by Maxim Gorky
Konováloff gazed in that direction, smiled blissfully, and said to me:
“When the sun has set, we will light up a bonfire, and boil some water for tea: we have bread, and meat. But, in the meanwhile, would you like a cantaloupe or a watermelon?”
With his foot he rolled a watermelon out from a corner of the hole, pulled a knife out of his pocket, and as he operated upon the watermelon with it, he remarked: “Every time that I am by the sea, I keep wondering why so few people settle down near it. They would be the better for it, because it is soothing and sort of…good thoughts come from it into a man’s soul. But come, tell how you have been living yourself all these years.”
I began to tell him. He listened; the ailing little Russian paid no attention whatever to us, as he roasted himself in the sun, which was already sinking into the sea. And in the far distance, the sea was already covered with crimson and gold, and out of it, to meet the sun, rose clouds of a pinkish-smoke color, with soft outlines. It seemed as though mountains with white peaks, sumptuously adorned with snow and rosy in the rays of the sunset, were rising from the depths of the sea. From the bay floated the mournful melody of “The Little Oaken Cudgel,” and the roar of blasts of dynamite, which were destroying the mountain.… The rocks and inequalities of the soil in front of us cast shadows on the ground, and these, as they imperceptibly lengthened, crept over us.
“It’s downright no good for you to haunt the towns, Maxím,”—said Konováloff persuasively, after he had listened to my epic narrative.—“And what is it that draws you to them? The life there is tainted and close. There’s neither air, nor space, nor anything else that a man needs. People? What the devil do you want with them? You’re an intelligent man, you can read and write, what are people to you? What do you need from them? And then, there are people everywhere.…”
“Ehe!” interposed the Little Russian, as he writhed on the ground like an adder.—“There are people everywhere…lots of them; a man can’t pass to his own place without treading on their feet. Why, they are born in countless numbers! They’re like mushrooms after a shower…and even the gentry eat them!” He spat philosophically, and again began to chatter his teeth.
“Well, so far as you are concerned, I say it again,”—continued Konováloff,—“don’t you live in the towns. What is there there? Nothing but ill-health and disorder. Books? Well, I think you must have read books enough by this time! You certainly weren’t born for that.… Yes, and books are—trash! Well, buy one, and put it in your wallet, and start out. Do you want to go to Tashként with me? Or to Samarkánd, or where? And then we’ll have a try at the Amúr—is it a bargain? I, my boy, have made up my mind to walk over the earth in various directions—that’s the very best thing to do.… You walk along, and you’re always seeing something new.… And you don’t think of anything.… The breeze blows in your face, and it seems to drive all sorts of dust out of the soul. You feel light-hearted and free.… Nobody interferes with you: if you feel hungry, you come to a halt, and earn half a ruble by some sort of work; if there isn’t any work, you ask for bread, and you’ll get it. In that way, you’ll see a great deal of the world, at any rate.… All sorts of beauty.… Come on!”
The sun set. The clouds over the sea darkened, the sea also grew dim, and wafted forth a refreshing coolness. Here and there stars shone out, the hum of toil on the bay ceased, and only now and then were exclamations of the men, soft as sighs, borne thence to us. And when the light breeze breathed upon us, it brought with it the melancholy sound of the breaking of the waves against the shore.
The nocturnal gloom speedily grew more dense, and the figure of the Little Russian, which five minutes previously had perfectly definite outlines, now looked like nothing but an uncouth clod …
“We ought to have a fire.…” he said, coughing.
“We will.…”
Konováloff pulled out a pile of chips from somewhere or other, set fire to them with a match, and thin tongues of flame began caressingly to lick the yellow, resinous wood. Slender streams of smoke curled through the night air, filled with the moisture and freshness of the sea. And everything grew quieter round about:…life seemed to have withdrawn from us somewhither, and its sounds melted and were extinguished in mist. The clouds dispersed, stars began to glitter in the dark-blue sky, and upon the velvety surface of the sea, also, faintly flickered the tiny lights of fishing-boats, and the reflections of the stars. The fire in front of us blossomed out, like a huge, reddish-yellow flower.… Konováloff thrust the teapot into it, and clasping his knees, began to stare thoughtfully into the blaze. And the Little Russian, like a big lizard, crawled up, and lay down near it.
“People have built towns, houses, have assembled together there in heaps, and defile the earth, sigh, crowd one another.… A nice life that! No, this is life, this, such as we.…”
“Oho!”—the Little Russian shook his head,—“if we could only manage to get a fur coat, or a warm hut in it for the winter, we’d live like lords.…” He screwed up one eye, and looked at Konováloff, with a laugh.
“We-ell,” said the latter abashed,—“winter—is…a thrice-accursed time. Towns really are needed for the winter…you can’t get along without them.… But the big towns are no good, all the same.… Why cram people into such heaps, when two or three can’t get along together?—That’s what I was talking about. Of course, when you come to think of it, there’s no room for a man either in the town, or in the steppe, or anywhere else. But it’s better not to think of such things…you can’t think out anything, and you only harrow your soul.…”
Up to this point I had thought that Konováloff had been changed by his vagrant life, that the excrescences of sadness which were on his heart during the first period of our acquaintance had fallen away from him, like a husk, from the action of the free air which he had breathed during those years; but the tone of his last phrase rehabilitated before me my friend as still the same man, seeking a point of support for himself, whom I had known before. The same rust of ignorance in the face of life, and venom of thoughts about it, were still corroding that powerful form, which had been born, to its misfortune, with a sensitive heart. There are many such “meditative” people in Russian life, and they are all more unhappy than anyone else, because the heaviness of their meditations is augmented by the blindness of their minds. I gazed with compassion on my friend, but he, as though confirming my thought, exclaimed, sadly:
“I have recalled that life of ours, Maxím, and all that— took place there. How much ground I have covered since then in my roamings, how much, of all sorts, I have seen…No, for me there is nothing suitable on earth! I have not found my place!”
“Then why were you born with a neck that no yoke will fit?” inquired the Little Russian indifferently, taking the boiling teapot out of the fire.
“No, do you tell me…” inquired Konováloff,—“why I can’t be easy? Hey? Why do people live on, and feel all right, busy themselves with their affairs, have wives, children, and all the rest of it…they complain of life, but they are easy. And they always want to do this, that, or the other. But I—can’t. Why do things disgust me?”
“There’s that man jawing,”—remarked the Little Russian in surprise.—“Well, will you feel any the easier for your jawing?”
“That’s so…” assented Konováloff sadly.
“I always say little, but I know what I’m talking about,” uttered the stoic, with a consciousness of his own dignity, yet without ceasing to contend with his fever.
“Let’s drop that subject.… I was born, well, that means, live on, and don’t argue.…” said Konováloff, this time viciously.
The Little Russian considered it necessary to add:
“And don’t force yourself anywhere; the time will come when, without your will, you must be dragged in and ground to dust…Lie still, and hold your tongue.… Neither our tongues nor our hands are of any help to us.�
��”
He articulated this, began to cough, wriggled about, and took to spitting into the fire with exasperation. Around us everything was obscure, curtained with a thick veil of gloom. The sky above us was dark, also, the moon had not yet risen. We felt rather than saw the sea—so dense was the mist in front of us. It seemed as though a black fog had been lowered over the earth. The fire went out …
“Let’s lie down to sleep?” suggested the Little Russian.
We made our way into the “hole,” and lay down, with our heads thrust out into the open air. We were silent. Konováloff remained motionless, as though turned to stone, in the attitude in which he lay down. The Little Russian thrashed about incessantly, and his teeth kept chattering. I stared, for a long while, at the smouldering coals of the fire: at first brilliant and large, the coals gradually grew smaller, became covered with ashes, and disappeared beneath them. And soon nothing was left of the fire, except the warm odor. I gazed and thought:
“We are all of us like that.… The point is, to blaze up as brightly as possible!”
Three days later I took leave of Konováloff. I was going to the Kubán, he did not wish to go. But we both parted with the conviction that we should meet again on earth.
It has not come to pass.…
20The regulation reply of the soldier to an officer’s greeting or request—Translator.
21A nickname used by Little Russians for Great Russians—meaning, in general “a soldier”;—as the Great Russians call Little Russian Khokhól or “top-knot”—Translator.
22Shoes—or slippers—made from boots by cutting off the legs.—Translator.
23Lesá and Sashók, as well as Sásha and Sáshka are diminutives of Alexander.—Translator.
24Iván S. Turgéneff’s famous tale: “Mumu.”—Translator.
25Podlípovtzui”—a well-known heart-rending story, by Ryeshétnikoff.—Translator.
26An organised band of high-grade thieves.—Translator.
27N. V. Gógol’s famous kazák epic. Tarás Bulba is an imaginary character. The book has been translated into English by the translator of this book.
28F. M. Dostoévsky’s famous first book. There have been several translations. Makár Dyévushkin and Várya are the principal—almost the only—characters in “Poor People.”
29The popular nickname, among the Great Russians, for the Little Russians,—kókhly. Possibly the term is derived from the fact that the famous kazáks of the Ukráina (Little Russia), known to history as the Zaporózhian kazáks—or the kazáks dwelling “below the rapids” of the Dnyépr river—shaved their heads, and wore only a top-knot of hair.
30Sténka Rázin, a kazák of the Don, turned pirate, ravaged the Caspian Sea, the shores of Persia, and the Vólga, capturing towns and stirring up a revolt against the government He was executed in Moscow, in 1671. He is famous, not only in history, but also in legends, in Epic Songs and in ballads.
31Emelyan Pugatchóff, a kazák deserter and Old Ritualist (1778), gave himself out as the Emperor Peter III. With the avowed intention of marching to St. Petersburg, deposing “his wife” (the Empress Katherine II.), and placing “his son” (afterwards the Emperor Paul I.) on the throne, he raised a serious revolt in the Vólga provinces. It was put down, with difficulty, by troops, and Pugatchóff was captured and executed.—Translator.
32By Nekrasoff.—Translator.
33Sometimes used to mean: “the governor of a province or town”; sometimes, “the commander of an army.”—Translator.
34Réaumur. Feodósia is on the shore of the Black Sea, in the Crimea. 30° Réau. = 84° Fahrenheit.—Translator.
35Seven hundred and twenty pounds.—Translator.
36About half these amounts in dollars and cents.—Translator.
37“Piltáva,” for Poltáva; and “prehaps” are respectively, actual and approximated specimens of the Little Russian pronunciation; though this brief sentence contains a third not easily reproduced.—Translator.
THE KHAN AND HIS SON
“… In the Crimea there was a Khan Mosolaïma el Asvab, and he had a son, Tolaïk Alhalla.…”
With his back propped against the brilliant light-brown trunk of an arbutus-tree, a blind beggar, a Tatár, began, in these words, one of the ancient legends of the peninsula, which is rich in its memories, and round about the storyteller, on stone fragments of the palace of the khans, destroyed by time, sat a group of Tatárs in gay-colored kaftans and flat caps embroidered with gold. It was evening, and the sun was sinking softly into the sea; its red rays penetrated the dark mass of verdure around the ruins, and fell in brilliant spots upon the stones, overgrown with moss, enmeshed in the clinging greenery of the ivy. The breeze rustled in a clump of aged plane-trees, and their leaves fluttered as though brooks of water, invisible to the eye, were rippling through the air.
The voice of the blind beggar was weak, and trembled, but his stony face expressed in its wrinkles nothing except repose; the words he had learned by heart flowed on, one after the other, and before the hearers rose up a picture of past days, rich in the power of emotion.
“The Khan was old,” said the blind man, “but he had a great many women in his harem. And they loved the old man, because he still had a good deal of strength and fire, and his caresses soothed and burned, and women will always love those who know how to caress strongly, be the man a gray-beard, or even if he have wrinkles on his countenance—for there is beauty in strength, but not in a soft skin and a ruddy cheek.
“They all loved the Khan, but he loved a kazák-prisoner maid, from the steppes of the Dnyépr, and always liked more to fondle her than the other women of his harem, his great harem, where there were three hundred women from divers lands, and they were all as beautiful as the flowers of spring, and they all lived well. Many were the sweet and dainty viands which the Khan ordered to be prepared for them, and he always permitted them to dance and play whenever they desired to do so…”
“But his kazák he often summoned to his own quarters in the tower, from which the sea was visible, and where he had everything for the kazák girl that a woman can want, that her life might be merry: sweet wine, and various fabrics, and gold, and precious stones of all colors, and music, and rare birds from distant countries, and the fiery caresses of the amorous Khan. In this tower he amused himself with her for whole days together, resting from the cares of his life, and knowing that his son Alhalla would not lower the glory of the Khan, as he galloped like a wolf over the Russian steppes, always returning thence with rich booty, with fresh women, with fresh glory, leaving there, behind him, terror and ashes, corpses and blood.
“Once he, Alhalla, returned from a raid on the Russians, and many festivals were arranged in his honor; all the murzas of the island assembled at them, and there were banquets and games, and they fired arrows from their bows into the eyes of the prisoners, testing their strength of arm, and again they drank, lauding the valor of Alhalla, the terror of enemies, the mainstay of the Khanate. And the old Khan rejoiced exceedingly at the glory of his son.—It was good for him, that old man, to behold in his son such a dashing warrior, and to know that when he, the old man, came to die, the Khanate would be in stout hands.
“It was good for him to know that, and so, being desirous to show his son the strength of his love, he said to him, in the presence of all the murzas and beys there, at the feast, beaker in hand, he said:
“I Thou art a good son, Alhalla! Glory be to Allah, and glorified be the name of his prophet!’
“And all glorified the name of the prophet in a chorus of mighty voices. Then the Khan said:
“‘Great is Allah! Already, during my lifetime, he has renewed my youth in my gallant son, and now, with my aged eyes, I perceive that when the sun shall be hidden from them,�
��and when the worms shall devour my breast,—I shall still live on in my son! Great is Allah, and Mahomet is his true prophet! I have a good son, his arm is strong, and his heart is bold, and his mind is clear.… What wilt thou take from the hand of thy father, Alhalla? Tell me, and I will give thee everything, according to thy desire.’
“And the sound of the old Khan’s voice had not yet died away when Tolaïk Alhalla rose to his feet, and said, with flashing eyes, black as the sea by night and blazing like the eyes of the mountain eagle:
“‘Give me the Prussian prisoner, my sovereign father.”
“The Khan spake not—for a space he said no word, for so long as was required to crush the shudder in his heart,—and, after this pause, he said, boldly and firmly:
“‘Take her! Let us finish the feast, and then thou shalt take her.’
“Gallant Alhalla flushed all over, his eagle eyes flashed with the greatness of his joy; he rose to his full height, and said to his father-Khan:
“‘I know what thou dost give me, sovereign father! I know…I am thy slave—thy son. Take my blood, a drop an hour—twenty deaths will I die for thee!’
