by Maxim Gorky
Chelkash, dismayed, amazed, and wrathful, sat on the sand, thrown backward with his hands supporting him; he sat there in silence, rolling his eyes frightfully at the young peasant, who, ducking his head down at his knees, whispered his prayer to him in gasps. He shoved him away at last, jumped up to his feet, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, flung the rainbow notes at Gavrilo.
“There, cur! Swallow them!” he roared, shaking with excitement, with intense pity and hatred of this greedy slave. And as he flung him the money, he felt himself a hero. There was a reckless gleam in his eyes, an heroic air about his whole person.
“I’d meant to give you more, of myself. I felt sorry for you yesterday. I thought of the village. I thought: come, I’ll help the lad. I was waiting to see what you’d do, whether you’d beg or not. While you!—Ah, you rag! you beggar! To be able to torment oneself so—for money! You fool. Greedy devils! They’re beside themselves—sell themselves for five kopecks! eh?”
“Dear friend! Christ have mercy on you! Why, what have I now! thousands!! I’m a rich man!” Gavrilo shrilled in ecstasy, all trembling, as he stowed away the notes in his bosom. “Ah, you good man! Never will I forget you! Never! And my wife and my children—I’ll bid them pray for you!”
Chelkash listened to his shrieks and wails of ecstasy, looked at his radiant face that was contorted by greedy joy, and felt that he, thief and rake as he was, cast out from everything in life, would never be so covetous, so base, would never so forget himself. Never would he be like that! And this thought and feeling, filling him with a sense of his own independence and reckless daring, kept him beside Gavrilo on the desolate sea shore.
“You’ve made me happy!” shrieked Gavrilo, and snatching Chelkash’s hand, he pressed it to his face.
Chelkash did not speak; he grinned like a wolf. Gavrilo still went on pouring out his heart:
“Do you know what I was thinking about? As we rowed here—I saw—the money—thinks I—I’ll give it him—you—with the oar—one blow! the money’s mine, and into the sea with him—you, that is—eh! Who’ll miss him? said I. And if they do find him, they won’t be inquisitive how—and who it was killed him. He’s not a man, thinks I, that there’d be much fuss about! He’s of no use in the world! Who’d stand up for him? No, indeed—eh?”
“Give the money here!” growled Chelkash, clutching Gavrilo by the throat.
Gavrilo struggled away once, twice. Chelkash’s other arm twisted like a snake about him—there was the sound of a shirt tearing—and Gavrilo lay on the sand, with his eyes staring wildly, his fingers clutching at the air and his legs waving. Chelkash, erect, frigid, rapacious—looking, grinned maliciously, laughed a broken, biting laugh, and his mustaches twitched nervously in his sharp, angular face.
Never in all his life had he been so cruelly wounded, and never had he felt so vindictive.
“Well, are you happy now?” he asked Gavrilo through his laughter, and turning his back on him he walked away in the direction of the town. But he had hardly taken two steps when Gavrilo, crouched like a cat on one knee, and with a wide sweep of his arm, flung a round stone at him, viciously, shouting:
“O—one!”
Chelkash uttered a cry, clapped his hands to the nape of his neck, staggered forward, turned round to Gavrilo, and fell on his face on the sand. Gavrilo’s heart failed him as he watched him. He saw him stir one leg, try to lift his head, and then stretch out, quivering like a bowstring. Then Gavrilo rushed fleeing away into the distance, where a shaggy black cloud hung over the foggy steppe, and it was dark. The waves whispered, racing up the sand, melting into it and racing back. The foam hissed and the spray floated in the air.
It began to rain, at first slightly, but soon a steady, heavy downpour was falling in streams from the sky, weaving a regular network of fine threads of water that at once hid the steppe and the sea. Gavrilo vanished behind it. For a long while nothing was to be seen but the rain and the long figure of the man stretched on the sand by the sea. But suddenly Gavrilo ran back out of the rain. Like a bird he flew up to Chelkash, dropped down beside him, and began to turn him over on the ground. His hand dipped into a warm, red stickiness. He shuddered and staggered back with a face pale and distraught.
“Brother, get up!” he whispered through the patter of the lain into Chelkash’s ear.
Revived by the water on his face, Chelkash came to himself, and pushed Gavrilo away, saying hoarsely:
“Get—away!”
“Brother! Forgive me—it was the devil tempted me,” Gavrilo whispered, faltering, as he kissed Chelkash’s band.
“Go along. Get away!” he croaked.
“Take the sin from off my soul! Brother! Forgive me!”
“For—go away, do! Go to the devil!” Chelkash screamed suddenly, and he sat up on the sand. His face was pale and angry, his eyes were glazed, and kept closing, as though he were very sleepy. “What more—do you want? You’ve done—your job—and go away! Be off!” And he tried to kick Gavrilo away, as he knelt, overwhelmed, beside him, but he could not, and would have rolled over again if Gavrilo had not held him up, putting his arms round his shoulders. Chelkash’s face was now on a level with Gavrilo’s. Both were pale, piteous, and terrible-looking.
“Tfoo!” Chelkash spat into the wide, open eyes of his companion.
Meekly Gavrilo wiped his face with his sleeve, and murmured:
“Do as you will. I won’t say a word. For Christ’s sake, forgive me!”
“Snivelling idiot! Even stealing’s more than you can do!” Chelkash cried scornfully, tearing a piece of his shirt under his jacket, and without a word, clenching his teeth now and then, he began binding up his head. “Did you take the notes?” he filtered through his teeth.
“I didn’t touch them, brother! I didn’t want them! there’s ill-luck from them!”
Chelkash thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, drew out a bundle of notes, put one rainbow-colored note back in his pocket, and handed all the rest to Gavrilo.
“Take them and go!”
“I won’t take them, brother. I can’t! Forgive me!”
“T-take them, I say!” bellowed Chelkash, glaring horribly.
“Forgive me! Then I’ll take them,” said Gavrilo, timidly, and he fell at Chelkash’s feet on the damp sand, that was being liberally drenched by the rain.
“You lie, you’ll take them, sniveller!” Chelkash said with conviction, and with an effort, pulling Gavrilo’s head up by the hair, he thrust the notes in his face.
“Take them! take them! You didn’t do your job for nothing, I suppose. Take it, don’t be frightened! Don’t be ashamed of having nearly killed a man! For people like me, no one will make much inquiry. They’ll say thank you, indeed, when they know of it. There, take it! No one will ever know what you’ve done, and it deserves a reward. Come, now!”
Gavrilo saw that Chelkash was laughing, and he felt relieved. He crushed the notes up tight in his hand.
“Brother! You forgive me? Won’t you? Eh?” he asked tearfully.
“Brother of mine!” Chelkash mimicked him as he got, reeling, on to his legs. “What for? There’s nothing to forgive. Today you do for me, tomorrow I’ll do for you.”
“Oh, brother, brother!” Gavrilo sighed mournfully, shaking his head.
Chelkash stood facing him, he smiled strangely, and the rag on his head, growing gradually redder, began to look like a Turkish fez.
The rain streamed in bucketsful. The sea moaned with a hollow sound, and the waves beat on the shore, lashing furiously and wrathfully against it.
The two men were silent.
“Come, good-bye!” Chelkash said, coldly and sarcastically.
He reeled, his legs shook, and he held his head queerly, as though he were afraid of losing it.
“Forgive me, brother!” Gavrilo besought him once more.
“All
right!” Chelkash answered, coldly, setting off on his way.
He walked away, staggering, and still holding his head in his left hand, while he slowly tugged at his brown mustache with the right.
Gavrilo looked after him a long while, till the had disappeared in the rain, which still poured down in fine, countless streams, and wrapped everything in an impenetrable steel-gray mist.
Then Gavrilo took off his soaked cap, made the sign of the cross, looked at the notes crushed up in his hand, heaved a deep sigh of relief, thrust them into his bosom, and with long, firm strides went along the shore, in the opposite direction from that Chelkash had taken.
The sea howled, flinging heavy, breaking billows on the sand of the shore, and dashing them into spray, the rain lashed the water and the earth, the wind blustered. All the air was full of roaring, howling, moaning. Neither distance nor sky could be seen through the rain.
Soon the rain and the spray had washed away the red patch on the spot where Chelkash had lain, washed away the traces of Chelkash and the peasant lad on the sandy beach. And no trace was left on the seashore of the little drama that had been played out between two men.
MY FELLOW-TRAVELLER
(THE STORY OF A JOURNEY)
I met him in the harbor of Odessa. For three successive days his square, strongly-built figure attracted my attention. His face—of a Caucasian type—was framed in a handsome beard. He haunted me. I saw him standing for hours together on the stone quay, with the handle of his walking stick in his mouth, staring down vacantly, with his black almond-shaped eyes into the muddy waters of the harbor. Ten times a day, he would pass me by with the gait of a careless lounger. Whom could he be? I began to watch him. As if anxious to excite my curiosity, he seemed to cross my path more and more often. In the end, his fashionably-cut light check suit, his black hat, like that of an artist, his indolent lounge, and even his listless, bored glance grew quite familiar to me. His presence was utterly unaccountable, here in the harbor, where the whistling of the steamers and engines, the clanking of chains, the shouting of workmen, all the hurried maddening bustle of a port, dominated one’s sensations, and deadened one’s nerves and brain. Everyone else about the port was enmeshed in its immense complex machinery, which demanded incessant vigilance and endless toil.
Everyone here was busy, loading and unloading either steamers or railway trucks. Everyone was tired and careworn. Everyone was hurrying to and fro, shouting or cursing, covered with dirt and sweat. In the midst of the toil and bustle this singular person, with his air of deadly boredom, strolled about deliberately, heedless of everything.
At last, on the fourth day, I came across him during the dinner hour, and I made up my mind to find out at any cost who he might be. I seated myself with my bread and water-melon not far from him, and began to eat, scrutinizing him and devising some suitable pretext for beginning a conversation with him.
There he stood, leaning against a pile of tea boxes, glancing aimlessly around, and drumming with his fingers on his walking stick, as if it were a flute. It was difficult for me, a man dressed like a tramp, with a porter’s knot over my shoulders, and grimy with coal dust, to open up a conversation with such a dandy. But to my astonishment I noticed that he never took his eyes off me, and that an unpleasant, greedy, animal light shone in those eyes. I came to the conclusion that the object of my curiosity must be hungry, and after glancing rapidly round, I asked him in a low voice: “Are you hungry?”
He started, and with a famished grin showed rows of strong sound teeth. And he, too, looked suspiciously round. We were quite unobserved. Then I handed him half my melon and a chunk of wheaten bread. He snatched it all from my hand, and disappeared, squatting behind a pile of goods. His head peeped out from time to time; his hat was pushed back from his forehead, showing his dark moist brow.
His face wore a broad smile, and for some unknown reason he kept winking at me, never for a moment ceasing to chew.
Making him a sign to wait a moment, I went away to buy meat, brought it, gave it to him, and stood by the boxes, thus completely shielding my poor dandy from outsiders’ eyes. He was still eating ravenously, and constantly looking round as if afraid someone might snatch his food away; but after I returned, he began to eat more calmly, though still so fast and so greedily that it caused me pain to watch this famished man. And I turned my back on him.
“Thanks! Many thanks indeed!” He patted my shoulder, snatched my hand, pressed it, and shook it heartily.
Five minutes later he was telling me who he was. He was a Georgian prince, by name Shakro Ptadze, and was the only son of a rich landowner of Kutais in the Caucasus. He had held a position as clerk at one of the railway stations in his own country, and during that time had lived with a friend. But one fine day the friend disappeared, carrying off all the prince’s money and valuables. Shakro determined to track and follow him, and having heard by chance that his late friend had taken a ticket to Batoum, he set off there. But in Batoum he found that his friend had gone on to Odessa. Then Prince Shakro borrowed a passport of another friend—a hair-dresser—of the same age as himself, though the features and distinguishing marks noted therein did not in the least resemble his own.
Arrived at Odessa, he informed the police of his loss, and they promised to investigate the matter. He had been waiting for a fortnight, had consumed all his money, and for the last four days had not eaten a morsel.
I listened to his story, plentifully embellished as it was with oaths. He gave me the impression of being sincere. I looked at him, I believed him, and felt sorry for the lad. He was nothing more—he was nineteen, but from his naivety one might have taken him for younger. Again and again, and with deep indignation, he returned to the thought of his close friendship for a man who had turned out to be a thief, and had stolen property of such value that Shakro’s stern old father would certainly stab his son with a dagger if the property were not recovered.
I thought that if I didn’t help this young fellow, the greedy town would suck him down. I knew through what trifling circumstances the army of tramps is recruited, and there seemed every possibility of Prince Shakro drifting into this respectable, but not respected class. I felt a wish to help him. My earnings were not sufficient to buy him a ticket to Batoum, so I visited some of the railway offices, and begged a free ticket for him. I produced weighty arguments in favor of assisting the young fellow, with the result of getting refusals just as weighty. I advised Shakro to apply to the Head of the Police of the town; this made him uneasy, and he declined to go there. Why not? He explained that he had not paid for his rooms at an hotel where he had been staying, and that when requested to do so, he had struck some one.
This made him anxious to conceal his identity, for he supposed, and with reason, that if the police found him out he would have to account for the fact of his not paying his bill, and for having struck the man. Besides, he could not remember exactly if he had struck one or two blows, or more.
The position was growing more complicated.
I resolved to work till I had earned a sum sufficient to carry him back to Batoum. But alas! I soon realized that my plan could not be carried out quickly—by no means quickly—for my half-starved prince ate as much as three men, and more. At that time there was a great influx of peasants into the Crimea from the famine-stricken northern parts of Russia, and this had caused a great reduction in the wages of the workers at the docks. I succeeded in earning only eighty kopecks a day, and our food cost us sixty kopecks.
I had no intention of staying much longer at Odessa, for I had meant, some time before I came across the prince, to go on to the Crimea. I therefore suggested to him the following plan: that we should travel together on foot to the Crimea, and there I would find him another companion, who would continue the journey with him as far as Tiflis; if I should fail in finding him a fellow-traveler, I promised to go with him myself.
The prince glanced sadly
at his elegant boots, his hat, his trousers, while he smoothed and patted his coat. He thought a little time, sighed frequently, and at last agreed. So we started off from Odessa to Tiflis on foot.
CHAPTER II.
By the time we had arrived at Kherson I knew something of my companion. He was a naively savage, exceedingly undeveloped young fellow; gay when he was well fed, dejected when he was hungry, like a strong, easy-tempered animal. On the road he gave me accounts of life in the Caucasus, and told me much about the landowners; about their amusements, and the way they treated the peasantry. His stories were interesting, and had a beauty of their own; but they produced on my mind a most unfavorable impression of the narrator himself.
To give one instance. There was at one time a rich prince, who had invited many friends to a feast. They partook freely of all kinds of Caucasian wines and meats, and after the feast the prince led his guests to his stables. They saddled the horses, the prince picked out the handsomest, and rode him into the fields. That was a fiery steed! The guests praised his form and paces. Once more the prince started to ride round the field, when at the same moment a peasant appeared, riding a splendid white horse, and overtook the prince—overtook him and laughed proudly! The prince was put to shame before his guests! He knit his brow, and beckoned the peasant to approach; then, with a blow of his dagger, he severed the man’s head from his body. Drawing his pistol, he shot the white horse in the ear. He then delivered himself up to justice, and was condemned to penal servitude.
Through the whole story there rang a note of pity for the prince. I endeavored to make Shakro understand that his pity was misplaced.
“There are not so many princes,” he remarked didactically, “as there are peasants. It cannot be just to condemn a prince for a peasant. What, after all is a peasant? he is no better than this!” He took up a handful of soil, and added: “A prince is a star!”
We had a dispute over this question and he got angry. When angry, he showed his teeth like a wolf, and his features seemed to grow sharp and set.
