The Man Who Was Afraid | Page 6

he said:
"Aren't you a liar, drunkard?"
The priest silently made the sign of the cross and lowered his head on
his breast.

"It is the truth!" said one of the company, confirming the priest's words.
"True? Very well!" shouted Ignat, and, striking the table with his fist,
he addressed himself to the priest:
"Eh, you! Sell me your daughter! How much will you take?"
The priest shook his head and shrank back.
"One thousand!"
The company giggled, seeing that the priest was shrinking as though
cold water was being poured on him.
"Two!" roared Ignat, with flashing eyes.
"What's the matter with you? How is it?" muttered the priest, stretching
out both hands to Ignat.
"Three!"
"Ignat Matveyich!" cried the priest, in a thin, ringing voice. "For God's
sake! For Christ's sake! Enough! I'll sell her! For her own sake I'll sell
her!"
In his sickly, sharp voice was heard a threat to someone, and his eyes,
unnoticed by anybody before, flashed like coals. But the intoxicated
crowd only laughed at him foolishly.
"Silence!" cried Ignat, sternly, straightening himself to his full length
and flashing his eyes.
"Don't you understand, devils, what's going on here? It's enough to
make one cry, while you giggle."
He walked up to the priest, went down on his knees before him, and
said to him firmly:
"Father now you see what a rascal I am. Well, spit into my face!"

Something ugly and ridiculous took place. The priest too, knelt before
Ignat, and like a huge turtle, crept around near his feet, kissed his knees
and muttered something, sobbing. Ignat bent over him, lifted him from
the floor and cried to him, commanding and begging:
"Spit! Spit right into my shameless eyes!"
The company, stupefied for a moment by Ignat's stern voice, laughed
again so that the panes rattled in the tavern windows.
"I'll give you a hundred roubles. Spit!"
And the priest crept over the floor and sobbed for fear, or for happiness,
to hear that this man was begging him to do something degrading to
himself.
Finally Ignat arose from the floor, kicked the priest, and, flinging at
him a package of money, said morosely, with a smile:
"Rabble! Can a man repent before such people? Some are afraid to hear
of repentance, others laugh at a sinner. I was about to unburden myself
completely; the heart trembled. Let me, I thought. No, I didn't think at
all. Just so! Get out of here! And see that you never show yourself to
me again. Do you hear?"
"Oh, a queer fellow!" said the crowd, somewhat moved.
Legends were composed about his drinking bouts in town; everybody
censured him strictly, but no one ever declined his invitation to those
drinking bouts. Thus he lived for weeks.
And unexpectedly he used to come home, not yet altogether freed from
the odour of the kabaks, but already crestfallen and quiet. With humbly
downcast eyes, in which shame was burning now, he silently listened to
his wife's reproaches, and, humble and meek as a lamb, went away to
his room and locked himself in. For many hours in succession he knelt
before the cross, lowering his head on his breast; his hands hung
helplessly, his back was bent, and he was silent, as though he dared not

pray. His wife used to come up to the door on tiptoe and listen. Deep
sighs were heard from behind the door--like the breathing of a tired and
sickly horse.
"God! You see," whispered Ignat in a muffled voice, firmly pressing
the palms of his hands to his broad breast.
During the days of repentance he drank nothing but water and ate only
rye bread.
In the morning his wife placed at the door of his room a big bottle of
water, about a pound and a half of bread, and salt. He opened the door,
took in these victuals and locked himself in again. During this time he
was not disturbed in any way; everybody tried to avoid him. A few
days later he again appeared on the exchange, jested, laughed, made
contracts to furnish corn as sharp-sighted as a bird of prey, a rare expert
at anything concerning his affairs.
But in all the moods of Ignat's life there was one passionate desire that
never left him--the desire to have a son; and the older he grew the
greater was this desire. Very often such conversation as this took place
between him and his wife. In the morning, at her tea, or at noon during
dinner hour he gloomily glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman,
with a red face and sleepy eyes, and asked her:
"Well, don't you feel anything?"
She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied:
"How can I help feeling? Your fists are