The Man Who Was Afraid

A few men turned toward Foma, as if he had called them.

“Kononov! are they soon going to try you for that little girl? They’ll convict you to the galleys. Goodbye, Ilya! You are building your steamers in vain. They’ll transport you to Siberia on a government vessel.”

Kononov sank into a chair; his blood leaped to his face, and he shook his fist in silence. Foma said hoarsely:

“Very well. Good. I shall not forget it.”

Foma saw his distorted face with its trembling lips, and understood with what weapons he could deal these men the most forcible blows.

“Ha, ha, ha! Builders of life! Gushchin, do you give alms to your little nephews and nieces? Give them at least a copeck a day. You have stolen sixty-seven thousand roubles from them. Bobrov! why did you lie about that mistress of yours, saying that she had robbed you, and then send her to prison? If you had grown tired of her, you might have given her over to your son. Anyway he has started an intrigue with that other mistress of yours. Didn’t you know it? Eh, you fat pig, ha, ha! And you, Lup, open again a brothel, and fleece your guests there as before. And then the devil will fleece you, ha, ha! It is good to be a rascal with a pious face like yours! Whom did you kill then, Lup?”

Foma spoke, interrupting his speech with loud, malevolent laughter, and saw that his words were producing an impression on these people. Before, when he had spoken to all of them they turned away from him, stepping aside, forming groups, and looking at their accuser from afar with anger and contempt. He saw smiles on their faces, he felt in their every movement something scornful, and understood that while his words angered them they did not sting as deep as he wished them to. All this had chilled his wrath, and within him there was already arising the bitter consciousness of the failure of his attack on them. But as soon as he began to speak of each one separately, there was a swift and striking change in the relation of his hearers toward him.

When Kononov sank heavily in the chair, as though he were unable to withstand the weight of Foma’s harsh words, Foma noticed that bitter and malicious smiles crossed the faces of some of the merchants. He heard some one’s whisper of astonishment and approval:

“That’s well aimed!”

This whisper gave strength to Foma, and he confidently and passionately began to hurl reproaches, jeers and abuses at those who met his eyes. He growled joyously, seeing that his words were taking effect. He was listened to silently, attentively; several men moved closer toward him.

Exclamations of protest were heard, but these were brief, not loud, and each time Foma shouted some one’s name, all became silent, listening, casting furtive, malicious glances in the direction of their accused comrade.

Bobrov laughed perplexedly, but his small eyes bored into Foma as gimlets. And Lup Reznikov, waving his hands, hopped about awkwardly and, short of breath, said:

“Be my witnesses. What’s this! No-o! I will not forgive this! I’ll go to court. What’s that?” and suddenly he screamed in a shrill voice, out-stretching his hand toward Foma:

“Bind him!”

Foma was laughing.

“You cannot bind the truth, you can’t do it! Even bound, truth will not grow dumb!”

“Go-o-od!” drawled out Kononov in a dull, broken voice.

“See here, gentlemen of the merchant class!” rang out Mayakin’s voice. “I ask! you to admire him, that’s the kind of a fellow he is!”

One after another the merchants moved toward Foma, and on their faces he saw wrath, curiosity, a malicious feeling of satisfaction, fear. Some one of those modest people among whom Foma was sitting, whispered to him:

“Give it to them. God bless you. Go ahead! That will be to your credit.”

“Robustov!” cried Foma. “What are you laughing at? What makes you glad? You will also go to the galleys.”

“Put him ashore!” suddenly roared Robustov, springing to his feet.

And Kononov shouted to the captain:

“Back! To the town! To the Governor.”

And someone insinuatingly, in a voice trembling with feeling:

“That’s a collusive agreement. That was done on purpose. He was instigated, and made drunk to give him courage.”

“No, it’s a revolt!”

“Bind him! Just bind him!”

Foma grasped a champagne bottle and swung it in the air.

“Come on now! No, it seems that you will have to listen to me.”

With renewed fury, frantic with joy at seeing these people shrinking and quailing under the blows of his words, Foma again started to shout names and vulgar oaths, and the exasperated tumult was hushed once more. The men, whom Foma did not know, gazed at him with eager curiosity, with approval, while some looked at him even with joyous surprise. One of them, a gray-haired little old man with rosy cheeks and small mouse eyes, suddenly turned toward the merchants, who had been abused by Foma, and said in a sweet voice:

“These are words from the conscience! That’s nothing! You must endure it. That’s a prophetic accusation. We are sinful. To tell the truth we are very – ”

He was hissed, and Zubov even jostled him on the shoulder. He made a low bow and disappeared in the crowd.

“Zubov!” cried Foma. “How many people have you fleeced and turned to beggars? Do you ever dream of Ivan Petrov Myakinnikov, who strangled himself because of you? Is it true that you steal at every mass ten roubles out of the church box?”

Zubov had not expected the attack, and he remained as petrified, with his hand uplifted. But he immediately began to scream in a shrill voice, as he jumped up quickly:

“Ah! You turn against me also? Against me, too?”

And suddenly he puffed up his cheeks and furiously began to shake his fist at Foma, as he screamed in a shrill voice:

“The fool says in his heart there is no God! I’ll go to the bishop! Infidel! You’ll get the galleys!”

The tumult on the steamer grew, and at the sight of these enraged, perplexed and insulted people, Foma felt himself a fairy-tale giant, slaying monsters. They bustled about, waving their arms, talking to one another – some red with anger, others pale, yet all equally powerless to check the flow of his jeers at them.

“Send the sailors over here!” cried Reznikov, tugging Kononov by the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you, Ilya? Ah? Have you invited us to be ridiculed?”

“Against one puppy,” screamed Zubov.

A crowd had gathered around Yakov Tarasovitch Mayakin, and listened to his quiet speech with anger, and nodded their heads affirmatively.

“Act, Yakov!” said Robustov, loudly. “We are all witnesses. Go ahead!”

And above the general tumult of voices rang out Foma’s loud, accusing voice:

“It was not life that you have built – you have made a cesspool! You have bred filth and putrefaction by your deeds! Have you a conscience? Do you remember God? Money – that’s your God! And your conscience you have driven away. Whither have you driven it away? Blood-suckers! You live on the strength of others. You work with other people’s hands! You shall pay for all this! When you perish, you will be called to account for everything! For everything, even to a teardrop. How many people have wept blood at those great deeds of yours? And according to your deserts, even hell is too good a place for you, rascals. Not in fire, but in boiling mud you shall be scorched. Your sufferings shall last for centuries. The devils will hurl you into a boiler and will pour into it – ha, ha, ha! they’ll pour into it – ha, ha, ha! Honourable merchant class! Builders of Life. Oh, you devils!”

Foma burst into ringing laughter, and, holding his sides, staggered, tossing his head up high.

At that moment several men quickly exchanged glances, simultaneously rushed on Foma and downed him with their weight. A racket ensued.

“Now you’re caught!” ejaculated some one in a suffocating voice.

“Ah! Is that the way you’re doing it?” cried Foma, hoarsely.

For about a half a minute a whole heap of black bodies bustled about on one spot, heavily stamping their feet, and dull exclamations were heard: