Part 34 (1/2)
”I am getting used to it,” replied Foma.
”You are rich, and when Yakov dies, you will be richer still. He'll leave everything to you.”
”I don't need it.”
”To whom else should he leave it? He has but one daughter, and you ought to marry that daughter, and that she is your G.o.dsister and foster-sister--no matter! That can be arranged--and then you would be married. What good is there in the life you are now leading? I suppose you are forever running about with the girls?”
”No.”
”You don't say! Eh, eh, eh! the merchant is pa.s.sing away. A certain forester told me--I don't know whether he lied or not--that in former days the dogs were wolves, and then degenerated into dogs. It is the same with our calling; we will soon also be dogs. We will take up science, put stylish hats on our heads, we'll do everything that is necessary in order to lose our features, and there will be nothing by which to distinguish us from other people. It has become a custom to make Gymnasium students of all children. The merchants, the n.o.bles, the commoners--all are adjusted to match the same colour. They dress them in gray and teach them all the same subjects. They grow man even as they grow a tree. Why do they do it? No one knows. Even a log could be told from another by its knot at least, while here they want to plane the people over so that all of them should look alike. The coffin is already waiting for us old people. Ye-es! It may be that about fifty years hence, no one will believe that I lived in this world. I, Anany, the son of Savva, by the surname of Shchurov. So! And that I, Anany, feared no one, save G.o.d. And that in my youth I was a peasant, that all the land I possessed then was two desyatins and a quarter; while toward my old age I have h.o.a.rded up eleven thousand desyatins, all forests, and perhaps two millions in cash.”
”There, they always speak of money!” said Foma, with dissatisfaction.
”What joy does man derive from money?” ”Mm,” bellowed Shchurov. ”You will make a poor merchant, if you do not understand the power of money.”
”Who does understand it?” asked Foma.
”I!” said Shchurov, with confidence. ”And every clever man. Yashka understands it. Money? That is a great deal, my lad! Just spread it out before you and think, 'What does it contain?' Then will you know that all this is human strength, human mind. Thousands of people have put their life into your money and thousands more will do it. And you can throw it all into the fire and see how the money is burning, and at that moment you will consider yourself master.”
”But n.o.body does this.”
”Because fools have no money. Money is invested in business. Business gives bread to the ma.s.ses. And you are master over all those ma.s.ses.
Wherefore did G.o.d create man? That man should pray to Him. He was alone and He felt lonesome, so He began to desire power, and as man was created in the image of the Lord, man also desires power. And what, save money, can give power? That's the way. Well, and you--have you brought me money?”
”No,” answered Foma. From the words of the old man Foma's head was heavy and troubled, and he was glad that the conversation had, at last, turned to business matters.
”That isn't right,” said Shchurov, sternly knitting his brow. ”It is overdue--you must pay.
”You'll get a half of it tomorrow.”
”Why a half? Why not all?”
”We are badly in need of money now.”
”And haven't you any? But I also need it.”
”Wait a little.”
”Eh, my lad, I will not wait! You are not your father. Youngsters like you, milksops, are an unreliable lot. In a month you may break up the whole business. And I would be the loser for it. You give me all the money tomorrow, or I'll protest the notes. It wouldn't take me long to do it!”
Foma looked at Shchurov, with astonishment. It was not at all that same old man, who but a moment ago spoke so sagaciously about the devil. Then his face and his eyes seemed different, and now he looked fierce, his lips smiled pitilessly, and the veins on his cheeks, near his nostrils, were eagerly trembling. Foma saw that if he did not pay him at once, Shchurov would indeed not spare him and would dishonour the firm by protesting the notes.
”Evidently business is poor?” grinned Shchurov. ”Well, tell the truth--where have you squandered your father's money?”
Foma wanted to test the old man:
”Business is none too brisk,” said he, with a frown. ”We have no contracts. We have received no earnest money, and so it is rather hard.”
”So-o! Shall I help you out?”
”Be so kind. Postpone the day of payment,” begged Foma, modestly lowering his eyes.