The Man Who Was Afraid

“Foma! Tell me – on whom you have sharpened your teeth? Eh?”

“Why, are they sharp?” asked Foma, pleased with the manner in which Mayakin now regarded him.

“Pretty good. That’s good, dear. That’s very good! Your father and I were afraid lest you should be a laggard. Well, have you learned to drink vodka?”

“I drank it.”

“Rather too soon! Did you drink much of it?”

“Why much?”

“Does it taste good?”

“Not very.”

“So. Never mind, all this is not so bad. Only you are too outspoken. You are ready to confess all your sins to each and every pope that comes along. You must consider it isn’t always necessary to do that. Sometimes by keeping silent you both please people and commit no sins. Yes. A man’s tongue is very seldom sober. Here we are. See, your father does not know that you have arrived. Is he home yet, I wonder?”

He was at home: his loud, somewhat hoarse laughter was heard from the open windows of the rooms. The noise of the carriage, which stopped at the house, caused Ignat to look out of the window, and at the sight of his son he cried out with joy:

“Ah! You’ve come.”

After a while he pressed Foma to his breast with one hand, and, pressing the palm of his other hand against his son’s forehead, thus bending his head back, he looked into his face with beaming eyes and spoke contentedly:

“You are sunburnt. You’ve grown strong. You’re a fine fellow! Madame! How’s my son? Isn’t he fine?”

“Not bad looking,” a gentle, silver voice was heard. Foma glanced from behind his father’s shoulder and noticed that a slender woman with magnificent fair hair was sitting in the front corner of the room, resting her elbows on the table; her dark eyes, her thin eyebrows and plump, red lips strikingly defined on her pale face. Behind her armchair stood a large philodendron-plant whose big, figured leaves were hanging down in the air over her little golden head.

“How do you do, Sophya Pavlovna,” said Mayakin, tenderly, approaching her with his hand outstretched. “What, are you still collecting contributions from poor people like us?”

Foma bowed to her mutely, not hearing her answer to Mayakin, nor what his father was saying to him. The lady stared at him steadfastly and smiled to him affably and serenely. Her childlike figure, clothed in some kind of dark fabric, was almost blended with the crimson stuff of the armchair, while her wavy, golden hair and her pale face shone against the dark background. Sitting there in the corner, beneath the green leaves, she looked at once like a flower, and like an ikon.

“See, Sophya Pavlovna, how he is staring at you. An eagle, eh?” said Ignat.

Her eyes became narrower, a faint blush leaped to her cheeks, and she burst into laughter. It sounded like the tinkling of a little silver bell. And she immediately arose, saying:

“I wouldn’t disturb you. Good-bye!”

When she went past Foma noiselessly, the scent of perfume came to him, and he noticed that her eyes were dark blue, and her eyebrows almost black.

“The sly rogue glided away,” said Mayakin in a low voice, angrily looking after her.

“Well, tell us how was the trip? Have you squandered much money?” roared Ignat, pushing his son into the same armchair where Medinskaya had been sitting awhile before. Foma looked at him askance and seated himself in another chair.

“Isn’t she a beautiful young woman, eh?” said Mayakin, smiling, feeling Foma with his cunning eyes. “If you keep on gaping at her she will eat away all your insides.”

Foma shuddered for some reason or other, and, saying nothing in reply, began to tell his father about the journey in a matter-of-fact tone. But Ignat interrupted him:

“Wait, I’ll ask for some cognac.”

“And you are keeping on drinking all the time, they say,” said Foma, disapprovingly.

Ignat glanced at his son with surprise and curiosity, and asked:

“Is this the way to speak to your father?”

Foma became confused and lowered his head.

“That’s it!” said Ignat, kind-heartedly, and ordered cognac to be brought to him.

Mayakin, winking his eyes, looked at the Gordyeeffs, sighed, bid them good-bye, and, after inviting them to have tea with him in his raspberry garden in the evening, went away.

“Where is Aunt Anfisa?” asked Foma, feeling that now, being alone with his father, he was somewhat ill at ease.

“She went to the cloister. Well, tell me, and I will have some cognac.”

Foma told his father all about his affairs in a few minutes and he concluded his story with a frank confession:

“I have spent much money on myself.”

“How much?”

“About six hundred roubles.”

“In six weeks! That’s a good deal. I see as a clerk you’re too expensive for me. Where have you squandered it all?”

“I gave away three hundred puds of grain.”

“To whom? How?”

Foma told him all about it.

“Hm! Well, that’s all right!” Ignat approved. “That’s to show what stuff we are made of. That’s clear enough – for the father’s honour – for the honour of the firm. And there is no loss either, because that gives a good reputation. And that, my dear, is the very best signboard for a business. Well, what else?”

“And then, I somehow spent more.”

“Speak frankly. It’s not the money that I am asking you about – I just want to know how you lived there,” insisted Ignat, regarding his son attentively and sternly.

“I was eating, drinking.” Foma did not give in, bending his head morosely and confusedly.

“Drinking vodka?”

“Vodka, too.”

“Ah! So. Isn’t it rather too soon?”

“Ask Yefim whether I ever drank enough to be intoxicated.”

“Why should I ask Yefim? You must tell me everything yourself. So you are drinking? I don’t like it.”