The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “I have not read it,—” confessed the young savant modestly.

  “You must be sure to read it—it is a good romance,—” she advised him with conviction.—“When Nikon pleases me, I call him Sadi-Coco. At first he used to get angry with me for that, but one day I read that romance to him, and now he knows that it is flattering for him to be like Sadi-Coco.”

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked at her, as a European looks at a delicately executed but fantastically-deformed statue of a Chinaman; with a mixture of amazement, compassion and curiosity. But she, with ardor, related to him the feats of Sadi-Coco, filled with disinterested devotion to Count Louis Grammont.

  “Excuse me, Varvára64 Vasílievna,” he interrupted her,—“but have you read the romances of the Russian writers?”

  “Oh, yes! But I don’t like them—they are tiresome, very tiresome! And they always write things which I know just as well as they do. They cannot invent anything interesting, and almost everything they say is true.”

  “But don’t you like the truth?”—asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch kindly.

  “Ah, no indeed! I always speak the truth, straight to people’s faces, and.…”

  She paused, reflected, and inquired:

  “What is there to like in that? It is my habit, how can one like it?”

  He did not manage to say anything to her on this point, because she quickly and loudly gave the command:

  “Steer to the right…be quick! To that oak-tree, yonder.… Aï, how awkward you are!”

  The boat did not obey his hand, and ran ashore broadside on, although he churned the water forcibly with his oar.

  “Never mind, never mind,” she said, and suddenly rising to her feet, she sprang over the side.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch uttered a low shriek, and stretched his arms toward her, but she was standing uninjured on the shore, holding the chain of the boat in her hands, and apologetically asking him:

  “Did I frighten you?”

  “I thought you would fall into the water,—” he said, softly.

  “But could anyone fall there? And moreover, the water is not deep there,—” she defended herself, dropping her eyes, and drawing the boat to the bank. And he, as he sat at the stem, reflected that he ought to have done that.

  “Do you see what a forest there is?—” she said, when he had stepped out on the bank, and stood beside her.—“Isn’t it fine here? There are no such beautiful forests around St. Petersburg, are there?”

  In front of them lay a narrow road, hemmed in on both sides by tree trunks of different sizes. Under their feet the gnarled roots, crushed by the wheels of peasant-carts, lay outstretched, and over them was a thick tent of boughs, with here and there, high aloft, blue scraps of sky. The rays of sunlight, slender as violin-strings, quivered in the air, obliquely intersecting this narrow, green corridor. The odor of rotting foliage, of mushrooms and birch trees, surrounded them. Birds flitted past, disturbing the solemn stillness of the forest with their lively songs and anxious twittering. A woodpecker was tapping somewhere, a bee was buzzing, and in front of them, as though showing them the road, two butterflies fluttered, in pursuit of each other.

  They strolled slowly on. Ippolít Sergyéevitch was silent, and did not interfere with Várenka’s finding words wherewith to express her thoughts, while she said warmly to him:

  “I don’t like to read about the peasants; what can there be that is interesting in their lives? I know them, I live with them, and I see that people do not write accurately, do not write the truth about them. They are described as such wretched creatures, but they are only base, and there is nothing to pity them for. They want only one thing—to cheat us, to steal something from us. They are always importuning us, always moaning, they’re disgusting, dirty…and they’re clever, oh! they’re even very cunning. Oh, if you only knew how they torture me sometimes!”

  She had warmed up to her theme now, and wrath and bad humor were expressed on her face. Evidently, the peasants occupied a large place in her life; she rose to hatred, as she depicted them. Ippolít Sergyéevitch was astonished at the violence of her agitation but, as he did not care to hear these sallies from the master’s point of view, he interrupted the young girl:

  “You were speaking of the French writers.…”

  “Ah, yes! That is to say, about the Russian writers,—” she corrected him, calming down,—“you ask, why the Russians write worse than they,—that is dear enough! because they do not invent anything interesting. The French writers have real heroes, who do not talk like everybody else, and who behave differently. They are always brave, in love, jolly…but with us, the heroes are simple little men, without daring, without fiery feelings,—ugly, pitiful little creatures—the most real sort of men, and nothing more! Why are they heroes? You will never understand that in a Russian book. The Russian hero is a stupid, sluggish sort of fellow, he’s always disgusted with something, he’s always thinking of something incomprehensible, and he pities everybody, and he himself is pitiful, ve-ery pi-tiful indeed! He meditates, and talks and then he goes to make a declaration of love, and then he meditates again until he gets married…and when he is married, he says sour nonsense to his wife, and abandons her.… What is there interesting in that? It even angers me, because it resembles a deception—instead of a hero, there is always some sort of a stuffed scarecrow stuck up in a romance! And never, while you are reading a Russian book, can you forget real life,—is that nice? But when you read the works of a Frenchman—you shudder for the heroes, you pity them, you hate, you want to fight when they fight, you weep when they perish…you wait for the end of the romance with passionate interest, and when you read it—you almost cry with vexation, because that is all. You live—but in Russian books, it is utterly incomprehensible why men live. Why write books, if you cannot narrate anything unusual? Really, it is strange!”

  “There is a great deal which might be said in reply to you, Varvára Vasílievna,—” he stemmed the stormy tide of her speech.

  “Well then, reply!—” she burst out, with a smile.—“Of course, you will rout me!”

  “I shall try. First of all, what Russian authors have you read?”

  “Various…but they are all alike. Take Saliás, for example…he imitates the French, but badly. However, he has Russian heroes also, and can one write anything interesting about them? And I have read a great many others—Mórdovtzeff, Márkevitch, Pazúkhin, I think—you see, even from their names it is plain that they cannot write well! You haven’t read them? But have you read Fortuné de Boisgobey? Ponson du Terrail? Arsène Houssaye? Pierre Zaconné? Dumas, Gaboriau, Borne? How fine, good heavens! Wait…do you know what pleases me most in romances is the villains, those who so artfully weave various spiteful plots, who murder and poison…they’re clever, strong…and when, at last, they are caught,—rage seizes upon me, and I even go so far as to cry. Everybody hates the villain, everybody is against him—he is alone against them all! That’s—a hero! And those others, the virtuous people, become disgusting, when they win.… And, in general, do you know, people please me so long as they strongly desire something, march forward somewhere, seek something, torment themselves…but if they have reached their goal, and have come to a halt, then they are no longer interesting…they are even insipid!”

  Excited, and, probably, proud of what she had said to him, she walked slowly by his side, raising her head prettily, and flashing her eyes.

  He looked into her face, and nervously twisting his head, he sought for a retort which should, at one stroke, tear from her mind that coarse veil of dust which enveloped it. But, while feeling himself bound to reply to her, he wished to listen longer to her ingenuous and original chatter, to behold her again carried away with her opinions, and sincerely laying bare her soul before him. He had never heard such speeches; they were hideous and impossible in his eyes, but, at the same time, everything she had said harmonized,
to perfection, with her rather rapacious beauty. Before him was an unpolished mind, which offended him by its roughness, and a woman who was seductively beautiful, who irritated his sensuality. These two forces crushed him down with all the energy of their directness, and he must set up something in opposition to them, otherwise, he felt—they might drive him out of the wonted ruts of those views and moods, with which he had dwelt in peace until he met her. He possessed a clear sense of logic, and he had argued well with persons of his own circle. But how was he to talk with her, and what ought he say to her, in order to urge her mind into the right road, and ennoble her soul, which had been deformed by stupid novels, and the society of the peasants, and of that soldier, her drunken father?

  “Ugh, how foolishly I have been talking!—” she exclaimed, with a sigh.—“I have bored you, haven’t I?”

  “No, but.…”

  “You see, I’m very glad to know you. Until you came, I had no one to talk with. Your sister does not like me, and is always angry with me…it must be became I give my father vódka, and because I thrashed Nikon.…”

  “You?! You thrashed him? Eh…how did you do that?”—said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, in amazement.

  “Very simply, I lashed him with papa’s kazák whip, that’s all! You know, they were threshing the grain, there was an awful hurry, and he, the beast, was drunk! Wasn’t I angry! How dared he get drunk when the work was seething, and his eyes were needed in every direction? Those peasants, they.…”

  “But, listen, Varvára Vasílievna,—” he began, impressively and as gently as possible,—“is it nice to beat a servant? Is that noble? Reflect! Did those heroes, whom you adore, beat their admirers?… Sadi-Coco.…”

  “Oh, indeed they did! One day, Count Louis gave Coco such a box on the ear, that I even felt sorry for the poor little soldier. And what can I do with them, except beat them? It’s a good thing I am able to do it…for I am strong! Feel what muscles I’ve got!”

  Bending her arm at the elbow, she proudly offered it to him. He laid his hand on her arm above her elbow, and pressed it hard with his fingers, but immediately recollected himself, and in confusion, blushing crimson, he looked around him. Everywhere the trees stood in silence, and only.…

  In general, he was not modest with women, but this woman, by her simplicity and trustfulness made him so, although she kindled in him a feeling which was perilous to him.

  “You have enviable health,—” he said, staring intently and thoughtfully at her little, sun-burned hand, as it adjusted the folds of her gown on her bosom.—“And I think that you have a very good heart,—” he broke out, unexpectedly to himself.

  “I don’t know!”—she retorted, shaking her head. “Hardly,—I have no character: sometimes I feel sorry for people, even for those whom I do not like.”

  “Only sometimes?”—he laughed.—“But, surely, they are always deserving of pity and sympathy.”

  “What for?”—she inquired, smiling also.

  “Cannot you see how unhappy they are? Take those peasants of yours, for example. How difficult it is for them to live, and how much injustice, woe, torture there is in their lives.”

  This burst hotly from him, and she looked attentively at his face, as she said:

  “You must be very good, if you speak like that. But, you see, you don’t know the peasants, you have not lived in the country. They are unhappy, it is true—but who is to blame for that? They are crafty, and no one prevents their becoming happy.”

  “But they have not even bread enough to satisfy their hunger!”

  “I should think not! See what a lot of them there are.…”

  “Yes, there are a great many of them! But there is a great deal of land, also…for there are people who own tens of thousands of desyatinas.65 For instance, how much have you?”

  “Five hundred and seventy-three desyatinas.. Well, and what of that? Is it possible…come, listen to me! Is it possible to give it to them?”

  She gazed at him with the look of an adult on a child, and laughed softly. This laughter confused and angered him.… There flashed up within him the desire to convince her of the errors of her mind.

  And, pronouncing his words distinctly, even sharply, he began to talk to her about the injustice of the distribution of wealth, about the majority of men’s lack of rights, about the fatal struggle for a place in life and for a morsel of bread, about the power of the rich and the helplessness of the poor, and about the mind—the guide in life, crushed by century-long injustice, and the host of prejudices, which are advantageous to the powerful minority of people.

  She maintained silence, as she walked along by his side, and gazed at him with curiosity and surprise.

  Around them reigned the dusky tranquillity of the forest, that tranquillity across which sounds seem to slide, without disturbing its melancholy harmony. The leaves of the aspens quivered nervously, as though the trees were impatiently awaiting something passionately longed for.

  “The duty of every honest man,” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch impressively, “is to contribute to the conflict on behalf of the enslaved all his brain, and all his heart, endeavoring either to put an end to the tortures of the conflict, or to hasten its progress. For that genuine heroism is required, and precisely in this conflict is where you ought to look for it. Outside of it—there is no heroism. The heroes of this fight are the only ones who are worthy of admiration and imitation…and you ought to direct your attention precisely to this spot, Varvára Vasílievna, seek your heroes here, expend your strength here…it seems to me, that you might become a notably-steadfast defender of the truth! But, first of all, you must read a great deal, you must learn to understand life in its real aspect, unadorned by fancy…you must fling all those stupid romances into the fire.…”

  He paused, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, he waited—wearied with his long speech—to see what she would say.

  She was gazing into the distance, straight ahead of her, with her eyes narrowed, and on her face quivered shadows. Five minutes of silence were broken by her quiet exclamation:

  “How well you talk!… Is it possible that everybody in the university can talk so well?”

  The young savant heaved a hopeless sigh, and expectation of her answer gave place within him to a dull irritation against her, and compassion for himself. Why would not she accept what was so logically clear for every being endowed with the very smallest reasoning powers? What, precisely, was lacking in his remarks, that they failed to strike home to her feelings?

  “You talk very well!—” she sighed, without waiting for him to reply, and in her eyes he read genuine satisfaction.

  “But do I speak truthfully?”—he asked.

  “No!—” replied the young girl, without stopping to think.—“Although you are a learned man, I shall argue with you. For, you see, I also understand some things!—You speak so that it appears.. as though people were building a house, and all of them were equals in the work. And even not they only, but everything:—the bricks, and the carpenters, and the trees, and the master of the house—with you, everything is equal to everything else. But is that possible? The peasant must work, you must teach, and the Governor must watch, to see if everybody does what is necessary. And then you said, that life is a battle…well, where is it? On the contrary, people live very peaceably. But if it is a battle, then there must be vanquished people. But the general utility is something that I cannot understand. You say that general utility consists in the equality of all men. But that is not true! My papa is a colonel—how is he the equal of Nikon or of a peasant? And you—you are a learned man, but are you the equal of our teacher of the Russian language, who drank vódka, who was red-headed, stupid, and blew his nose loudly, like a trumpet? Aha!”

  She exulted, regarding her arguments as irresistible, while he admired her joyous agitation, and felt satisfied with himself, because he had caused her thi
s joy.

  But his mind strove to solve the problem why the solid thought, unassailed by analysis, which he had aroused, worked in a direction exactly opposite to the one in which he had thrust it?

  “I like you and I do not like some other person…where is the equality?”

  “You like me?—” Ippolít Sergyéevitch inquired, rather abruptly.

  “Yes…very much!” she nodded her head affirmatively, and immediately asked:

  “What of it?”

  He was frightened for himself in the presence of the abyss of ingenuousness which looked forth at him from her clear gaze.

  “Can this be her way of coquetting?”—he thought—“she has read romances enough, apparently, to understand herself as a woman.…”

  “Why do you ask about that?—” she persisted, gazing into his face with curious eyes.

  Her gaze confused him.

  “Why?”—He shrugged his shoulders,—“I think it is natural. You are a woman…I am a man.…” he explained, as calmly as he could.

  “Well, and what of that? All the same, there is no reason why you should know. You see, you are not preparing to marry me!”

  She said this so simply, that he was not even disconcerted. It merely struck him, that some power, with which it was useless to contend in view of its blind, elemental character, was altering the work of his brain from one direction to another. And, with a shade of playfulness, he said to her:

  “Who knows?… And then…the desire to please, and the desire to marry, or to get married—are not identical, as you surely must know.”

  She suddenly burst out into a loud laugh, and he immediately cooled under her laughter, and mutely cursed both himself and her. Her bosom quivered with rich, sincere mirth, which merrily shook the air, but he remained silent, guiltily awaiting a retort to his playfulness.