The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  I forced myself not to think of this problem, but Titoff continually made me think of sin and of the power of the devil. When I read, he questioned me curtly, without raising his eyes.

  “Matvei, what does that last word mean?”

  And I explained it.

  Then after a second of silence, he would say:

  “Where can I hide before Thy countenance? Where can I flee before Thy wrath?”

  His wife would sigh deeply and look at him, still more frightened, as if she expected something terrible. Olga blinked her blue eyes and suggested:

  “In the forest.”

  “Where can I flee before Thy wrath?” he repeated.

  This time I remember he took his hands from his pockets and twirled his long mustache, and his eyebrows trembled. He hid his hands and said:

  “It was King David who asked, ‘Where can I flee?’ Yes, he was a king and he was afraid. You see that the devil was stronger than he. He was anointed of God and the devil conquered him. ‘Where can I flee?’ To hell—that is certain. We lesser people, we have nothing to hope for if the kings themselves go there.”

  He frequently returned to this subject. I did not always understand his words; nevertheless, they produced a disagreeable impression upon me.

  People began to speak more and more about my piety. One day Titoff said to me:

  “Pray zealously for my whole family, Matvei. I beg of you, pray for us. You will thus repay me for having gathered you to me and treated you like a son.”

  But what did that mean to me? My prayers were without object, like the song of a bird which he pours out to the sun. Nevertheless, I began to pray for him and for his family, and especially for little Olga, who had become a very pretty young girl, sweet and tender. I borrowed the words of the Psalms of David and all the other prayers which I knew. I liked to repeat the sing-song and cadenced phrases, but from the time when I said in praying for Titoff: “Lord, in Thy grace, have pity on Thy servant, Yegor,” my heart closed. The spring of my prayers became dry, the serenity of my joys was disturbed. I was ashamed before God and could not continue. Lowering my eyes before the countenances of the holy saints I arose, overcome with a feeling of anger and embarrassment. It troubled me. Why should I feel like that? I tried to understand it, but could not, and I was sorry for the joy which had been destroyed on account of this man.

  CHAPTER IV

  The people about me began to notice me, and I took notice of them, too.

  On holidays when I walked through the streets I was stared at with much curiosity. Some greeted me earnestly while others mocked, but all looked after me.

  “Here goes our prayer-book,” was heard. “Say, Matvei, are you going to become a saint?”

  “Don’t laugh at him, friends; he is not a priest and he does not believe in God for the sake of the money.”

  “Have there not been peasants who became saints?”

  “Oh, we have all kinds of men, but that does not help us much.”

  “Who said he is a peasant? He has got gentleman’s blood in him—but that’s a secret.”

  And thus they calked, and some praised and some jeered.

  As for myself, I was then in a peculiar state of mind. I wished to be at peace with all and wanted all to love me. However, try as I would to live up to it, their insults prevented me.

  Of all who persecuted me, Savelko Migun was the worst. He fell on his knees when he saw me and prostrated himself, declaiming aloud:

  “Your Holiness, I bow to the ground before you. Pray for Savelko, I beg of you. God may do the right thing by him then. Teach me how to please the Lord God. Must I stop stealing, or must I steal more and burn him a wax candle?”

  The crowds laughed at Savelko’s jokes, but they made me feel queer and hurt me.

  He would continue:

  “Oh, ye Orthodox, prostrate yourself before the Righteous One. He fleeces the peasants in his office and then reads the gospel in church. And God cannot hear how the peasants howl.”

  I was sixteen and could easily have broken his face for his insults. But instead, I took to avoiding him. When he noticed this he gave me no leeway at all. He composed a song, which he sang in the streets on holidays, accompanying himself with his balalaika.

  “Oh, the squires embrace the maidens,

  And the maidens all grow big;

  From these gentlemanly doings

  Come out dirty cheats as children.

  They are thrown upon the masters

  Who refuse to feed them gratis;

  And they put them in their office,

  To the peasants’ great misfortune.”

  It was a long song and everybody was mentioned in it, but Titoff and I had the biggest share of all. It got to such a point that when I caught sight of Savelko with his little thin beard, his cap on his ear and his bald head, I trembled all over. I felt like springing on him and breaking him into bits.

  Though I was young, I could hold myself in with a strong hand. When he walked behind me, jingling, I did not move a muscle to show that it was hard to bear. I walked slowly and made believe I did not hear.

  I began to pray more zealously, for I felt that I had no protection except prayers, which, however, were now filled with complaints and bitter words.

  “Wherefore, O Lord, am I to blame that my father and mother abandoned me and threw me like a kitten into the brush?”

  I could find no other sin in me. I saw men and women placed on this earth without rhyme or reason; saw each one so accustomed to his business that the custom became law. How was I to know right off why and against whom this strange force is directed?

  However, I began to think things over, and I grew more and more troubled as things became insufferable to me.

  Our landlord, Constantine Nicolaievitch Loseff, was rich and owned much land, and he hardly ever came to our estate, which was considered unlucky by the family. Somebody had strangled the landlord’s mother, his father had fallen from a horse and been killed, and his wife had run away from him here.

  I only saw the landlord twice. He was a stout man, tall, wore spectacles and had an officer’s cape and cap, lined with red. They said he held a high position under the Czar and that he was very learned and wrote books. The two times he was on the estate he swore at Titoff very thoroughly and even shook his fist in his face.

  Titoff was the one absolute power on the estate of Sokolie. There was not much land, and only so much grain was sown as was necessary for the household. The rest of the land was rented to the peasants. Later there came an order that no more land should be rented and that flax should be sown on the whole estate. A factory was being opened nearby.

  In addition to myself, there sat in a corner of the office Ivan Makarovitch Judin. His soul was half dead and he was always drunk. He had been a telegraph operator, but he had lost his position on account of his drunkenness. He took care of the books, wrote the letters, made the contracts with the peasants, and was remarkably silent. When he was spoken to, he only nodded his head and coughed a little. At most he answered, “All right.” He was short and thin, but his face was round and puffy, and his eyes could hardly be seen. He was entirely bald and he walked on his tip-toes, silently and unsteadily, as the blind. On the Feast of the Virgin of Kazin, the peasants made Judin so drunk with vodka that he died.

  I was alone now in the office, did all the work, and received a salary from Titoff of forty rubles a year. He gave me Olga as an assistant.

  I had noticed for a long time that the peasants walked around the office as wolves around a trap. They see the trap, but they are hungry, and the bait tempts them, so they begin to eat.

  When I was alone in the office and became acquainted with all the books and plans, I realized, even with my poor understanding, that our whole arrangement was nothing more than theft. The peasants were head over ears in debt and w
orked, not for themselves, but for Titoff. I cannot say that I was either very much surprised or ashamed at this discovery. And even if I did understand now why Savelko swore at me and insulted me, still I did not think it was right of him. Was it then I who had originated this stealing?

  I saw that Titoff was not quite straight even with the landlord, and that he stuffed his pockets as much as he dared.

  I became bolder toward him, for I realized that in some way I was necessary to him. And now I understood why. I had to hide him, the thief, from the Lord God. He now called me his “dear son,” and his wife did so too. They dressed me well, for which, of course, I was grateful.

  But my heart did not go out toward them, and my soul was not warmed by their goodness. I became more and more friendly with Olga, however. I liked her wistful smile, her low voice and her love of flowers.

  Titoff and his wife walked before God with sunken heads, like a team of horses, and behind their timid glances seemed to be continually hiding something which must have been even greater than theft.

  I did not like Titoff’s hands. He always hid them in a manner which made me suspicious. Perhaps those hands had strangled some one; perhaps there was blood on them. They kept asking me, he as well as she:

  “Pray for our sins, Motia.”

  One day I could stand it no longer. I asked them:

  “Are you then more sinful than others?”

  Nastasia sighed and went away, and he turned on his heel and did not answer.

  In the house he was thoughtful and spoke very little, and then only on business. He never swore at the peasants, but he was always haughty with them, which was worse than swearing. He never conceded a point and stood his ground as firmly as if he were sunk to the waist in the earth.

  “One should give in to them,” I said to him once.

  “Never,” he answered. “Not an iota must you give in, or you are lost.”

  Another time he ordered me to count false, and I said to him:

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is a sin.”

  “It is not you who are forcing me to sin, but I you. Write as I tell you. No one will ask any account of you, you are only my hand. Your piety will not suffer by it; have no fear. For ten rubles a month neither I nor anybody else can live honorably. Do you understand that?”

  “Oh, you scoundrel!” I said to myself. But aloud I said to him: “That is quite enough. Things must end right here. If you don’t stop this swindling I will tell the village all about your deals.”

  He pulled his mustache up to his nose, lifted his shoulders to his ears, showed his teeth and stared at me with his round, bulging eyes. We measured each other.

  “You will do that, really?” he said to me in a low voice.

  “Yes.”

  Titoff burst out laughing, and it sounded as if some one had thrown silver pieces on the ground.

  “All right, my holy one, that is all that I needed. From now on we will manage this affair differently. We won’t bother any more with kopecks. We will deal with rubles. If the thief’s dress is too tight, he becomes honest.”

  He went out, slamming the door so that the panes in the windows rattled.

  It seemed to me that Titoff was a little more cross after that. Still I was not quite sure of it. But he left me in, peace from then on.

  He was a terrible miser, and though he did not deny himself anything, nevertheless he knew how to value a penny. He ate well and was very fond of women, and as he had the power in his hands, there was not a woman in the village who dared to refuse him. He let the young girls alone, and only went to the married women. He made my blood hot once or twice.

  “What is the matter, Matvei?” he asked. “Are you timid? To take a woman is like giving charity. In the country every woman yearns for love. But the men are weak and worn out, and what can the women expect from them? You are a strong, handsome young fellow; why not make love to the women? You would get some pleasure out of it yourself.”

  He followed every villainy, the low rascal. Once he asked me:

  “Do you think, Matvei, that a pious man is of much value in the eyes of God?”

  I did not like such questions. “I don’t know,” I answered.

  He remained doubtful for a minute and then he said:

  “God led Lot out of Sodom and saved Noah; but thousands perished by fire and water. Still it says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Often it seems to me that these thousands perished because among them there were a few pious and virtuous people. God saw that despite the stringent laws which He gave, there were several who could lead a righteous life. If there had been no pious men in Sodom, God would have seen that it was impossible to observe His commandments and He might have lightened them without putting to death thousands of people. They call Him the All-merciful One. But where is His mercy?”

  I did not understand then that this man was only seeking license to sin. Nevertheless, the words angered me.

  “You are blaspheming,” I said. “You are afraid of God, but you don’t love Him.”

  He drew his hands out of his pockets, threw them behind his back, and his face turned gray. It was plain that he was in great wrath.

  “Whether it is so or not, I don’t know,” he answered, “but it seems to me that you pious ones use God as a ruler by which you mark off the sins of others. Without such as you, God would have a hard time measuring sins.”

  He took no notice of me for a long time after that. But an insufferable hatred rose in my soul against this man. I avoided him even more than I did Savelko. If at night I mentioned his name in my prayers, an ungovernable anger possessed me. It was at this time that I said my first spontaneous prayer:

  “I do not wish to seek grace for a thief, O Lord. I ask that he be punished. May he not rob the poor without being punished.”

  And I prayed to God so ardently that Titoff be punished that I grew frightened at the terrible fate that awaited him.

  Soon after this I bad another encounter with Migun. He came to the office for lime-bast,1 when I happened to be alone. I asked him:

  “Why do you always make fun of me, Savel?”

  He showed his teeth and stared at me with his piercing eyes.

  “I haven’t much business here,” he said. “I only came for lime-bast.”

  My legs trembled beneath me and my hands clenched of themselves. I clutched his throat and shook him lightly.

  “What have I done?”

  He was not frightened, nor was he angry. He simply took my hand and pushed it from his throat as if it were he, not I, who was the stronger. “When you are choking some one, he cannot speak well,” he said. “Let me alone,” he continued; “I have received beatings enough, and I don’t need yours. Besides, you mustn’t strike any one. It is against the commandments.”

  He spoke quietly and mockingly, in a light tone. I shouted:

  “What do you want here?”

  “Some lime-bast.”

  I saw that I could make no headway with him by words, and my anger was already gone. I now only felt hurt and cold.

  “You are all beasts,” I said. “Can you make fun of a man because his parents abandoned him?”

  He threw his words at me as if they were little stones:

  “Don’t be a hypocrite. We know you by your actions. You eat stolen bread and others suffer want.”

  “You lie!” I said. “I work for my bread.”

  “Without work you can’t even steal a chicken. That is an old story.”

  He looked at me with a devilish smile in his eyes and said pityingly:

  “Oh, Matvei, what a good child you used to be. And now you have become learned, despite God, and like all thieves in our country, you found a religion based on God’s truth that all men have not equally long fingers.”

  I threw h
im out of the office. I did not want to understand his play on words, for I considered myself a true servant of God and valued my own opinion more than any one else’s.

  I felt strange and fearful, as if the strength of my soul was vanishing. I had not sunk so low as to whine before God against man, for I was no Pharisee for all that I was a fool. I knelt before the holy Virgin of Abalatzk and looked up at her countenance and at her hands, which were uplifted to heaven. The little fire in the holy lamp flickered and a faint shadow spread over the ikon. The same shadow fell on my heart and something strange and invisible and oppressive rose up betwixt God and myself. I lost all joy in prayer, and I became wretched and even Olga was no longer a comfort to me.

  But she looked at me all the more kindly. I was eighteen at this time, a well developed youth, with red curly hair and a pale face. I wanted to come nearer her, yet was embarrassed, for I was innocent before women then. The women in the village laughed at me for it, and it even seemed to me at times that Olga herself smiled at me in a queer way. More than once the enticing thought came to me: “There, that’s my wife.”

  Day in, day out, I sat with her in the office in silence. When she asked me some questions about the business I answered, and in that lay our whole conversation.

  She was slender and white, like a young birch, and her eyes were blue and thoughtful. To me she seemed pretty and tender in her quiet, mysterious wistfulness.

  Once she asked me:

  “What makes you so sad, Matvei?”

  I had never spoken about myself with any one before, nor had ever wished to. But here suddenly my heart opened and I poured out all my misery to her. I told her of the shame of my birth, of the abuse that I suffered for it, and of the loneliness and wretchedness of my soul, and of her father. I told her everything. I did not do it to complain. It was only to unburden myself of my inmost thoughts, of which I had amassed quite a quantity—all worthless, I suppose.