To be sure, they could treat him in a different way. In the depth of his soul perhaps not one of them considered himself lower than Foma, but he was rich, and this hindered them from treating him more as a companion, and then he always spoke certain comically wrathful, conscience-rending words, and this embarrassed them.
Moreover, he was strong and ready to fight, and they dared not say a word against him. And that was just what he wanted. He wished more and more intensely that one of these people he despised would stand up against him, face to face, and would tell him something strong, which, like a lever, would turn him aside from the sloping road, whose danger he felt, and whose filth he saw, being filled with helpless aversion for it.
And Foma found what he needed.
One day, irritated by the lack of attention for him, he cried to his drinking-companions:
"You boys, keep quiet, every one of you! Who gives you to drink and to eat? Have you forgotten it? I'll bring you in order! I'll show you how to respect me! Convicts! When I speak you must all keep quiet!"And, indeed, all became silent; either for fear lest they might lose his good will, or, perhaps, afraid that he, that healthy and strong beast, might beat them. They sat in silence about a minute, concealing their anger at him, bending over the plates and attempting to hide from him their fright and embarrassment.
Foma measured them with a self-satisfied look, and gratified by their slavish submissiveness, said boastfully:
"Ah! You've grown dumb now, that's the way! I am strict! I--""You sluggard!" came some one's calm, loud exclamation.
"Wha-at?" roared Foma, jumping up from his chair. "Who said that?"Then a certain, strange, shabby-looking man arose at the end of the table; he was tall, in a long frock-coat, with a heap of grayish hair on his large head. His hair was stiff, standing out in all directions in thick locks, his face was yellow, unshaven, with a long, crooked nose. To Foma it seemed that he resembled a swab with which the steamer decks are washed, and this amused the half-intoxicated fellow.
"How fine!" said he, sarcastically. "What are you snarling at, eh? Do you know who I am?"With the gesture of a tragic actor the man stretched out to Foma his hand, with its long, pliant fingers like those of a juggler, and he said in a deep hoarse basso:
"You are the rotten disease of your father, who, though he was a plunderer, was nevertheless a worthy man in comparison with you."Because of the unexpectedness of this, and because of his wrath, Foma's heart shrank. He fiercely opened his eyes wide and kept silent, finding no words to reply to this insolence. And the man, standing before him, went on hoarsely, with animation, beastlike rolling his large, but dim and swollen, eyes:
"You demand of us respect for you, you fool! How have you merited it? Who are you? A drunkard, drinking away the fortune of your father. You savage! You ought to be proud that I, a renowned artist, a disinterested and faithful worshipper at the shrine of art, drink from the same bottle with you! This bottle contains sandal and molasses, infused with snuff-tobacco, while you think it is port wine. It is your license for the name of savage and ass.""Eh, you jailbird!" roared Foma, rushing toward the artist. But he was seized and held back. Struggling in the arms of those that seized him, he was compelled to listen without replying, to the thundering, deep and heavy bass of the man who resembled a swab.
"You have thrown to men a few copecks out of the stolen roubles, and you consider yourself a hero! You are twice a thief. You have stolen the roubles and now you are stealing gratitude for your few copecks! But I shall not give it to you! I, who have devoted all my life to the condemnation of vice, I stand before you and say openly: 'You are a fool and a beggar because you are too rich! Here lies the wisdom: all the rich are beggars.' That's how the famous coupletist, Rimsky-Kannibalsky, serves Truth!"Foma was now standing meekly among the people that had closely surrounded him, and he eagerly listened to the coupletist's thundering words, which now aroused in him a sensation as though somebody was scratching a sore spot, and thus soothing the acute itching of the pain. The people were excited; some attempted to check the coupletist's flow of eloquence, others wanted to lead Foma away somewhere. Without saying a word he pushed them aside and listened, more and more absorbed by the intense pleasure of humiliation which he felt in the presence of these people. The pain irritated by the words of the coupletist, caressed Foma's soul more and more passionately, and the coupletist went on thundering, intoxicated with the impurity of his accusation:
"You think that you are the master of life? You are the low slave of the rouble."Someone in the crowd hiccoughed, and, evidently displeased with himself for this, cursed each time he hiccoughed:
"0h devil."
And a certain, unshaven, fat-faced man took pity on Foma, or, perhaps, became tired of witnessing that scene, and, waving his hands, he drawled out plaintively:
"Gentlemen, drop that! It isn't good! For we are all sinners!
Decidedly all, believe me!"
"Well, speak on!" muttered Foma. "Say everything! I won't touch you."The mirrors on the walls reflected this drunken confusion, and the people, as reflected in the mirrors, seemed more disgusting and hideous than they were in reality.
"I do not want to speak! "exclaimed the coupletist, "I do not want to cast the pearls of truth and of my wrath before you."He rushed forward, and raising his head majestically, turned toward the door with tragic footsteps.
