by Maxim Gorky
An almost daily visitor was a man who wore a chimney-pot and on his right hand a large gold ring set with a stone. He had a broad pimply nose on a stout flat shaven face. When Dorimedont Lukin played chess with the master, he snuffled loud and tugged at his ear with his left hand. He often brought books and paper parcels, over which the master nodded his head approvingly and smiled quietly. He would then hide them in the table, or in a corner on a shelf in back of him. Yevsey did not see his master pay for these books, but he did see him sell them.
One of the students began to visit the shop more frequently than the others. He was a tall, blue-eyed young man with a carrot-colored mustache and a cap stuck back on his neck, leaving bare a large white forehead. He spoke in a thick voice, laughed aloud, and always bought many old journals.
Once the master pointed out a book to him that Dorimedont had brought; and while the student glanced through it, the old man told him something in a quick whisper.
“Interesting!” exclaimed the student, smiling amiably. “Ah, you old sinner, aren’t you afraid, eh?”
The master sighed and answered:
“If you absolutely feel it’s the truth, you ought to help it along in whatever little ways you can.”
They whispered a long time. Finally the student said aloud:
“Well, then, agreed! Remember my address.”
The old man took the address down on a piece of paper, and when Dorimedont came and asked, “Well, what’s new, Matvey Matveyevich?” the master handed him the address, and said with a smile:
“There’s the new thing.”
“S-so—Nikodim Arkhangelsky,” read Dorimedont. “That’s business. We’ll look up this Nikodim.”
Sometime after, upon sitting down to play chess, he announced to the master:
“That Nikodim turned out to be a fish with plenty of roe. We found something of pretty nearly everything in his place.”
“Return the books to me,” said the master.
“Certainly,” and Dorimedont snuffled.
The blue-eyed student never appeared again. The short young man with the black mustache also vanished after the master had given Dorimedont his address. All this was strange. It fed the boy’s suspicions, and indicated some mystery and enigma.
Once, when the master was absent from the shop, Yevsey, while dusting the shelves, saw the books brought by Dorimedont. They were small, soiled, and ragged. He carefully and quickly put them back in the same order, scenting something dangerous in them. Books in general did not arouse his interest. He tried to read, but never succeeded in concentrating his mind, which, already burdened by a mass of observation, dwelt upon minutiæ. His thoughts drifted apart, and finally disappeared evaporating like a thin stream of water upon a stone on a hot day. When he worked and stirred about he was altogether incapable of thinking; the motion, as it were, tore the cobweb of his ideas. The boy did his work slowly and accurately, like an automaton, without putting anything of himself into it, and scarcely understanding its meaning.
When he was free and sat motionless he was carried away by a pleasant sensation of flight in a transparent mist, which enveloped the whole of life and softened everything, changing the boisterous reality into a quiet, sweetly sounding half-slumber.
When Yevsey was in this mood the days passed rapidly, in a flight not to be stayed. His external life was monotonous. Thought-stirring events happened rarely, and his brain insensibly became clogged with the dust of the work-day. He seldom went about in the city, for he did not like it. The ceaseless motion tired his eyes, the noise filled his head with heavy, dulling confusion. The endless city at first seemed like a monster in a fairy-tale, displaying a hundred greedy mouths, bellowing with hundreds of insatiable throats. But when Yevsey regarded the varied tumult of the street life he saw in it merely painful and wearisome monotony.
In the morning when he tidied his master’s room, Yevsey put his head out of the window for several minutes, and looked down to the bottom of the deep, narrow street. Everywhere he saw the same people, and already knew what each of them would be doing in an hour or the next day. The cabmen drove in the same indolent fashion, and sat on the box each like the other; the shop boys, all of whom he knew, were unpleasant. Their insolence was a source of danger. Every man seemed chained to his business like a dog to his kennel. Occasionally something new flashed by, or whispered to him, but it was difficult for him to see and understand it in the thick mass of all that was familiar, ordinary, and unpleasant.
Even the churches in the city did not please him. They were not cosy, nor bright, but close and penetrated by extremely powerful odors of incense, oil, and sweat. Yevsey could not bear strong smells. They made his head turn, and filled him with confused anxious desires.
Sometimes on a holiday the master closed the shop, and took Yevsey through the city. They walked long and slowly. The old man pointed out the houses of the rich and eminent people, and told of their lives. His recitals were replete with accounts of women who ran away from their husbands, of dead people, and of funerals. He talked about them in a dry solemn voice, criticizing and condemning everything. He grew animated only when telling how and from what this or that man died. In his opinion, apparently, matters of disease and death were the most edifying and interesting of earthly subjects.
At the end of every walk he treated Yevsey to tea in a tavern, where musical machines played. Here everybody knew the old man, and behaved toward him with timid respect. Yevsey grown tired, his brain dizzied by the cloud of heavy odors, would fall into drowsy silence under the rattle and din of the music.
Once, however, the master took him to a house which contained numerous articles of gold and silver, marvellous weapons, and garments of silk brocade. Suddenly the mother’s forgotten tales began to beat in the boy’s breast, and a winged hope trembled in his heart. He walked silently through the rooms for a long time, disconcertedly blinking his eyes, which burned greedily.
When they returned home he asked the master:
“Whose are they?”
“They are public property—the Czar’s,” the old man explained impressively.
The boy put more questions.
“Who wore such coats and sabres?”
“Czars, boyars, and various imperial persons.”
“There are no such people today?”
“How so? Of course there are. It would be impossible to be without them. Only now they dress differently.”
“Why differently?”
“More cheaply. Formerly Russia was richer. But now it has been robbed by various foreign people, Jews, Poles, and Germans.”
Raspopov talked for a long time about how nobody loved Russia, how all robbed it, and wished it every kind of harm. When he spoke much Yevsey ceased to believe him or understand him. Nevertheless he asked:
“Am I an imperial person, too?”
“In a sense. In our country all are imperial people, all are subjects of the Czar. The whole earth is God’s, and the whole of Russia is the Czar’s.”
Before Yevsey’s eyes handsome, stately personages in glittering garb circled in a bright, many-colored round dance. They belonged to another fabulous life, which remained with him after he had lain down to sleep. He saw himself in this life clad in a sky-blue robe embroidered with gold, with red boots of Morocco leather on his feet. Rayisa was there, too, in brocade and adorned with precious gems.
“So it will pass away,” he thought.
Today this thought gave rise not to hope in a different future but to quiet regret for the past.
On the other side of the door he heard the dry even voice of his master:
“Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain—”
CHAPTER V
One day after closing the shop Yevsey and his master went to the yard where they were met by an anxious ringing shout. It came from Anatol.
&nb
sp; “I won’t do it again, dear uncle, never!”
Yevsey started, and instinctively exclaimed in quiet triumph:
“Aha!”
It was pleasant to hear the shouts of fear and pain coming from the breast of the cheerful boy, who was everybody’s favorite.
“May I stay here in the yard?” Yevsey asked the master.
“We must get our supper. But I’ll stay here, too, and see how they punish a rascally good-for-nothing.”
The people had gathered at the door of the brick shed behind the stairway. The sound of heavy blows and the wailing voice of Anatol issued from the shed.
“Little uncle, I didn’t do it. Oh, God! I won’t do it, I won’t! Stop, for Christ’s sake!”
“That’s right! Give it to him!” said watchmaker Yakubov, lighting a cigarette.
The squint-eyed embroiderer Zina upheld the tall, yellow-faced watchmaker.
“Perhaps we shall have peace after this. You couldn’t have a single quiet moment in the yard.”
Raspopov turned to Yevsey, and said:
“They say he’s a wonder at imitating people.”
“Of course,” rejoined the furrier’s cook. “Such a little devil! He makes sport of everybody.”
A dull scraping sound came from the shed, as if a sack filled with something soft were being dragged over the old boards of the floor. At the same time the people heard the panting, hoarse voice of Kuzin and Anatol’s cries, which now grew feebler and less frequent.
“Forgive me! Oh! Help me—I won’t do it again—Oh, God!”
His words became indistinct and flowed together into a thick choking groan. Yevsey trembled, remembering the pain of the beatings he used to receive. The talk of the onlookers stirred a confused feeling in him. It was fearful to stand among people who only the day before had willingly and gaily taken delight in the lively little fellow, and who now looked on with pleasure while he was being beaten. At this moment these half-sick people, surly and worn out with work, seemed more comprehensible to him. He believed that now none of them shammed, but were sincere in the curiosity with which they witnessed the torture of a human being. He felt a little sorry for Anatol, yet it was pleasant to hear his groans. The thought passed through his mind that now he would become quieter and more companionable.
Suddenly Nikolay the furrier appeared, a short black curly-headed man with long arms. As always daring and respecting nobody, he thrust the people aside, walked into the shed, and from there his coarse voice was heard crying out twice:
“Stop! Get away!”
Everybody suddenly moved back from the door. Kuzin bolted out of the shed, seated himself on the ground, clutched his head with both hands, and opening his eyes wide, bawled hoarsely:
“Police!”
“Let’s get away from evil, Yevsey,” said the master withdrawing to one side.
The boy retreated to a corner by the stairway, and stood there looking on.
Nikolay came out of the shed with the little trampled body of the glazier’s boy hanging limply over his arm. The furrier laid him on the ground then he straightened himself and shouted:
“Water, women, you rotten carrion!”
Zina and the cook ran off for water.
Kuzin lolling his head back snorted dully.
“Murder! Police!”
Nikolay turned to him, and gave him a kick on the breast which laid him flat on his back.
“You dirty dogs!” he shouted, the whites of his black eyes flashing. “You dirty dogs! A child is being killed, and it’s a show to you! I’ll smash every one of your ugly mugs!”
Oaths from all sides answered him, but nobody dared to approach him.
“Let’s go,” said the master, taking Yevsey by the hand.
As they walked away they saw Kuzin run noiselessly in a stooping position to the gates.
“To call the police,” the master explained to Yevsey.
When Yevsey was alone he felt that his jealousy of Anatol had left him. He strained his slow mind to explain to himself what he had seen. It merely seemed that the people liked Anatol, who amused them. In reality it was not so. All people enjoyed fighting, enjoyed looking on while others fought, enjoyed being cruel. Nikolay had interceded for Anatol because he liked to beat Kuzin, and actually did beat him on almost every holiday. Very bold and strong he could lick any man in the house. In his turn he was beaten by the police. So to sum up, whether you are quiet or daring, you’ll be beaten and insulted all the same.
Several days passed. The tenants talking in the yard, said that the glazier boy, who had been taken to the hospital, had gone insane. Then Yevsey remembered how the boy’s eyes had burned when he gave his performances, how vehement his gestures and motions had been, and how quickly the expression of his face had changed. He thought with dread that perhaps Anatol had always been insane. He soon forgot the glazier boy.
CHAPTER VI
In the rainy nights of autumn short broken sounds came from the roof under Yevsey’s window. They disquieted him and prevented him from sleeping. On one such night he heard the angry exclamations of his master:
“You vile woman!”
Rayisa Petrovna answered as always in a low singing voice:
“I cannot permit you, Matvey Matveyevich.”
“You low creature! Look at the money I am paying you!”
The door to the master’s room was open, and the voices came in clearly to Yevsey. The fine rain sang a tearful song outside the window. The wind crept over the roof, panting like a large homeless bird fatigued by the bad weather and softly flapping its wet wings against the panes. The boy sat up in bed, put his hands around his knees, and listened shivering.
“Give me back the twenty-five rubles, you thief!”
“I do not deny it. Dorimedont Lukin gave me the money.”
“Aha! You see, you hussy!”
“No, permit me—when you asked me to spy on the man—”
“Hush! What are you screaming for?”
Now the door was closed, but even through the wall Yevsey could hear almost everything that was said.
“Remember, you vile woman, you, that you are in my hands,” said the master, rapping his fingers on the table. “And if I notice that you’ve struck up relations with Dorimedont—”
The woman’s voice was warm and flexible like the supple movements of a kitten, and it stole in softly, coiled around the old man’s malicious words, wiping them from Yevsey’s memory.
The woman must be right. Her composure and the master’s entire relation to her convinced the boy that she was. Yevsey was now in his fifteenth year, and his inclination for this gentle and beautiful woman began to be marked by a pleasant sense of agitation. Since he met Rayisa very rarely and for only a minute at a time, he always looked into her face with a secret feeling of bashful joy. Her kindly way of speaking to him caused a grateful tumult in his breast, and drew him to her more and more powerfully.
While still in the village he had learned the hard truth of the relation between man and woman. The city bespattered this truth with mud, but it did not sully the boy himself. His being a timid nature, he did not dare to believe what was said about women, and such talk instead of exciting any feeling of temptation aroused painful aversion. Now, as he was sitting up in bed, Yevsey remembered Rayisa’s amiable smile, her kind words; and carried away by the thought of them he had no time to lie down before the door to the master’s room opened, and she stood before him, half dressed, with loose hair, her hand pressed to her breast. He grew frightened and faint. The woman wanted to open the door again to the old man’s room and had already put out her hand, but suddenly smiling she withdrew it and shook a threatening finger at Yevsey. Then she walked into her room. Yevsey fell asleep with a smile.
In the morning as he was sweeping the kitchen floor he saw Rayisa at the door of her room
. He straightened himself up before her with the broom in his hands.
“Good morning,” she said. “Will you take coffee with me?”
Rejoiced and embarrassed, the boy replied:
“I haven’t washed yet. One minute.”
In a few minutes he was sitting at the table in her room, seeing nothing but the fair face with the dark brows, and the good, moist eyes with the smile in them.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You are good and beautiful.”
He answered as in a dream. It was strange to hear her questions. Her eyes fixed upon him vanquished him. They must know everything that went on in his soul.
“And do you like Matvey Matveyevich?” Rayisa asked in a slow undertone.
“No,” Yevsey answered simply.
“Is that so? He loves you. He told me so himself.”
“No,” rejoined the boy.
Rayisa raised her brows, moved a little nearer to him, and asked:
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you, but I don’t believe my master, not a bit.”
“Why? Why?” she asked in a quick whisper, moving still nearer to him. The warm gleam of her look penetrated the boy’s heart, and stirred within him little thoughts never yet expressed to anybody. He quickly uttered them to this woman.
“I am afraid of him. I am afraid of everybody except you.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“You know.”
“What do I know?”
“You, too, are wronged, not by one master. I saw you cry. You were not crying then because you had been drinking. I understand. I understand much. Only I do not understand everything together. I see everything separately in its tiniest details, but side by side with them something different, not even resembling them. I understand this, too. But what is it all for? One thing is at variance with the other, and they do not go together. There is one kind of life and another besides.”
