On the following evening, as Boris was musingly trudging on his way
home, after work, it suddenly came over him that his manner with the
foreman of the shop was assuming a rather obsequious nature. Work was
scarce, and the distribution of it was, to a considerable extent, a
matter of favoritism. He recalled how the Czech foreman, half tipsy
with beer, had been making some stupid efforts at being witty, and how
he, Boris Lurie, standing by, in greedy expectation of work, had
smiled a broad, ingratiating smile of approbation. At the moment he
had been so far merged in the surroundings and in his anxiety about
work that he had not been aware of doing anything unnatural. But now,
as it all came back to him, with inexorable vividness, and he beheld
his own wretched, artificial smile, he was overcome with disgust.
"Villain!" he broke out at himself, gnashing his teeth; and at the
next moment he was at the point of bursting into tears for self-pity.
To think of him, who had not hesitated to call the president of a
Russian court "rogue" to his face, simpering like a miserable
time-server at every stupidity and nastiness of a drunken brute! Is
that what circumstances had made of him?
He reached home out of temper, and before supper was well over he
reopened the discussion of his scheme. It again led to a slight
quarrel, which was again made up by his surrender, as in the previous
instance.
A few days later he was "laid off" for a fortnight.
To eke out their rent they had to forego meat. For several consecutive
days they lived on bread and butter and coffee. Boris grew extremely
nervous and irritable.
One morning, coming back from the pawn shops, Boris, pale and solemn,
quietly laid on the kitchen table the package which he had under his
arm.
"They wouldn't take it," he said almost in a whisper. "It is not worth
anything, they say."
Tanya only raised at him a meek glance, and went on with her work.
Boris fell to pacing the front room. They could not speak.
Presently she stepped up to his side and said, with rueful
tenderness:--
"Well, what is the good of grieving, Borya?"
Their hands clasped tightly, and their eyes fixed themselves forlornly
on the floor.
"I have promised Dalsky an answer," he said, after a little.
"Let him move in," she returned lugubriously, with a slight shrug of
her shoulder, as if submitting to fate.