by Maxim Gorky
Yesterday, the shopkeeper, Ivan Andreevitch Petounnikoff, was in the yard of the doss-house with his son and an architect. They made a survey of the yard and stuck in pegs all over the place, which, after Petounnikoff had left, the captain ordered “The Meteor” to pull up and throw away.
The shopkeeper was for ever before the captain’s eyes—short, lean, shrivelled up, dressed in a long garment something between an overcoat and a kaftan, with a velvet cap on his head, and wearing long, brightly polished boots. With prominent cheek-bones and a grey, sharp-pointed beard; a high, wrinkled forehead, from under which peeped narrow, grey, half-closed, watchful eyes; a hooked, gristly nose and thin-lipped mouth—taken altogether, the merchant gave the impression of being piously rapacious and venerably wicked.
“Damned offspring of a fox and a sow!” said the captain angrily to himself, as he recalled some words of Petounnikoff’s.
The merchant had come with a member of the town council to look at the house, and at the sight of the captain he had asked his companion in the abrupt dialect of Kostroma—
“Is that your tenant—that lunatic at large?”
And since that time, more than eighteen months ago, they had rivalled each other in the art of insult.
Yesterday again there had been a slight interchange of “holy words,” as the captain called his conversations with the merchant. After having seen the architect off, Petounnikoff approached the captain.
“What, still sitting—always sitting?” asked he, touching the peak of his cap in a way that left it uncertain whether he were fixing it on his head or bowing.
“And you—you are still on the prowl,” echoed the captain, jerking out his lower jaw and making his beard wag in a way that might be taken for a bow by anyone not too exacting in these matters; it might also have been interpreted as the act of removing his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“I’ve plenty of money; that’s why I’m always on the go. Money needs putting out, so I’m obliged to keep it moving,” says the shopkeeper in an aggravating voice to the other, screwing up his eyes slyly.
“Which means that you are the slave of money, and not money your slave,” replies Kouvalda, resisting an intense desire to kick his enemy in the stomach.
“It’s all the same either way where money is concerned. But if you have no money!”—and the shopkeeper looked at the captain with bold but feigned compassion, while his trembling upper lip showed large, wolfish teeth.
“Anyone with a head on his shoulders and with a good conscience can do without it. Money generally comes when the conscience begins to grow a little out-at-elbows. The less honesty the more money!”
“That’s true, but there are some people who have neither honesty nor money.”
“That describes you when you were young, no doubt,” said Kouvalda innocently.
Petounnikoff wrinkles his nose, he sighs, closes his narrow eyes, and says, “Ah! when I was young, what heavy burdens I had to bear!”
“Yes, I should think so!”
“I worked! Oh, how I worked!”
“Yes, you worked at outwitting others!”
“People like you and the nobility—what does it matter? Many of them have, thanks to me, learnt to extend the hand in Christ’s name.”
“Ah! then you did not assassinate, you only robbed?” interrupted the captain.
Petounnikoff turns a sickly green and thinks it is time to change the conversation.
“You are not an over polite host; you remain sitting while your visitor stands.”
“Well, he can sit down.”
“There is nothing to sit on.”
“There is the ground. The ground never rejects any filth!”
“You prove that rule, but I had better leave you, you blackguard!” says Petounnikoff coolly, though his eyes dart cold venom at the captain.
He went off leaving Kouvalda with the agreeable sensation that the merchant was afraid of him. If it were not so he would have turned him out of the doss-house long ago. It was not for the five roubles a month that the Jew let him remain on!… And the captain watches with pleasure the slowly retreating back of Petounnikoff, as he walks slowly away. Kouvalda’s eyes still follow the merchant as he climbs up and down the scaffolding of his new building. He feels an intense desire that the merchant should fall and break his back. How many times has he not conjured up results of this imaginary fall, as he has sat watching Petounnikoff crawling about the scaffolding of his new factory, like a spider crawling about its net. Yesterday he had even imagined that one of the boards had given way under the weight of the merchant; and Kouvalda had jumped out of his seat with excitement—but nothing had come of it.
And to-day, as always, before the eyes of Aristide Kouvalda stands the great red building, so foursquare, so solid, so firmly fixed into the ground, as if already drawing from thence its nourishment. It seemed as if mocking the captain through the cold dark yawning openings in its walls. And the sun poured on its autumn rays with the same prodigality as on the distorted tumble-down little houses of the neighbourhood.
“But what if?” exclaimed the captain to himself, measuring with his eye the factory wall. “What if?”
Aroused and excited by the thought which had come into his mind, Aristide Kouvalda jumped up and hastened over to Vaviloff’s vodka shop, smiling, and muttering something to himself. Vaviloff met him at the counter with a friendly exclamation: “How is your Excellency this morning?”
Vaviloff was a man of medium height, with a bald head surrounded by a fringe of grey hair; with clean-shaved cheeks, and moustache bristly as a toothbrush. Upright and active, in a dirty braided jacket, every movement betrayed the old soldier, the former non-commissioned officer.
“Jegor! Have you the deeds and the plan of your house and property?” Kouvalda asked hastily.
“Yes, I have.”
And Vaviloff closed his suspicious thievish eyes and scrutinised the captain’s face, in which he observed something out of the common.
“Just show them to me!” exclaimed the captain, thumping on the counter with his fist, and dropping on to a stool.
“What for?” asked Vaviloff, who decided, in view of the captain’s state of excitement, to be on his guard.
“You fool! Bring them at once!”
Vaviloff wrinkled his forehead, and looked up inquiringly at the ceiling.
“By the bye, where the devil are those papers?”
Not finding any information on this question on the ceiling, the old soldier dropped his eyes towards the ground, and began thoughtfully drumming with his fingers on the counter.
“Stop those antics!” shouted Kouvalda, who had no love for the old soldier; as, according to the captain, it was better for a former non-commissioned officer to be a thief than a keeper of a vodka shop.
“Well now, Aristide Kouvalda, I think I remember! I believe those papers were left at the law-courts at the time when”—
“Jegorka! stop this fooling. It’s to your own interest to do so. Show me the plans, the deed of sale, and all that you have got at once! Perhaps you will gain by this more than a hundred roubles! Do you understand now?”
Vaviloff understood nothing; but the captain spoke in such an authoritative and serious tone that the eyes of the old soldier sparkled with intense curiosity; and saying that he would go and see if the papers were not in his strong box, he disappeared behind the door of the counter. In a few moments he returned with the papers in his hand, and a look of great surprise on his coarse face.
“Just see! The damned things were after all in the house!”
“You circus clown! Who would think you had been a soldier!”
Kouvalda could not resist trying to shame him, whilst snatching from his hands the cotton case containing the blue legal paper. Then he spread the papers out before him, thus exciting more and mo
re the curiosity of Vaviloff, and began reading and scrutinising them; uttering from time to time interjections in a meaning tone. Finally, he rose with an air of decision, went to the door leaving the papers on the counter, shouting out to Vaviloff—
“Wait a moment! Don’t put them away yet!” Vaviloff gathered up the papers, put them in his cash box, locked it, felt to see that it was securely fastened. Then rubbing his bald head, he went and stood in the doorway of his shop. There he saw the captain measuring with his stride the length of the front of the vodka shop, whilst he snapped his fingers from time to time, and once more began his measurements—anxious but satisfied.
Vaviloff’s face wore at first a worried expression; then it grew long, and at last it suddenly beamed with joy.
“’Ristide Fomitch! Is it possible?” he exclaimed, as the captain drew near.
“Of course it’s possible! More than a yard has been taken off! That’s only as far as the frontage is concerned; as to the depth, I will see about that now!”
“The depth is thirty-two yards!”
“Well, I see you’ve guessed what I’m after. You stupid fool!”
“Well, you’re a wonder,’Ristide Fomitch! You’ve an eye that sees two yards into the ground!” exclaimed the delighted Vaviloff. A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other in Vaviloff’s room, and the captain was swallowing great gulps of beer, and saying to the landlord—
“You see, therefore, all the factory wall stands on your ground. Act without mercy. When the schoolmaster comes we will draw up a report for the law-courts. We will reckon the damages at a moderate figure, so that the revenue stamps shan’t cost us too much, but we will ask that the wall shall be pulled down. This sort of thing, you fool, is called a violation of boundaries, and it’s a stroke of luck for you! To pull a great wall like that down and move it farther back is not such an easy business, and costs no end of money. Now’s your chance for squeezing Judah! We will make a calculation of what the pulling down will cost, taking into consideration the value of the broken bricks and the cost of digging out the new foundations. We will calculate everything, even the value of the time, and then, O just Judah, what do you say to two thousand roubles?”
“He won’t give it!” exclaimed Vaviloff anxiously, blinking his eyes, which were sparkling with greedy fire.
“Let him try and get out of it! Just look, what can he do? There will be nothing for him but to pull it down. But look out, Jegor! Don’t let yourself be worsted in the bargain. They will try and buy you off! Mind you don’t let them off too easily! They will try and frighten you; don’t you be afraid; rely on us to back you up!”
The captain’s eyes burnt with wild delight, and his face, purple with excitement, twitched nervously. He had succeeded in arousing the greed of the gin-shop keeper, and after having persuaded him to commence proceedings as soon as possible, went off triumphant, and implacably revengeful.
That evening all the outcasts learnt the discovery that the captain had made, and discussed eagerly the future proceedings of Petounnikoff, representing to themselves vividly his astonishment and anger the day when he should have the copy of the lawsuit presented to him. The captain was the hero of the day. He was happy, and all around were pleased. A heap of dark tattered figures lay about in the yard, talking noisily and eagerly, animated by the important event. All knew Petounnikoff, who often passed near them, blinking his eyes disdainfully, and paying as little attention to them as he did to the rest of the rubbish lying about in the yard. He was a picture of self-satisfaction, and this irritated them; even his boots seemed to shine disdainfully at them. But now the shopkeeper’s pocket and his self-esteem were going to be hurt by one of themselves! Wasn’t that an excellent joke?
Evil had a singular attraction for these people; it was the only weapon which came easily to their hands, and which was within their reach. For a long time now, each of them had cultivated within himself dim half-conscious feelings of keen hatred against all who, unlike themselves, were neither hungry nor ragged. This was why all the outcasts felt such an intense interest in the war declared by Kouvalda against the shopkeeper Petounnikoff. Two whole weeks the dwellers in the doss-house had been living on the expectation of new developments, and during all that time Petounnikoff did not once come to visit the almost completed building. They assured each other that he was out of town, and that the summons had not therefore yet been served upon him. Kouvalda raged against the delays of civil procedure. It is doubtful if anyone ever awaited the arrival of the shopkeeper so impatiently as did these tramps.
“He comes not, he comes not!
Alas! he loves me not!”
sang the Deacon Tarass, leaning his chin on his hand, and gazing with a comically sad expression up the hill.
But one fine day, towards evening, Petounnikoff appeared. He arrived in a strong light cart, driven by his son, a young man with red cheeks and wearing a long checked overcoat, and smoked blue spectacles. They tied up the horse; the son drew from his pocket a tape measure, gave one end of it to his father, and both of them silently, and with anxious expressions, began measuring the ground.
“Ah!” exclaimed triumphantly the captain.
All who were about the doss-house went and stood outside the gate watching the proceedings and expressing aloud their opinions on what was going forward.
“See what it is to have the habit of stealing! A man steals unconsciously, not intending to steal, and thereby risks more than he can gain,” said the captain, with mock sympathy; thereby arousing laughter among his bodyguard, and provoking a whole string of remarks in the same strain.
“Look out, you rogue!” at length exclaimed Petounnikoff, exasperated by these jibes. “If you don’t mind I’ll have you up before the magistrate.”
“It’s of no use without witnesses, and a son can’t give evidence for a father,” the captain reminded him.
“All right; we shall see! Though you seem such a bold leader, you may find your match some day.”
And Petounnikoff shook his forefinger at him. The son, quiet and deeply interested in his calculations, paid no heed to this group of squalid figures, who were cruelly mocking his father. He never looked once towards them.
“The young spider is well trained!” remarked “Scraps,” who was following the actions and the movements of the younger Petounnikoff.
Having taken all the necessary measurements, Ivan Andreevitch frowned, climbed silently into his cart, and drove off, whilst his son, with firm, decided steps, entered Vaviloff’s vodka shop, and disappeared.
“He’s a precious young thief! that he is. We shall see what comes of it!” said Kouvalda.
“What will come of it? Why, Petounnikoff junior will square Jegor Vaviloff!” remarked “Scraps,” with great assurance, smacking his lips, and with a look of keen satisfaction on his cunning face.
“That would please you, perhaps?” asked Kouvalda severely.
“It pleases me to see human calculations go wrong!” explained “Scraps,” blinking his eyes and rubbing his hands.
The captain spat angrily, and kept silence. The rest of them, standing at the gate of the tumbledown house, watched silently the door of the vodka shop. An hour and more passed in this silent expectation. At length the door opened, and young Petounnikoff appeared, looking as calm as when he had entered. He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, raised his coat collar, glanced at those who were watching his movements, and turned up the street towards the town.
The captain watched him till he was out of sight, and, turning towards “Scraps,” smiled ironically and said—
“It seems, after all, as if you might be right, you son of a scorpion and of a centipede! You smell out everything that’s evil. One can see by the dirty mug of the young rogue that he has got his own way! I wonder how much Jegor has screwed out of him? He’s got something, that’s sure! They’re birds of a feather. I
’m damned if I haven’t arranged it all for them. It’s cursed hard to think what a fool I’ve been. You see, mates, life is dead against us. One can’t even spit into one’s neighbour’s face—the spittle flies back into one’s own eyes.”
Consoling himself with this speech, the venerable captain glanced at his bodyguard. All were disappointed, for all felt that what had taken place between Vaviloff and Petounnikoff had turned out differently from what they had expected, and all felt annoyed. The consciousness of being unable to cause evil is more obnoxious to men than the consciousness of being unable to do good; it is so simple and so easy to do evil!
“Well! what’s the use of sticking here? We have nothing to wait for except for Jegorka to stand us treat,” said the captain, glowering angrily at the vodka shop. “It’s all up with our peaceful and happy life under Judah’s roof. He’ll send us packing now; so I give you all notice, my brigade of sans-culottes!”
“The End” laughed morosely.
“Now then, gaoler, what’s the matter with you?” asked Kouvalda.
“Where the devil am I to go?”
“That indeed is a serious question, my friend. But never fear, your fate will decide it for you,” said the captain, turning towards the doss-house.
The outcasts followed him idly.
“We shall await the critical moment,” said the captain, walking along with them. “When we get the sack there will be time enough to look out for another shelter. Meanwhile, what’s the use of spoiling life with troubles like that? It is at critical moments that man rises to the occasion, and if life as a whole were to consist of nothing but critical moments, if one had to tremble every minute of one’s life for the safety of one’s carcass, I’ll be hanged if life wouldn’t be more lively, and people more interesting!”
