"That's right! You ought to give it, it's a good steamer, it tows briskly.""My dear fellows, I can't. Two and a quarter!""And all this nonsense came to your head from your youthful passion!" said Mayakin, importantly, accompanying his words with a rap on the table. "Your boldness is stupidity; all these words of yours are nonsense. Would you perhaps go to the cloister? or have you perhaps a longing to go on the highways?"Foma listened in silence. The buzzing noise about him now seemed to move farther away from him. He pictured himself amid a vast restless crowd of people; without knowing why they bustled about hither and thither, jumped on one another; their eyes were greedily opened wide; they were shouting, cursing, falling, crushing one another, and they were all jostling about on one place. He felt bad among them because he did not understand what they wanted, because he had no faith in their words, and he felt that they had no faith in themselves, that they understood nothing. And if one were to tear himself away from their midst to freedom, to the edge of life, and thence behold them--then all would become clear to him. Then he would also understand what they wanted, and would find his own place among them.
"Don't I understand," said Mayakin, more gently, seeing Foma lost in thought, and assuming that he was reflecting on his words--"Iunderstand that you want happiness for yourself. Well, my friend, it is not to be easily seized. You must seek happiness even as they search for mushrooms in the wood, you must bend your back in search of it, and finding it, see whether it isn't a toad-stool.""So you will set me free?" asked Foma, suddenly lifting his head, and Mayakin turned his eyes away from his fiery look.
"Father! at least for a short time! Let me breathe, let me step aside from everything!" entreated Foma. "I will watch how everything goes on. And then--if not--I shall become a drunkard.""Don't talk nonsense. Why do you play the fool?" cried Mayakin, angrily.
"Very well, then!" replied Foma, calmly. "Very well! You do not want it? Then there will be nothing! I'll squander it all! And there is nothing more for us to speak of. Goodbye! I'll set out to work, you'll see! It will afford you joy. Everything will go up in smoke!" Foma was calm, he spoke with confidence; it seemed to him that since he had thus decided, his godfather could not hinder him. But Mayakin straightened himself in his chair and said, also plainly and calmly:
"And do you know how I can deal with you?"
"As you like!" said Foma, with a wave of the hand. "Well then.
Now I like the following: I'll return to town and will see to it that you are declared insane, and put into a lunatic asylum.""Can this be done?" asked Foma, distrustfully, but with a tone of fright in his voice.
"We can do everything, my dear."
Foma lowered his head, and casting a furtive glance at his godfather's face, shuddered, thinking:
"He'll do it; he won't spare me."
"If you play the fool seriously I must also deal with you seriously. I promised your father to make a man of you, and Iwill do it; if you cannot stand on your feet, I'll put you in irons. Then you will stand. Though I know all these holy words of yours are but ugly caprices that come from excessive drinking.
But if you do not give that up, if you keep on behaving indecently, if you ruin, out of wantonness, the property accumulated by your father, I'll cover you all up. I'll have a bell forged over you. It is very inconvenient to fool with me."Mayakin spoke gently. The wrinkles of his cheeks all rose upward, and his small eyes in their dark sockets were smiling sarcastically, coldly. And the wrinkles on his forehead formed an odd pattern, rising up to his bald crown. His face was stern and merciless, and breathed melancholy and coldness upon Foma's soul.
"So there's no way out for me?" asked Foma, gloomily. "You are blocking all my ways?""There is a way. Go there! I shall guide you. Don't worry, it will be right! You will come just to your proper place."This self-confidence, this unshakable boastfulness aroused Foma's indignation. Thrusting his hands into his pockets in order not to strike the old man, he straightened himself in his chair and clinching his teeth, said, facing Mayakin closely:
"Why are you boasting? What are you boasting of? Your own son, where is he? Your daughter, what is she? Eh, you--you life-builder! Well, you are clever. You know everything. Tell me, what for do you live? What for are you accumulating money? Do you think you are not going to die? Well, what then? You've captured me. You've taken hold of me, you've conquered me. But wait, I may yet tear myself away from you! It isn't the end yet! Eh, you!
What have you done for life? By what will you be remembered? My father, for instance, donated a lodging-house, and you--what have you done?"Mayakin's wrinkles quivered and sank downward, wherefore his face assumed a sickly, weeping expression.
"How will you justify yourself?" asked Foma, softly, without lifting his eyes from him.
"Hold your tongue, you puppy!" said the old man in a low voice, casting a glance of alarm about the room.
"I've said everything! And now I'm going! Hold me back!"Foma rose from his chair, thrust his cap on his head, and measured the old man with abhorrence.
"You may go; but I'll--I'll catch you! It will come out as Isay!" said Yakov Tarasovich in a broken voice.
"And I'll go on a spree! I'll squander all!"
"Very well, we'll see!"
"Goodbye! you hero," Foma laughed.
"Goodbye, for a short while! I'll not go back on my own. I love it. I love you, too. Never mind, you're a good fellow!" said Mayakin, softly, and as though out of breath.
"Do not love me, but teach me. But then, you cannot teach me the right thing!" said Foma, as he turned his back on the old man and left the hall.
Yakov Tarasovich Mayakin remained in the tavern alone. He sat by the table, and, bending over it, made drawings of patterns on the tray, dipping his trembling finger in the spilt kvass, and his sharp-pointed head was sinking lower and lower over the table, as though he did not decipher, and could not make out what his bony finger was drawing on the tray.
Beads of perspiration glistened on his bald crown, and as usual the wrinkles on his cheeks quivered with frequent, irritable starts.
In the tavern a resounding tumult smote the air so that the window-panes were rattling. From the Volga were wafted the whistlings of steamers, the dull beating of the wheels upon the water, the shouting of the loaders--life was moving onward unceasingly and unquestionably.
Summoning the waiter with a nod Yakov Tarasovich asked him with peculiar intensity and impressiveness "How much do I owe for all this?"
