The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “So it’s settled? You’ll come over to me in the city?”

  She silently nodded her head.

  “When? Try to do it as soon as possible.” And he added in a tender voice: “I’ll be anxious for you; yes, indeed!”

  She looked at him in surprise. What was she to him? With bent head, smiling in embarrassment, he stood before her, dressed in a simple black jacket, stooping, nearsighted.

  “Have you money?” he asked, dropping his eyes.

  “No.”

  He quickly whipped his purse out of his pocket, opened it, and handed it to her.

  “Here, please take some.”

  She smiled involuntarily, and shaking her head, observed:

  “Everything about all of you is different from other people. Even money has no value for you. People do anything to get money; they kill their souls for it. But for you money is so many little pieces of paper, little bits of copper. You seem to keep it by you just out of kindness to people.”

  Nikolay Ivanovich laughed softly.

  “It’s an awfully bothersome article, money is. Both to take it and to give it is embarrassing.”

  He caught her hand, pressed it warmly, and asked again:

  “So you will try to come soon, won’t you?”

  And he walked away quietly, as was his wont.

  She got herself ready to go to him on the fourth day after his visit. When the cart with her two trunks rolled out of the village into the open country, she turned her head back, and suddenly had the feeling that she was leaving the place forever—the place where she had passed the darkest and most burdensome period of her life, the place where that other varied life had begun, in which the next day swallowed up the day before, and each was filled by an abundance of new sorrows and new joys, new thoughts and new feelings.

  The factory spread itself like a huge, clumsy, dark-red spider, raising its lofty smokestacks high up into the sky. The small one-storied houses pressed against it, gray, flattened out on the soot-covered ground, and crowded up in close clusters on the edge of the marsh. They looked sorrowfully at one another with their little dull windows. Above them rose the church, also dark red like the factory. The belfry, it seemed to her, was lower than the factory chimneys.

  The mother sighed, and adjusted the collar of her dress, which choked her. She felt sad, but it was a dry sadness like the dust of the hot day.

  “Gee!” mumbled the driver, shaking the reins over the horse. He was a bow-legged man of uncertain height, with sparse, faded hair on his face and head, and faded eyes. Swinging from side to side he walked alongside the wagon. It was evidently a matter of indifference to him whether he went to the right or the left.

  “Gee!” he called in a colorless voice, with a comical forward stride of his crooked legs clothed in heavy boots, to which clods of mud were clinging. The mother looked around. The country was as bleak and dreary as her soul.

  “You’ll never escape want, no matter where you go, auntie,” the driver said dully. “There’s no road leading away from poverty; all roads lead to it, and none out of it.”

  Shaking its head dejectedly the horse sank its feet heavily into the deep sun-dried sand, which crackled softly under its tread. The rickety wagon creaked for lack of greasing.

  CHAPTER II

  Nikolay Ivanovich lived on a quiet, deserted street, in a little green wing annexed to a black two-storied structure swollen with age. In front of the wing was a thickly grown little garden, and branches of lilac bushes, acacias, and silvery young poplars looked benignly and freshly into the windows of the three rooms occupied by Nikolay. It was quiet and tidy in his place. The shadows trembled mutely on the floor, shelves closely set with books stretched across the walls, and portraits of stern, serious persons hung over them.

  “Do you think you’ll find it convenient here?” asked Nikolay, leading the mother into a little room with one window giving on the garden and another on the grass-grown yard. In this room, too, the walls were lined with bookcases and bookshelves.

  “I’d rather be in the kitchen,” she said. “The little kitchen is bright and clean.”

  It seemed to her that he grew rather frightened. And when she yielded to his awkward and embarrassed persuasions to take the room, he immediately cheered up.

  There was a peculiar atmosphere pervading all the three rooms. It was easy and pleasant to breathe in them; but one’s voice involuntarily dropped a note in the wish not to speak aloud and intrude upon the peaceful thoughtfulness of the people who sent down a concentrated look from the walls.

  “The flowers need watering,” said the mother, feeling the earth in the flowerpots in the windows.

  “Yes, yes,” said the master guiltily. “I love them very much, but I have no time to take care of them.”

  The mother noticed that Nikolay walked about in his own comfortable quarters just as carefully and as noiselessly as if he were a stranger, and as if all that surrounded him were remote from him. He would pick up and examine some small article, such as a bust, bring it close to his face, and scrutinize it minutely, adjusting his glasses with the thin finger of his right hand, and screwing up his eyes. He had the appearance of just having entered the rooms for the first time, and everything seemed as unfamiliar and strange to him as to the mother. Consequently, the mother at once felt herself at home. She followed Nikolay, observing where each thing stood, and inquiring about his ways and habits of life. He answered with the guilty air of a man who knows he is all the time doing things as they ought not to be done, but cannot help himself.

  After she had watered the flowers and arranged the sheets of music scattered in disorder over the piano, she looked at the samovar, and remarked, “It needs polishing.”

  Nikolay ran his finger over the dull metal, then stuck the finger close to his nose. He looked at the mother so seriously that she could not restrain a good-natured smile.

  When she lay down to sleep and thought of the day just past, she raised her head from the pillow in astonishment and looked around. For the first time in her life she was in the house of a stranger, and she did not experience the least constraint. Her mind dwelt solicitously on Nikolay. She had a distinct desire to do the best she could for him, and to introduce more warmth into his lonely life. She was stirred and affected by his embarrassed awkwardness and droll ignorance, and smiled to herself with a sigh. Then her thoughts leaped to her son and to Andrey. She recalled the high-pitched, sparkling voice of Fedya, and gradually the whole day of the first of May unrolled itself before her, clothed in new sounds, reflecting new thoughts. The trials of the day were peculiar as the day itself. They did not bring her head to the ground as with the dull, stunning blow of the fist. They stabbed the heart with a thousand pricks, and called forth in her a quiet wrath, opening her eyes and straightening her backbone.

  “Children go in the world,” she thought as she listened to the unfamiliar nocturnal sounds of the city. They crept through the open window like a sigh from afar, stirring the leaves in the garden and faintly expiring in the room.

  Early in the morning she polished up the samovar, made a fire in it, and filled it with water, and noiselessly placed the dishes on the table. Then she sat down in the kitchen and waited for Nikolay to rise. Presently she heard him cough. He appeared at the door, holding his glasses in one hand, the other hand at his throat. She responded to his greeting, and brought the samovar into the room. He began to wash himself, splashing the water on the floor, dropping the soap and his toothbrush, and grumbling in dissatisfaction at himself.

  When they sat down to drink tea, he said to the mother:

  “I am employed in the Zemstvo board—a very sad occupation. I see the way our peasants are going to ruin.”

  And smiling he repeated guiltily: “It’s literally so—I see! People go hungry, they lie down in their graves prematurely, starved to death, children are born feebl
e and sick, and drop like flies in autumn—we know all this, we know the causes of this wretchedness, and for observing it we receive a good salary. But that’s all we do, really; truly all we do.”

  “And what are you, a student?”

  “No. I’m a village teacher. My father was superintendent in a mill in Vyatka, and I became a teacher. But I began to give books to the peasants in the village, and was put in prison for it. When I came out of prison I became clerk in a bookstore, but not behaving carefully enough I got myself into prison again, and was then exiled to Archangel. There I also got into trouble with the governor, and they sent me to the White Sea coast, where I lived for five years.”

  His talk sounded calm and even in the bright room flooded with sunlight. The mother had already heard many such stories; but she could never understand why they were related with such composure, why no blame was laid on anybody for the suffering the people had gone through, why these sufferings were regarded as so inevitable.

  “My sister is coming today,” he announced.

  “Is she married?”

  “She’s a widow. Her husband was exiled to Siberia; but he escaped, caught a severe cold on the way, and died abroad two years ago.”

  “Is she younger than you?”

  “Six years older. I owe a great deal to her. Wait, and you’ll hear how she plays. That’s her piano. There are a whole lot of her things here, my books—”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Everywhere,” he answered with a smile. “Wherever a brave soul is needed, there’s where you’ll find her.”

  “Also in this movement?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He soon left to go to work, and the mother fell to thinking of “that movement” for which the people worked, day in, day out, calmly and resolutely. When confronting them she seemed to stand before a mountain looming in the dark.

  About noon a tall, well-built lady came. When the mother opened the door for her she threw a little yellow valise on the floor, and quickly seizing Vlasova’s hand, asked:

  “Are you the mother of Pavel Mikhaylovich?”

  “Yes, I am,” the mother replied, embarrassed by the lady’s rich appearance.

  “That’s the way I imagined you,” said the lady, removing her hat in front of the mirror. “We have been friends of Pavel Mikhaylovich a long time. He spoke about you often.”

  Her voice was somewhat dull, and she spoke slowly; but her movements were quick and vigorous. Her large, limpid gray eyes smiled youthfully; on her temples, however, thin radiate wrinkles were already limned, and silver hairs glistened over her ears.

  “I’m hungry; can I have a cup of coffee?”

  “I’ll make it for you at once.” The mother took down the coffee apparatus from the shelf and quietly asked:

  “Did Pasha speak about me?”

  “Yes, indeed, a great deal.” The lady took out a little leather cigarette case, lighted a cigarette, and inquired: “You’re extremely uneasy about him, aren’t you?”

  The mother smiled, watching the blue, quivering flame of the spirit lamp. Her embarrassment at the presence of the lady vanished in the depths of her joy.

  “So he talks about me, my dear son!” she thought.

  “You asked me whether I’m uneasy? Of course, it’s not easy for me. But it would have been worse some time ago; now I know that he’s not alone, and that even I am not alone.” Looking into the lady’s face, she asked: “What is your name?”

  “Sofya,” the lady answered, and began to speak in a businesslike way. “The most important thing is that they should not stay in prison long, but that the trial should come off very soon. The moment they are exiled, we’ll arrange an escape for Pavel Mikhaylovich. There’s nothing for him to do in Siberia, and he’s indispensable here.”

  The mother incredulously regarded Sofya, who was searching about for a place into which to drop her cigarette stump, and finally threw it in a flowerpot.

  “That’ll spoil the flowers,” the mother remarked mechanically.

  “Excuse me,” said Sofya simply. “Nikolay always tells me the same thing.” She picked up the stump and threw it out of the window. The mother looked at her in embarrassment, and said guiltily:

  “You must excuse me. I said it without thinking. Is it in my place to teach you?”

  “Why not? Why not teach me, if I’m a sloven?” Sofya calmly queried with a shrug. “I know it; but I always forget—the worse for me. It’s an ugly habit—to throw cigarette stumps any and everywhere, and to litter up places with ashes—particularly in a woman. Cleanliness in a room is the result of work, and all work ought to be respected. Is the coffee ready? Thank you! Why one cup? Won’t you have any?” Suddenly seizing the mother by the shoulder, she drew her to herself, and looking into her eyes asked in surprise: “Why, are you embarrassed?”

  The mother answered with a smile:

  “I just blamed you for throwing the cigarette stump away—does that look as if I were embarrassed?” Her surprise was unconcealed. “I came to your house only yesterday, but I behave as if I were at home, and as if I had known you a long time. I’m afraid of nothing; I say anything. I even find fault.”

  “That’s the way it ought to be.”

  “My head’s in a whirl. I seem to be a stranger to myself. Formerly I didn’t dare speak out from my heart until I’d been with a person a long, long time. And now my heart is always open, and I at once say things I wouldn’t have dreamed of before, and a lot of things, too.” Sofya lit another cigarette, turning the kind glance of her gray eyes on the mother. “Yes, you speak of arranging an escape. But how will he be able to live as a fugitive?” The mother finally gave expression to the thought that was agitating her.

  “That’s a trifle,” Sofya remarked, pouring out a cup of coffee for herself. “He’ll live as scores of other fugitives live. I just met one, and saw him off. Another very valuable man, who worked for the movement in the south. He was exiled for five years, but remained only three and a half months. That’s why I look such a grande dame. Do you think I always dress this way? I can’t bear this fine toggery, this sumptuous rustle. A human being is simple by nature, and should dress simply—beautifully but simply.”

  The mother looked at her fixedly, smiled, and shaking her head meditatively said:

  “No, it seems that day, the first of May, has changed me. I feel awkward somehow or other, as if I were walking on two roads at the same time. At one moment I understand everything; the next moment I am plunged into a mist. Here are you! I see you a lady; you occupy yourself with this movement, you know Pasha, and you esteem him. Thank you!”

  “Why, you ought to be thanked!” Sofya laughed.

  “I? I didn’t teach him about the movement,” the mother said with a sigh. “As I speak now,” she continued stubbornly, “everything seems simple and near. Then, all of a sudden, I cannot understand this simplicity. Again, I’m calm. In a second I grow fearful, because I am calm. I always used to be afraid, my whole life long; but now that there’s a great deal to be afraid of, I have very little fear. Why is it? I cannot understand.” She stopped, at a loss for words. Sofya looked at her seriously, and waited; but seeing that the mother was agitated, unable to find the expression she wanted, she herself took up the conversation.

  “A time will come when you’ll understand everything. The chief thing that gives a person power and faith in himself is when he begins to love a certain cause with all his heart, and knows it is a good cause of use to everybody. There is such a love. There’s everything. There’s no human being too mean to love. But it’s time for me to be getting out of all this magnificence.”

  Putting the stump of her cigarette in the saucer, she shook her head. Her golden hair fell back in thick waves. She walked away smiling. The mother followed her with her eyes, sighed, and looked around. Her thoughts came to a halt, and in a
half-drowsy, oppressive condition of quiet, she began to get the dishes together.

  At four o’clock Nikolay appeared. Then they dined. Sofya, laughing at times, told how she met and concealed the fugitive, how she feared the spies, and saw one in every person she met, and how comically the fugitive conducted himself. Something in her tone reminded the mother of the boasting of a workingman who had completed a difficult piece of work to his own satisfaction. She was now dressed in a flowing, dove-colored robe, which fell from her shoulders to her feet in warm waves. The effect was soft and noiseless. She appeared to be taller in this dress; her eyes seemed darker, and her movements less nervous.

  “Now, Sofya,” said Nikolay after dinner, “here’s another job for you. You know we undertook to publish a newspaper for the village. But our connection with the people there was broken, thanks to the latest arrests. No one but Pelagueya Nilovna can show us the man who will undertake the distribution of the newspapers. You go with her. Do it as soon as possible.”

  “Very well,” said Sofya. “We’ll go, Pelagueya Nilovna.”

  “Yes, we’ll go.”

  “Is it far?”

  “About fifty miles.”

  “Splendid! And now I’m going to play a little. Do you mind listening to music, Pelagueya Nilovna?”

  “Don’t bother about me. Act as if I weren’t here,” said the mother, seating herself in the corner of the sofa. She saw that the brother and the sister went on with their affairs without giving heed to her; yet, at the same time, she seemed involuntarily to mix in their conversation, imperceptibly drawn into it by them.

  “Listen to this, Nikolay. It’s by Grieg. I brought it today. Shut the window.”

  She opened the piano, and struck the keys lightly with her left hand. The strings sang out a thick, juicy melody. Another note, breathing a deep, full breath, joined itself to the first, and together they formed a vast fullness of sound that trembled beneath its own weight. Strange, limpid notes rang out from under the fingers of her right hand, and darted off in an alarming flight, swaying and rocking and beating against one another like a swarm of frightened birds. And in the dark background the low notes sang in measured, harmonious cadence like the waves of the sea exhausted by the storm. Some one cried out, a loud, agitated, woeful cry of rebellion, questioned and appealed in impotent anguish, and, losing hope, grew silent; and then again sang his rueful plaints, now resonant and clear, now subdued and dejected. In response to this song came the thick waves of dark sound, broad and resonant, indifferent and hopeless. They drowned by their depth and force the swarm of ringing wails; questions, appeals, groans blended in the alarming song. At times the music seemed to take a desperate upward flight, sobbing and lamenting, and again precipitated itself, crept low, swung hither and thither on the dense, vibratory current of bass notes, foundered, and disappeared in them; and once more breaking through to an even cadence, in a hopeless, calm rumble, it grew in volume, pealed forth, and melted and dissolved in the broad flourish of humid notes—which continued to sigh with equal force and calmness, never wearying.