The Man Who Was Afraid [95]
as usual, but he wished to see her angry or offended; he wished for something human from the woman.
"The soul!" he exclaimed, persisting in his aim. "Can one who has a soul live as you live? A soul has fire burning in it, there is a sense of shame in it."
By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed her eyes upon his face.
"What are you staring at?" asked Foma.
"Why do you speak that way?" said she, without lifting her eyes from him.
"Because I must."
"Look out--must you really?"
There was something threatening in her question. Foma felt intimidated and said, this time without provocation in his voice:
"How could I help speaking?"
"Oh, you!" sighed Sasha and resumed dressing herself
"And what about me?"
"Merely so. You seem as though you were born of two fathers. Do you know what I have observed among people?"
"Well?"
"If a man cannot answer for himself, it means that he is afraid of himself, that his price is a grosh!"
"Do you refer to me?" asked Foma, after a pause.
"To you, too."
She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:
"You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could tell it! Only,--who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,--they're like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals--you cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire--just as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent."
Raising her hands she abruptly loosened her hair, and when it fell over her shoulders in heavy, black locks--the woman shook her head haughtily and said, with contempt:
"Never mind that I am leading a loose life! It often happens, that the man who lives in filth is purer than he who goes about in silks. If you only knew what I think of you, you dogs, what wrath I bear against you! And because of this wrath--I am silent! For I fear that if I should sing it to you--my soul would become empty. I would have nothing to live on." Foma looked at her, and now he was pleased with her. In her words there was something akin to his frame of mind. Laughing, he said to her, with satisfaction on his face and in his voice:
"And I also feel that something is growing within my soul. Eh, I too shall have my say, when the time comes."
"Against whom?" asked Sasha, carelessly.
"I--against everybody!" exclaimed Foma, jumping to his feet. "Against falsehood. I shall ask--"
"Ask whether the samovar is ready," Sasha ordered indifferently.
Foma glanced at her and cried, enraged:
"Go to the devil! Ask yourself."
"Well, all right, I shall. What are you snarling about?"
And she stepped out of the hut.
In piercing gusts the wind blew across the river, striking against its bosom, and covered with troubled dark waves, the river was spasmodically rushing toward the wind with a noisy splash, and all in the froth of wrath. The willow bushes on the shore bent low to the ground--trembling, they now were about to lie down on the ground, now, frightened, they thrust themselves away from it, driven by the blows of the wind. In the air rang a whistling, a howling, and a deep groaning sound, that burst from dozens of human breasts:
"It goes--it goes--it goes!"
This exclamation, abrupt as a blow, and heavy as the breath from an enormous breast, which is suffocating from exertion, was soaring over the river, falling upon the waves, as if encouraging their mad play with the wind, and they struck the shores with might.
Two empty barges lay anchored by the mountainous shore, and their tall masts, rising skyward, rocked in commotion from side to side, as though describing some invisible
"The soul!" he exclaimed, persisting in his aim. "Can one who has a soul live as you live? A soul has fire burning in it, there is a sense of shame in it."
By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed her eyes upon his face.
"What are you staring at?" asked Foma.
"Why do you speak that way?" said she, without lifting her eyes from him.
"Because I must."
"Look out--must you really?"
There was something threatening in her question. Foma felt intimidated and said, this time without provocation in his voice:
"How could I help speaking?"
"Oh, you!" sighed Sasha and resumed dressing herself
"And what about me?"
"Merely so. You seem as though you were born of two fathers. Do you know what I have observed among people?"
"Well?"
"If a man cannot answer for himself, it means that he is afraid of himself, that his price is a grosh!"
"Do you refer to me?" asked Foma, after a pause.
"To you, too."
She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:
"You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could tell it! Only,--who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,--they're like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals--you cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire--just as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent."
Raising her hands she abruptly loosened her hair, and when it fell over her shoulders in heavy, black locks--the woman shook her head haughtily and said, with contempt:
"Never mind that I am leading a loose life! It often happens, that the man who lives in filth is purer than he who goes about in silks. If you only knew what I think of you, you dogs, what wrath I bear against you! And because of this wrath--I am silent! For I fear that if I should sing it to you--my soul would become empty. I would have nothing to live on." Foma looked at her, and now he was pleased with her. In her words there was something akin to his frame of mind. Laughing, he said to her, with satisfaction on his face and in his voice:
"And I also feel that something is growing within my soul. Eh, I too shall have my say, when the time comes."
"Against whom?" asked Sasha, carelessly.
"I--against everybody!" exclaimed Foma, jumping to his feet. "Against falsehood. I shall ask--"
"Ask whether the samovar is ready," Sasha ordered indifferently.
Foma glanced at her and cried, enraged:
"Go to the devil! Ask yourself."
"Well, all right, I shall. What are you snarling about?"
And she stepped out of the hut.
In piercing gusts the wind blew across the river, striking against its bosom, and covered with troubled dark waves, the river was spasmodically rushing toward the wind with a noisy splash, and all in the froth of wrath. The willow bushes on the shore bent low to the ground--trembling, they now were about to lie down on the ground, now, frightened, they thrust themselves away from it, driven by the blows of the wind. In the air rang a whistling, a howling, and a deep groaning sound, that burst from dozens of human breasts:
"It goes--it goes--it goes!"
This exclamation, abrupt as a blow, and heavy as the breath from an enormous breast, which is suffocating from exertion, was soaring over the river, falling upon the waves, as if encouraging their mad play with the wind, and they struck the shores with might.
Two empty barges lay anchored by the mountainous shore, and their tall masts, rising skyward, rocked in commotion from side to side, as though describing some invisible