The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  The mysterious, all-annihilating power called Death, as though insulted by the presence of this intoxicated man at the gloomy and solemn scene of its conflict with life, decided to make as speedy an end as possible of its business, and the teacher, heaving a deep sigh, moaned softly, shuddered, stretched himself out, and died.

  The captain reeled on his legs, as he continued his speech.

  “What’s the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some vódka? But better not drink it, Philip.… Restrain yourself, conquer yourself.… If you can’t—drink! Why restrain yourself, to speak plainly.… For whose sake, Philip? Isn’t that so? For whose sake?…”

  He grasped his foot, and drew him toward him.

  “Ah, you are asleep, Philip? Well…sleep on.… A quiet night to you…to-morrow I’ll explain it all to you, and you’ll be convinced that it isn’t necessary to deny yourself anything.… But now—sleep…if you are not dead.…”

  He went out, accompanied by silence, and when he came to his men he announced:

  “He’s asleep…or dead…I don’t know…I’m a l-lit-tle drunk.…”

  Tyápa bent over still further, making the sign of the cross on his breast. Martyánoff writhed quietly, and lay down on the ground. The Meteor, that stupid lad, began to whimper, softly and plaintively, like an affronted woman. The Gnawed Bone began to wriggle swiftly over the ground, saying in a low, spiteful, and sorrowful tone:

  “The devil take the whole lot of you! Tormentors.… Well, he’s dead! Come, what of that? I…why need I know that? Why must I be told about that? The time will come…when I shall die myself…just as much as he…I, as much as the rest.”

  “That’s true!” said the captain loudly, dropping heavily to the ground.—“The time will come, and we shall all die, like the rest…ha-ha! How we pass our lives…is a trifling matter! But we shall die—like everybody. Therein lies the goal of life, believe my words. For a man lives in order that he may die.… And he dies.… And if that is so, what difference does it make why and how he dies, and how he has lived? Am I right, Martyánoff? Let’s have another drink…and another, as long as we are alive.…”

  The rain began to fall. Dense, stifling gloom covered the forms of the men, as they wallowed on the earth, curled up in slumber or intoxication. The streak of light proceeding from the lodging-house paled, flickered, and suddenly vanished. Evidently, the wind had blown out the lamp or the kerosene in it had burned down. The raindrops tapped timidly, irresolutely, as they fell upon the iron roof of the lodging-house. From the town, at the top of the hill, melancholy, occasional strokes of a bell were wafted—it was the churches being guarded.

  The brazen sound, floating from the belfry, floated softly through the darkness, and slowly died away in it, but before the darkness could engulf its last, tremulously-sobbing note, another stroke began, and again, through the silence of the night, the melancholy sigh of the metal was borne forth.

  * * * *

  Tyápa was the first to awaken in the morning.

  Turning over on his back, he stared at the sky—only in this posture did his deformed neck permit him to see the heaven overhead.

  On that morning the sky was uniformly gray. There, on high, the dark, cold gloom had thickened, it had extinguished the sun, and covering the blue infinity, poured forth melancholy upon the earth. Tyápa crossed himself, and raised himself on his elbow, in order to see whether any of the vódka anywhere remained. The bottle was there, but it was empty. Crawling across his comrades, Tyápa began to inspect the cups from which they had drunk. He found one of them almost full, drank it down, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and began to shake the captain by the shoulder.

  “Get up…hey there! Do you hear?”

  The captain raised his head, gazing at him with dim eyes.

  “We must inform the police…come, then, get up!”

  “What’s the matter?”—asked the captain, sleepily and angrily.

  “The matter is, that he’s dead.…”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “The learned man.…”

  “Philip? Ye-es!”

  “And you’ve forgotten—ekhma!”—grunted Tyápa reproachfully.

  The captain rose to his feet, yawned with a whizzing noise, and stretched himself so hard that his bones creaked.

  “Then, you go and report.…”

  “I won’t go…I don’t like them,”—said Tyápa in a surly tone.

  “Well, then, wake up the deacon yonder.… And I’ll go and see about things.…”

  “All right…get up, deacon!”

  The captain went into the lodging-house, and stood at the teacher’s feet. The dead man was lying stretched out at full length: his left hand was on his breast, his right was flung back in such a manner as though he had been flourishing it preparatory to dealing someone a blow. The captain reflected, that if the teacher were to rise now, he would be as tall as Tarás-and-a-Half. Then he seated himself on the sleeping-shelf, at the feet of his friend, and calling to mind that they had lived together for three years, he sighed. Tyápa entered, holding his head, as a goat does, when he is about to butt. He sat down on the other side of the teacher’s feet, gazed at the latter’s dark, calm, serious face, with its tightly closed eyes, and said hoarsely:

  “Yes…there he is dead.… I shall die soon.…”

  “It’s time you did,”—said the captain morosely.

  “It is time!”—assented Tyápa.—“And you must die also.… Anyhow, it’s better than.…”

  “Perhaps it’s worse? How do you know?”

  “It can’t be worse. You’ll die, you’ll have to deal with God.… But with the people here.… But what do people signify?”

  “Well, all right, don’t rattle in your throat like that …” Kuválda angrily interrupted him.

  And in the gloom which filled the night lodging-house an impressive silence reigned.

  For a long time they sat there in silence, at the feet of their dead comrade, and glanced at him, now and then, both absorbed in thought. Then Tyápa inquired:

  “Shall you bury him?”

  “I? No! Let the police bury him.”

  “Well! You’d better bury him, I think…you know, you took his money from Vavíloff for writing that petition.… I’ll contribute, if there isn’t enough.…”

  “I have his money…but I won’t bury him.”

  “That’s not well. You’re robbing a corpse. I’ll just tell everybody that you want to devour his money.…” menaced Tyápa.

  “You’re stupid, you old devil!”—said Kuválda scornfully.

  “I’m not stupid.… Only, that isn’t good, I say, not a friendly thing to do.”

  “Well, it’s all right, anyway. Get away with you!”

  “You don’t say so! And how much money is there?”

  “Four rubles.…” said Kuválda abstractedly.

  “There, now! You might give me five rubles.…”

  “What a rascally old fellow you are …” and the captain swore at Tyápa, looking him indifferently in the face.

  “What of that? Really, now, give it.…”

  “Go to the devil!… I’m going to build him a monument with the money.”

  “What’s the good of that to him?”

  “I’ll buy a mill-stone and an anchor. I’ll put the millstone on the grave, and I’ll fasten the anchor to it with a chain.… It will be very heavy.…”

  “What for? You’re getting whimsical.…”

  “Well…it’s no business of yours.”

  “I’ll tell, see if I don’t.…” threatened Tyápa again.

  Aristíd Fómitch gazed dully at him and made no reply. And again, for a long time, they sat in silence, which always assumes an impressive and mysterious coloring in the presence of the dead.

  “Hark, there…somebody’s driving u
p!”—said Tyápa, as he rose, and left the lodging-house.

  The police captain of the district, the coroner, and the doctor soon made their appearance at the door. All three, one after the other, approached the teacher, and after taking a look at him went out, rewarding Kuválda with sidelong and suspicious glances. He sat there, paying no attention to them, until the police captain asked him, nodding toward the teacher:

  “What did he die of?”

  “Ask him…I think, from lack of practice.…”

  “What’s that you say?”—inquired the police captain.

  “I say—he died, in my opinion, from lack of practice, because he wasn’t used to the illness that seized upon him.…”

  “Hm…yes! And was he ill long?”

  “We might drag him out here, we can’t see anything in there,” suggested the doctor, in a bored tone.—“Perhaps there are traces.…”

  “Here, you, there, call someone to carry him out,”—the police captain ordered Kuválda.

  “Call them yourself.… He doesn’t bother me where he is.…” retorted Kuválda indifferently.

  “Get along, there!”—shouted the policeman, with a savage face.

  “Whoa!” parried Kuválda, not stirring from the spot and calmly disclosing his teeth in a vicious snarl.

  “I’ll give it to you, devil take you!”—shouted the police captain, enraged to such a degree that his face became suffused with blood.—“I won’t overlook this!…”

  “A very good-morning, honored sirs!”—said merchant Petúnnikoff, in a sweet voice, as he made his appearance in the doorway.

  Taking them all in with one sharp glance, he shuddered, retreated a pace, and removing his cap, began to cross himself vehemently. Then a smile of malevolent triumph flitted across his countenance, and staring point-blank at Kuválda he inquired respectfully:

  “What’s this here?—Can they have murdered the man?”

  “Why, something of that sort,” the coroner replied.

  Petúnnikoff heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself again, and said, in a tone of distress:

  “Ah, Lord my God! This is just what I was afraid of! Every time I dropped in here to take a look…áï, áï, áï! And when I got home, I kept having such visions—God preserve everyone from such an experience!—Many a time I have felt like turning that gentleman yonder…the commander-in-chief of the golden horde, out of his quarters, but I was always afraid to…you know…it’s better to yield to that sort of people…I said to myself…otherwise.…”

  He made an easy gesture with his hand in the air, then drew it across his face, gathered his beard in his fist, and sighed again.

  “Dangerous people. And that gentleman there is a sort of commander over them…a regular bandit chieftain.”

  “And we’re going to examine him,” said the police captain in an extremely significant tone, as he gazed at the cavalry captain with revengeful eyes. “He is well known to me!…”

  “Yes, brother, you and I are old acquaintances.…” assented Kuválda, in a familiar tone.—“What a lot of bribes I’ve paid to you and to your sprouts of under-officials to hold your tongues!”

  “Gentlemen!”—cried the police captain,—“you hear him? I request that you will bear this in mind! I won’t overlook this.… Ah…ah! So that’s it? Well, I’ll give you cause to remember me! I’ll…put an end to you, my friend!”

  “Don’t brag when you set out for the wars…my friend,”—said Aristíd Fómitch coolly.

  The doctor, a young man in spectacles, stared at him with curiosity, the coroner with ominous attention, Petúnnikoff with triumph, but the police captain shouted and dashed about, as he flung himself on him.

  The sinister form of Martyánoff made its appearance in the doorway of the lodging-house. He stepped up quietly and stood behind Petúnnikoff, so that his chin was just over the merchant’s crown. On one side, from behind him, peered the deacon, his small, swollen, red eyes opened to their fullest extent.

  “Come on, let’s do something, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor.

  Martyánoff made a terrible grimace, and suddenly sneezed straight on Petúnnikoff’s head. Hie latter shrieked, squatted down, and sprang to one side, almost knocking the police captain off his feet, as the latter supported him, having opened his arms wide to receive him.

  “You see?”—said the merchant, pointing at Martyánoff. “That’s the sort of people they are! Hey?”

  Kuválda broke out into a roar of laughter. The doctor and the coroner laughed, and new forms kept constantly approaching the door of the night lodging-house. The half-awake, bloated physiognomies, with red, swollen eyes, with dishevelled heads, unceremoniously scrutinized the doctor, the coroner, and the police captain.

  “Where are you crawling to!”—the policeman exhorted them, tugging at their rags and pushing them away from the door. But he was one, and they were many, and paying no heed to him, silent and threatening they continued to advance, exhaling an odor of stale vódka. Kuválda looked at them, then at the authorities, who were somewhat disconcerted by the size of this ugly audience, and, with a grin, he remarked to the authorities:

  “Gentlemen! Perhaps you would like to make the acquaintance of my lodgers and friends? You would? Never mind…sooner or later, you’ll be forced to make acquaintance with them, in the discharge of your duties.…”

  The doctor laughed in an embarrassed way. The coroner pressed his lips tightly together, and the police captain saw what it was necessary to do, and shouted outside:

  “Sídoroff! Whistle…when the men arrive, tell them to get a cart …”

  “Well, I must be going!”—said Petúnnikoff, moving forward from somewhere in the corner.—“You will vacate my quarters to-day, sir.… I’m going to have this old shanty torn down.… Look out, or I’ll apply to the police …”

  The shrill whistle of the policeman rang out in the courtyard. At the door of the night lodging-house its denizens stood in a dense mass, yawning and scratching their heads.

  “So, you don’t want to make acquaintance?… That’s impolite!…” laughed Aristíd Kuválda.

  Petúnnikoff took his purse out of his pocket, fumbled in it, pulled out two five-kopék pieces, and, crossing himself, laid them at the feet of the corpse.

  “Bless, oh Lord…for the burial of the sinner’s dust.…”

  “Wha-at!” bawled the cavalry captain.—“You? For his burial? Take it away! Take it away, I tell you…you scou-oundrel! You dare to contribute your stolen pennies to the burial of an honest man.… I’ll tear you to bits!”

  “Your Well-Born!” shouted the merchant in alarm, seizing the police captain by the elbow. The doctor and the coroner rushed out, the police captain shouted loudly:

  “Sídoroff, come here!”

  The men with pasts formed a wall across the door, and with interest lighting up their rumpled faces they watched and listened.

  Kuválda shook his fist over Petúnnikoff’s head, and roared, rolling his blood-shot eyes ferociously. “Scoundrel and thief! Take your money! You dirty creature…take it, I say…if you don’t, I’ll ram those five-kopék pieces into your eyeballs—take it!”

  Petúnnikoff stretched out a trembling hand toward his mite, and fending off Kuválda’s fist with the other hand, he said:

  “Bear witness, Mr. Police Captain, and you, my good people.”

  “We’re bad people, merchant,” rang out The Gnawed Bone’s trembling voice.

  The police captain, puffing out his face like a bladder, whistled desperately, and held his other hand in the air over the head of Petúnnikoff, who was wriggling about in front of him exactly as though he were about to jump upon his body.

  “If you like, Ill make you kiss the feet of this corpse, you base viper? D-do you want to?”

  And grasping Petúnnikoff by the collar, Kuválda hurled him to the doo
r, as though he had been a kitten. The men with pasts hastily stepped aside, to make room for Petúnnikoff to fall. And he sprawled at their feet, howling in rage and terror:

  “Murder! Police…I’m killed!”

  Martyánoff slowly raised his foot, and took aim with it at the merchant’s head. The Gnawed Bone, with a voluptuous expression on his countenance, spat in Petúnnikoff’s face. The merchant contracted himself into a small ball, and rolled, on all fours, into the courtyard, encouraged by a roar of laughter. But two policemen had already made their appearance in the courtyard, and the police captain, pointing at Kuválda, shouted triumphantly:

  “Arrest him! Bind him!”

  “Bind him, my dear men!”—entreated Petúnnikoff.

  “Don’t you dare! I won’t run away…I’ll go of myself, wherever it’s necessary.…” said Kuválda, waving aside the policemen, who had run up to him.

  The men with pasts vanished, one by one. A cart drove into the courtyard. Several dejected tatterdemalions had already carried the teacher out of the lodging-house.

  “I’ll g-give it to you, my dear fellow…just wait!”—the police captain menaced Kuválda.

  “Well, you bandit chief!”—inquired Petúnnikoff venomously, excited and happy at the sight of his enemy, whose hands had been bound.

  “Lead him off!” said the police captain, pointing at the cavalry captain.

  Kuválda, making no protest, silent and with knitted brows, moved from the yard, and as he passed the teacher he bowed his head, but did not look at him. Martyánoff, with his stony face, followed him. Merchant Petúnnikoff’s courtyard was speedily emptied.

  “Go on, now!” and the cab-driver shook his reins over his horse’s crupper.

  The cart moved off, jolting over the uneven ground of the courtyard. The teacher, covered with some rag or other, lay stretched out in it, face upward, and his belly quivered. It seemed as though the teacher were laughing, in a quiet, satisfied way, delighted that, at last, he was to leave the night lodging-house, never to return there again.… Petúnnikoff, as he accompanied him with a glance, crossed himself piously, and then began with his cap to beat off the dust and rubbish which had clung to his clothing. And, in proportion as the dust disappeared from his coat, a calm expression of satisfaction with himself and confidence in himself made its appearance on his countenance. From the courtyard he could see Aristíd Fómitch Kuválda walking along the street, up the hill, with his hands bound behind him, tall, gray-haired, in a cap with a red band, which resembled a streak of blood.