The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

I laughed. “What do you mean, ‘just the same’?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am I, and the other one is the other one.”

  “Are you better than he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  I looked at him and was overcome with impatience. I wanted him to speak and speak without end. He poured out his tea and continued talking hastily:

  “Yes, the other one was a one-eyed fellow, and it made him wretched. All the lame and the crippled, whether in body or in mind, are the essence of egoism. ‘I am crippled,’ they say, or ‘I am lame; but you people, don’t you dare notice it.’ He was that kind of a fellow. He said to me,’ All people are rascals. When they see that I have one eye they say to me, “you are one-eyed.” That is why they are scoundrels.’ ‘My dear boy,’ I said to him, ‘you are a scoundrel and a rascal yourself, and perhaps a fool also. You can take your choice. Understand this: The important thing is not how people look at you but how you look at people. That is why, my friend, we become one-eyed or blind—because we look at other people, hunting for their dark spots and put out our own light in their darkness. If you would light up the other’s darkness with your light, the world would be pleasant for you. Man sees no good in any one else but himself, that is why the whole world is a wretched wilderness for him.’”

  He laughed and looked at me, and I listened to him as one who is lost in the wood at night and hears a far-off bell and is afraid that he made a mistake; that perhaps it is only the cry of an owl.

  I understood that he had seen much; that he had overcome much in himself. But it seemed to me that he did not think much of me, that he was joking with me, and that his young eyes made fun of me. Since my experience with Anthony I seldom trust a man’s smile any longer.

  I asked him who he was.

  “I am called Jehudiel. I am a cheerful idiot for others and a good friend to myself.”

  “Are you from the clergy?”

  “I was a priest for some time, but was unfro’cked and was put in a monastery at Suzdal for six years. You want to know why? Because I preached sermons in church which the people, in the simplicity of their souls, interpreted too literally. They were whipped for it and I was convicted. And thus the affair ended. What did I preach? I don’t remember now. It was a long time ago, eighteen years, and one can forget in that time. I have had various thoughts but none of them ever came to anything.”

  He laughed and in each wrinkle of his face the laughter played. He looked about him as if the mountains and the woods were created for him.

  When it became cooler we went on farther together, and on the way he asked me about myself.

  “Who are you?”

  Again, like that time before Anthony, I wished to place my former days before my eyes and to look upon their checkered face. I spoke about my childhood, about Larion and Savelko, and the old man laughed and shouted.

  “Eh, what good people! The Lord’s fools, what! Those were dear, true flowers of the Russian soil, real God-loving ones.”

  I did not understand this praise and his joy looked strange to me, but he could hardly walk from laughter. He stopped, threw his head back and shouted and called straight up to heaven, as if he had a friend there with whom he wished to share his joy. I said to him kindly:

  “You resemble Savelko somewhat.”

  “Resemble!” he cried. “It is always good,” he said, “to resemble some one. Eh, dear boy, if only the orthodox church had not ruined us ages ago, how different it would be for the living ones on the Russian soil now.”

  His speech was dark to me.

  I told him about Titoff. He seemed to see my father-in-law before his eyes and he expressed himself freely about him.

  “Such a rascal! I have seen many such. They are rapacious bugs, but foolish and cowardly.”

  When he heard my story about Anthony, he became thoughtful and then said:

  “So, that was a doubting Thomas. Well, not every Thomas is a genius. Some of them are stupidity itself.”

  He drove a bumble-bee from him and lectured it. “Go away, go away from here. Such impoliteness, to fly straight into the eyes. The devil take you!”

  I listened to his words attentively, missing nothing. It seemed to me that they were children of deep thought. I spoke to him as before a confessor, except that I hesitated in mentioning God. I was afraid, and I regretted something. God’s image had become tarnished in my soul at this time, and I wanted to polish it from the dust of the days, and I saw that I cleaned up to the hollow places and my heart shuddered with pain.

  The old man nodded his head and encouraged me.

  “Never mind; don’t be afraid. If you keep silent you only lie to yourself, not to me. Speak. Regret nothing. For if you destroy, you will create something new.”

  He responded to my words like an echo and I became more and more at ease with him.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Night overtook us.

  “Stop,” he said, “let us find a place to rest.”

  We found a shelter underneath a large rock which had been torn away from its mother mountain, and the brush grew upon it, weaving itself into a dark carpet underneath. We lay down in its warm shadow and built a fire and boiled tea. I asked him: “Father, what were you telling me?”

  He smiled. “I will tell you everything I know. Only don’t seek for assertions in my words. I don’t want to teach, but only to relate. Only those people assert who are afraid of the paths of life, for whom the growth of truth is dangerous. They see that truth burns ever more brightly since men have lit its flames more and more in their hearts, they see it and are afraid. They quickly take a little truth, as much as is advantageous to them, and press it together into a small roll and cry to the whole world: ‘Here is truth; pure spiritual food, and for all ages unchangeable,’ and they sit, the cursed ones, upon the face of truth and strangle it, clutching at its throat, and hinder the growth of its strength in every possible way—they are enemies to us and to all beings. I can say one thing: that is the way it is to-day; but how it will be to-morrow I don’t know. For you see, to-day there is no true, lawful master in life. He has not come yet. I do not know how he will arrange things when he comes; what plans he will establish and what suppress, and what temples he will cause to be built. The apostle Paul once said, ‘All is for the best,’ and many have accepted these words. But they who have confirmed them are without strength, for they have remained in one place. The stone is without strength. Why? Because of its immobility, brother. It is not right to say to man, ‘stand here,’ but always, ‘go farther and farther.’”

  For the first time in my life I heard such speech and it sounded strange to me. Here was a man who negated himself while I tried to ratify myself.

  “Who is this master?” I asked. “The Lord?”

  The old man smiled. “No,” he answered. “It is some one nearer us. I do not want to name him. It is better that you yourself divine it. They believe strongest in Christ who meet Him first and have Him in their hearts; and it is by the strength of their faith that they raised Him to the height of Godhood.”

  He held me as before a closed door, and did not open it, or tell me what was hidden behind it. Impatience and pain grew in me and the words of the old man seemed dark. From time to time sparks flashed from his words, but they only blinded me and did not light the darkness in my soul. The night was moonlight, and black shadows surrounded us. The wood overhead crawled silently up to the mountains, and over the mountain tops, between the branches of the trees, the stars shone like lighted birds. A nearby stream murmured. From time to time an owl called in the wood, and over all the old man’s words lived quietly in the night.

  A strange old man! He caught a little insect which was crawling on his cheek and he held it in the palm of his hand and asked it:

  “Where are you g
oing, fool? Go, run in the grass, little creature.”

  I liked it, for I, too, loved all insects, and I was interested in the secret life which they led among the grass and the flowers.

  I asked several questions of the old man, for I wanted him to speak plainly and more concisely, but I noticed that he evaded my problems. In fact, he jumped over them. I liked his lively face. The red reflection of the fire played lovingly over him, and everything vibrated with the peaceful joy which I so desired.

  I envied him. He had lived twice as long as I, or even more, but his soul was clear.

  “One man told me,” I said to him, “that faith comes from imagination. What do you say?”

  “I say,” he answered, “that that man did not know what he was talking about, for faith is a great creative feeling. It is born from the overflow of the life-forces in man. Its strength is enormous and it incites the youthful human spirit, driving it to action, for man is bound and narrowed by his activities, and the outside world hinders him in every way. Everything demands that he produce bread and iron, but not the live treasure which is in the lap of his soul. He does not yet understand how to take advantage of this treasure. He is afraid of the uproar in his soul. He creates monstrosities and he fears the reflection of his turbid spirit. He does not understand its being and he bows to the forms of faith, to his own shadows, I might say.”

  I did not understand him that minute, but for some reason I became deeply enraged, and I thought to myself: “Now, I will not let you go away from this place before you answer the root of the question.” I asked him sternly:

  “Why do you evade the question of God?”

  He looked at me, frowned and said:

  “But, my dear boy, I am speaking about Him all the time. Do you not feel it?”

  He stood on his knees and the fire played on him. He held my hand and spoke low and impressively:

  “Who is God, the worker of miracles? Is He our Father, or is He the child of our soul?”

  I remember that I started and looked about me, for I felt uncomfortable. Insanity spoke in the old man.

  Dark shadows lay about and I listened, while the murmur of the woods crept around us, drowning the weak crackle of the burning coal and the quiet sound of the river. I, too, wanted to kneel.

  Then he spoke loudly, as if in argument:

  “Man did not create God in weakness, no; but from an overflow of his strength. And He does not live outside of us, but within us. We have torn Him out of us in our terror at the problems of our soul, and we have placed Him above us with a desire to bind our pride, which is ever restless at this binding. I said that they have turned strength into weakness; they have hindered its growth by force. They have conceived an ideal of perfection too hurriedly, and it has resulted in harm and pain to us. Man is divided into two classes: The first are the eternal creators of God; the second are forever slaves of an overpowering desire to master the former and to reign over the whole earth. They have captured power, and it is they who maintain that God exists outside of man; that He is an enemy of the people, a judge and a master of the earth. They have disfigured the face of the soul of Christ and have falsified His commandments, for the real Christ is against them, and is against the mastering of man by his neighbor.”

  He spoke, and I felt that a painful tooth gnawed in my soul. I wanted to tear it out, but it hurt, and I wanted to shout, “That is not the right!”

  There was a holy light in his face and he seemed intoxicated and transported with joy. I saw that his words were insane, but I loved the old man through the pain and the yearning in my heart, and I listened to his speech passionately.

  “But the creators of God are alive and immortal, and within them, secretly and earnestly, they will create God anew. And it is about Him you are dreaming; about a god of beauty and wisdom, of righteousness and love.”

  His words agitated me and lifted me to my feet and gave me a weapon in my hands. Around me the light shadows shimmered and brushed my face with their wings. I was terrified, the earth swam about me, and I thought to myself:

  “Perhaps it is true that the devil tempts man with beautiful words. Perhaps this sly old man is plaiting a noose for me, to catch me in the trap of the greatest sin of all.”

  “Listen,” I said; “who are the creators of God? Who is the master? Whom do you await?”

  He laughed caressingly, like a woman, and answered:

  “The creators of God are the people. They are the great martyrs—greater than the ones the church has praised. They are God, the creators of miracles—the immortal people! I believe in their soul; I have faith in their strength. They are the one and certain basis of life; they are the father of all gods that have been and that will be.”

  “A mad old man,” I thought to myself.

  Up to now it seemed to me that, though slowly, still I was going toward the heights. More than once his words were like a fiery finger that pointed to my soul, and I felt that the burn and the sting were wholesome; but now my heart became suddenly heavy, and I remained standing in the middle of the road, bitterly disappointed. Many fires burned in my breast. I suffered, yet I was incomprehensibly happy. I was bewildered and afraid.

  “Is it possible,” I asked, “that you are speaking of the peasants?”

  He answered loudly and emphatically: “Yes; of the whole working people of the earth, of all its strength—the one and eternal source of the creation of God. Soon the will of the people will awake, and that great force, divided, will unite. Many are already seeking the means by which all the powers of the earth shall be harmonized into one, and from which shall be created the holy and beautiful all-embracing God of the earth.”

  He spoke loudly, as if not only I, but the mountains and the woods and all that lived, watching in the night, should hear him. He spoke and quivered, like a bird which is ready to fly, and it seemed to me that all this was a dream and that this dream lowered me.

  I recalled to my mind the image of my God and placed before His face the dark rows of enslaved, confused people. Did they create God? I remembered their petty meanness, their cowardly avarice, their bodies stooped with degradation and toil, their eyes which were dulled with sorrow, their spiritual stammering and their dumb thoughts, and all their superstitions, and could they, these insects, create a new God?

  Wrath and bitter laughter disturbed my heart. I felt that the old man had stolen something from me, and I said to him: “Ah, father, you have done mischief in my soul, like a goat in a garden, and this is all the result of your words. Do you dare to talk with every one like that? It is a great sin in my eyes. You should have pity for people. They seek comfort, and you go about sowing doubt.”

  He smiled. “I think you are on the same road as I am.”

  His smile was offensive to me. “It’s a lie!” I answered. “I will never place man side by side with God.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “Do not place him there, for in that way you will put a master over yourself. I am not speaking to you about a man, but of the whole strength of the spirit of the earth—about the people.”

  I became enraged. This “God, creator,” in rags, filthy, always drunk, who was beaten and flogged, became disgusting to me.

  “Keep still,” I said. “You are a crazy old blasphemer. Who are the people? They are dirty in body and in thoughts; beggars in mind and in food, and ready to sell their souls for a kopeck.”

  Here something strange happened. He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Shut up!” He waved his arms, stamped his feet, and he looked as though he were ready to beat me. When he had been in a prophetic mood I stood far from him, and he seemed funny, but now the human came nearer to me.

  “Shut up!” he cried. “You granary mouse! You have rotten noble’s blood flowing through you, that is plain. You, who were abandoned to the people! Do you know about whom you are speaking? You are all alike. You proud
, lazy land robbers! You don’t know against whom you are barking, you scrofulous dogs! You have plundered and robbed the people; you have sat on their backs, and you swear at them that they don’t run fast enough!”

  He jumped around me and his shadow fell on me, whipping my face coldly, and I moved away from him, surprised and fearful lest he strike me. I was twice as big as he was, and ten times as strong, but somehow I had no desire to stop the man. It was evident that he forgot that night was around us, and that we were in the wilderness, and that if I misunderstood him he would lie there alone in that place, without help. I remembered how that frightened, green Archbishop swore at me that time, and crazy Misha and other people of the old faith; but here was a man who was insulting me, and his wrath burned with a different fire. The others were stronger than I, but in their words I heard fear. This man was weak, but fearless. And he shouted at me, like a child or like a mother. His wrath was strangely loving, like the first storm in spring. I was confused and did not understand the boldness of the old man, and though his anger was amusing, still it hurt me that I so enraged him. He scolded insultingly, and I did not like to be called “abandoned,” but his wrath pleased me, for I understood that here was a man angered, believing truly in his own right, and such wrath does the soul good. There is much love in it, and sweet food for the heart.

  I lay at his feet and he shouted at me from above. “What do you know about the people, you blind fool? Do you know their history? Read their life, and you will find them higher than all the saints, this father of ours, this greatest martyr of all—the People. Then, to your great fortune, you will understand who it is that is before you, and the strength that grows around you, you homeless vagabond, in a strange land! Do you know what Russia is? Do you know what Greece is, which is called Hellas? Do you know Rome? Do you know by whose will and by whose spirit all governments were built? Do you know on whose bones the temples were erected? Do you know with whose tongues the wise men speak? All that is on the earth and all that is in your mind was made by the People, and the nobility have only polished up that which they made.”