by Maxim Gorky
In front of us walks the woman from Riazan, in company with the young fellow of the bloated features. He is downcast of mien, and at length mutters something which I cannot catch, but in answer to which she tosses her head, and says in a distinct, maternal tone:
“You are too young to associate with such brutes.”
The bell of the church is slowly beating, and from the huts there keep coming neat old men and women who make the hitherto deserted street assume a brisk appearance, and the squat huts take on a welcoming air.
In a resonant, girlish voice there meets our ears:
“Ma-am! Ma-amka! Where is the key of the green box? I want my ribands!”
While in answer to the bell’s summons, the oxen low a deep echo.
The wind has fallen, but reddish clouds still are gliding over the hamlet, and the mountain peaks blushing until they seem, thawing, to be sending streams of golden, liquid fire on to the steppes, where, as though cast in stone, a stork, standing on one leg, is listening, seemingly, to the rustling of the heat-exhausted herbage.
* * * *
In the forecourt of the Ataman’s hut we are deprived of our passports, while two of our number, found to be without such documents, are led away to a night’s lodging in a dark storehouse in a corner of the premises. Everything is executed quietly enough, and without the least fuss, purely as a matter of routine; yet Konev mutters, as dejectedly he contemplates the darkening sky:
“What a surprising thing, to be sure!”
“What is?”
“A passport. Surely a decent, peaceable man ought to be able to travel without a passport? So long as he be harmless, let him—”
“You are not harmless,” with angry emphasis the woman from Riazan interposes.
Konev closes his eyes with a smile, and says nothing more.
Almost until the vigil service is over are we kept kicking our heels about that forecourt, like sheep in a slaughter-house. Then Konev, myself, the two women, and the fat-faced young fellow are led away towards the outskirts of the village, and allotted an empty hut with broken-down walls and a cracked window.
“No going out will be permitted,” says the Cossack who has conducted us thither. “Else you will be arrested.”
“Then give us a morsel of bread,” Konev says with a stammer. “Have you done any work here?” the Cossack inquires.
“Yes—a little.”
“For me?”
“No. It did not so happen.”
“When it does so happen I will give you some bread.”
And like a water-butt the fat kindly-looking man goes rolling out of the yard.
“What else was to be expected?” grumbles Konev with his eyebrows elevated to the middle of his forehead. “The folk hereabouts are knaves. Ah, well!”
As for the women, they withdraw to the darkest corner of the hut, and lie down, while the young fellow disappears after probing the walls and floor, and returns with an armful of straw which he strews upon the hard, beaten clay. Then he stretches himself thereon with hands clasped behind his battered head.
“See the resourcefulness of that fellow from Penza!” comments Konev enviously. “Hi, you women! There is, it would seem, some straw about.”
To this comes from the women’s corner the acid reply:
“Then go and fetch some.”
“For you?”
“Yes, for us.”
“Then I must, I suppose.”
Nevertheless Konev merely remains sitting on the windowsill, and discoursing on the subject of certain needy folk who do but desire to go and say their prayers in church, yet are banded into barns.
“Yes, and though you may say that folk, the world over, have a soul in common, I tell you that this is not so—that, on the contrary, we Russian strangers find it a hard matter here to get looked upon as respectable.”
With which he slips out quietly into the street, and disappears from view.
The young fellow’s sleep is restless—he keeps tossing about, with his fat arms and legs sprawling over the floor, and grunting, and snoring. Under him the straw makes a crackling sound, while the two women whisper together in the darkness, and the reeds of the dry thatch on the roof rustle (the wind is still drawing an occasional breath), and ever and anon a twig brushes against an outside wall. The scene is like a scene in a dream.
Out of doors the myriad tongues of the pitch-black, starless night seem to be debating something in soft, sad, pitiful tones which ever keep growing fainter; until, when the hour of ten has been struck on the watchman’s gong, and the metal ceases to vibrate, the world grows quieter still, much as though all living things, alarmed by the clang in the night, have concealed themselves in the invisible earth or the equally invisible heavens.
I seat myself by the window, and watch how the earth keeps exhaling darkness, and the darkness enveloping, drowning the grey, blurred huts in black, tepid vapour, though the church remains invisible—evidently something stands interposed between it and my viewpoint. And it seems to me that the wind, the seraph of many pinions which has spent three days in harrying the land, must now have whirled the earth into a blackness, a denseness, in which, exhausted, and panting, and scarcely moving, it is helplessly striving to remain within the encompassing, all-pervading obscurity where, helpless and weary in like degree, the wind has sloughed its thousands of wing-feathers—feathers white and blue and golden of tint, but also broken, and smeared with dust and blood.
And as I think of our petty, grievous human life, as of a drunkard’s tune on a sorry musical instrument, or as of a beautiful song spoilt by a witless, voiceless singer, there begins to wail in my soul an insatiable longing to breathe forth words of sympathy with all mankind, words of burning love for all the world, words of appreciation of, for example, the sun’s beauty as, enfolding the earth in his beams, and caressing and fertilising her, he bears her through the expanses of blue. Yes, I yearn to recite to my fellow-men words which shall raise their heads. And at length I find myself compounding the following jejune lines:
To our land we all are born
In happiness to dwell.
The sun has bred us to this land
Its fairness to excel.
In the temple of the sun
We high priests are, divine.
Then each of us should claim his life,
And cry, “This life is mine!”
Meanwhile from the women’s corner there comes a soft, intermittent whispering; and as it continues to filter through the darkness, I strain my ears until I succeed in catching a few of the words uttered, and can distinguish at least the voices of the whisperers.
The woman from Riazan mutters firmly, and with assurance:
“Never ought you to show that it hurts you.”
And with a sniff, in a tone of dubious acquiescence, her companion replies:
“Ye-es-so long as one can bear it.”
“Ah, but never mind. Pretend. That is to say, when he beats you, make light of it, and treat it as a joke.”
“But what if he beats me very much indeed?”
“Continue still to make light of it, still to smile at him kindly.”
“Well, you can never have been beaten, for you do not seem to know what it is like.”
“Oh, but I have, my dear—I do know what it is like, for my experience of it has been large. Do not be afraid, however. He won’t beat you.”
A dog yelps, pauses a moment to listen, and then barks more angrily than ever. Upon that other dogs reply, and for a moment or two I am annoyed to find that I cannot overhear the women’s conversation. In time, however, the dogs cease their uproar, for want of breath, and the suppressed dialogue filters once more to my ears.
“Never forget, my dear, that a muzhik’s life is a hard one. Yes, for us plain folk life is hard. Hence, one ought to make nothing of
things, and let them come easy to one.”
“Mother of God!”
“And particularly should a woman so face things; for upon her everything depends. For one thing, let her take to herself, in place of her mother, a husband or a sweetheart. Yes, try that, and see. And though, at first, your husband may find fault with you, he will afterwards take to boasting to other muzhiks that he has a wife who can do everything, and remain ever as bright and loving as the month of May. Never does she give in; never would she give in—no, not if you were to cut off her head!”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. And see if that will not come to be your opinion as much as mine.”
Again, to my annoyance, the dialogue is interrupted—this time by the sound of uncertain footsteps in the street without. Thus the next words of the women’s conversation escape me. Then I hear:
“Have you ever read ‘The Vision of the Mother of God’?”
“N-no, I have not.”
“Then you had better ask some older woman than myself to tell you about it, for it is a good book to become acquainted with. Can you read?”
“No, I cannot. But tell me, yourself, what the vision was?”
“Listen, and I will do so.”
From outside the window Konev’s voice softly inquires:
“Is that our lot in there? Yes? Thank God, then, for I had nearly lost my way after stirring up a lot of dogs, and being forced to use my fists upon them. Here, you! Catch hold!”
With which, handing me a large watermelon, he clambers through the window with a great clattering and disturbance.
“I have managed also to gee a good supply of bread,” he continues. “Perhaps you believe that I stole it? But no. Indeed, why should one steal when one can beg-a game at which I am particularly an old hand, seeing that always, on any occasion, I can make up to people? It happened like this. When I went out I saw a fire glowing in a hut, and folk seated at supper. And since, wherever many people are present, one of them at least has a kind heart, I ate and drank my fill, and then managed to make off with provender for you as well. Hi, you women!”
There follows no answer.
“I believe those daughters of whores must be asleep,” he comments. “Hi, women!”
“What is it?” drily inquires the woman from Riazan.
“Should you like a taste of water-melon?”
“I should, thank you.”
Thereupon, Konev begins to make his way towards the voice.
“Yes, bread, soft wheaten bread such as you—”
Here the other woman whines in beggar fashion:
“And give me a taste, too.”
“Oh, yes, I will. But where the devil are you?”
“And a taste of melon as well?”
“Yes, certainly. Hullo! Who is this?”
From the woman from Riazan comes a cry of pain.
“Mind how you step, wretch!” she exclaims.
“All right, but you needn’t make so much noise about it. You see how dark it is, and I—”
“You ought to have struck a match, then.”
“I possess but a quarter of a match, for matches are not over-plentiful, and even if I did catch hold of you no great harm can have been done. For instance, when your husband used to beat you he must have hurt you far worse than I. By the way, did he beat you?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“None; only, I am curious to know. Surely a woman like you—”
“See here. Do not dare to touch me, or I—”
“Or you what?”
There ensues a prolonged altercation amid which I can hear epithets of increasing acerbity and opprobrium being applied; until the woman from Riazan exclaims hoarsely:
“Oh, you coward of a man, take that!”
Whereupon follows a scrimmage amid which I can distinguish slappings, gross chuckles from Konev, and a muffled cry from the younger woman of:
“Oh, do not so behave, you wretch!”
Striking a match, I approach the spot, and pull Konev away. He is in no way abashed, but merely cooled in his ardour as, seated on the floor at my feet, and panting and expectorating, he says reprovingly to the woman:
“When folk wish merely to have a game with you, you ought not to let yourself lose your temper. Fie, fie!”
“Are you hurt?” the woman inquires quietly.
“What do you suppose? You have cut my lip, but that is the worst damage.”
“Then if you come here again I will lay the whole of your face open.”
“Vixen! What bumpkinish stupidity!”
Konev turns to myself.
“And as for you, you go catching at the first thing you find, and have torn my coat.”
“Then do not insult people.”
“Insult people, fool? The idea of anyone insulting a woman like that!”
Whereafter, with a mean chuckle, the fellow goes on to discourse upon the ease with which peasant women err, and upon their love of deceiving their husbands.
“The impudent rascal!” comments the woman from Penza sleepily.
After a while the young fellow springs to his feet, and grates his teeth. Then, reseating himself, and clutching at his head, he says gloomily:
“I intend to leave here tomorrow, and go home. I do not care what becomes of me.”
With which he subsides on to the floor as though exhausted.
“The blockhead!” is Konev’s remark.
Amid the darkness a black shape rises. It does so as soundlessly as a fish in a pond, glides to the door, and disappears.
“That was she,” remarks Konev. “What a strong woman! However, if you had not pulled me away, I should have got the better of her. By God I should!”
“Then follow her, and make another attempt.”
“No,” after a moment’s reflection he rejoins. “Out there she might get hold of a stick, or a brick, or some such thing. However, I’ll get even with her. As a matter of fact, you wasted your time in stopping me, for she detests me like the very devil.”
And he renews his wearisome boastings of his conquests; until suddenly, he stops as though he has swallowed his tongue.
All becomes quiet; everything seems to have come to a halt, and to be pressing close in sleep to the motionless earth. I too grow drowsy, and have a vision amid which my mind returns to the donations which I have received that day, and sees them swell and multiply and increase in weight until I feel their bulk pressing upon me like a tumulus of the steppes. Next, the coppery notes of a bell jar in my ears, and, struck at random intervals, go floating away into the darkness.
It is the hour of midnight.
Soon, scattered drops of rain begin to patter down upon the dry thatch of the hut and the dust in the street outside, while a cricket continues chirping as though it were hurriedly relating a tale. Also, I hear filtering forth into the darkness a softly gulped, eager whispering.
“Think,” says one of the voices, “what it must mean to have to go tramping about without work, or only with work for another to do!”
The young fellow who has been so soundly thrashed replies in a dull voice:
“I know nothing of you.”
“More softly, more softly!” urges the woman.
“What is it you want?”
“I want nothing. It is merely that I am sorry for you as a man yet young and strong. You see—well, I have not lived with my eyes shut. That is why I say, come with me.”
“But come whither?”
“To the coast, where I know there to be beautiful plots of land for the asking. You yourself can see how good the land hereabout is. Well, there land better still is to be obtained.”
“Liar!”
“More softly, more softly!” again urges the woman. “Moreover, I am not bad-looking, and can ma
nage things well, and do any sort of work. Hence you and I might live quite peacefully and happily, and come, eventually, to have a place of our own. Yes, and I could bear and rear you a child. Only see how fit I am. Only feel this breast of mine.”
The young fellow snorts, and I begin to find the situation oppressive, and to long to let the couple know that I am not asleep. Curiosity, however, prevents me, and I continue listening to the strange, arresting dialogue.
“Wait a little,” whispers the woman with a gasp. “Do not play with me, for I am not that sort of woman. Yes, I mean what I say. Let be!”
Rudely, roughly the young fellow replies:
“Then don’t run after me. A woman who runs after a man, and plays the whore with him, is—”
“Less noise, please—less noise, I beg of you, or we shall be heard, and I shall be put to shame!”
“Doesn’t it put you to shame to be offering yourself to me like this?”
A silence ensues, save that the young fellow goes on snorting and fidgeting, and the raindrops continue to fall with the same reluctance, the same indolence, as ever. Then once more the woman’s voice is heard through the pattering.
“Perhaps,” says the voice, “you have guessed that I am seeking a husband? Yes, I am seeking one—a good, steady muzhik.”
“But I am not a good, steady muzhik.”
“Fie, fie!”
“What?” he sniggers. “A husband for you? The impudence of you! A ‘husband’! Go along!”
“Listen to me. I am tired of tramping.”
“Then go home.”
This time there ensues a long pause. Then the woman says very softly:
“I have neither home nor kindred.”
“A lie!” ejaculates the young fellow.
“No, by God it is not a lie! The Mother of God forget me if it is.”
In these last words I can detect the note of tears. By this time the situation has become intolerable, for I am yearning to rise and kick the young fellow out of the hut, and then to have a long and earnest talk with his companion. “Oh that I could take her to my arms,” I reflect, “and cherish her as I would a poor lost child!”
After a while the sounds of a new struggle between the pair are heard.
