The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “I have been drinking a little to-day…I find life tiresome, Mítry Pávlovitch! I’ve lagged behind my comrades, the workingmen; somehow, my thoughts take an entirely different direction. I caught sight of you to-day, and remembered that you used to be a chum of mine, you know…ha, ha!”

  He laughed, because the editor looked at him with a swift change of expression on his face, which rendered him really ridiculous.

  “A chum? When?”

  “Long ago, Mítry Pávlovitch.… We used to live in Back Damp Street then…do you remember? We lived across the courtyard from each other. And opposite us Míshka the Sugar-bowl—at the present time, Mikháïl Efímovitch Khruléff, the examining magistrate, —deigned to have his residence with his stem papa.… Do you remember Efímitch? He used to shake you and me by our top-knots.… Come, sit down, do.”

  The editor nodded his head affirmatively, and seated himself by the side of Gvózdeff. He regarded him with the intense gaze of a man who is recalling to mind something that took place long ago, and has been entirely forgotten, and he rubbed his forehead.

  But Gvózdeff was carried away by his memories.

  “What a life we led then! And why can’t a man remain a child all his life long? He grows up…why? Then he grows into the earth. All his life long he endures divers misfortunes…he becomes irritated, savage…nonsense! He lives, he lives and—at the end of his life, there’s nothing to show but trash.… A coffin…and nothing more.… But we used to live on then without any dark thoughts, merrily,—like little birds—that’s all that can be said of it! We flew over the fences after the fruits of other people’s labors.… Do you remember, one day, in Mrs. Petróvsky’s vegetable-patch, on a thieving expedition, I stuffed a cucumber up your nose? You set up a yell, and I—took to my heels.… You came with your mamma to my father, to complain, and my father whipped me in proper style.… But Míshka—Mikháïl Efímovitch.…”

  The editor listened, and against his will he smiled. He wished to preserve his seriousness and dignity in the presence of this man who had evinced an inclination to be familiar. But in these stories of the bright days of childhood there was something touching, and in Gvózdeff’s tone, so far, the notes which menaced Dmítry Pávlovitch’s vanity did not ring out with especial sharpness. And everything round about was delightful. Somewhere up above, shuffled the feet of the promenading public on the sands of the paths, their voices were barely audible, and once in a while a laugh resounded; but the breeze was sighing,—and all those faint sounds were drowned in the melancholy rustling of the foliage. And when the rustling died away, there ensued moments of complete silence, as though everything round about were lending an attentive ear to the words of Nikoláï Gvózdeff, as he confusedly related the story of his youth.…

  “Do you remember Várka, the daughter of Kolokóltzoff the house-painter? She’s married now to Shapóshnikoff the printer. Such a fine lady…it scares one to pass her.… She was a sickly little lass in those days.… Do you remember, how she disappeared one day, and all we boys, from the whole street, searched the fields and ravines for her? We found her in the camp and led her home through the plain.… There was an awful uproar! Kolokóltzoff treated us to gingerbread, and Várka, when she saw her mother, said: ‘I’ve been with the well-born wife of an officer, and she wants me to be her daughter!’ He, he!… Her daughter!… She was a splendid little girl!…”

  From the river were wafted certain sounds, as though someone’s mighty, grief-laden breast were moaning. A steamer was passing, and in the air floated the tumult of the water, churned up by its wheels. The sky was rose-colored, but around Gvózdeff and the editor the twilight was thickening.… The spring night drew gradually on. The silence became complete, profound, and Gvózdeff lowered his voice, as though yielding to its influence.… The editor listened to him mutely, calling up in his mind pictures of the distant past. All this had been .… And all this had been better than what was now. Only in childhood is a free soul, which does not notice the weight of the chains that are called the conditions of life, possible. Childhood knows not the sharp inflammations of conscience, knows no other falsehood save the harmless falsehood of the child. How much is unknown in the days of childhood, and how good is that ignorance! One lives…and gradually the comprehension of life is enlarged…why is it enlarged, if one dies, without having understood anything?

  “So you see, Mítry Pávlovitch, it turns out, that you and I are birds from one and the same nest…yes! But our flights are different.… And when I recollect, that surely all the difference between me and my former comrades lies in the fact that I did not sit in the gymnasium over my books,—I feel bitter and disgusted.… Does that constitute a man? A man consists of his soul, of his relations to his neighbor, as it is said.… Well, then,—you are my neighbor, and what value do I possess for you? None whatever!—Isn’t that so?”

  The editor, enticed away by his own thoughts, must have misunderstood his companion’s question.

  “It is!”—he said, in a sincere, abstracted tone. But Gvózdeff burst out laughing, and he caught himself up:

  “That is to say, excuse me? What, precisely, are you asking about?”

  “Isn’t it true that to you I’m—an empty spot.… Whether I exist or not is all one to you—you don’t care a fig.… What is my soul to you? I live alone in the world, and all the people who know me are very tired of me. Because, I have an evil character, and I’m very fond of playing all sorts of practical jokes. But, you see, I have feeling and brains too…I feel offence in my position. In what way am I worse than you? Only in my occupation.…”

  “Ye-es…that is sad!” said the editor, contracting his brow, then he paused, and resumed, in a rather soothing tone:—“But, you see, another point of view must be applied to the case.…”

  “Mítry Pávlovitch! Why a point of view? One man should not pay attention to another man according to the point of view, but according to the impulse of the heart! What’s that point of view? Is it possible to cast me aside because of some point of view or other? But I am cast aside in life—I make no headway in it.… Why? Because I’m not learned? But surely, if you learned folks would not judge from a point of view, but in some other way,—you ought not to forget me, a berry from the same field as yourselves, but draw me up toward you from below, where I rot in ignorance and exasperation of my feelings? Or—from the point of view—oughtn’t you to do it?”

  Gvózdeff screwed up his eyes, and gazed triumphantly into the face of his companion. He felt that he was showing himself to the best advantage, and emitted all his philosophy, which he had thought out during the long years of his laborious, unsystematic, and sterile life. The editor was disconcerted by his companion’s attack, and tried simultaneously to decide—what sort of a man this was, and what reply he ought to make to his speech. But Gvózdeff, intoxicated with himself, continued:

  “You clever people will give me a hundred answers, and the sum total of them will be—no, you ought not! But I say—you ought! Why? Because I and you folks are from one street and from one origin.… You are not the real lords of life…you’re not noblemen.… From them, fellows of my sort have nothing to gain. Those men would say: 6 Go to the devil’—and you’d go. Because—they’re aristocrats from ancient times, but you’re only aristocrats because you know grammar, and that sort of thing.… But you—are my equal, and I can demand from you information about my path in life. I’m of the petty burgher class, and so is Khruléff, and you…are a deacon’s son.…”

  “But, permit me …” said the editor beseechingly, “am I denying your right to demand?”

  But Gvózdeff was not in the least interested to know what the editor denied or what he admitted; he wanted to have his say, and he felt himself, at that moment, capable of expressing everything which had ever agitated him.…

  “Now, you will be pleased to permit me!”—he said, in a mysterious sort of whisper, bending closer t
o the editor, and flashing his excited eyes.—“Do you think it’s easy for me to toil now for my comrades, to whom, in days gone by, I used to give bloody noses? Is it easy for me to receive forty kopéks as a tip from examining-magistrate Khruléff, for whom I put in a water-closet a year ago? Surely, he’s a man of the same rank as myself.… And his name was Míshka the Sugar-bowl…he has rotten teeth now, just as he had then.…”

  A heavy, choking lump rose in his throat: he paused for a moment, and burst out swearing—with such loud and repulsively-cynical oaths that the editor shuddered, and moved away from him. When he had got through, swearing, Gvózdeff seemed to weaken, as though the fire within him had died out. He listened to himself, and no longer felt conscious of anything within him which he wished to say.

  “That’s all!”—he ejaculated dully.

  He had suddenly become inwardly empty, and this sensation of emptiness produced irritation in him.

  The editor gazed askance at him in a thoughtful way, and silently considered—what should he say to this young fellow? He must say something nice, just, and sincere. But Dmítry Pávlovitch Istómin found nothing of what was required in his head, at the given moment, nor in his heart. For a long time past, all ideal and high-flown discussions of “questions” had evoked in him a feeling of boredom and exhaustion. He had come out to-day to rest, he had purposely avoided meeting his acquaintances,—and all of a sudden, here was this man with his harangues. Of course, there was a modicum of truth in his harangues, as there is in everything which people say. They were curious, and might serve as a very interesting theme for a feuilleton.… But, nevertheless, he must say something to him.

  “Everything you have said—is not new, you know,”—he began.…—“The injustice of man’s relations to man, has long been a topic of discussion.… But, really, these speeches of yours do present one novelty—in the sense, that they were formerly uttered by people of another sort.… You formulate your thoughts in a somewhat one-sided and inaccurate manner.…”

  “There’s your point of view again!”—laughed Gvózdeff faintly.—“Ekh-ma, gentlemen, gentlemen! You are endowed with brains, but as to heart evidently…tell me something which will suit my complaint on the spot…so there, now!”

  Having spoken thus, he hung his head, and awaited the answer. Sadness had seized upon him.

  Again Istómin glanced at him, with frowning brow, and conscious of a strong desire to get away. It seemed to him that Gvózdeff was drunk, and for that reason had weakened after his excited speeches. He looked at the white cap, which had fallen on the nape of Gvózdeff’s neck, at his pock-marked face and aggressive top-knot; with a glance he measured his whole powerful, sinewy figure, and thought to himself, that this was a very typical workingman, and if.…

  “Well, what is it?”—inquired Gvózdeff.

  “But what can I say to you? To speak frankly, I do not perceive at all clearly, what you wish to hear.”

  “There, that’s it exactly!… You can’t make me any answer!”—grinned Gvózdeff.

  The editor heaved a sigh of relief, justly assuming that the conversation was at an end, and that Gvózdeff would assault him with no further questions.… And all at once he thought:

  “And what if he beats me? He’s so vicious!”

  He recalled the expression of Gvózdeff’s face yonder, in the editorial room, during that stupid scene. And he cast a furtive glance of suspicion at him.

  It was already dark. The silence was broken by the sounds of songs, wafted from afar on the river. People were singing in chorus, and the tenor voices were very distinctly audible. Large beetles hurtled through the air with a metallic ring. Through the foliage of the trees the stars were visible…now and then, one branch or another over their heads began to quiver, for some reason, and the soft trembling of the leaves made itself heard.

  “There will be dew.…” said the editor, cautiously. Gvózdeff shuddered, and turned toward him.

  “What did you say?”

  “There will be dew, I say; it’s harmful.…”

  “A-ah!”

  They fell silent. On the river resounded the shout: “Háy-eï! Ba-a-arge a-ho-oo-oy!”

  “I think I shall go. Farewell for the present.” “And shan’t we have a drink of beer together?”—suggested Gvózdeff suddenly, and added, with a grin:—“Do me the honor!”

  “No, excuse me, I cannot just now. And then, it’s time for me to be going, you know.…”

  Gvózdeff rose from the tree, and stared sullenly at the editor.

  The latter, rising also, offered him his hand. “So you don’t want to have a drink of beer with me? Well, devil take you!”—Gvózdeff cut the interview short, slapping his cap in place with a harsh gesture.—“Aristocracy! At two kopéks the pair! I’ll get drunk by myself.…”

  The editor bravely turned his back on his companion, and walked up the path, without uttering a word. As he passed Gvózdeff, he drew his head down strangely between his shoulders, as though afraid of hitting it against something. Gvózdeff descended the hill with huge strides. From the river resounded a cracked voice:

  “Ba-a-arge a-ho-oy! De-e-evils!… Send off a bo-o-o-oat!”

  And among the trees rang the faint echo:

  “O-o-oat!”

  55Mítry—colloquial abbreviation of Dmítry.—Translator.

  56Colloquial for Nikolái.—Translator.

  57About $1.90.—Translator.

  58The word means “fellow sponsor” or intimate friend—the precise sense does not always appear from the context. But it is worth noting that a man and a woman who stand sponsors for a child in baptism, in the Eastern Catholic Church, thereby place themselves within the forbidden degrees of relationship, and can never marry each other.—Translator.

  59Mítka—colloquial diminutive for Dmítry.—Translator.

  60Míshka—colloquial diminutive for Mikháïl.—Translator.

  61Váska—colloquial diminutive for Vasíly.—Translator.

  VÁRENKA ÓLESOFF

  I

  … A few days after his appointment as instructor in one of the provincial universities, Ippolít Sergyéevitch Polkánoff received a telegram from his sister, from her estate in a distant forest district on the Vólga.

  The telegram briefly announced:

  “My husband is dead. For God’s sake, come at once to my assistance. Elizavéta.”

  This alarming summons unpleasantly agitated Ippolít Sergyéevitch, interfering with his projects and his frame of mind. He had already decided to spend the summer in the country, at the house of one of his comrades, and to do a great deal of work there, in order to prepare himself to do justice to his lectures; and now, here it was necessary to travel more than a thousand versts from St. Petersburg and from the place of his appointment, in order to comfort a woman who had lost her husband, with whom, judging from her own letters, her life had been far from sweet.

  He had seen his sister, for the last time, four years previously, had corresponded with her rarely, and dong ago there had been established between them those purely formal relations which are so common between two relatives who are separated by distance, and by dissimilarity of their life-interests.

  The telegram evoked in him the memory of his sister’s husband. The latter was a stout, good-natured man, fond of eating and drinking. His face was round, covered with a network of red veins, and his eyes were merry and small; he had a way of roguishly screwing up his left eye, and smiling sweetly, as he sang in atrocious French:

  “Regardez par ci, regardez par là.…”

  And Ippolít Sergyéevitch found it difficult to believe, that that jolly young fellow was dead, because common-place people usually live a long time.

  His sister had borne herself toward the weaknesses of this man with a half-scornful condescension; being anyth
ing but a stupid woman, she had comprehended, that if you shoot at a stone, you merely lose your arrows. And it was not likely that she was greatly afflicted by his death.

  But, nevertheless, it was not easy to refuse her request. He could work at her house quite as well as anywhere else.…

  After further meditation in this direction, Ippolít Sergyéevitch decided to go, and, a couple of weeks later, on a warm June evening, fatigued with a journey of forty versts62 by posting-wagon, from the wharf to the village, he was seated at the table opposite his sister, on a terrace which overlooked the park, drinking exquisite tea.

  Along the balustrade of the terrace, lilac and acacia bushes grew luxuriantly; the slanting rays of the sun, penetrating through the foliage, quivered in the air, in slender, golden ribbons. A tracery of shadows lay upon the table, closely set with country viands; the air was filled with the fragrance of the lindens, the lilacs, and the damp earth, heated by the sun. In the park birds were chirping noisily; now and then a bee or a wasp flew to the terrace and buzzed anxiously, as it hovered about the table. Elizavéta Sergyéevna took a napkin in her hand, and flourished it in the air, in vexation, chasing the bees and the wasps off into the park.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch had already succeeded in convincing himself that his sister had not been particularly shocked by the fact of her husband’s death, that she was gazing at him, her brother, in a searching way, and as she chatted with him, was concealing something from him. He had become accustomed to think of her, as a woman entirely engrossed in the cares of housekeeping, broken down with the disorders of her wedded life, and he had expected to behold her nervous, pale and exhausted. But now, as he looked at her oval face, covered with healthy sunburn, calm, confident, and extremely enlivened by the intelligent gleam of her large, bright eyes, he felt that he was pleasantly disappointed; and as he lent an ear to her remarks, he tried to hear the undercurrent, and to understand what it was she was withholding from him.