The Man Who Was Afraid Part 40

Ookhtishchev's lady's name was Vera; she was a tall, pale woman with red hair. She had so much hair, that it seemed as though the woman had put on her head an enormous cap which was coming down over her ears, her cheeks and her high forehead, from under which her large blue eyes looked forth calmly and lazily.

The gentleman with the side whiskers sat beside a young, plump, buxom girl, who constantly giggled in a ringing voice at something which he whispered in her ear as he leaned over her shoulder.

And Foma's lady was a stately brunette, clad all in black.

Dark-complexioned, with wavy locks, she kept her head so erect and high and looked at everything about her with such condescending haughtiness, that it was at once evident that she considered herself the most important person there.

The company were seated on the extreme link of the raft, extending far into the smooth expanse of the river. Boards were spread out on the raft and in the centre stood a crudely constructed table; empty bottles, provision baskets, candy-wrappers and orange peels were scattered about everywhere. In the corner of the raft was a pile of earth, upon which a bonfire was burning, and a peasant in a short fur coat, squatting, warmed his hands over the fire, and cast furtive glances at the people seated around the table. They had just finished eating their sturgeon soup, and now wines and fruits were before them on the table.

Fatigued with a two-days' spree and with the dinner that had just been finished, the company was in a weary frame of mind. They all gazed at the river, chatting, but their conversation was now and again interrupted by long pauses.

The day was clear and bright and young, as in spring. The cold, clear sky stretched itself majestically over the turbid water of the gigantically-wide, overflowing river, which was as calm as the sky and as vast as the sea. The distant, mountainous sh.o.r.e was tenderly bathed in bluish mist. Through it, there, on the mountain tops, the crosses of churches were flas.h.i.+ng like big stars. The river was animated at the mountainous sh.o.r.e; steamers were going hither and thither, and their noise came in deep moans toward the rafts and into the meadows, where the calm flow of the waves filled the air with soft and faint sounds.

Gigantic barges stretched themselves one after another against the current, like huge pigs, tearing asunder the smooth expanse of the river. Black smoke came in ponderous puffs from the chimneys of the steamers, slowly melting in the fresh air, which was full of bright suns.h.i.+ne. At times a whistle resounded--it was like the roar of some huge, enraged animal, embittered by toil. And on the meadows near the rafts, all was calm and silent. Solitary trees that had been drowned by the flood, were now already covered with light-green spangles of foliage. Covering their roots and reflecting their tops, the water gave them the appearance of globes, and it seemed as though the slightest breeze would send them floating, fantastically beautiful, down the mirror-like bosom of the river.

The red-haired woman, pensively gazing into the distance, began to sing softly and sadly:

"Along the Volga river A little boat is flo-o-oating."

The brunette, snapping her large, stern eyes with contempt, said, without looking at her: "We feel gloomy enough without this."

"Don't touch her. Let her sing!" entreated Foma, kindly, looking into his lady's face. He was pale some spark seemed to flash up in his eyes now and then, and an indefinite, indolent smile played about his lips.

"Let us sing in chorus!" suggested the man with the side whiskers.

"No, let these two sing!" exclaimed Ookhtishchev with enthusiasm.

"Vera, sing that song! You know, 'I will go at dawn.' How is it? Sing, Pavlinka!"

The giggling girl glanced at the brunette and asked her respectfully:

"Shall I sing, Sasha?"

"I shall sing myself," announced Foma's companion, and turning toward the lady with the birdlike face, she ordered:

"Va.s.sa, sing with me!"

Va.s.sa immediately broke off her conversation with Zvantzev, stroked her throat a little with her hand and fixed her round eyes on the face of her sister. Sasha rose to her feet, leaned her hand against the table, and her head lifted haughtily, began to declaim in a powerful, almost masculine voice:

"Life on earth is bright to him, Who knows no cares or woe, And whose heart is not consumed By pa.s.sion's ardent glow!"

Her sister nodded her head and slowly, plaintively began to moan in a deep contralto:

"Ah me! Of me the maiden fair."

Flas.h.i.+ng her eyes at her sister, Sasha exclaimed in her low-pitched notes:

"Like a blade of gra.s.s my heart has withered."

The two voices mingled and floated over the water in melodious, full sounds, which quivered from excess of power. One of them was complaining of the unbearable pain in the heart, and intoxicated by the poison of its plaint, it sobbed with melancholy and impotent grief; sobbed, quenching with tears the fire of the suffering. The other--the lower, more masculine voice--rolled powerfully through the air, full of the feeling of b.l.o.o.d.y mortification and of readiness to avenge. p.r.o.nouncing the words distinctly, the voice came from her breast in a deep stream, and each word reeked with boiling blood, stirred up by outrage, poisoned by offence and mightily demanding vengeance.

"I will requite him,"

sang Va.s.sa, plaintively, closing her eyes.

"I will inflame him, I'll dry him up,"

Sasha promised sternly and confidently, wafting into the air strong, powerful tones, which sounded like blows. And suddenly, changing the tempo of the song and striking a higher pitch, she began to sing, as slowly as her sister, voluptuous and exultant threats:

"Drier than the raging wind, Drier than the mown-down gra.s.s, Oi, the mown and dried-up gra.s.s."

Resting his elbows on the table, Foma bent his head, and with knitted brow, gazed into the face of the woman, into her black, half-shut eyes Staring fixedly into the distance, her eyes flashed so brightly and malignantly that, because of their light, the velvety voice, that burst from the woman's chest, seemed to him also black and flas.h.i.+ng, like her eyes. He recalled her caresses and thought:

"How does she come to be such as she is? It is even fearful to be with her."

Ookhtishchev, sitting close to his lady, an expression of happiness on his face, listened to the song and was radiant with satisfaction. The gentleman with the side whiskers and Zvantzev were drinking wine, softly whispering something as they leaned toward each other. The red-headed woman was thoughtfully examining the palm of Ookhtishchev's hand, holding it in her own, and the jolly girl became sad. She drooped her head low and listened to the song, motionless, as though bewitched by it. From the fire came the peasant. He stepped carefully over the boards, on tiptoe; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his broad, bearded face was now transformed into a smile of astonishment and of a naive delight.

"Eh! but feel, my kind, brave man!"

entreated Va.s.sa, plaintively, nodding her head. And her sister, her chest bent forward, her hand still higher, wound up the song in powerful triumphant notes:

"The yearning and the pangs of love!"

When she finished singing, she looked haughtily about her, and seating herself by Foma's side, clasped his neck with a firm and powerful hand.

"Well, was it a nice song?"

"It's capital!" said Foma with a sigh, as he smiled at her.

The song filled his heart with thirst for tenderness and, still full of charming sounds, it quivered, but at the touch of her arm he felt awkward and ashamed before the other people.

"Bravo-o! Bravo, Aleksandra Sarelyevna!" shouted Ookhtishchev, and the others were clapping their hands. But she paid no attention to them, and embracing Foma authoritatively, said:

"Well, make me a present of something for the song."

"Very well, I will," Foma a.s.sented.

"What?"

"You tell me."

"I'll tell you when we come to town. And if you'll give me what I like--Oh, how I will love you!"

"For the present?" asked Foma, smiling suspiciously. "You ought to love me anyway."

She looked at him calmly and, after a moment's thought, said resolutely:

"It's too soon to love you anyway. I will not lie. Why should I lie to you? I am telling you frankly. I love you for money, for presents.

Because aside from money, men have nothing. They cannot give anything more than money. Nothing of worth. I know it well already. One can love merely so. Yes, wait a little--I'll know you better and then, perhaps, I may love you free of charge. And meanwhile, you mustn't take me amiss. I need much money in my mode of life."

Foma listened to her, smiled and now and then quivered from the nearness of her sound, well-shaped body. Zvantzev's sour, cracked and boring voice was falling on his ears. "I don't like it. I cannot understand the beauty of this renowned Russian song. What is it that sounds in it? Eh?

The howl of a wolf. Something hungry, wild. Eh! it's the groan of a sick dog--altogether something beastly. There's nothing cheerful, there's no chic to it; there are no live and vivifying sounds in it. No, you ought to hear what and how the French peasant sings. Ah! or the Italian."