distant from the shore. On the very next day after their arrival, a big and noisy crowd of women and peasants, on foot and on horses, came up to the shore early in the morning. Shouting and singing, they scattered on the decks and in an instant work started expeditiously. Having descended into the holds, the women were filling the sacks with rye, the peasants, throwing the sacks upon their shoulders, ran over the gang-planks to the shore, and from the shore, carts, heavily laden with the long-expected corn, went off slowly to the village. The women sang songs; the peasants jested and gaily abused one another; the sailors representing the guardians of peace, scolded the working people now and then; the gang-planks, bending under the feet of the carriers, splashed against the water heavily; while on the shore the horses neighed, and the carts and the sand under the wheels were creaking.
The sun had just risen, the air was fresh and invigorating and densely filled with the odour of pines; the calm water of the river, reflecting the clear sky, was gently murmuring, breaking against the sides of the vessels and the chains of the anchors. The loud and cheerful noise of toil, the youthful beauty of nature, gaily illumined by the sunbeams – all was full of a kind-hearted, somewhat crude, sound power, which pleasantly stirred Foma’s soul, awakening in him new and perplexed sensations and desires. He was sitting by the table under the awning of the steamer and drinking tea, together with Yefim and the receiver of the corn, a provincial clerk – a redheaded, short-sighted gentleman in glasses. Nervously shrugging his shoulders the receiver was telling in a hoarse voice how the peasants were starving, but Foma paid little attention to his words, looking now at the work below, now at the other side of the river – a tall, yellow, sandy steep shore, whose edges were covered with pine trees. It was unpeopled and quiet.
“I’ll have to go over there,” thought Foma. And as though from a distance the receiver’s tiresome, unpleasant, harsh voice fell on his ears:
“You wouldn’t believe it – at last it became horrible! Such an incident took place! A peasant came up to a certain intelligent man in Osa and brought along with him a girl about sixteen years old.
“‘What do you wish?”
“‘Here,’ he says, ‘I’ve brought my daughter to your Honour.’
“‘What for?’
“‘Perhaps,’ he says, ‘you’ll take her – you are a bachelor.’
“‘That is, how? What do you mean?’
“‘I took her around town,’ he says. ‘I wanted to hire her out as a servant – but nobody would have her – take her at least as your mistress!’
“Do you understand? He offered his own daughter – just think of it! A daughter – as a mistress! The devil knows what that is! Eh? The man, of course, became indignant and began abusing the peasant. But the peasant spoke to him reasonably:
“‘Your Honour! Of what use is she to me at this time? Utterly useless. I have,’ says he, ‘three boys – they will be working men; it is necessary to keep them up. Give me,’ says he, ‘ten roubles for the girl, and that will improve my lot and that of my boys.’
“How is that? Eh? It is simply terrible, I tell you.”
“No good!” sighed Yefim. “As they say – hunger will break through stone walls. The stomach, you see, has its own laws.”
This story called forth in Foma a great incomprehensible interest in the fate of the girl, and the youth hastened to enquire of the receiver:
“Well, did the man buy her?”
“Of course not!” exclaimed the receiver, reproachfully.
“Well, and what became of her?”
“Some good people took pity on her – and provided for her.”
“A-h!” drawled Foma, and suddenly he said firmly and angrily: “I would have given that peasant such a thrashing! I would have broken his head!” And he showed the receiver his big tightly-clenched fist.
“Eh! What for?” cried the receiver in a sickly, loud voice, tearing his spectacles from his eyes. “You do not understand the motive.”
“I do understand it!” said Foma, with an obstinate shake of his head.
“But what could he do? It came to his mind.”
“How can one allow himself to sell a human being?”
“Ah! It is brutal, I agree with you.”
“And a girl at that! I would have given him the ten roubles!”
The receiver waved his hand hopelessly and became silent. His gesture confused Foma. He arose from his seat, walked off to the railing and looked down at the deck of the barge, which was covered with an industriously working crowd of people. The noise intoxicated him, and the uneasy something, which was rambling in his soul, was now defined into a powerful desire to work, to have the strength of a giant, to possess enormous shoulders and put on them at one time a hundred bags of rye, that every one looking at him might be astonished.
“Come now, hurry up there!” he shouted down in a ringing voice. A few heads were raised to him, some faces appeared before him, and one of them – the face of a dark-eyed woman – smiled at him a gentle and enticing smile. Something flared up in his breast at this smile and began to spread over his veins in a hot wave. He drew back from the railing and walked up to the table again, feeling that his cheeks were burning.
“Listen!” said the receiver, addressing him, “wire to your father asking him to allow some grain for waste! Just see how much is lost here. And here every pound is precious! You should have understood this! What a fine father you have,” he concluded with a biting grimace.
“How much shall I allow?” asked Foma, boldly and disdainfully. “Do you want a hundred puds? [A pud is a weight of 40 Russian pounds.] Two hundred?”
“I – I thank you!” exclaimed the receiver, overjoyed and confused, “if you have the right to do it.”
“I am the master!” said Foma, firmly. “And you must not speak that way about my father – nor make such faces.”
“Pardon me! I – I do not doubt that you have full power. I thank you heartily. And your father, too – in behalf of all these men – in behalf of the people!”
Yefim looked cautiously at the young master, spreading out and smacking his lips, while the master with an air of pride on his face listened to the quick-witted speech of the receiver, who was pressing his hand firmly.
“Two hundred puds! That is Russian-like, young man! I shall directly notify the peasants of your gift. You’ll see how grateful they will be – how glad.” And he shouted down:
“Eh, boys! The master is giving away two hundred puds.”
“Three hundred!” interposed Foma.
“Three hundred puds. Oh! Thank you! Three hundred puds of grain, boys!”
But their response was weak. The peasants lifted up their heads and mutely lowered them again, resuming their work. A few voices said irresolutely and as though unwillingly:
“Thanks. May God give you. We thank you very humbly.”
And some cried out gaily and disdainfully:
“What’s
