The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “A different order of life—different.”

  They gripped at his heart, arousing a sharp desire to extract their meaning. But everything around him turned and darted hither and thither. Melnikov’s angry, resonant voice sounded sickeningly:

  “The thing is, to know what people did it. The working-people are one thing, simply residents another. This differentiation must be made.”

  And Krasavin spoke distinctly:

  “If even the people begin to revolt against the Czar, then there are no people any more, only rebels.”

  “Wait, and suppose there’s deception here.”

  “Hey, you old devil,” whispered Zarubin, hastening up to Yevsey. “I’ve struck a vein of business. Come on, I’ll tell you.”

  Klimkov followed him in silence for a space, then stopped.

  “Where shall I go?”

  “To a beer saloon. You understand? There’s a girl there, Margarita. She has an acquaintance, a milliner. At the milliner’s lodging they read books on Saturdays—students and various other people like that. So I’m going to cut them up. Ugh!”

  “I won’t go,” said Yevsey.

  “Oh, you! Ugh!”

  The long ribbon of strange impressions quickly enmeshed Yevsey’s heart, hindering him from an understanding of what was happening. He walked off home unobserved, carrying away with him the premonition of impending misfortune, a misfortune that already lay in hiding and was stretching out irresistible arms to clutch him. It filled his heart with new fear and grief. In expectation of this misfortune he endeavored to walk in the obscurity close against the houses. He recalled the agitated faces and excited voices, the disconnected talk about death, about blood, about the huge graves, into which dozens of bodies had been flung like rubbish.

  At home he stood at the window a long time looking at the yellow light of the street-lamp. The pedestrians quickly walked into the circle of its light, then plunged into the darkness again. So in Yevsey’s head a faint timid light was casting a pale illumination upon a narrow circle, into which ignorant, cautious grey thoughts, helplessly holding on to one another like blind people, were slowly creeping. Small and lame they gathered into a shy group driven into one place like a swarm of mosquitoes. But suddenly, losing hold of the bond uniting them, they disappeared without leaving a trace, and his soul devoid of them remained like a desert illuminated by a solitary ray from a sorrowful moon.

  The days passed as in a delirium, filled with terrible tales of the fierce destruction of people. For Yevsey these days crawled slowly over the earth like black eyeless monsters, swollen with the blood they had devoured. They crawled with their huge jaws wide open, poisoning the air with their stifling, salty odor. People ran and fell, shouted and wept, mingling their tears with their blood. And the blind monster destroyed them, crushed old and young, women and children. They were pushed forward to their destruction by the ruler of their life, fear,—fear leaden-grey as a storm-cloud, powerful as the current of a broad stream.

  Though the thing had happened far away, in a strange city, Yevsey knew that fear was alive everywhere. He felt it all over, round about him.

  No one understood the event, no one was able to explain it. It stood before the people like a huge riddle and frightened them. The spies stuck in their meeting places from morning until night, and did much reading of newspapers and drinking of whiskey. They also crowded into the Department of Safety, where they disputed, and pressed close against one another. They were impatiently awaiting something.

  “Can anybody explain the truth?” Melnikov kept asking.

  One evening a few weeks after the event there was a meeting of the spies in the Department of Safety at which Sasha delivered a speech.

  “Stop this nonsensical talk,” he said sharply. “It’s a scheme of the Japs. The Japs gave 18,000,000 rubles to Father Gapon to stir the people up to revolt. You understand? The people were made drunk on the road to the palace; the revolutionists had ordered a few wine shops to be broken into. You understand?” He let his red eyes rove about the company as if seeking those of his listeners who disagreed with him. “They thought the Czar, loving the people, would come out to them. And at that time it was decided to kill him. Is it clear to you?”

  “Yes, it’s clear,” shouted Yakov Zarubin, and began to jot something down in his note-book.

  “Jackass!” shouted Sasha in a surly voice. “I’m not asking you. Melnikov, do you understand?”

  Melnikov was sitting in a corner, clutching his head with both hands and swaying to and fro as if he had the toothache. Without changing his position he answered:

  “A deception!” His voice struck the floor dully, as if something soft yet heavy had fallen.

  “Yes, a deception,” repeated Sasha, and began again to speak quickly and fluently. Sometimes he carefully touched his forehead, then looked at his fingers and wiped them on his knee. Yevsey had the sensation that even his words reeked with a putrid odor. He listened wrinkling his forehead painfully. He understood everything the spy said, but he felt that his speech did not efface, in fact, could not efface, from his mind the black picture of the bloody holiday.

  All were silent, now and then shaking their heads, and refraining from looking at one another. It was quiet and gloomy. Sasha’s words floated a long time over his auditors’ heads touching nobody.

  “If it was known that the people had been deceived, then why were they killed?” the unexpected question suddenly burst from Melnikov.

  “Fool!” screamed Sasha. “Suppose you had been told that I was your wife’s paramour, and you got drunk and came at me with a knife, what should I do? Should I tell you ‘Strike!’ even though you had been duped, and I was not guilty?”

  Melnikov started to his feet, stretched himself, and bawled:

  “Don’t bark, you dog!”

  A tremor ran through Yevsey at his words, and Viekov thin and nerveless, who sat beside him, whispered in fright:

  “Oh, God! Hold him!”

  Sasha clenched his teeth, thrust one hand into his pocket, and drew back. All the spies—there were many in the room—sat silent and motionless, and waited watching Sasha’s hand. Melnikov waved his hat and walked slowly to the door.

  “I’m not afraid of your pistol.”

  He slammed the door after him noisily. Viekov went to lock it, and said as he returned to his place:

  “What a dangerous man!”

  “So,” continued Sasha, pulling a revolver from his pocket and examining it. “Tomorrow morning you are each of you to get down to business, do you hear? And bear in mind that now you will all have more to do than before. Part of us will have to go to St. Petersburg. That’s number one. Secondly, this is the very time that you’ll have to keep your eyes and ears particularly wide open, because people will begin to babble all sorts of nonsense in regard to this affair. The revolutionists will not be so careful now, you understand?”

  Handsome Grokhotov drew a loud breath and said:

  “We understand, never mind! If it’s true that the Japs gave such large sums of money, that explains it, of course.”

  “Without any explanation it’s very hard,” said someone.

  “Ye-e-e-s.”

  “People cry, ‘What does it mean?’ And they give you poisonous talk, and you don’t know how to answer back.”

  “The people are very much interested in this revolt.”

  All these remarks were made in an indolent, bloodless fashion and with an air of constraint.

  “Well, now you know what you are about, and how you should reply to the fools,” said Sasha angrily. “And if some donkey should begin to bray, take him by the neck, whistle for a policeman, and off with him to the police station. There they have instructions as to what’s to be done with such people. Ho, Viekov, or somebody, ring the bell and order some Selters.”

  Yakov Zarubin rushe
d to the bell.

  Sasha looked at him, and said showing his teeth:

  “Say, puppy, don’t be mad with me for having cut you off.”

  “I’m not mad, Aleksandr Nikitich.”

  “Ye-e-s,” Grokhotov drawled pensively. “Still they are a power, after all! Consider what they accomplished—raised a hundred thousand people.”

  “Stupidity is light, it’s easy to raise,” Sasha interrupted him. “They had the means to raise a hundred thousand people; they had the money. Just you give me such a sum of money, and I’ll show you how to make history.” Sasha uttered an ugly oath, lifted himself slightly from the sofa, stretched out the thin yellow hand which held the revolver, screwed up his eyes, and aiming at the ceiling, cried through his teeth in a yearning whine, “I would show you!”

  All these things—Sasha’s words and gestures, his eyes and his smiles—were familiar to Yevsey, but now they seemed impotent, useless as infrequent drops of rain in extinguishing a conflagration. They did not extinguish fear, and were powerless to stop the quiet growth of a premonition of misfortune.

  At this time a new view of the life of the people unconsciously developed in Yevsey’s mind. He learned that on the one hand some people might gather in the streets by the tens of thousands in order to go to the rich and powerful Czar and ask him for help, while others might kill these tens of thousands for doing so. He recalled everything the Smokestack had said about the poverty of the people and the wealth of the Czar, and was convinced that both sides acted in the manner they did from fear.

  Nevertheless the people astonished him by their desperate bravery, and aroused in him a feeling with which he had hitherto been unfamiliar.

  Now as before when walking the streets with the box of goods on his breast, he carefully stepped aside for the passersby, either taking to the middle of the street, or pressing against the walls of the houses. However, he began to look into the people’s faces more attentively, with a feeling akin to respect, and his fear of them seemed to have diminished slightly. Men’s faces had suddenly changed, acquiring more variety and significance of expression. All began to talk with one another more willingly and simply, and to walk the streets more briskly, with a firmer tread.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Yevsey often entered a house occupied by a physician and a journalist upon whom he was assigned to spy. The physician employed a wet-nurse named Masha, a full, round little woman with merry sky-blue eyes, who was always neat and clean, and wore a white or blue sarafan with a string of beads around her bare neck. Her full-breasted figure gave the impression of a luscious, healthy creature, and won the fancy of Yevsey, who imagined that a strong savory odor, as of hot rye-bread, emanated from her. She was an affectionate little person. He loved to question her about the village and hear her replies in a rapid sing-song. He soon came to know all her relatives, where each one lived, what was the occupation of each, and what the wages.

  He paid her one of his visits five days later after Sasha had explained the cause of the uprising. He found her sitting on the bed in the cook’s room adjoining the kitchen. Her face was swollen, her eyes were red, and her lower lip stuck out comically.

  “Good morning,” she said sullenly. “We don’t want anything. Go. We don’t want anything.”

  “Did the master insult you?” Yevsey asked. Though he knew the master had not insulted her, he regarded it as his professional duty to ask just such questions. His next duty was to sigh and add, “That’s the way they always are. You’ve got to work for them your whole life long.”

  Anfisa Petrovna, the cook, a thin, ill-tempered body, suddenly cried out:

  “Her brother-in-law was killed, and her sister was knouted. She had to be taken to the hospital.”

  “In St. Petersburg?” Yevsey inquired quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Masha drew in a full breast of air, and groaned, holding her head in her hands.

  “What for?” asked Yevsey.

  “Who knows them? A curse upon them!” shrieked the cook, rattling the dishes in her exasperation. “Why did they kill all those people? That’s what I would like to know.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Masha sobbed. “I know him. Oh, God! He was a book-binder, a peaceful fellow. He didn’t drink. He made forty rubles a month. Oh, God! They beat Tania, and she’s soon to have a child. It will be her second child. ‘If it’s a boy,’ she said, ‘I’ll christen him Foma in honor of my husband’s friend.’ And she wanted the friend to be the child’s god-father, too. But they put a bullet through his leg, and broke his head open, the cursed monsters! May they have neither sleep nor rest! May they be torn with anguish and with shame! May they choke in blood, the infernal devils!”

  Her words and tears flowed in tempestuous streams. Dishevelled and pitiful she screamed in desperate rage and scratched her shoulders and her breast with her nails. Then she flung herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow, moaning and trembling convulsively.

  “Her uncle sent her a letter from there,” said the cook, running about in the kitchen from the table to the stove and back again. “You ought to see what he writes! The whole street is reading the letter. Nobody can understand it. The people marched with ikons, with their holy man, they had priests—everything was done in a Christian fashion. They went to the Czar to tell him: ‘Father, our Emperor, reduce the number of officials a little. We cannot live with so many officers and such burdensome taxes on our shoulders, we haven’t enough to pay their salaries, and they take such liberties with us—the very extreme of liberties. They squeeze everything out of us they want.’ Everything was honest and open. They had been preparing for this a long time, a whole month. The police knew of it, yet no one interfered. They went out and marched along the streets, when suddenly off the soldiers go shooting at them! The soldiers surrounded them on all sides and shot at them! Hacked them and trampled them down with their horses—everybody, even the little children! They kept up the massacre for two days. Think of it! What does it mean? That the people are not wanted any more? That they have decided to exterminate them?”

  Anfisa’s cutting, unpleasant voice sank into a whisper, above which could now be heard the sputtering of the butter on the stove, the angry gurgle of the boiling water in the kettle, the dull roaring of the fire, and Masha’s groans. Yevsey felt obliged to answer the sharp questions of the cook, and he wanted to soothe Masha. He coughed carefully, and said without looking at anybody:

  “They say the Japs arranged the affair.”

  “S-s-s-o?” the cook cried ironically. “The Japs, the Japs, of course! We know the Japs. They keep to themselves, they stick in their own home. Our master explained to us who they are. You just tell my brother about the Japs. He knows all about them, too. It was scoundrels, not Japs!”

  From what Melnikov had said Yevsey knew that the cook’s brother Matvey Zimin worked in a furniture factory, and read prohibited books. Now, all of a sudden, he was seized with the desire to tell her that the police knew about Zimin’s infidelity to the Czar. But at that minute Masha jumped down from the bed, and cried out while arranging her hair:

  “Of course, they have no way of justifying themselves, so they hit upon the Japs as an excuse.”

  “The blackguards!” drawled the cook. “Yesterday in the market somebody also made a speech about the Japs. Evidently he had been bribed to justify the officials. One old man was listening, and then you should have heard what he said about the generals, about the ministers, and even about the Czar himself. How he could do it without putting the least check upon himself—no, you can’t fool the people. They’ll catch the truth, no matter into what corner you drive it.”

  Klimkov looked at the floor, and was silent. The desire to tell the cook that watch was being kept upon her brother now left him. He involuntarily thought that every person killed had relatives, who were now just as puzzled as Masha and Anfisa, and asked one another
“Why?” He realized that they were crying and grieving in dark perplexity, with hatred secretly springing up in their hearts, hatred of the murderers and of those who endeavored to justify the crime. He sighed and said:

  “A horrible deed has been done.” At the same time he thought: “But I, too, am compelled to protect the officials.”

  Masha giving the door to the kitchen a push with her foot, Yevsey remained alone with the cook, who looked at the door sidewise, and grumbled:

  “The woman is killing herself. Even her milk is spoiled. This is the third day she hasn’t given nourishment. See here, Thursday next week is her birthday, and I’ll celebrate my birthday then, too. Suppose you come here as a guest, and make her a present, say, of a good string of beads. You must comfort a person some way or other.”

  “Very well. I’ll come.”

  “All right.”

  Klimkov walked off slowly, revolving in his mind what the women had said to him. The cook’s talk was too noisy, too forward, instantly creating the impression that she did not speak her own sentiments, but echoed those of another. As for Masha, her grief did not touch him. He had no relatives, moreover he rarely experienced pity for people. Nevertheless he felt that the general revolt everywhere noticeable was reflected in the outcries of these women, and—the main thing—that such talk was unusual, inhumanly brave. Yevsey had his own explanation of the event: fear pushed people one against the other. Then those who were armed and had lost their senses exterminated those who were unarmed and foolish. But this explanation did not stand firm in Yevsey’s mind, and failed to calm his soul. He clearly realized from what he had seen and heard that the people were beginning to free themselves from the thralldom of fear, and were insistently and fearlessly seeking the guilty, whom they found and judged. Everywhere large quantities of leaflets appeared, in which the revolutionists described the bloody days in St. Petersburg, and cursed the Czar, and urged the people not to believe in the administration. Yevsey read a few such leaflets. Though their language was unintelligible to him, he sensed something dangerous in them, something that irresistibly made its way into his heart, and filled him with fresh alarm. He resolved not to read any leaflets again.