by Maxim Gorky
“Which would mean that people would fly at each other’s throats more savagely than they do now,” explained “Scraps,” smiling.
“Well, what of that?” struck in the captain, who did not care to have his ideas enlarged on.
“Nothing! nothing! It’s all right—when one wants to get to one’s destination quickly, one thrashes the horse, or one stokes up one’s machine.”
“Yes, that’s it; let everything go full speed to the devil. I should be only too glad if the earth would suddenly take fire, burst up, and go to pieces, only I should like to be the last man left, to see the others.”
“You’re a nice one!” sneered “Scraps.”
“What of that? I’m an outcast, am I not? I’m freed from all chains and fetters; therefore I can spit at everything. By the very nature of the life I lead now, I am bound to drop everything to do with the past—all fine manners and conventional ideas of people who are well fed, and well dressed, and who despise me because I am not equally well fed and dressed. So I have to cultivate in myself something fresh and new—don’t you see—something you know which will make people like Judah Petounnikoff, when they pass by me, feel a cold shudder run down their backs!”
“You have a bold tongue!” sneered “Scraps.”
“You miserable wretch!” Kouvalda scanned him disdainfully. “What do you understand, what do you know? You don’t even know how to think! But I have thought much, I have read books of which you would not have understood a word.”
“Oh, I know I’m not fit to black the boots of such a learned man! But though you have read and thought so much, and I have done neither the one nor the other, yet we are not after all so far apart.”
“Go to the devil!” exclaimed Kouvalda.
His conversations with “Scraps” always finished in this way. When the schoolmaster was not about, the captain knew well that his speeches were only wasted, and were lost for want of understanding and appreciation. But for all that, he couldn’t help talking, and now, having snubbed his interlocutor, he felt himself lonely amongst the others. His desire for conversation was not, however, satisfied, and he turned therefore to Simtzoff with a question.
“And you, Alexai Maximovitch, where will you lay your old head?”
The old man smiled good-naturedly, rubbed his nose with his hand, and explained—
“Don’t know! Shall see by and by. I’m not of much account. A glass of vodka, that’s all I want.”
“A very praiseworthy ambition, and very simple,” said the captain.
After a short silence Simtzoff added that he would find shelter more easily than the rest, because the women liked him.
This was true, for the old man had always two or three mistresses among the prostitutes, who would keep him sometimes for two or three days at a time on their scant earnings. They often beat him, but he took it stoically. For some reason or other they never hurt him much; perhaps they pitied him. He was a great admirer of women, but added that they were the cause of all his misfortunes in life. The close terms on which he lived with women, and the character of their relations towards him, were shown by the fact that his clothes were always neatly mended, and cleaner than the clothes of his companions. Seated now on the ground at the door of the doss-house amidst his mates, he boastfully related that he had for some time been asked by Riedka to go and live with her, but that he had till now refused, not wanting to give up the present company.
He was listened to with interest, mingled with envy. All knew Riedka; she lived not far down the hill, and only a few months ago she came out of prison after serving a second term for theft. She had formerly been a wet nurse; a tall, stout, strapping countrywoman, with a pock-marked face, and fine eyes, somewhat dulled by drink.
“The old rogue!” cursed “Scraps,” watching Simtzoff, who smiled with self-satisfaction.
“And do you know why they all like me? Because I understand what their souls need.”
“Indeed?” exclaimed Kouvalda interrogatively.
“I know how to make women pity me. And when a woman’s pity is aroused, she can even kill, out of pure pity! Weep before her, and implore her to kill; she will have pity on you, and will kill.”
“It’s I who would kill!” exclaimed Martianoff, in a decided voice, with a dark scowl.
“Whom do you mean?” asked “Scraps,” edging away from him.
“It’s all the same to me! Petounnikoff—Jegorka—you if you like!”
“Why?” asked Kouvalda, with aroused interest.
“I want to be sent to Siberia. I’m tired of this stupid life. There one will know what to do with one’s life.”
“H’m!” said the captain reflectively. “You will indeed know what to do with your life there!”
Nothing more was spoken about Petounnikoff, nor of their impending expulsion from the doss-house. All were sure that this expulsion was imminent, was perhaps a matter of a few days only; and they therefore considered it useless to discuss the point further. Discussion wouldn’t make it easier; besides, it was not cold yet, though the rainy season had begun. One could sleep on the ground anywhere outside the town.
Seated in a circle on the grass, they chatted idly and aimlessly, changing easily from one topic to another, and paying only just as much attention to the words of their companions as was absolutely necessary to prevent the conversation from dropping. It was a nuisance to have to be silent, but it was equally a nuisance to have to listen with attention. This society of the outcasts had one great virtue: no one ever made an effort to appear better than he was, nor forced others to try and appear better than they were.
The August sun was shedding its warmth impartially on the rags that covered theirs back and on their uncombed heads—a chaotic blending of animal, vegetable, and mineral matter. In the corners of the yard, weeds grew luxuriantly—tall agrimony, all covered with prickles, and other useless plants, whose growth rejoiced the eyes of none but these equally useless people.
In Vaviloff’s vodka shop the following scene had—been going forward.
Petounnikoff junior entered, leisurely looked around, made a disdainful grimace, and slowly removing his grey hat, asked the landlord, who met him with an amiable bow and a respectful smile—
“Are you Jegor Terentievitch Vaviloff?”
“That’s myself!” answered the old soldier, leaning on the counter with both hands, as if ready with one bound to jump over.
“I have some business to transact with you,” said Petounnikoff.
“Delighted! Won’t you come into the back room?”
They went into the back part of the house, and sat down before a round table; the visitor on a sofa covered with oilcloth, and the host on a chair opposite to him.
In one corner of the room a lamp burnt before a shrine, around which on the walls hung eikons, the gold backgrounds of which were carefully burnished, and shone as if new. In the room, piled up with boxes and old furniture, there was a mingled smell of paraffin oil, of tobacco, and of sour cabbage. Petounnikoff glanced around, and made another grimace. Vaviloff with a sigh glanced up at the images, and then they scrutinised each other attentively, and each produced on the other a favourable impression. Petounnikoff was pleased with Vaviloff’s frankly thievish eyes, and Vaviloff was satisfied with the cold, decided countenance of Petounnikoff, with its broad jaw and strong white teeth.
“You know me, of course, and can guess my errand,” began Petounnikoff.
“About the summons, I guess,” replied the old soldier respectfully.
“Just so! I’m glad to see that you are straightforward, and attack the matter like an open-hearted man,” continued Petounnikoff encouragingly.
“You see I’m a soldier,” modestly suggested the other.
“I can see that. Let us tackle this business as quickly and as straightforwardly as possible, and get it over.”
“By all means!”
“Your complaint is quite in order, and there is no doubt but that you have right on your side. I think it better to tell you that at once.”
“Much obliged to you,” said the soldier, blinking his eyes to conceal a smile.
“But I should like to know why you thought it best to begin an acquaintance with us, your future neighbours, so unpleasantly—with a lawsuit?” Vaviloff shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.
“It would have been better for you to have come to us, and we could have arranged matters between us. Don’t you think so?”
“That indeed would have been pleasanter. But, don’t you see? there was a little hitch. I didn’t act altogether on my own. I was set on by someone else; afterwards I understood what would have been best, but it was too late then.”
“That’s just it. I suppose it was some lawyer who put you up to it!”
“Something of that sort”
“Yes, yes. And now you are willing to settle things out of court?”
“That’s my great wish!” exclaimed the soldier. Petounnikoff remained silent for a moment, then glanced at the landlord and said in an abrupt, dry voice—
“And why do you wish it now, may I ask?” Vaviloff did not expect this question, and was not prepared for an immediate answer. He considered it an idle question, and shrugging his shoulders with a look of superiority, smiled sneeringly at Petounnikoff:
“Why? Well, it’s easy to understand: because one must live with others in peace.”
“Come!” interrupted Petounnikoff, “it isn’t altogether that! I see you don’t clearly understand yourself why it is so necessary for you to live in peace with us. I will explain it to you.”
The soldier was slightly surprised. This queerlooking young fellow in his check suit was holding forth to him just as Commander Rashkin used to do, who when he got angry would knock out three teeth at a time from the head of one of his troopers.
“It is necessary for you to live in peace with us because it will be profitable to you to have us as neighbours. And it will be profitable because we shall employ at least a hundred and fifty workmen at first, and more as time goes on. If a hundred of these on each weekly pay-day drink a glass of vodka, it means that during the month you will sell four hundred glasses more than you do at present. This is taking it at the lowest calculation; besides that, there’s the catering for them. You don’t seem a fool, and you’ve had some experience; don’t you see now the advantage that our neighbourhood will be to you?”
“It’s true!” said Vaviloff, nodding his head. “I knew it.”
“Well then”—
The young merchant raised his voice.
“Oh! nothing. Let’s arrange terms.”
“I’m delighted you make up your mind so promptly. I have here a declaration prepared in readiness, declaring that you are willing to stop proceedings against my father. Read it and sign it.”
Vaviloff glanced with round eyes at his interlocutor, with a presentiment that something exceedingly disagreeable was coming.
“Wait a moment. Sign what? What do you mean?”
“Simply write your name and your family name here,” said Petounnikoff, politely pointing out with his finger the place left for the signature.
“That’s not what I mean—that is, I mean, what compensation will you give me for the land?”
“The land is of no use to you,” said Petounnikoff soothingly.
“Still it’s mine!” exclaimed the soldier.
“To be sure. But how much would you claim?”
“Well, let’s say the sum named in the summons. The amount is stated there,” suggested Vaviloff hesitatingly.
“Six hundred?” Petounnikoff laughed as if highly amused. “That’s a good joke!”
“I have a right to it! I can even claim two thousand! I can insist on your pulling down the wall; and that is what I want. That’s why the sum claimed is so small. I demand that you should pull it down!”
“Go on with it then! We shall perhaps have to pull it down, but not for two or three years—not till you have been involved in heavy law expenses. After that we shall open a vodka shop of our own, which will be better than yours, and you will go to the wall! You’ll be ruined, my friend; we’ll take care of that. We might be taking steps to start the vodka shop at once, but we are busy just now, have got our hands full; besides, we are sorry for you. Why should one take the bread out of a man’s mouth without a reason?”
Jegor Terentievitch clenched his teeth, feeling that his visitor held his fate in his hands. Vaviloff felt pity for himself, brought face to face as he was with this cold, mercenary, implacable person in his ridiculous check suit.
“And living so near us, and being on friendly terms with us, you, my friend, might have turned a pretty penny. We might have helped you also; for instance, I should advise you at once to open a little shop—tobacco, matches, bread, cucumbers, and so on. You’d find plenty of customers.”
Vaviloff listened, and not being a fool, understood that the best for him at present was to trust to the generosity of his enemy. In fact, he ought to have begun by that; and not being able any longer to conceal his anger and his humiliation, he burst out into loud imprecations against Kouvalda.
“Drunkard! Cursed swine—may the devil take him!”
“That’s meant for the lawyer who worded your report?” asked Petounnikoff quietly, and added with a sigh: “Indeed he might have served you a bad turn, if we hadn’t taken pity on you!”
“Ah!” sighed the distressed soldier, letting his hands fall in despair. “There were two of them—one started the business, and the other did the writing, the cursed scribbler!”
“How, a newspaper scribbler?”
“Well, he writes for the newspapers. They are both of them tenants of yours. Nice sort of people they are! Get rid of them; send them off for God’s sake! They are robbers; they set everyone in the street against each other; there is no peace with them; they have no respect for law or order. One has always to be on one’s guard with them against robbery or arson.”
“But this newspaper scribbler, who is he?” asked Petounnikoff in an interested tone.
“He? He’s a drunkard. He was a schoolteacher, and got turned away. He has drunk all he had, and now he writes for the newspapers, and invents petitions. He’s a real bad ’un!”
“H’m-m! And it was he, then, who wrote your petition? Just so! Evidently it was he who wrote about the construction of the scaffolding. He seemed to suggest that the scaffolding was not built according to the by-laws.”
“That’s he! That’s just like him, the dog! He read it here, and was boasting that he would run Petounnikoff into expense!”
“H’m-m! Well, how about coming to terms?” “To terms?” The soldier dropped his head and grew thoughtful. “Ah! what a miserable dark existence ours is!” he exclaimed sadly, scratching the back of his head.
“You must begin to improve it!” said Petounnikoff, lighting a cigarette.
“Improve it? That’s easy to say, sir! But we have no liberty! that’s what is the matter. Just look at my life, sir. I’m always in terror, always on my guard, and have no freedom of action. And why is that? Fear! This wretch of a schoolmaster may write to the newspapers about me, he sets the sanitary authorities at me, and I have to pay fines. One has always to be on one’s guard against these lodgers of yours, lest they burn, murder, or rob one! How can I stop them? They don’t fear the police! If they do get clapped into prison, they are only glad; because it means free rations!”
“Well, we’ll get rid of them if we come to terms with you,” Petounnikoff promised.
“And what shall the terms be?” asked Vaviloff, anxiously and gloomily.
“State your own terms.”
“Well, then, let it be the six hundred mentioned in the summons!�
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“Wouldn’t a hundred be enough?” said the trader, in a calm voice.
He watched the landlord narrowly, and smiling gently, added, “I won’t give a rouble more!”
After saying this he removed his spectacles, and began slowly wiping the glasses with his handkerchief. Vaviloff, sick at heart, looked at him, experiencing every moment towards him a feeling of greater respect. In the quiet face of young Petounnikoff, in his large grey eyes and prominent cheek-bones, and in his whole coarse, robust figure, there was so much self-reliant force, sure of itself, and well disciplined by the mind. Besides, Vaviloff liked the way that Petounnikoff spoke to him; his voice possessed simple friendly intonations, and there was no striving after effect, just as if he were speaking to an equal; though Vaviloff well understood that he, a soldier, was not the equal of this man.
Watching him almost with admiration, the soldier felt within himself a rush of eager curiosity, which for a moment checked all other feeling, so that he could not help asking Petounnikoff in a respectful voice—
“Where did you study?”
“At the Technological Institution. But why do you ask?” replied the other, smiling.
“Oh, nothing; I beg your pardon.”
The soldier dropped his head, and suddenly exclaimed in a voice that was almost inspired, so full was it of admiration and of envy, “Yes! that’s what education can do! Knowledge is indeed enlightenment, and that means everything! And we others, we are like owls looking at the sun. Bad luck to us! Well, sir, let us settle up this affair.”
And with a decided gesture he stretched out his hand to Petounnikoff, and said in a half choking voice—
“Let’s say five hundred!”
“Not more than a hundred roubles, Jegor Terentievitch!”
