "--the old man threatened her with his finger and lowered his head with a gloomy frown. But when he said that he did not want to speak of his son, he evidently did not understand himself correctly, for after a minute's silence he said sternly and angrily:
"Taraska, too, is a sore. Life is breathing upon you, milksops, and you cannot discriminate its genuine scents, and you swallow all sorts of filth, wherefore there is trouble in your heads. That's why you are not competent to do anything, and you are unhappy because of this incompetence. Taraska. Yes. He must be about forty now. He