by Maxim Gorky
“I love none of you,” she said, again indifferent and wafting the smoke away with her hand.
“But if you don’t love him, why did you let him beat you?”
“Do you suppose I know? Leave me alone.”
“It’s funny,” said Serejka, shaking his head.
Both remained silent.
Night was falling. The shadows came down from the slow-moving clouds to the seas beneath. The waves murmured.
Vassili’s fire had gone out on the distant headland, but Malva continued to gaze in that direction.
* * * *
The father and son were seated in the cabin facing each other, and drinking brandy which the youth had brought with him to conciliate the old man and so as not to be weary in his company.
Serejka had told Iakov that his father was angry with him on account of Malva, and that he had threatened to beat Malva until she was half dead. He also said that was the reason she resisted Iakov’s advances.
This story had excited Iakov’s resentment against his father. He now looked upon him as an obstacle in his road that he could neither remove nor get around.
But feeling himself of equal strength as his adversary, Iakov regarded his father boldly, with a look that meant: “Touch me if you dare!”
They had both drunk two glasses without exchanging a word, except a few commonplace remarks about the fisheries. Alone amidst the deserted waters each nursed his hatred, and both knew that this hate would soon burst forth into flame.
“How’s Serejka?” at last Vassili blurted out.
“Drunk as usual,” replied Iakov, pouring our some more brandy for his father.
“He’ll end badly—and if you don’t take care you’ll do the same.”
“I shall never become like him,” replied Iakov, surlily.
“No?” said Vassili, frowning. “I know what I’m talking about. How long are you here already? Two months. You must soon think of going back. How much money have you saved?”
“In so little time I’ve not been able to save any,” replied Iakov.
“Then you don’t want to stay here any longer, my lad, go back to the village.”
Iakov smiled.
“Why these grimaces?” cried Vassili threateningly, and impatient at his son’s coolness. “Your father’s advising you and you mock him. You’re in too much of a hurry to play the independent. You want to be put in the traces again.”
Iakov poured out some more brandy and drank it. These coarse reproaches offended him, but he mastered himself, not wanting to arouse his father’s anger.
Seeing that his son had drunk again, alone, without filling his glass, made Vassili more angry than ever.
“Your father says to you, ‘Go home,’ and you laugh at him. Very well, I’ll speak differently. You’ll get your pay Saturday and trot—home to the village—do you understand?”
“I won’t go,” said Iakov, firmly.
“What!” cried Vassili, and leaning his two hands on the edge of the table he rose to his feet. “Have I spoken, yes or no? You dog, barking at your father! Do you forget that I can do what I please with you?”
His mouth trembled with passion, his face was convulsed, and two swollen veins stood out on his temples.
“I forget nothing,” said Iakov, in a low tone and not looking at his father. “And you—have you forgotten nothing?”
“It’s not your place to preach to me. I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Iakov avoided the hand that his father raised over his head and a feeling of savage hatred arose in him. He said, between his clenched teeth:
“Don’t touch me. We’re not in the village now.”
“Be silent. I’m your father everywhere.”
They stood facing each other, Vassili, his eyes bloodshot, his neck outstretched, his fists clenched, panted his brandy-smelling breath in his son’s face. Iakov stepped back. He was watching his father’s movements, ready to ward off blows, peaceful outwardly, but steaming with perspiration. Between them was the table.
“Perhaps I won’t give you a good beating?” cried Vassili hoarsely, and bending his back like a cat about to make a spring.
“Here we are equal,” said Iakov, watching him warily. “You are a fisherman, I too. Why do you attack me like this? Do you think I do not understand? You began.”
Vassili howled with passion, and raised his arm to strike so rapidly that Iakov had no time to avoid it. The blow fell on his head. He staggered and ground his teeth in his father’s face.
“Wait!” cried the latter, clenching his fists and again threatening him.
They were now at close quarters, and their feet were entangled in the empty sacks and cordage on the floor. Iakov, protecting himself as best he could against his father’s blows, pale and bathed in perspiration, his teeth clenched, his eyes brilliant as a wolf’s, slowly retreated, and as his father charged upon him, gesticulating with ferocity and blind with rage, like a wild boar, he turned and ran out of the cabin, down towards the sea.
Vassili started in pursuit, his head bent, his arms extended, but his foot caught in some rope, and he fell all his length on the sand. He tried to rise, but the fall had taken all the fight out of him and he sank back on the beach, shaking his fist at Iakov, who remained grinning at a safe distance. He shouted:
“Be cursed! I curse you forever!”
Bitterness came into Vassili’s soul as he realized his own position. He sighed heavily. His head bent low as if an immense weight had crushed him. For an abandoned woman he had deserted his wife, with whom he had lived faithfully for fifteen years, and the Lord had punished him by this rebellion of his son. His son had mocked him and trampled on his heart. Yes, he was punished for the past. He made the sign of the cross and remained seated, blinking his eyes to free them from the tears that were blinding them.
And the sun went down into the sea, and the crimson twilight faded away in the sky. A warm wind caressed the face of the weeping peasant. Deep in his resolutions of repentance he stayed there until he fell asleep shortly before dawn.
* * * *
The day following the quarrel, Iakov went off with a party to fish thirty miles out at sea. He returned alone five days later for provisions. It was midday when he arrived, and everyone was resting after dinner. It was unbearably hot. The sand burned his feet and the shells and fish bones pricked them. As Iakov carefully picked his way along the beach he regretted he had no boots on. He did not want to return to the bark as he was in a hurry to eat and to see Malva. Many a time had he thought of her during the long lonely hours on the sea. He wondered if she and his father had seen each other again and what they had said. Perhaps the old man had beaten her.
The deserted fisheries were slumbering, as if overcome by the heat. In the inspector’s office a child was crying. From behind a heap of barrels came the sound of voices.
Iakov turned his steps in that direction. He thought he recognised Malva’s voice, but when he arrived at the barrels he recoiled a step and stopped.
In the shade, lying on his back, with his arms under his head, was Serejka. Near him were, on one side, Vassili and, on the other, Malva.
Iakov thought to himself: “Why is father here. Has he left his post so as to be nearer Malva and to watch her? Should he go up to them or not.”
“So, you’ve decided!” said Serejka to Vassili. “It’s goodbye to us all? Well, go your way and scratch the soil.”
A thrill went through Iakov and he made a joyous grimace.
“Yes, I’m going;” said Vassili.
Then Iakov advanced boldly.
“Good-day, all!”
The father gave him a rapid glance and then turned away his eyes. Malva did not stir. Serejka moved his leg and raising his voice said:
“Here’s our dearly beloved son, Iakov, back from a distant shore.�
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Then he added in his ordinary voice:
“You should flay him alive and make drums with his skin.”
Malva laughed.
“It’s hot,” said Iakov, sitting beside them.
“I’ve been waiting for you since this morning, Iakov. The inspector told me you were coming.”
The young man thought his voice seemed weaker than usual and his face seemed changed. He asked Serejka for a cigarette.
“I have no tobacco for an imbecile like you,” replied the latter, without stirring.
“I’m going back home, Iakov,” said Vassili, gravely digging into the sand with his fingers.
“Why,” asked the son, innocently.
“Never mind why, shall you stay?”
“Yes. I’ll remain. What should we both do at home?”
“Very well. I have nothing to say. Do as you please. You are no longer a child. Only remember that I shall not get about long. I shall live, perhaps, but I do not know how long I shall work. I have lost the habit of the soil. Remember, too, that your mother is there.”
Evidently it was difficult for him to talk. The words stuck between his teeth. He stroked his beard and his hand trembled.
Malva eyed him. Serejka had half closed one eye and with the other watched Iakov. Iakov was jubilant, but afraid of betraying himself; he was silent and lowered his head.
“Don’t forget your mother, Iakov. Remember, you are all she has.”
“I know,” said Iakov, shrugging his shoulders.
“It is well if you know,” said the father, with a look of distrust. “I only warn you not to forget it.”
Vassili sighed deeply. For a few minutes all were silent.
Then Malva said:
“The work bell will soon ring.”
“I’m going,” said Vassili, rising.
And all rose.
“Goodbye, Serejka. If you happen to be on the Volga, maybe you’ll drop in to see me.”
“I’ll not fail,” said Serejka.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, dear friend.”
“Goodbye, Malva,” said Vassili, not raising his eyes.
She slowly wiped her lips with her sleeve, threw her two white arms round his neck and kissed him three times on the lips and cheeks.
He was overcome with emotion and uttered some indistinct words. Iakov lowered his head, dissimulating a smile. Serejka was impassible, and he even yawned a little, at the same time gazing at the sky.
“You’ll find it hot walking,” he said.
“No matter. Goodbye, you too, Iakov.”
“Goodbye!”
They stood facing each other, not knowing what to do. The sad word “goodbye” aroused in Iakov a feeling of tenderness for his father, but he did not know how to express it. Should he embrace his father as Malva had done or shake his hand like Serejka? And Vassili felt hurt at this hesitation, which was visible in his son’s attitude.
“Remember your mother,” said Vassili, finally.
“Yes, yes,” replied Iakov, cordially. “Don’t worry. I know.”
“That’s all. Be happy. God protect you. Don’t think badly of me. The kettle, Serejka, is buried in the sand near the bow of the green boat.”
“What does he want with the kettle?” asked Iakov.
“He has taken my place yonder on the headland,” explained Vassili.
Iakov looked enviously at Serejka, then at Malva.
“Farewell, all! I’m going.”
Vassili waved his hand to them and moved away. Malva followed him.
“I’ll accompany you a bit of the road.”
Serejka sat down on the ground and seized the leg of Iakov, who was preparing to accompany Malva.
“Stop! where are you going?”
“Let me alone,” said Iakov, making a forward movement. But Serejka had seized his other leg.
“Sit down by my side.”
“Why? What new folly is this?”
“It is not folly. Sit down.”
Iakov obeyed, grinding his teeth.
“What do you want?”
“Wait. Be silent, and I’ll think, and then I’ll talk.”
He began staring at Iakov, who gave way.
Malva and Vassili walked for a few minutes in silence. Malva’s eyes shone strangely. Vassili was gloomy and preoccupied. Their feet sank in the sand and they advanced slowly.
“Vassili!”
“What?”
He turned and looked at her.
“I made you quarrel with Iakov on purpose. You might both have lived here without quarrelling,” she said in a calm tone.
There was not a shade of repentance in her words.
“Why did you do that?” asked Vassili, after a silence.
“I do not know—for nothing.”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“What you have done was noble!” he said, with irritation.
She was silent.
“You will ruin my boy, ruin him entirely. You do not fear God, you have no shame! What are you going to do?”
“What should I do?” she said.
There was a ring of anguish, or vexation, in her voice.
“What you ought to do!” cried Vassili, seized suddenly with a fierce rage.
He felt a passionate desire to strike her, to knock her down and bury her in the sand, to kick her in the face, in the breast. He clenched his fists and looked back.
Yonder, near the barrels, he saw Iakov and Serejka. Their faces were turned in his direction.
“Get away with you! I could crush you!”
He stopped and hissed insults in her face. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard trembled and his hands seemed to advance involuntarily towards Malva’s hair, which emerged from beneath her shawl.
She fixed her green eyes on him.
“You deserve killing,” he said. “Wait, some one will break your head yet.”
She smiled, still silent. Then she sighed deeply and said:
“That’s enough! now farewell!”
And suddenly turning on her heels she left him and came back.
Vassili shouted after her and shook his fists. Malva, as she walked, took pains to place each foot in the deep impressions of Vassili’s feet, and when she succeeded she carefully effaced the traces. Thus she continued on until she came to the barrels where Serejka greeted her with this question:
“Well, have you seen the last of him?”
She gave an affirmative sign, and sat down beside him. Iakov looked at her and smiled, gently moving his lips as if he were saying things that he alone heard.
“When will you go to the headland?” she asked Serejka, indicating the sea with a movement of her head.
“This evening.”
“I will go with you.”
“Bravo, that suits me.”
“And I, too—I’ll go,” cried Iakov.
“Who invited you?” asked Serejka, screwing up his eyes.
The sound of a cracked bell called the men to work.
“She will invite me,” said Iakov.
He looked defiantly at Malva.
“I? what need have I of you?” she replied, surprised.
“Let us he frank, Iakov,” said Serejka. “If you annoy her, I’ll beat you to a jelly. And if you as much as touch her with a finger, I’ll kill you like a fly. I am a simple man.”
His face, all his person, his knotty and muscular arms proved eloquently that killing a man would be a very simple thing for him.
Iakov recoiled a step and said, in a choking voice:
“Wait! That is for Malva to—”
“Keep quiet, that’s all. You are not the dog that will eat the lamb. If you get the bones you may be thankful.”
/> Iakov looked at Malva. Her green eyes laughed in a humiliating way at him and she fondled Serejka so that Iakov felt himself grow hot and cold.
Then they went away side by side and both burst out laughing. Iakov dug his foot deep in the sand and remained glued to the spot, his body stretched forward, his face red, his heart beating wildly.
In the distance, on the dead waves of sand, was a small dark human figure moving slowly away; on his right beamed the sun and the powerful sea, and on the left, to the horizon, there was sand, nothing but sand, uniform, deserted,—gloomy. Iakov watched the receding figure of the lonely man and blinked his eyes, filled with tears—tears of humiliation and painful uncertainty.
On the fishing grounds everyone was busy at work. Iakov heard Malva’s sonorous voice ask, angrily:
“Who has taken my knife?”
The waves murmured, the sun shone and the sea laughed.
THROUGH RUSSIA
Translated by C. J. Hogarth
THE BIRTH OF A MAN
The year was the year ’92—the year of leanness—the scene a spot between Sukhum and Otchenchiri, on the river Kodor, a spot so near to the sea that amid the joyous babble of a sparkling rivulet the ocean’s deep-voiced thunder was plainly distinguishable.
Also, the season being autumn, leaves of wild laurel were glistening and gyrating on the white foam of the Kodor like a quantity of mercurial salmon fry. And as I sat on some rocks overlooking the river there occurred to me the thought that, as likely as not, the cause of the gulls’ and cormorants’ fretful cries where the surf lay moaning behind a belt of trees to the right was that, like myself, they kept mistaking the leaves for fish, and as often finding themselves disappointed.
Over my head hung chestnut trees decked with gold; at my feet lay a mass of chestnut leaves which resembled the amputated palms of human hands; on the opposite bank, where there waved, tanglewise, the stripped branches of a hornbeam, an orange-tinted woodpecker was darting to and fro, as though caught in the mesh of foliage, and, in company with a troupe of nimble titmice and blue tree-creepers (visitors from the far-distant North), tapping the bark of the stem with a black beak, and hunting for insects.
