The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  Solovyov chuckled softly. Trembling rays of wrinkles covered his face.

  “Who is she?” asked Maklakov.

  “Dr. Melikhov’s daughter.”

  “Ah,” drawled Sasha, “I know him.”

  “A respectable man. He has the orders of Vladimir and Anna,” remarked Solovyov.

  “I know him,” repeated Sasha. “A charlatan, like all the rest. He tried to cure me.”

  “God alone can cure you now,” said Solovyov in his affable tone. “You are ruining your health quickly.”

  “Go to the devil!” roared Sasha.

  Maklakov asked without turning his gaze from the window:

  “Did the girl cry?”

  “No. But she didn’t exactly rejoice. You know it’s always unpleasant to me to take girls, because in the first place I have a daughter myself.”

  “What are you waiting for, Maklakov?” demanded Sasha testily.

  “Until he gets through eating his dinner. I have time.”

  “Say, you, chew faster!” Sasha bawled at Klimkov.

  “Yes, yes, hurry,” Piotr observed drily.

  As he ate his dinner, Klimkov listened to the talk attentively, and observed the people while he himself remained unnoticed. He noted with satisfaction that all of them except Sasha did not seem bad, not worse or more horrible than others. He was seized with a desire to ingratiate himself with them, make himself useful to them. He put down the knife and fork, and quickly wiped his lips with the soiled napkin.

  “I am done.”

  The door was flung open, and a loose-limbed fellow, his dress in disorder, his body bent and stooping, darted into the room, and hissed:

  “Ssh! Ssh!”

  He thrust his head into the corridor, listened, then carefully closed the door. “Doesn’t it lock? Where is the key?” He looked around, and drew a deep breath. “Thank God!” he exclaimed.

  “Eh, you dunce,” sneered Sasha. “Well, what is it? Do they want to lick you again?”

  The man ran up to him. Panting and wiping the sweat from his face, he began, to mutter in a low voice:

  “They did, of course. They wanted to kill me with a hammer. Two followed me from the prison. I was there on business. As I walked out, they were standing at the gate, two of them, and one of them had a hammer in his pocket.”

  “Maybe it was a revolver,” suggested Solovyov stretching his neck.

  “A hammer.”

  “Did you see it?” inquired Sasha sarcastically.

  “Ah, don’t I know? They agreed to do me up with a hammer, without making any noise. One—”

  He adjusted his necktie, buttoned his coat, searched for something in his pockets, and smoothed his curly head, which was covered with sweat. His hands incessantly flashed about his body; they seemed ready to break off any moment. His bony grey face was dank with perspiration, his dark eyes rolled from side to side, now screwed up, now opened wide. Suddenly they became fixed. With unfeigned horror depicted in them they rested upon Yevsey’s face, as the man backed to the door.

  “Who’s that? Who’s that?” he demanded hoarsely.

  Maklakov went up to him, and took his hand.

  “Calm yourself, Yelizar. He’s one of our own, a new one.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Jackass!” came Sasha’s exasperated voice. “You ought to see a physician.”

  “Have you ever been pushed under a trolley car? Not yet? Then wait before you call names.”

  “Just look, Maklakov,” began Sasha, but the man continued in extreme excitement:

  “Have you ever been beaten at night by unknown people? Do you understand? Unknown people! There are hundreds of thousands such people unknown to me in the city, hundreds of thousands. They are everywhere, and I am a single one. I am always among them, do you understand?”

  Now Solovyov began to speak in his soft, reassuring voice, which was drowned, however, by the new burst of words coming from the shattered man, who carried in himself a whirlwind of fear. Klimkov immediately grew dizzy, overwhelmed by the alarming whisper of his talk, blinded by the motion of his broken body, and the darting of his cowardly hands. He expected that now something huge and black would tear its way through the door, would fill the room, and crush everybody.

  “It’s time for us to go,” said Maklakov, touching his shoulder.

  When they were sitting in the cab Yevsey sullenly remarked:

  “I am not fit for this work.”

  “Why?” asked Maklakov.

  “I am timid.”

  “That’ll pass away.”

  “Nothing will pass away.”

  “Everything,” rejoined Maklakov calmly.

  It was cold and dark, and sleet was falling. The reflections of the lights lay upon the mud in golden patches, which the people and horses tramped upon and extinguished. The two men were silent for a long time. Yevsey, his brain empty, looked into space, and felt that Maklakov was watching his face, in wait for something.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Maklakov went on, “but if you have another position, leave it at once. Have you?”

  “No.”

  “Is it long since you’ve been in the Department of Safety?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “That accounts for it.”

  “Now where am I to go?” inquired Yevsey quietly.

  Maklakov instead of replying to the question asked:

  “Have you relatives?”

  “No. I have no one.”

  The spy leaned over, though without saying anything. His eyes were half shut. As he drew his breath through his nose, the thin hair of his mustache quivered. The thick sounds of a bell floated in the air, soft and warm, and the pensive song of copper crept mournfully over the roofs of the houses without rising under the heavy cloud that covered the city with a solid dark canopy.

  “Tomorrow is Sunday,” said Maklakov in a low tone. “Do you go to church?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Just so. It’s close there.”

  “I do. I love the morning service. The choristers sing, and the sun looks through the windows. That is always good.”

  Maklakov’s simple words emboldened Yevsey. He felt a desire to speak of himself.

  “It is nice to sing,” he began. “When I was a little boy I sang in the church in our village. When I sang I didn’t know where I was. It was just the same as if I didn’t exist.”

  “Here we are,” said Maklakov.

  Yevsey sighed, and looked sadly at the long structure of the railway station, which all of a sudden loomed up before them and barred the way.

  They went to the platform where a large public had already gathered, and leaned up against the wall. Maklakov dropped his lids over his eyes, and seemed to be falling into a doze. The spurs of the gendarmes began to jingle, a well-shaped woman with dark eyes and a swarthy face laughed in a resonant young voice.

  “Remember the woman there who is laughing and the man beside her,” said Maklakov in a distinct whisper. “Her name is Sarah Lurye, an accoucheure. She lives in the Sadovoy, No. 7. She was in prison and in exile, a very clever woman. The old man is also a former exile, a journalist.”

  Suddenly Maklakov seemed to become frightened. He pulled his hat down over his face with a quick movement of his hand, and continued in a still lower voice:

  “The tall man in the black suit and the shaggy hat, red-haired, do you see him?”

  Yevsey nodded his head.

  “He’s the author Mironov. He has been in prison four times already, in different cities. Do you read books?”

  “No.”

  “A pity. He writes interestingly.”

  The black iron worm with a horn on its head and three fiery eyes uttered a scream, and glided into the statio
n, the metal of its huge body rumbling. It stopped, and hissed spitefully, filling the air with its thick white breath. The hot steamy odor knocked Yevsey in the face. The black bustling figures of people quickly darted before his eyes, seeming strangely small in contrast with the overwhelming size of the train.

  It was the first time Yevsey had seen the mass of iron at such close range. It seemed alive and endowed with feeling. It attracted his attention powerfully, at the same time arousing a hostile, painful premonition. The large red wheels turned, the steel lever glittered, rising and falling like a gigantic knife. Maklakov utter a subdued exclamation.

  “What is it?” asked Yevsey.

  “Nothing,” answered the spy vexed. His cheeks reddened, and he bit his lips. By his look Yevsey guessed that he was following the author, who was walking along without haste, twirling his mustache. He was accompanied by an elderly, thick-set man, with an unbuttoned coat and a summer hat on a large head. This man laughed aloud, and exclaimed as he raised his bearded red face:

  “You understand? I rode and rode—”

  The author lifted his head, and bowed to somebody. His head was smoothly shorn, his forehead lofty. He had high cheek bones, a broad nose, and narrow eyes. Klimkov found his face coarse and disagreeable. There was something military and harsh in it, due to his large red mustache.

  “Come,” said Maklakov. “They will probably go together. You must be very careful. The man who just arrived is an experienced man.”

  In the street they took a cab again.

  “Follow that carriage,” Maklakov said angrily to the driver. He was silent for a long time, sitting with bent back and swaying body. “Last year in the summer,” he finally muttered, “I was in his house making a search.”

  “The writer’s house?” asked Yevsey.

  “Yes. Drive on farther,” Maklakov ordered quickly noticing that the cab in front had stopped. “Quick!”

  A minute later he jumped from the cab, and thrust some money into the driver’s hand.

  “Wait,” he said to Yevsey, and disappeared in the damp darkness. Yevsey heard his voice. “Excuse me, is this Yakovlev’s house?”

  Someone answered in a hollow voice:

  “This is Pertzev’s.”

  “And which is Yakovlev’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pardon me.”

  Yevsey leaned against the fence, counting Maklakov’s tardy steps.

  “It’s a simple thing—just to follow people,” he thought.

  The spy came up to him, and said in a satisfied tone:

  “We have nothing to do here. Tomorrow morning you will put on a different suit, and we’ll keep an eye on this house.”

  They walked down the street. The sound of Maklakov’s talk kept knocking at Klimkov’s ears like the rumble of a drum.

  “Remember the faces, the dress, and the gait of the people that pass this house. There are no two people alike. Each one has something peculiar to himself. You must learn at once to seize upon this peculiar something in a person—in his eyes, in his voice, in the way in which he holds out his hands when he walks, in the manner in which he lifts his hat in greeting. Our work above all demands a good memory.”

  Yevsey felt that the spy talked with concealed enmity toward him; which aggrieved him.

  “You have an exceedingly marked face, especially your eyes. That won’t do. You mustn’t go about without a mask, without the dress peculiar to a certain occupation. Your figure, you in general, resemble a hawker of dry-goods. So you ought to carry about a box of stuffs, pins, needles, tape, ribbon, and all sorts of trifles. I will see that you get such a box. Then you can go into the kitchens and get acquainted with the servants.” Maklakov was silent, removed his beard, fixed his hat, and began to walk more slowly. “Servants are always ready to do something unpleasant for the masters. It’s easy to get something out of them, especially the women—cooks, nurses, chambermaids. They like to gossip. However, I’m chilled through,” he ended in a different voice. “Let’s go to a café.”

  “I have no money.”

  “That’s all right.”

  In the café he said to the owner in a stern voice:

  “Give me a glass of cognac, a large one, and two beers. Will you have some cognac?”

  “No, I don’t drink,” answered Yevsey, embarrassed.

  “That’s good.”

  The spy looked carefully into Klimkov’s face, smoothed his mustache, closed his eyes for a minute, and stretched his whole body, so that his bones cracked. When he had drunk the cognac, he remarked in an undertone:

  “It’s good you are such a taciturn fellow. What do you think about, eh?”

  Yevsey dropped his head, and did not answer at once.

  “About everything, about myself.”

  “But what in particular?”

  Maklakov’s eyes gleamed softly.

  “I think perhaps it would be better for me to enter a monastery,” Yevsey answered sincerely.

  “Why?”

  “Just so.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  After a moment’s thought Yevsey said as if excusing himself:

  “I do. Only I am not for God, but for myself. What am I to God?”

  “Well, let’s drink.”

  Klimkov bravely gulped down a glass of beer. It was cold and bitter, and sent a shiver through his body. He licked his lips with his tongue, and suddenly asked:

  “Do they beat you often?”

  “Me? Who?” the spy exclaimed amazed and offended.

  “Not you, but all the spies in general.”

  “You must say ‘agents,’ not ‘spies,’” Maklakov corrected him smiling. “They get beaten, yes, they get beaten. I have never been beaten.”

  He became lost in reflection. His shoulders drooped, and a shadow crept over his white face.

  “Ours is a dog’s occupation. People look upon us in an ugly enough light.” Suddenly his face broke into a smile, and he bent toward Yevsey. “Only once in five years did I see a man—human conduct toward me. It was in Mironov’s house. I came to him with gendarmes in the uniform of a sergeant-inspector. I was not well at the time. I had fever, and was scarcely able to stand on my feet. He received us civilly, with a smile. He wore a slightly embarrassed air. Such a large man, with long hands and a mustache like a cat’s. He walked with us from room to room, addressed us all with the respectful plural ‘you,’ and if he came in contact with any of us, he excused himself. We all felt awkward in his presence—the colonel, the procurator, and we small fry. Everybody knew the man; his pictures appeared in the newspapers. They say he’s even known abroad. And here we were paying him a night visit! We felt sort of abashed. I noticed him look at me. Then he walked up closer to me, and said, ‘You ought to sit down. You look as if you were feeling ill. Sit down.’ His words upset me. I sat down, and I thought to myself, ‘Go away from me.’ And he said, ‘Will you take a powder?’ All of us were silent. I saw that no one looked at me or him.” Maklakov laughed quietly. “He gave me quinine in a capsule, and I chewed it. I began to feel an insufferable bitterness in my mouth and a turmoil in my soul. I felt I would drop if I tried to stand. Here the colonel interfered, and ordered me to be taken to the police office. The search just then happened to end. The procurator excused himself to Mironov, and said, ‘I must arrest you.’ ‘Well, what of it?’ he said. ‘Arrest me. Everyone does what he can.’ He said it so simply with a smile.”

  Yevsey liked the story. It touched his heart softly, as if embracing it with a caress. The desire awoke in him again to make himself useful to Maklakov.

  “He’s a good man,” he thought.

  The spy sighed. He called for another glass of cognac, and sipped it slowly. He seemed suddenly to grow thin, and he dropped his head on the table.

  Yevsey wanted to speak, to ask que
stions. Various words darted about in disorder in his brain, for some reason failing to arrange themselves in intelligible and clear language. Finally, after many efforts, Yevsey found what he wanted to ask.

  “He, too, is in the service of our enemies?”

  “Who?” asked the spy, scarcely raising his head.

  “The writer.”

  “What enemies? What do you mean?” The spy’s face was mocking, and his lips curled in aversion. Yevsey grew confused, and Maklakov without awaiting his answer arose, and tossed a silver coin on the table.

  “Charge it up,” he said to someone.

  He put on his hat, and without a word to Klimkov walked to the door. Yevsey followed on tiptoe, not daring to put on his hat.

  “Be at the place at nine o’clock tomorrow. You will be relieved at twelve,” said Maklakov in the street. He thrust his hands in his coat pockets, and disappeared.

  “He didn’t say ‘good-by,’” thought Yevsey aggrieved, walking along the deserted street.

  When he entered within the circles of light thrown by the street lamps, he slackened his pace, and instinctively hastened over the parts enveloped in obscurity. He felt ill. Darkness surrounded him on all sides. It was cold. The gluey, bitter taste of beer penetrated from his mouth into his chest, and his heart beat unevenly. Languid thoughts stirred in his head like heavy flakes of autumn snow.

  “There, I’ve served a day. How they all are—these different days. If only somebody liked me.”

  At night Yevsey dreamed that his cousin Yashka seated himself on his chest, seized him by the throat, and choked him. He awoke, and heard Piotr’s angry dry thin voice in the other room:

  “I spit upon the Czar’s empire and all this hum-buggery!”

  A woman laughed, and someone’s thin voice sounded: