Part 75 (1/2)

”Gordyeeff,” said Yona Yushkov, softly.

And all heads were turned toward the direction in which Yakov Tarasovich was staring.

There, with his hands resting on the table, stood Foma. His face distorted with wrath, his teeth firmly set together, he silently surveyed the merchants with his burning, wide-open eyes. His lower jaw was trembling, his shoulders were quivering, and the fingers of his hands, firmly clutching the edge of the table, were nervously scratching the tablecloth. At the sight of his wolf-like, angry face and his wrathful pose, the merchants again became silent for a moment.

”What are you gaping at?” asked Foma, and again accompanied his question with a violent oath.

”He's drunk!” said Bobrov, with a shake of the head.

”And why was he invited?” whispered Reznikov, softly.

”Foma Ignatyevich!” said Kononov, sedately, ”you mustn't create any scandals. If your head is reeling--go, my dear boy, quietly and peacefully into the cabin and lie down! Lie down, and--”

”Silence, you!” roared Foma, and turned his eye at him. ”Do not dare to speak to me! I am not drunk. I am soberer than any one of you here! Do you understand?”

”But wait awhile, my boy. Who invited you here?” asked Kononov, reddening with offence.

”I brought him!” rang out Mayakin's voice.

”Ah! Well, then, of course. Excuse me, Foma Ignatyevich. But as you brought him, Yakov, you ought to subdue him. Otherwise it's no good.”

Foma maintained silence and smiled. And the merchants, too, were silent, as they looked at him.

”Eh, Fomka!” began Mayakin. ”Again you disgrace my old age.”

”G.o.dfather!” said Foma, showing his teeth, ”I have not done anything as yet, so it is rather early to read me a lecture. I am not drunk, I have drunk nothing, but I have heard everything. Gentlemen merchants! Permit me to make a speech! My G.o.dfather, whom you respect so much, has spoken.

Now listen to his G.o.dson.”

”What--speeches?” said Reznikov. ”Why have any discourses? We have come together to enjoy ourselves.”

”Come, you had better drop that, Foma Ignatyevich.”

”Better drink something.”

”Let's have a drink! Ah, Foma, you're the son of a fine father!”

Foma recoiled from the table, straightened himself and continuously smiling, listened to the kind, admonitory words. Among all those sedate people he was the youngest and the handsomest. His well-shaped figure, in a tight-fitting frock coat, stood out, to his advantage, among the ma.s.s of stout bodies with prominent paunches. His swarthy face with large eyes was more regularly featured, more full of life than the shrivelled or red faces of those who stood before him with astonishment and expectancy. He threw his chest forward, set his teeth together, and flinging the skirts of his frock coat apart, thrust his hands into his pockets.

”You can't stop up my mouth now with flattery and caresses!” said he, firmly and threateningly, ”Whether you will listen or not, I am going to speak all the same. You cannot drive me away from here.”

He shook his head, and, raising his shoulders, announced calmly:

”But if any one of you dare to touch me, even with a finger, I'll kill him! I swear it by the Lord. I'll kill as many as I can!”

The crowd of people that stood opposite him swayed back, even as bushes rocked by the wind. They began to talk in agitated whispers. Foma's face grew darker, his eyes became round.

”Well, it has been said here that you have built up life, and that you have done the most genuine and proper things.”

Foma heaved a deep sigh, and with inexpressible aversion scrutinized his listeners' faces, which suddenly became strangely puffed up, as though they were swollen. The merchants were silent, pressing closer and closer to one another. Some one in the back rows muttered:

”What is he talking about? Ah! From a paper, or by heart?”