"Where did you get hold of that fine stuff, or does it come to you naturally? But you don't take after your father, my lad! Your father's a fine old chap. Look at him! He's fifty-two now, and see what a strapping wench he's carrying on with! She's as fine a woman as ever wore shoe-leather. And she loves him; it's no use denying it! She loves him, my lad! One can't help admiring him, he's such a trump, your father—he's the king of trumps! When he's at work, it's worth while watching him. And then, he's rich! And then, look how he's respected! And his head's screwed on the right way. Yes. And you? You're not a bit like either your father or your mother? What would your father have done, Mitia, do you think, if old Anfisa had lived? That would have been a good joke! I should have liked to have seen how she's have settled him! She was the right sort of woman, your mother! a real plucky one, she was! They were well matched!"
Mitia remained silent, leaning on the pole, and staring at the water.
Sergei ceased talking. Forward on the raft was heard a woman's shrill laugh, followed by the deeper laugh of a man. Their figures, blurred by the mist, were nearly invisible to Sergei, who, however, watched them curiously. The man appeared as a tall figure, standing with legs wide apart, holding a pole, and half turned toward a shorter woman's figure, leaning on another pole, and standing a few paces away. She shook her forefinger at the man, and giggled provokingly.
Sergei turned away his head with a sigh, and after a few moment's silence began to speak again.
"Confound it all, but how jolly they seem together; it's good to see!
Why can't I have something like that? I, a waif and a stray!
I'd never leave such a woman! I'd always have my arms round her,
and there'd be no mistake about my loving the little devil!
I've never had any luck with women! They don't like ginger hair—
women don't. No. She's a woman with fancies, she is!
She's a sly little devil! She wants to see life!
Are you asleep, Mitia?"
"No," answered Mitia quietly.
"Well, how are you going to live? To tell the truth, you're as
solitary as a post! That seems pretty hard! Where can you go?
You can't earn your living among strangers. You're too absurd!
What's the use of a man who can't stand up for himself?
A man's got to have teeth and claws in this world!
They'll all have a go at you. Can you stick up for yourself?
How would you set about it? Damn it all; where the devil
could you go?"
"I," said Mitia, suddenly arousing herself; "I shall go away.
I shall go in the autumn to the Caucasian Mountains, and that will be
the end of it all. My God! If only I could get away from you all!
Soulless, godless men! To get away from you, that's my only hope!
What do you live for? Where is your God? He's nothing but a name!
Do you live in Christ? You are wolves; that's what you are!
But over there live other men, whose souls live in Christ.
Their hearts contain love, and they are athirst for the salvation
of the world. But you—you are beasts, spewing out filth.
But other men there are; I have seen them; they called me, and I must
go to them. They gave me the book of Holy Writ, and they said:
'Read, man of God, our beloved brother, read the word of truth!'
And I read, and my soul was renewed by the word of God.
I shall go away. I shall leave all you ravening wolves.
You are rending each other's flesh! Accursed be ye!"
Mitia spoke in a passionate whisper, as if overpowered by the intensity of his contemplative rapture, his anger with the ravening wolves, and his desire to be with those other men, whose souls aspired toward the salvation of the world. Sergei was taken aback. He remained quiet for some time, open-mouthed, holding his pipe in his hand. After a few moments' thought he glanced round, and said in a deep, rough voice: "Damn it all! Why you're turned a bad 'un all at once! Why did you read that book? It was very likely an evil one. Well, be off, be off! If not, there'll be an end of you! Be off with you before you become a regular beast yourself! And who are these fellows in the Caucasus? Monks? Or what?"
But the fire of Mitia's spirit died down as quickly as it had been kindled to a flame; he gasped with the exertion as he worked the pole, and muttered to himself below his breath.