The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “Of course!”—and Gvózdeff nodded his head.—“The only one who is right is the one who can say a great deal.”

  And, as he stood in the doorway, he cast a glance around him, with an expression on his face which plainly showed how impatient he was to get away from there.

  “No, excuse me!”—cried the editor, elevating his tone, and raising his hand.—“You have brought forward an accusation against me, but before that, you arbitrarily punished me for what you regard as a fault toward you on my part.… I have a right to defend myself, and I request that you will listen to me.”

  “But what business have you with me? Defend yourself to the publisher, if necessary. But what have you to say to me? If I have insulted you, drag me before the justice of the peace. But—defend yourself—that’s another matter! Good-bye!”—He turned sharply about, and putting his hands behind his back, he left the room.

  He had on his feet heavy boots with large heels, with which he tramped noisily, and his footsteps echoed resoundingly in the vast, shed-like editorial room.

  “There you have history and geography—a detailed statement of the case!”—exclaimed the publisher, when Gvózdeff had slammed the door behind him.

  “Vasíly Ivánovitch, I am not to blame in this matter .…” began the maker-up, throwing his hands apart apologetically, as he approached the publisher with short, cautious steps. “I make up the pages, and I can’t possibly tell what the man on duty has put into them. I’m on my feet all night.… I’m here, while my wife lies ill at home, and my children…three of them…have no one to look after them.… I may say that I sell my blood, drop by drop, for thirty rubles a month.… And when Gvózdeff was hired, I said to Feódor Pávlovitch: ‘Feódor Pávlovitch,’ says I, ‘I’ve known Nikólka ever since he was a little boy, and I’m bound to tell you, that Nikólka is an insolent fellow and a thief, a man without conscience. He has already been tried in the district court,’ says I, ‘and has even been in prison.…’”

  “What was he in prison for?”—inquired the editor thoughtfully, without looking at the narrator.

  “For pigeons, sir…that is to say, not because of the pigeons, but for smashing locks. He smashed the locks of seven dove-cotes in one night, sir!… and set all the flocks at liberty—scattered all the birds, sir! A pair of dark-gray ones belonging to me disappeared also,—one fancy tumbler, and a pouter. They were very valuable birds.”

  “Did he steal them?”—inquired the publisher with curiosity.

  “No, he doesn’t pamper himself in that way. He was tried for theft, but he was acquitted. So he’s—an insolent fellow.…. He released the birds, and delighted in it, and jeered at us fanciers.… He has been thrashed more than once already. Once he even had to go to the hospital after the thrashing.… And when he came out, he bred devils in my gossip’s stove.”58

  “Devils!” said the publisher in amazement.

  “What twaddle!”—the editor shrugged his shoulders, knit his brows, and again biting his lips, he relapsed into thought.

  “It’s perfectly true, only I didn’t say it just right,”—said the maker-up abashed.—“You see, he, Nikólka, is a stove-builder. He’s a jack-of-all-trades: he understands the lithographic trade, he has been an engraver, and a plumber, also.… Well, then, my gossip—she has a house of her own, and belongs to the ecclesiastical class—and she hired him to rebuild her stove. Well, he rebuilt it all right; only, the rascally fellow, he cemented into the wall a bottle filled with quicksilver and needles…and he put something else in, too. This produced a sound—such a peculiar sound, you know, like a groan and a sigh; and then folks began to say that devils had bred in the house. When they heated the stove, the quicksilver in the bottle warmed up, and began to roam about in it. And the needles scratched against the glass, just as though somebody were gnashing his teeth. Besides the needles, he had put various iron objects into the bottle, and they made noises, too, after their own fashion,—the needle after its fashion, the nail after its fashion, and the result was a regular devil’s music.… My gossip even tried to sell her house, but nobody would buy it—who likes to have devils round, sir? She had three prayer-services with blessing of holy water celebrated—it did no good. The woman bawled; she had a daughter of marriageable age, a hundred head of fowl, two cows, and a good farm…and these devils must needs spoil everything! She struggled and struggled, so that it was pitiful to see. But I must say that Nikólka rescued her. ‘Give me fifty rubles,’ says he, ‘and I’ll drive out the devils!’ She gave him four to start with,—and afterward, when he had pulled out the bottle, and confessed what the matter was—well, good-bye! She’s a very clever woman, and she wanted to hand him over to the police, but he persuaded her not to.… And he has a lot of other artful dodges.”

  “And for one of those charming ‘artful dodges’ yesterday I shall have to pay. I!”—ejaculated the editor nervously, and tearing himself from his place, he again began to fling himself about the room.—“Oh my God! How stupid, how coarse, how trivial it all is.…”

  “We-ell, you’re making a great fuss over it!”—said the publisher soothingly.—“Make a correction, explain how it happened.… He’s a very interesting young fellow, deuce take him! He put devils in the stove, ha, ha! No, by heaven! We’ll teach him a lesson, but he’s a rascal with a brain, and he arouses for himself some feeling of…you know!”—the publisher snapped his fingers over his head, and cast a glance at the ceiling.

  “Does it interest you?”—cried the editor sharply.

  “Well, why not? Isn’t it amusing? And he described you pretty thoroughly. He’s got wit, the beast!”—the publisher said, taking revenge on the editor for his shout.—“How do you intend to pay him off?”

  The editor suddenly ran close up to the publisher.

  “I shall not pay him off, sir! I can’t, Vasíly Ivánovitch, because that manufacturer of devils is in the right! The devil knows what goes on in your printing-office, do you hear? But we!… but I have to play the fool, thanks to you. He’s in the right, a thousand times over!”

  “And also in the addition which he made to your article?”—inquired the publisher venomously, and pursed up his lips ironically.

  “Well, and what if he was? And he was right, in that also, yes! You must understand, Vasíly Ivánovitch, for, you know, we’re a liberal newspaper.…”

  “And we print an edition of two thousand, reckoning in those gratuitously distributed and the exchanges,”—dryly interposed the publisher.—“But our competitor disposes of nine thousand!”

  “We-ell, sir?”

  “I have nothing more to say!”

  The editor waved his hand hopelessly, and again, with dimming eyes, he began to pace up and down the room.

  “A charming situation!”—he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.—“A sort of universal chase! All the dogs hunting down one, and that one muzzled! Ha, ha! And that unfortunate w-workman! Oh my God!”

  “Why, spit on the whole business, my dear fellow, don’t get worked up over it!”—counselled Vasíly Ivánovitch suddenly, with a good-natured grin, as though tired out with emotions and recriminations.—“It has come and it will go, and you will re-establish your honor. The affair is far more ridiculous than dramatic.” He pacifically offered the editor his plump hand, and was on the point of quitting the room for the office.

  All at once, the door leading into the office opened, and Gvózdeff made his appearance on the threshold. He had his cap on, and smiled not without a certain amount of courtesy.

  “I have come to tell you, Mr. Editor, that if you want to sue me, say so—for I’m going away from here, and I don’t want to be brought back, by stages, by the police.”

  “Take yourself off!”—howled the editor, almost sobbing with wrath, and rushed to the other end of the room.

  “That means, we’re quits,”—said Gvózdeff, adjusting his cap on his head, and cool
ly wheeling round on the threshold, he disappeared.

  “O-oh, the beast!”—sighed Vasíly Ivánovitch, in rapture, to Gvózdeff’s back, and with a blissful smile he began, in a leisurely manner, to put on his overcoat.

  * * * *

  Two days after the scene described above, Gvózdeff, in a blue blouse, confined with a leather strap, in trousers hanging freely, and laced shoes, in a white cap worn over one ear, and the nape of his neck, and with a knobby stick in his hand, was walking staidly along the “Hill.”

  The “Hill” presented a sloping descent to the river. In ancient times, this slope had been covered with a dense grove. Now, almost the whole of the grove had been felled, the gnarled oaks and elms, shattered by thunderstorms, reared heavenward their aged hollow boles, spreading far abroad their knotted boughs. Around their roots twined the young sprouts, small bushes clung to their trunks, and everywhere amid the greenery the rambling public had trodden winding paths, which crept downward to the river all flooded with the radiance of the sun. Horizontally intersecting the “Hill” ran a broad avenue—an abandoned post-road,—and along this, chiefly, the public strolled, promenading in two files, one going in each direction.

  Gvózdeff had always been very fond of strolling back and forth along this avenue, with the public, and of feeling himself one of them, and, like them, freely breathing the air impregnated with the fragrance of the foliage, of freely and lazily moving along, and being a part of something great, and feeling himself equal to all the rest.

  On this day, he was on the verge of being tipsy, and his resolute, pock-marked face had a good-natured, sociable expression. From his left temple his chestnut forelocks curled upward. Handsomely shading his ear, they lay on the band of his cap, imparting to Gvózdeff the dashing air of a young artisan, who is satisfied with himself, and even ready, on the instant, to sing a song, to dance, and to fight, and not averse to drinking every minute. With these characteristic forelocks Nature herself seemed to be desirous of recommending Nikólka Gvózdeff to everyone as a fiery young fellow, who was conscious of his own value. Glancing about him approvingly, with his gray eyes puckered up, Gvózdeff, in a perfectly peaceable manner, jostled the public, bore its nudges with entire equanimity, excused himself, when he trod on the ladies’ trains, in company with the rest swallowed the thick dust, and felt extremely well. Athwart the foliage of the trees, the sun could be seen setting in the meadows beyond the river. The sky there was purple, warm, and caressing, alluring one thither to the spot where it touched the rim of the dark green fields. Beneath the feet of the promenaders lay a tracery of shadows, and the throng of people trod upon them, without noticing their beauty. Foppishly thrusting a cigarette into the left corner of his lips, and idly emitting from the right corner little streams of smoke, Gvózdeff scanned the public, feeling within him a genuine desire to have a chat with someone, over a couple of mugs of beer in the restaurant, at the foot of the “Hill.” He encountered none of his acquaintances, and no suitable opportunity for picking up a new acquaintance presented itself; for some reason, the public was gloomy, in spite of its being a festival and with clear weather, and did not respond to his communicative mood, although he had, already, more than once, stared into the faces of the people he met with a good-natured smile, and with an expression of perfect readiness to enter into conversation. All at once, in the mass of people’s backs, there flashed before his eyes the back of a head which was familiar to him, smoothly clipped and flat as though chopped off—the nape of the neck belonging to the editor—Dmítry Pávlovitch Istómin. Gvózdeff smiled, when he remembered how he had ill-treated that man, and began to gaze with pleasure at Dmítry Pávlovitch’s low-crowned, gray hat. Now and then the editor’s hat disappeared behind other hats, and, for some reason, this disquieted Gvózdeff; he raised himself on tiptoe, to catch sight of it, and when he found it, he smiled again.

  Thus, following the editor, he walked along, and recalled the time when he, Gvózdeff, had been Nikólka the locksmith, and the editor—was Mítka,59 the deacon’s son. They had had another comrade, Míshka,60 whom they had nicknamed the Sugar-bowl. There had also been Váska61 Zhúkoff, the son of an official, from the last house in the street. It was a nice house,—old, all overgrown with moss, all stuck around with additions. Váska’s father had a very fine flock of pigeons. The courtyard of the house was a fine place in which to play at hide-and-seek, because Váska’s father was miserly, and saved up in his yard all sorts of rubbish—broken carriages, and casks, and boxes. Now Váska was a physician, in the country, and on the site of the old house stood railway freight-houses.… They had had other chums—all little boys of from eight to ten years of age. They had all resided on the outskirts of the town, in Back Damp Street, had lived on friendly terms with each other, and in constant hostility with the horrid little boys of the other streets. They had devastated gardens and vegetable patches, they had played at knuckle-bones, at tip-cat, and other games, and had studied in the parish school.… Twenty-five years had elapsed since that time.

  Time had been—and passed, the little boys had been as saucy and grimy-faced as Nikólka the locksmith,—and now they had become persons of importance. But Nikólka the locksmith had stuck fast in Back Damp Street. They, when they had finished the parish school, had got into the gymnasium,—he had not got in.… And how would it do if he were to address the editor? Say good-afternoon, and enter into conversation? He might begin by begging pardon for the row, and then talk—so, about life in general.

  The editor’s hat kept flitting in front of Gvózdeff’s eyes, as though alluring him to itself, and Gvózdeff made up his mind. Just at that moment, the editor was walking alone, in a free space, which had formed in the crowd. He was stepping along with his thin legs in their light trousers, his head kept turning from side to side, his short-sighted eyes were screwed up, as he scanned the public. Gvózdeff came almost alongside of him, gazed askance at his face in an amiable way, awaiting a favorable moment, in order to wish him a good-afternoon, and, at the same time, experiencing a keen desire to know how the editor would bear himself toward him.

  “Good-afternoon, Mítry Pávlovitch!”

  The editor turned toward him, with one hand raised his hat, with the other adjusted the eyeglasses on his nose, surveyed Gvózdeff, and scowled.

  But this did not daunt Nikoláï Gvózdeff,—on the contrary, he leaned toward the editor, in the most agreeable way possible, and flooding him with the odor of vódka, he inquired:

  “Are you taking a stroll?”

  For a second, the editor halted; his lips and nostrils quivered scornfully, and he nodded curtly at Gvózdeff:

  “What do you want?”

  “I? Nothing! I just thought…it’s fine weather to-day! And I’m very anxious to have a talk with you about that occurrence.”

  “I don’t wish to talk about anything with you!”—declared the editor, hastening his steps.

  Gvózdeff did the same.

  “You don’t wish to? I understand.. you are right—I understand that very well indeed.… As I put you to confusion, of course, you must have a grudge against me.…”

  “You, simply…you’re drunk.…” the editor halted once more.—“And if you don’t leave me in peace, I’ll summon the police.”

  Gvózdeff smiled affectionately.

  “Well, why?”

  The editor looked askance at him, with the anxious glance of a man who has fallen into an unpleasant position, and does not know how to extricate himself from it. The public were already staring at them with curiosity. Several persons pricked up their ears, scenting an approaching row. Istómin cast a helpless glance around him.

  Gvózdeff observed it.

  “Let’s turn aside,”—said he, and, without awaiting the other’s consent, with his shoulder he dexterously thrust Istómin to one side, away from the broad avenue, into a narrow path, which descended the hill between the bushes. The editor m
ade no protest against this manoeuvre,—perhaps because he had no time, perhaps because, away from the public, entirely alone, he hoped to rid himself more promptly and simply of his companion. He walked quietly down the path, cautiously planting his cane on the ground, and Gvózdeff followed him, and breathed on his hat.

  “There’s a fallen tree not far from here, we’ll sit on that.… Don’t be angry with me, Mítry Pávlovitch, for this conduct of mine. Excuse me! For I did it out of anger.… Anger sometimes torments fellows like me to such a degree that you can’t extinguish it with liquor.… Well, and at such times, one gets insolent to somebody: he strikes a passer-by in the snout, or does something else.… I don’t repent, what’s done is done; but, perhaps, I understand very well indeed, that I didn’t keep within bounds that time…I went too far.…”

  Whether this sincere explanation touched the editor, or whether Gvózdeff’s personality aroused his curiosity, or whether he comprehended that he could not get rid of this man, at all events, he asked Gvózdeff:

  “What is it that you want to talk about?”

  “Why…about everything! My soul is afflicted within me, because I feel that I’m an offence to myself.… Here, let’s sit down.”

  “I have no time.…”

  “I know…the newspaper! It’s eating up half your life, you’re squandering all your health on it.… You see, I understand! What’s he, the publisher? He has put his money into the paper, but you have put your blood!. You have already written your eyes out.… Sit down!”

  Along the path, in front of them, lay a large stump—the half-decayed remains of what had once been a mighty oak. The branches of a hazel-bush bent over the tree, forming a green tent; athwart the branches gleamed the sky, already arrayed in the hues of sunset; the spicy odor of fresh foliage filled the air. Gvózdeff seated himself, and turning to the editor, who still continued to stand, gazing about him with indecision, he began again: