Foma did not like Mayakin's daughter, and since he had learned from his father of Mayakin's intention to marry him to Luba, the young Gordyeeff began to shun her. But after his father's death he was almost every day at the Mayakins, and somehow Luba said to him one day:
"I am looking at you, and, do you know?--you do not resemble a merchant at all.""Nor do you look like a merchant's daughter," said Foma, and looked at her suspiciously. He did not understand the meaning of her words;did she mean to offend him, or did she say these words without any kind thoughts?
"Thank God for this!" said she and smiled to him a kind, friendly smile.
"What makes you so glad?" he asked.
"The fact that we don't resemble our fathers."Foma glanced at her in astonishment and kept silent.
"Tell me frankly," said she, lowering her voice, "you do not love my father, do you? You don't like him?""Not very much," said Foma, slowly.
"And I dislike him very much."
"What for?"
"For everything. When you grow wiser, you will know it yourself.
Your father was a better man."
"Of course!" said Foma, proudly.
After this conversation an attachment sprang up between them almost immediately, and growing stronger from day to day, it soon developed into friendship, though a somewhat odd friendship it was.
Though Luba was not older than her god-brother, she nevertheless treated him as an older person would treat a little boy. She spoke to him condescendingly, often jesting at his expense; her talk was always full of words which were unfamiliar to Foma; and she pronounced these words with particular emphasis and with evident satisfaction.
She was especially fond of speaking about her brother Taras, whom she had never seen, but of whom she was telling such stories as would make him look like Aunt Anfisa's brave and noble robbers. Often, when complaining of her father, she said to Foma:
"You will also be just such a skinflint."
All this was unpleasant to the youth and stung his vanity. But at times she was straightforward, ******-minded, and particularly kind and friendly to him; then he would unburden his heart before her, and for a long time they would share each other's thoughts and feelings.
Both spoke a great deal and spoke sincerely, but neither one understood the other; it seemed to Foma that whatever Luba had to say was foreign to him and unnecessary to her, and at the same time he clearly saw that his awkward words did not at all interest her, and that she did not care to understand them. No matter how long these conversations lasted, they gave both of them the sensation of discomfort and dissatisfaction. As if an invisible wall of perplexity had suddenly arisen and stood between them. They did not venture to touch this wall, or to tell each other that they felt it was there--they resumed their conversations, dimly conscious that there was something in each of them that might bind and unite them.
When Foma arrived at his godfather's house, he found Luba alone.
She came out to meet him, and it was evident that she was either ill or out of humour; her eyes were flashing feverishly and were surrounded with black circles. Feeling cold, she muffled herself in a warm shawl and said with a smile:
"It is good that you've come! For I was sitting here alone; it is lonesome--I don't feel like going anywhere. Will you drink tea?""I will. What is the matter with you, are you ill?""Go to the dining-room, and I'll tell them to bring the samovar,"she said, not answering his question.
He went into one of the small rooms of the house, whose two windows overlooked the garden. In the middle of the room stood an oval table, surrounded with old-fashioned, leather-covered chairs; on one partition hung a clock in a long case with a glass door, in the corner was a cupboard for dishes, and opposite the windows, by the walls, was an oaken sideboard as big as a fair-sized room.
"Are you coming from the banquet?" asked Luba, entering.
Foma nodded his head mutely.
"Well, how was it? Grand?"
"It was terrible! " Foma smiled. "I sat there as if on hot coals. They all looked there like peacocks, while I looked like a barn-owl."Luba was taking out dishes from the cupboard and said nothing to Foma.
"Really, why are you so sad?" asked Foma again, glancing at her gloomy face.
She turned to him and said with enthusiasm and anxiety:
"Ah, Foma! What a book I've read! If you could only understand it!""It must be a good book, since it worked you up in this way,"said Foma, smiling.
"I did not sleep. I read all night long. Just think of it: you read--and it seems to you that the gates of another kingdom are thrown open before you. And the people there are different, and their language is different, everything different! Life itself is different there.""I don't like this," said Foma, dissatisfied. "That's all fiction, deceit; so is the theatre. The merchants are ridiculed there. Are they really so stupid? Of course! Take your father, for example.""The theatre and the school are one and the same, Foma," said Luba, instructively. "The merchants used to be like this. And what deceit can there be in books?""Just as in fairy--tales, nothing is real."
"You are wrong! You have read no books; how can you judge? Books are precisely real. They teach you how to live.""Come, come!" Foma waved his hand. "Drop it; no good will come out of your books! There, take your father, for example, does he read books? And yet he is clever! I looked at him today and envied him. His relations with everybody are so free, so clever, he has a word for each and every one. You can see at once that whatever he should desire he is sure to attain.""What is he striving for?" exclaimed Luba. "Nothing but money.
But there are people that want happiness for all on earth, and to gain this end they work without sparing themselves; they suffer and perish! How can my father be compared with these?""You need not compare them. They evidently like one thing, while your father likes another.""They do not like anything!"
How's that?
"They want to change everything."
