The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  Strict orders were given to find the printing office in which the leaflets were printed, and to catch the persons who distributed them. Sasha swore, and even gave Viekov a slap in the face for something he had done. Filip Filippovich invited the agents to come to him in the evenings, in order to deliver speeches to them. He usually sat in the middle of the room behind his desk, resting the lower half of his arms upon it, and keeping his long fingers engaged in quietly toying with the pencils, pens, and papers. The various gems on his hands sparkled in different colors. From under his black beard gleamed a large yellow medal. He moved his short neck slowly, and his blue spectacles rested in turn upon the faces of all present, who meekly and silently sat against the wall. He scarcely ever rose from his armchair. Nothing but his fingers and his neck moved. His heavy face, bloated and white, looked like a face in a portrait; the hairs of his beard seemed glued together. When silent, he was calm and staid, but the instant he spoke in his thin voice, which screeched like an iron saw while being filed, everything about him, the black frockcoat and the order, the gems, and the beard, seemed to be stuck upon somebody else. Sometimes Yevsey fancied that an artificial puppet sat in front of him, inside of which was hidden a little shrivelled-up fellow, resembling a little red devil. If someone were to shout at the puppet, he imagined, the little devil would be frightened, and would jump out with a squeak, and leap through the window.

  Nevertheless Yevsey was afraid of Filip Filippovich. In order not to attract to himself the gobbling look of his blue glasses, he sat as far as possible from him, trying the entire time not to move.

  “Gentlemen,” the thin voice trembled in the air. It drove against Yevsey’s breast unpleasantly and coldly, like a gleaming steel rod. “Gentlemen, you must listen to me carefully. You must remember my words. In these days everyone of you should put your entire mind, your entire soul, into the war with the secret and cunning enemy. You should listen to your orders and fulfil them strictly, though you may act on your own initiative, too. In the secret war for the life of your mother Russia, you must know, all means are permissible. The revolutionists are not squeamish as to the means they employ; they do not stop at murder. Remember how many of your comrades have perished at their hands. I do not tell you to kill. No, of course not. I cannot advise such measures. To kill a man requires no cleverness. Every fool can kill. Yet the law is with you. You go against the lawless. It would be criminal to be merciful toward them. They must be rooted out like noxious weeds. I say, you must for yourselves find out what is the best way to stifle the rising revolution. It isn’t I who demand this of you; it is the Czar and the country.” After a pause during which he examined his rings, he went on. “You, gentlemen, have too little energy, too little love for your honest calling. For instance, you have let the old revolutionist Saydakov slip. I now know that he lived in our city for three and a half months. Secondly, up to this time you have failed to find the printing office.”

  “Without provocators it is hard,” someone ventured in an offended tone.

  “Don’t interrupt, if you please. I myself know what is hard, and what is easy. Up to this time you have not been able to gather serious evidence against a whole lot of people known for their seditious tendencies, and you cannot give me any grounds for their arrest.”

  “Arrest them without grounds,” said Piotr with a laugh.

  “What is the object of your facetiousness? I am speaking seriously. If you were to arrest them without grounds, we should simply have to let them go again. That’s all. And to you personally, Piotr Petrovich, I want to remark that you promised something a long time ago. Do you remember? You likewise, Krasavin. You said you had succeeded in becoming acquainted with a man who might lead you to the Terrorists. Well, and what has come of it?”

  “He turned out to be a cheat. You just wait. I’ll do my business,” Krasavin answered calmly.

  “I have no doubt of it whatsoever, but I beg all of you to understand that we must work more energetically, we must hurry matters up.”

  Filip Filippovich discoursed a long time, sometimes a whole hour, without taking breath, calmly, in the same level tone. The only words that varied the monotonous flow were “You must.” The “you” came out resonantly like a long-drawn hammer-blow, the “must,” in a drawled hiss. He embraced everybody in his glassy blue look. His words fairly choked Yevsey.

  Once at the end of a meeting, when Sasha and Yevsey were the only ones who remained with Filip Filippovich, Yevsey heard the following colloquy:

  Filip Filippovich (glumly, dejectedly): What idiots they are, though!

  Sasha (snuffling): Aha!

  Filip Filippovich: Yes, yes, what can they do?

  Sasha: It seems that now you are going to learn the value of decent people.

  Filip Filippovich: Well, give them to me. Give them to me.

  Sasha: Ah, they cost dear!

  Klimkov was neither surprised nor offended. This was not the first time he had heard the authorities swear at their subordinates. He counted it in the regular order of life.

  The spies after the meetings spoke to one another thus:

  “Um, yes, a converted Jew, and just look at him!”

  “They say he got a raise of rubles the first of the year.”

  “The value of our labor is growing.”

  Sometimes a handsome, richly dressed gentleman by the name of Leontyev addressed the spies in place of Filip Filippovich. He did not remain seated, but walked up and down the room holding his hands in his pockets, politely stepping out of everybody’s way. His smooth face, always drawn in a frown, was cold and repellant, his thin lips moved reluctantly, and his eyes were veiled.

  Another man named Yasnogursky came from St. Petersburg for the same purpose. He was a low, broad-shouldered, bald man with an order on his breast. He had a large mouth, a wizened face, heavy eyes, like two little stones, and long hands. He spoke in a loud voice, smacking his lips, and pouring out streams of strong oaths. One sentence of his particularly impressed itself on Yevsey’s memory:

  “They say to the people, ‘You can arrange another, an easy life for yourselves.’ They lie, my children. The Emperor our Czar and our Holy Church arrange life, while the people can change nothing, nothing.”

  All the speakers said the same thing: the political agents must serve more zealously, must work more, must be cleverer, because the revolutionists were growing more and more powerful. Sometimes they told about the Czars, how good and wise they were, how the foreigners feared them and envied them because they had liberated various nations from the foreign yoke. They had freed the Bulgarians and the Servians from the oppression of the Turkish Sultan, the Khivans, the Bokharans, and the Turkomans from the Persian Shah, and the Manchurians from the Chinese Emperor. As a result, the Germans and the English along with the Japanese, who were bribed by them, were dissatisfied. They would like to get the nations Russia had liberated into their own power. But they knew the Czar would not permit this, and that was why they hated him, why they wished him all evil, and endeavored to bring about the revolution in Russia.

  Yevsey listened to these speeches with interest, waiting for the moment when the speakers would begin to tell about the Russian people, and explain why all of them were unpleasant and cruel, why they loved to torture one another, and lived such a restless, uncomfortable life. He wanted to hear what the cause was of such poverty, of the universal fear, and the angry groans heard on all sides. But of such things no one spoke.

  After one of the meetings Viekov said to Yevsey as the two were walking in the street:

  “So it means that they are getting into power. Did you hear? It’s impossible to understand what it signifies. Just see—here you have secret people who live hidden, and suddenly they cause general alarm, and shake everything up. It’s very hard to comprehend. From where, I’d like to know, do they get their power?”

  Melnikov, now even more morose and tac
iturn, grown thin and all dishevelled, once hit his fist on his knee, and shouted:

  “I want to know where the truth is!”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Maklakov angrily.

  “What’s the matter? This is the matter: I understand it this way: One class of officials has grown weak, our class. Now another class gets the power over the people, that’s all.”

  “And the result is—fiddlesticks!” said Maklakov, laughing.

  Melnikov looked at him, and sighed:

  “Don’t lie, Timofey Vasilyevich. You lie out and out. You are a wise man, and you lie. I understand.”

  Thoughts instinctively arose in the dark depths of Yevsey’s soul. He did not realize how they formed themselves, did not feel their secret growth. They appeared suddenly, in perfect array, and frightened him by their unexpected apparition. He endeavored to hide them, to extinguish them for a time, but unsuccessfully. They quietly flashed up again, and shone more clearly, though their light only cast life into still greater obscurity. The frequent conversations about the revolutionists blocked themselves up in his head, creating an insensible sediment in his mind, a thin strata of fresh soil for the growth of puny thoughts. These thoughts disquieted him, and drew him gently to something unknown.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  While on his way to Masha to take part in her birthday celebration, the thought occurred to Yevsey:

  “I am going to get acquainted with the joiner today. He’s a revolutionist.”

  Yevsey was the first guest to arrive. He gave Masha a string of blue beads, and Anfisa a shell comb. In return for the gifts, with which both were greatly pleased, they treated him to tea and nalivka (a sort of wine made of berries with whiskey or water). Masha prettily arching her full white neck looked into his face with a kind smile. Her glance softly caressed his heart, enlivened and emboldened him. Anfisa poured the tea and said winking her eyes:

  “Well, merchant, you are our generous donor. When will we celebrate your wedding?”

  Yevsey trying not to show his embarrassment, said quietly and confidingly:

  “I cannot decide to get married. It’s very hard.”

  “Hard? Oh, you modest man! Marya, do you hear? He says it’s hard to get married.”

  Masha smiled in answer to the cook’s loud laugh, looking at Klimkov from the corner of her eyes.

  “Maybe he has his own meaning of hard.”

  “Yes, I have my own meaning,” said Yevsey, raising his head. “You see I am thinking of the fact that it is hard to find a person with whom you can live soul to soul, so that the one would not fear the other. It is hard to find a person whom you could believe.”

  Masha sat beside him. He glanced sidewise at her neck and breast, and sighed.

  “Suppose I were to tell them where I work.”

  He started, frightened by the desire, and with a quick effort he suppressed it.

  “If a man does not understand life,” he continued, raising his voice, “it’s better for him to remain alone.”

  “For one person to live all alone is hard, too,” said Masha, pouring out another glass of nalivka for him. “Drink.”

  Yevsey longed to speak much and openly. He observed that the women listened to him willingly; and this in conjunction with the two glasses of wine aroused him. But the journalist’s servant girl Liza, who came in at that moment also excited, at once usurped the attention of Anfisa and Masha. She was bony and had a cast in one eye. Her hair was handsomely dressed, and she was cleverly gowned. With her sprightly manner she seemed a good forward little girl.

  “My good people invited guests for today, and did not want to let me go,” she said sitting down. “‘Well,’ said I, ‘you can do as you please.’ And I went off. Let them bother themselves.”

  “Many guests?” Klimkov asked wearily, remembering his duty.

  “A good many. But what sort of guests! Not one of them ever sticks a dime into your hand. On New Year’s all I got was two rubles and thirty kopeks.”

  “So they’re not rich?” asked Yevsey.

  “Oh, rich! No! Not one of them has a whole overshoe.”

  “Who are they? What’s their business?”

  “Different things. Some write for the newspapers, another is simply a student. Oh, what a good fellow one of them is! He has black eyebrows, and curly hair, and a cute little mustache, white, even teeth—a lively, jolly fellow. He came from Siberia not long ago. He keeps talking about hunting.”

  Yevsey looked at Liza, and bent his head. He wanted to say “Stop!” to her. Instead he apathetically asked, “I suppose he must have been exiled.”

  “Who can tell? Maybe. My master and mistress were exiles, too. The sergeant told me so.”

  “Yes, who nowadays hasn’t been an exile?” exclaimed the cook. “I lived at Popov’s, an engineer, a rich man. He had his own house and horses and was getting ready to marry. Suddenly the gendarmes came at night, seized him, and broke up everything, and then he was sent off to Siberia.”

  “I don’t condemn my people,” Liza interrupted, “not a bit of it. They are good folks. They don’t scold. They’re not grasping. Altogether they’re not like other people. And they’re very interesting. They know everything and speak about everything.”

  Yevsey looked at Masha’s ruddy face, and thought:

  “I’d better go; I’ll ask her about her master next time. But I can’t make up my mind to go. If only she kept quiet, the silly!”

  “Our people understand everything, too,” Masha announced with pride.

  “When that affair happened, that revolt in St. Petersburg,” Liza began with animation, “they stayed up nights at a time talking.”

  “Why our people were in your house then,” observed the nurse.

  “Yes, indeed, there were lots of people at the house. They talked, and wrote complaints. One of them even began to cry. Upon my word!”

  “There’s enough to cry about,” sighed the cook.

  “He clutched his head, and sobbed. ‘Unhappy Russia!’ he said, ‘Unhappy people that we are!’ They gave him water, and even I got sorry for everybody, and began to cry.”

  Masha looked around frightened.

  “God, when I think of my sister!” She rose and went into the cook’s room. The women looked after her sympathetically. Klimkov sighed with relief. Against his will he asked Liza wearily and with an effort:

  “To whom did they write complaints?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Liza.

  “Marya went off to cry,” remarked the cook.

  The door opened, and the cook’s brother entered coughing.

  “It’s chilly,” he said, untwisting the scarf from his neck.

  “Here, take a drink, quick!”

  “Yes, indeed. And here’s health to you.”

  He was a thin person, who moved about freely and deliberately. The gravity of his voice did not accord very well with his small light beard and his sharp, somewhat bald skull. His face was small, thin, insignificant, his eyes, large and hazel.

  “A revolutionist,” was Yevsey’s mental observation, as he silently pressed the joiner’s hand.

  “Time for me to be going,” he announced unexpectedly to everybody.

  “Where to?” cried Anfisa, unceremoniously seizing his hand. “Say, you merchant, don’t break up our company. Look, Matvey, what a present he gave me.”

  Zimin looked at Yevsey, and said thoughtfully:

  “Yesterday they got another order in our factory for fifteen thousand rubles. A drawing-room, a cabinet, a bed-room, and a salon—four rooms. All the orders come from the military. They stole a whole lot of money, and now they want to live after the latest fashion.”

  “There you are!” Yevsey exclaimed mentally, vexed and heated. “Begins the minute he comes in! Oh, Lord!”

  He felt a painful ach
e in his chest, as if something inside him had been torn. Without thinking of what his question would lead to, he quickly asked the joiner:

  “Are there any revolutionists in the factory?”

  As if touched to the quick, Zimin quickly turned to him, and looked into his eyes. The cook frowned, and said in a voice dissatisfied but not loud:

  “They say revolutionists are everywhere nowadays.”

  “From smartness or stupidity?” asked Liza.

  Unable to withstand the hard searching look of the joiner, Klimkov slowly bowed his head, though he followed the workingman with a sidelong glance.

  “Why does that interest you?” Zimin inquired politely but sternly.

  “I have no interest in it,” Yevsey answered lazily.

  “Ah! Then why do you ask?”

  “Just so,” said Yevsey; and in a few seconds added, “Out of politeness.”

  The joiner smiled.

  It seemed to Yevsey that three pairs of eyes were looking at him suspiciously and severely. He felt awkward, and something bitter nipped his throat. Masha came out of the cook’s room, smiling guiltily. When she looked at the others’ faces, the smile disappeared.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s the wine,” flashed through Yevsey’s mind. He rose to his feet, shook himself, and said. “Don’t think I asked for no reason at all. I asked because I wanted to tell her long ago—your sister—about you.”

  Zimin also rose. His face gathered in wrinkles, and turned yellow.

  “What can you tell her about me?” he asked with calm dignity.

  Masha’s quiet whisper reached Yevsey’s ear. “What’s up between them?”

  “Wait,” said Anfisa.

  “I know,” said Yevsey. He had the sensation that he was being swung from the floor into the air light as a feather. He seemed to see everything, observe everything with marvellous plainness. “I know you’re being followed—followed by the agents of the Department of Safety, I know you’re a revolutionist.”