by Maxim Gorky
“‘I require nothing!’ said the Khan, and bowed his gray head, crowned with the glory of long years and many feats, upon his breast.
“Speedily did they finish the feast, and the two went silently, side by side, from the palace to the harem.
“The night was dark, and neither moon nor stars were visible for the clouds which covered the heaven like a thick carpet.
“Long did the father and son walk through the darkness, and now the Khan el Asvab spake:
“‘Day by day my life is dying out, and my old heart beats more and more feebly, and less and still ever less is there of fire in my breast. The fervent caresses of the kazák woman have been the light and warmth of my life.… Tell me, Tolaïk, tell me, is she so necessary to thee? Take a hundred, take all my wives, save only her!…’
“Tolaïk Alhalla made no reply, but sighed.
“‘How many days are left to me? Few are my days on earth.… She is the last joy of my life,—that Russian girl. She knows me, she loves me,—who will love me now, when I no longer have her—me, an old man, who? Not one among them all, not one, Alhalla!’
“Alhalla said no word.
“‘How shall I live, knowing that thou art embracing her, that she is kissing thee? To a woman, there is no such thing as father or son, Tolaïk! To a woman, we are all men, my son.… Painful will it be for me to live out my days.… Bather let all the ancient wounds on my body open again, Tolaïk, and let them shed my blood—rather let me not survive this night, my son!’
“His son remained silent…They halted at the door of the harem, and silently, bowing their heads on their breasts, they stood long before it. Gloom was round about them, and clouds raced across the sky, while the wind shook the trees, as though it were singing some song to them.
“‘I have loved her long, father!,’ said Alhalla softly.
“‘I know…and I know that she does not love thee,’ said the Khan.
“‘My heart is rent when I think of her.’
“‘And with what is my aged heart filled now?’
“And again they fell silent. Alhalla sighed.
“‘’Tis plain that the wise mullah told me the truth-a woman is always injurious to a man: when she is handsome, she arouses in others the desire to possess her, and she delivers her husband over to the pangs of jealousy; when she is ugly, her husband, envying others, suffers from envy; but if die is neither handsome nor ugly,—a man imagines her very handsome, and when he comes to understand that he has made a mistake, he suffers again through her, that woman.’
“‘Wisdom is not medicine for an aching heart …’ said the Khan.
“‘Let us have compassion on each other, father …’
“The Khan raised his head, and gazed sadly at his son.
“‘Let us kill her,’ said Tolaïk.
“‘Thou lovest thyself more than her and me,—’ said the Khan softly, after meditating for a space.
“‘Surely, it is the same with thee.’
“And again they fell silent.
“‘Yes! And I, also,’—said the Khan mournfully. He had become a child through grief.
“‘Well, shall we kill her?’
“‘I cannot give her up to thee, I cannot,’ said the Khan.
“‘And I cannot endure it any longer—tear out my heart, or give her to me.…‘
“The Khan made no reply.
“‘Or let us fling her into the sea from the mountain,’
“‘Let us fling her into the sea from the mountain,’ the Khan repeated his son’s words, like the echo of his son’s voice.
“And then they entered the harem, where she already lay asleep upon the floor, on a rich rug. They paused in front of her and gazed; long did they gaze upon her. Tears trickled from the old Khan’s eyes upon his silvery beard and gleamed in it like pearls, but his son stood with flashing eyes, and gnashing his teeth, to restrain his passion. He aroused the kazák girl. She awoke, and on her face, tender and rosy as the dawn, her blue eyes blossomed like corn-flowers. She did not perceive Alhalla, and stretched out her scarlet lips to the Khan.
“‘Kiss me, old eagle!’
“‘Make ready…thou must come with us,’—said the Khan softly.
“Then she saw Alhalla, and the tears in the eyes of her eagle, and she understood all, for she was clever.
“‘I come,’ she said,—‘I come. I am to belong neither to the one nor to the other—is that what you have decided That is how the strong of heart should decide. I come.’
“And silently they all three went toward the sea. Through narrow ways they went, and the breeze rustled, rustled sonorously.…
“She was tender, the girl, and wearied soon, but she was proud also—and would not tell them so.
“And when the Khan’s son observed that she did not keep pace with them, he said to her:
“‘Art thou afraid?’
“She gave him a flashing glance, and showed him her bleeding foot.
“‘Come, I will carry thee!’—said Alhalla, reaching out his arms to her. But she threw her arms around the neck of her old eagle. The Khan raised her in his arms, like a feather, and carried her; and she, as she sat in his arms, thrust aside the boughs of the trees from his face, fearing that they would strike his eyes. Long did they journey thus, and lo! the roar of the sea could be heard in the distance. Then Tolaïk—he walked behind them in the path—said to his father:
“‘Let me go on ahead, for I want to stab thee in the neck with my dagger.’
“‘Pass on—Allah will take vengeance on thee for thy desire, or forgive thee—as he wills,—but I, thy father, forgive thee. I know what it means to love.’
“And lo! the sea lay before them, yonder below, black and shoreless. Its waves chanted dully at the very base of the cliff, and it was dark and cold and terrible there below.
“‘Farewell!’ said the Khan, as he kissed the girl.
“‘Farewell!’ said Alhalla, and bowed low before her.
“‘She glanced out afar, where the waves were singing, and staggered back, pressing her hands to her breast …
“‘Throw me!’ she said to them.
“Alhalla stretched out his hands to her and groaned, but the Khan took her in his arms, pressed her close to his breast, kissed her, and raising her high over his head,—he flung her from the cliff.
“There the waves were plashing and singing so noisily that neither of them heard when she reached the water. They heard no cry, nothing. The Khan sank down upon a stone, and began to gaze downward in silence into the darkness and distance, where the sea merged into the clouds, whence noisily floated the dull beating of the billows, whence flew the wind which fluttered the Khan’s gray beard. Tolaïk stood over him, covering his face with his hands, motionless and silent as a stone. Time passed, and athwart the sky the clouds floated past, one after another, driven by the wind. Dark and heavy were they, as the thoughts of the aged Khan, who lay on the lofty cliff above the sea.
“‘Let us go, father,’ said Tolaïk.
“‘Wait,’—whispered the Khan, as though listening to something.
“And again much time elapsed, and still the waves beat below, and the wind flew to the cliff, making a noise in the trees.
“‘Let us go, father.’
“‘Wait a little longer …’
“More than once did Tolaïk Alhalla say:
“‘Let us go, father.’
“But still the Khan stirred not from the place, where he had lost the joy of his last days.
“But—all things have an end!—he rose, strong and proud, rose, knitted his brows, and said in a dull tone:
“‘Let us go.’
“They went, but the Khan speedily halted.
“‘Why am I going and whither, Tolaïk?’—he asked his son.—? Why should I live now, when all
my life was in her? I am old, no one will love me more, and if no one loves thee—it is senseless to live in the world.’
“‘Thou hast glory and riches, father …’
“‘Give me but one kiss of hers, and take all that to thyself as reward. All that is dead, the love of woman alone is alive. There is no such love, there is no life in a man, a beggar is he, and pitiful are his days. Farewell, my son, the blessing of Allah be on thy head, and remain there all the days and nights of thy life.’ And the Khan turned his face seaward.
“‘Father,’—said Tolaïk, ‘father!…’ He could say no more, for there is nothing that one can say to a man on whom death smiles, and nothing canst thou say to him which shall restore to his soul the love of life.
“‘Let me go …’
“‘Allah …’
“‘He knows …’
With swift strides the Khan approached the brink, and hurled himself down. His son did not hold him back, there was no time for that. And again nothing was audible from the sea—neither shriek nor noise of the Khan’s fall. Only the waves plashed on there, and the wind hummed wild songs.
“Long did Tolaïk Alhalla gaze below, and then he said aloud:
“‘And grant me, also, as stout a heart, oh Allah!’
“‘And then he went forth into the gloom of the night.
“Thus perished Khan Mosolaïma el Asvab, and Tolaïk Alhalla became Khan of the Crimea.”
THE EXORCISM
Along the village street, between rows of white-plastered cottages, a strange procession is moving along, with wild howls.
A crowd of people is walking along, walking slowly, in dense ranks,—moving like a huge wave, and in front of it strides a miserable little horse, a comically woolly little nag, with head drooping low. As it lifts a fore foot, it shakes its head strangely, as though it wanted to thrust its woolly muzzle into the dust of the road, and when it moves a hind foot, its crupper settles down toward the earth, and it seems as though the horse were on the point of falling.
Bound to the front of the peasant cart, with a rope about her wrists, is a small, entirely nude woman, almost a girl in years. She walks rather strangely—sideways, her head, with its thick, dishevelled hair of a dark chestnut hue, is raised and thrown a little backward, her eyes are opened widely and are gazing off into the distance with a dull, unintelligent look, which has nothing human about it. Her whole body is covered with blue and dark-red spots, both circular and oblong; her left breast, elastic, maidenly, is cleft, and from it the blood is dripping.… It forms a crimson streak on her body, and down along the left leg to the knee, while on her lower leg it is concealed by a light-brown coating of dust It seems as though a long, narrow strip of skin had been flayed from the woman’s body, which must have undergone a prolonged beating with a club,—it is monstrously swollen and horribly blue all over.
The woman’s feet, small and well-shaped, hardly tread the dust; her whole body is terribly bent over, and sways from side to side, and it is impossible to understand how she can still stand on her legs, thickly covered, like her whole body, with bruises, why she does not fall to the ground, and, suspended by her arms, is not dragged after the cart along the hot, dusty road.…
And in the cart stands a tall peasant in a white shirt, a black lambskin cap, from beneath which, intersecting his brow, hangs a lock of bright-red hair; in one hand he grasps the reins, in the other a whip, and methodically bestows one lash upon the back of the nag, and one upon the body of the little woman, already beaten until it has lost the semblance of a human being. The eyes of the red-headed man are suffused with blood, and gleam with evil triumph. His hair blends with their greenish hue. His shirt-sleeves, stripped up to the elbow, display strong, muscular arms, thickly overgrown with reddish hair; his mouth, filled with sharp, white teeth, is open, and from time to time the peasant shouts hoarsely:
“Gi-ive it to her…the wi-itch! Hey! Gi-ive it to her! Aha! Here goes!… Isn’t that the thing, comrades?.…”
And behind the cart and the woman bound to it, the crowd surges on in billows, shouting, howling, whistling, laughing, shouting the hunting cry…teasing.… Wretched little boys are running alongside. Now and then one of them darts ahead, and shouts foul words in the woman’s ear. Then a burst of laughter from the crowd drowns all other sounds, and the piercing whistle of the whiplash through the air.… Women are walking there, with excited faces, and eyes sparkling with satisfaction.… There are men, also, who shout something disgusting to the man in the cart.… He turns round toward them, and roars with laughter, opening his mouth very wide. A blow with the whip on the woman’s back.… The long, thin whip curls round her shoulders, and now it lashes her under the armpit. Then the peasant who is flogging her draws the lash strongly toward him; the woman utters a shrill cry, and, throwing herself backward, falls on her back in the dust. Many of the crowd spring toward her, and hide her from sight with their bodies, as they bend over her.
The horse stops short, but, a moment later, moves on again, and the unmercifully beaten woman moves along with the cart as before. And the wretched nag, as it paces slowly onward, keeps shaking its woolly head, as though it wanted to say:
“See how vile a thing it is to be a beast! They can force you to take part in every sort of abominable thing!”
And the sky, the sky of the south, is perfectly clear,—there is not a single cloud, and from it the summer sun lavishly pours out its burning rays.
* * * *
This, which I have written above, is not an allegorical description of the persecution and torture of a prophet, who has no honor in his own country,—no, unfortunately, it is not that! It is called an “exorcism.” Thus do husbands punish their wives for infidelity; this is a picture from life, a custom,—and I beheld it in the year 1891, on the 15th of July, in the village of Kandybóvko, Government of Khersón.
MEN WITH PASTS
I.
Vyézhaya (Entrance) Street consists of two rows of aged, one-story hovels, squeezed closely one against the other, with leaning walls and windows all awry; the hole-ridden roofs of these human habitations, thus crippled by time, are mottled with patches of the inner bark of the linden-tree, and overgrown with moss; above them, here and there, project tall poles surmounted by starling-houses, and they are shaded by the dusty verdure of elderberry bushes and crooked willows, the scanty flora of the town suburbs inhabited by poverty.
The window-panes of the tiny houses, of a turbid-green hue through age, stare at each other with the glances of cowardly sharpers. Up-hill, through the middle of the street, crawls a winding cart-track, which tacks back and forth among deep gullies, washed out by the rains. Here and there lie heaps of broken bricks and other rubbish, overgrown with high grass—representing the remnants or the beginnings of the constructions, unsuccessfully undertaken by the inhabitants in their fight with the floods of rain-water, which flow like torrents from the town. Up above, on the crest of the hill, handsome stone houses conceal themselves amid the luxuriant verdure of thick gardens, and the belfries of churches rise proudly into the blue sky, their golden crosses glitter dazzlingly in the sun.
During rains, the town sends its dirt down upon Vyézhaya Street; in dry weather, it sprinkles it with dust,—and all these deformed little houses look as though they, also, had been flung out of it, swept forth, like rubbish, by some mighty hand.
Flattened down against the earth, they were sprinkled all over the hill, half-decayed, infirm, decorated by sun, dust, and rain with that dirty grayish hue which defies description that wood acquires with age.
At the extremity of this wretched street, flung out of the town to the bottom of the hill, stood a long, two-story deserted house, which had escheated to the town, and had been purchased from the town by merchant Petúnnikoff. It was the last in the line, standing at the very foot of the hill, and beyond it extended a wide plain, intersected, half a verst from the house,
by a steep declivity descending to the river.
This large and very aged house possessed the most gloomy aspect of all among its neighbors. It was all askew, in its two rows of windows there was not a single one which had preserved its regular shape, and the splinters of glass in the shattered frames had the turbidly-greenish hue of swamp water.
The walls between the windows were streaked with cracks and dark spots of peeling stucco—as though time had written its biography on the walls of the house in these hieroglyphs. The roof, which sloped toward the street, still further increased its rueful aspect—it seemed as though the house had bent down to the ground, and was submissively awaiting from Fate the final blow which should convert it into dust, into a shapeless heap of half-rotten fragments.
The gate stood open—one half of it, torn from its hinges, lay on the ground, and through the crevices between its planks had sprouted the grass, which thickly covered the desert courtyard of the house. At the far end of this courtyard stood a low, smoke-begrimed building with an iron roof, of one slant. The house itself was, of course, uninhabitable, but in this building, which had formerly been the blacksmith’s shop, there was now installed a “night lodging-house,” kept by Aristíd Fómitch Kuválda,38 retired captain of cavalry.
The interior of the night lodging-house presented a long, gloomy burrow, four fathoms by ten; it was lighted on one side by four small, square windows, and a broad door. Its unplastered brick walls were black with soot, the ceiling, of barge-bottom wood,39 was also smoked until it was black; in the middle of the place stood a huge stove, for which the forge served as foundation, and around the stove, and along the walls, ran wide sleeping-shelves with heaps of all sorts of stuff, which served the lodgers as beds. The wall reeked with smoke, the earthen floor reeked with dampness, from the sleeping-shelves proceeded an odor of sweaty and decaying rags.
The quarters of the lodging-house’s proprietor were on the stove; the sleeping-shelves around the stove were the places of honor, and upon them the night-lodgers who enjoyed the favor and friendship of the proprietor disposed themselves.
