"I will! I will come! Goodbye! Christ save you!"When the steamer's side touched the wharf Foma came out on the deck and began to look downward into the fog. From the steamer people were walking down the gang-planks, but Foma could not discern the pilgrim among those dark figures enveloped in the dense gloom. All those that left the steamer looked equally indistinct, and they all quickly disappeared from sight, as though they had melted in the gray dampness. One could see neither the shore nor anything else solid; the landing bridge rocked from the commotion caused by the steamer; above it the yellow spot of the lantern was swaying; the noise of the footsteps and the bustle of the people were dull.
The steamer put off and slowly moved along into the clouds. The pilgrim, the harbour, the turmoil of people's voices--all suddenly disappeared like a dream, and again there remained only the dense gloom and the steamer heavily turning about in it. Foma stared before him into the dead sea of fog and thought of the blue, cloudless and caressingly warm sky--where was it?
On the next day, about noon, he sat In Yozhov's small room and listened to the local news from the mouth of his friend. Yozhov had climbed on the table, which was piled with newspapers, and, swinging his feet, narrated:
"The election campaign has begun. The merchants are putting your godfather up as mayor--that old devil! Like the devil, he is immortal, although he must be upwards of a hundred and fifty years old already. He marries his daughter to Smolin. You remember that red-headed fellow. They say that he is a decent man, but nowadays they even call clever scoundrels decent men, because there are no men. Now Africashka plays the enlightened man; he has already managed to get into intelligent society, donated something to some enterprise or another and thus at once came to the front. Judging from his face, he is a sharper of the highest degree, but he will play a prominent part, for he knows how to adapt himself. Yes, friend, Africashka is a liberal. And a liberal merchant is a mixture of a wolf and a pig with a toad and a snake.""The devil take them all!" said Foma, waving his hand indifferently. "What have I to do with them? How about yourself--do you still keep on drinking?"
"I do! Why shouldn't I drink?"
Half-clad and dishevelled, Yozhov looked like a plucked bird, which had just had a fight and had not yet recovered from the excitement of the conflict.
"I drink because, from time to time, I must quench the fire of my wounded heart. And you, you damp stump, you are smouldering little by little?""I have to go to the old man," said Foma, wrinkling his face.
"Chance it!"
"I don't feel like going. He'll start to lecture me.""Then don't go!"
"But I must."
"Then go!"
"Why do you always play the buffoon? " said Foma, with displeasure, "as though you were indeed merry.""By God, I feel merry!" exclaimed Yozhov, jumping down from the table. "What a fine roasting I gave a certain gentleman in the paper yesterday! And then--I've heard a clever anecdote: Acompany was sitting on the sea-shore philosophizing at length upon life. And a Jew said to them: 'Gentlemen, why do you employ so many different words? I'll tell it to you all at once: Our life is not worth a single copeck, even as this stormy sea! '""Eh, the devil take you!" said Foma. "Good-bye. I am going.""Go ahead! I am in a fine frame of mind to-day and I will not moan with you. All the more so considering you don't moan, but grunt."Foma went away, leaving Yozhov singing at the top of his voice:
"Beat the drum and fear not."
"Drum? You are a drum yourself;" thought Foma, with irritation, as he slowly came out on the street.
At the Mayakins he was met by Luba. Agitated and animated, she suddenly appeared before him, speaking quickly:
"You? My God! How pale you are! How thin you've grown! It seems you have been leading a fine life."Then her face became distorted with alarm and she exclaimed almost in a whisper:
"Ah, Foma. You don't know. Do you hear? Someone is ringing the bell. Perhaps it is he."And she rushed out of the room, leaving behind her in the air the rustle of her silk gown, and the astonished Foma, who had not even had a chance to ask her where her father was. Yakov Tarasovich was at home. Attired in his holiday clothes, in a long frock coat with medals on his breast, he stood on the threshold with his hands outstretched, clutching at the door posts. His green little eyes examined Foma, and, feeling their look upon him, Foma raised his head and met them.
"How do you do, my fine gentleman?" said the old man, shaking his head reproachfully. "Where has it pleased you to come from, may Iask? Who has sucked off that fat of yours? Or is it true that a pig looks for a puddle, and Foma for a place which is worse?""Have you no other words for me?" asked Foma, sternly, looking straight into the old man's face. And suddenly he noticed that his godfather shuddered, his legs trembled, his eyes began to blink repeatedly, and his hands clutched the door posts with an effort. Foma advanced toward him, presuming that the old man was feeling ill, but Yakov Tarasovich said in a dull and angry voice:
"Stand aside. Get out of the way."
And his face assumed its usual expression.
Foma stepped back and found himself side by side with a rather short, stout man, who bowed to Mayakin, and said in a hoarse voice:
"How do you do, papa?"
"How are you, Taras Yakovlich, how are you?" said the old man, bowing, smiling distractedly, and still clinging to the door posts.
Foma stepped aside in confusion, seated himself in an armchair, and, petrified with curiosity, wide-eyed, began to watch the meeting of father and son.
