"Well, let me see it! Show it to me! He-he! Let's read how wise men write. Where are my spectacles? Mm! 'Dear sister!' Yes."The old man became silent; he read to himself the message of his son, put it on the table, and, raising his eyebrows, silently paced the room to and fro, with an expression of amazement on his countenance. Then he read the letter once more, thoughtfully tapped the table with his fingers and spoke:
"That letter isn't bad--it is sound, without any unnecessary words. Well? Perhaps the man has really grown hardened in the cold. The cold is severe there. Let him come, we'll take a look at him. It's interesting. Yes. In the psalm of David concerning the mysteries of his son it is said: 'When Thou hast returned my enemy'--I've forgotten how it reads further. 'My enemy's weapons have weakened in the end, and his memory hath perished amid noise. Well, we'll talk it over with him without noise.
The old man tried to speak calmly and with a contemptuous smile, but the smile did not come; his wrinkles quivered irritably, and his small eyes had a particularly clear brilliancy.
"Write to him again, Lubovka. 'Come along!' write him, 'don't be afraid to come!'"Lubov wrote Taras another letter, but this time it was shorter and more reserved, and now she awaited a reply from day to day, attempting to picture to herself what sort of man he must be, this mysterious brother of hers. Before she used to think of him with sinking heart, with that solemn respect with which believers think of martyrs, men of upright life; now she feared him, for he had acquired the right to be judge over men and life at the price of painful sufferings, at the cost of his youth, which was ruined in exile. On coming, he would ask her:
"You are marrying of your own free will, for love, are you not?"What should she tell him? Would he forgive her faint-heartedness?
And why does she marry? Can it really be possible that this is all she can do in order to change her life?
Gloomy thoughts sprang up one after another in the head of the girl and confused and tortured her, impotent as she was to set up against them some definite, all-conquering desire. Though she was in an anxious and compressing her lips. Smolin rose from his chair, made a step toward her and bowed respectfully. She was rather pleased with this low and polite bow, also with the costly frock coat, which fitted Smolin's supple figure splendidly. He had changed but slightly--he was the same red-headed, closely-cropped, freckled youth; only his moustache had become long, and his eyes seemed to have grown larger.
"Now he's changed, eh?" exclaimed Mayakin to his daughter, pointing at the bridegroom. And Smolin shook hands with her, and smiling, said in a ringing baritone voice:
"I venture to hope that you have not forgotten your old friend?"It's all right! You can talk of this later," said the old man, scanning his daughter with his eyes.
"Lubova, you can make your arrangements here, while we finish our little conversation. Well then, African Mitrich, explain yourself.""You will pardon me, Lubov Yakovlevna, won't you?" asked Smolin, gently.
"Pray do not stand upon ceremony," said Lubov. "He's polite and clever," she remarked to herself; and, as she walked about in the room from the table to the sideboard, she began to listen attentively to Smolin's words. He spoke softly, confidently, with a simplicity, in which was felt condescendence toward the interlocutor. "Well then, for four years I have carefully studied the condition of Russian leather in foreign markets. It's a sad and horrid condition! About thirty years ago our leather was considered there as the standard, while now the demand for it is constantly falling off, and, of course, the price goes hand in hand with it. And that is perfectly natural. Lacking the capital and knowledge all these small leather producers are not able to raise their product to the proper standard, and, at the same time, to reduce the price. Their goods are extremely bad and dear. And they are all to blame for having spoiled Russia's reputation as manufacturer of the best leather. In general, the petty producer, lacking the technical knowledge and capital, is consequently placed in a position where he is unable to improve his products in proportion to the development of the technical side. Such a producer is a misfortune for the country, the parasite of her commerce.""Hm!" bellowed the old man, looking at his guest with one eye, and watching his daughter with the other. "So that now your intention is to build such a great factory that all the others will go to the dogs?""Oh, no!" exclaimed Smolin, warding off the old man's words with an easy wave of the hand. "Why wrong others? What right have I to do so? My aim is to raise the importance and price of Russian leather abroad, and so equipped with the knowledge as to the manufacture, I am building a model factory, and fill the markets with model goods. The commercial honour of the country!""Does it require much capital, did you say?" asked Mayakin, thoughtfully.
"About three hundred thousand."
"Father won't give me such a dowry," thought Lubov.
"My factory will also turn out leather goods, such as trunks, foot-wear, harnesses, straps and so forth.""And of what per cent, are you dreaming?"
"I am not dreaming, I am calculating with all the exactness possible under conditions in Russia," said Smolin, impressively.
