The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “‘Listen!’ he shouted to me. ‘Do you hear?’

  “‘At times,’ I replied to him, ‘I hear.’

  “‘Remember that everything that is good comes from man.’

  “‘I will remember!’ I replied.

  “He had never spoken to me in this way on land. He had been jovial and kindly, but it seemed to me that he regarded me with a lack of confidence and a sort of contempt—I was still a child for him; sometimes it offended me, for in youth one’s pride is strong.

  “His shouts must have lessened my fear, for I remember it all very clearly.” The old fisherman remained silent for a while, looking at the white sea and smiling; then with a wink he said:

  “As I have observed men, I know that to remember means to understand, and the more you understand the more good you see; that is quite true, believe me.

  “Yes, I remember his wet face that was so dear to me, and his big eyes that looked at me so earnestly, so lovingly, and in such a way that somehow I knew at the time that I was not going to perish on that day. I was frightened, but I knew that I should not perish.

  “Our boat capsized, of course, and we were in the swirling water, in the blinding foam, hedged in by sharp-crested waves, which tossed our bodies about, and battered them against the keel of the boat. We had fastened ourselves to the boat with everything that could be tied, and were holding on by ropes. As long as our strength lasted we should not be torn away from our boat, but it was difficult to keep afloat. Several times he and I were tossed on to the keel and then washed off again. The worst of it is, signor, that you become dizzy, and deaf and blind—the water gets into your eyes and ears and you swallow a lot of it.

  “This lasted long—for full seven hours—and then the wind suddenly changed, blew towards the coast and swept us along with it. I was overjoyed and shouted:

  “‘Hold on!’

  “My father also cried out, but I understood only:

  “‘They will smash us.’

  “He meant the stones, but they were still far off; I did not believe him. But he understood matters better than I: we rushed along amid mountains of water, clinging like snails to our ‘mother who fed us.’ The waves had battered our bodies, dashed us against the boat and we already felt exhausted and benumbed. So we went on for a long time; but when once the dark mountains came in sight everything moved with lightning speed. The mountains seemed to reel as they came towards us, to bend over the water as if about to tumble on our heads. One, two! The white waves toss up our bodies, our boat crackles like a nut under the heel of a boot; I am torn away from it, I see the broken ribs of the rocks, like sharp knives, like the devil’s claws, and I see my father’s head high above me. He was found on the rocks two days later, with his back broken and his skull smashed. The wound in the head was large, part of the brain had been washed out. I remember the grey particles intermingled with red sinews in the wound, like marble or foam streaked with blood. He was terribly mutilated, all broken, but his face was uninjured and calm, and his eyes were tightly closed.

  “And I? Yes, I also was badly mangled. They dragged me on to the shore unconscious. We were carried to the mainland beyond Amalfi—a place unknown to us, but the people there were also fishermen, our own kith and kin. Cases like ours do not surprise them, but render them kind; people who lead a dangerous life are always kind!

  “I fear I have not spoken to you as I feel about my father, and of what I have kept in my heart for fifty-one years. Special words may be required to do that, even a song; but we are simple folk, like fishes, and are unable to speak as prettily and expressively as one would wish! One always feels and knows more than one is able to tell.

  “What is most striking about the whole matter is that, although my father knew that the hour of his death had come, he did not get frightened or forget me, his son. He found time and strength to tell me all he considered important. I have lived sixty-seven years and I can say that everything he imparted to me is true!”

  The old man took off his knitted cap, which had once been red but had faded, and pulled a pipe out of it. Then, inclining his bald bronzed skull to one side, he said with emphasis:

  “It is all true, dear signor! People are just as you like to see them; look at them with kind eyes and all will be well with you, and with them, too; it will make them still better, and you too! It is very simple!”

  The wind freshens considerably, the waves become higher, sharper and whiter, birds appear on the sea and fly swiftly away, disappearing in the distance. The two ships with their outspread sails have passed beyond the blue streak of the horizon.

  The steep banks of the island are edged with lace-like foam, the blue water splashes angrily, and the crickets chirp on with never a pause.

  THE HONOUR OF THE VILLAGE

  “On the day when this happened the sirocco was blowing—a hot wind from Africa, and a nasty wind, too! It irritates one’s nerves and puts one in a bad temper! That is probably the reason why the two carters, Giuseppe Cirotta and Luigi Meta, were quarrelling. No one knew how the quarrel began. No one knew who began it. All that people saw was that Luigi had thrown himself upon Giuseppe and was trying to clutch his throat; while the latter, his shoulders hunched to protect his head and his thick red neck, was making a lusty use of his strong black fists.

  “They were separated and asked:

  “‘What is the matter?’

  “Quite purple with anger Luigi exclaimed:

  “‘Let this bull repeat in the presence of everybody what he said about my wife!’

  “Cirotta tried to get away. His small eyes hidden in the folds of a disdainful grimace, he shook his black bullet head, and stubbornly refused to repeat the offending words. Meta then shouted out in a loud voice:

  “‘He says that he has known the sweetness of my wife’s caresses!’

  “‘H’m,’ said the people, ‘this is no joking matter; this requires serious attention. Be calm, Luigi. You are a stranger in our parts; your wife belongs here. We all knew her as a child, and if you have been wronged her guilt falls equally on all of us. Let us be outspoken!’

  “They all gathered round Cirotta.

  “‘Did you say it?’

  “‘Well, yes, I did,’ he admitted.

  “‘And is it the truth?’

  “‘Who has ever known me tell a lie?’

  “Cirotta was a respectable man—a husband and a father; the matter was taking a very serious turn. Those present were perplexed and seemed to be thinking hard. Luigi went home and said to Concetta:

  “‘I am going away! I don’t want you any more unless you can prove that the words of this scoundrel are a calumny.’

  “Of course she began to cry, but then tears do not acquit one: Luigi pushed her away. She would be left with a child in her arms without food or money.

  “Catherine was the first of the women to intervene. She kept a small greengrocer’s shop and was as cunning as a fox; in appearance she resembled an old sack filled unevenly with flesh and bones.

  “‘Signor,’ she said, ‘you have already heard that this concerns the honour of us all. It is not a prank prompted by a night when the moon is bright; the fate of two mothers is involved, isn’t that so? I will take Concetta to my house and let her live with me till we find out the truth.’

  “She was as good as her word; and later she and Luccia, the noisy, shrivelled old witch, whose voice could be heard three miles away, both tackled poor Giuseppe: they asked him to come out and began to pluck at his soul as if it had been an old rag.

  “‘Well, my good man, tell us how many times you took Concetta to yourself?’

  “The fat Giuseppe puffed out his cheeks, thought awhile, and said:

  “‘Once!’

  “‘He could have told us that without reflection,’ remarked Luccia aloud, as if talking to herself.

  “‘Did it happ
en in the evening, in the night, or in the morning?’ asked Catherine, after the fashion of a judge.

  “Giuseppe chose evening without thinking.

  “‘Was it still daylight?’

  “‘Yes,’ said the fool.

  “‘That means that you saw her body?’

  “‘Yes, of course.’

  “‘Then tell us what it looked like.’

  “He understood at last the drift of the questions, and opened his mouth like a sparrow choking with a grain of barley. He understood, and muttered angrily under his breath; blood rushed to his large ears till they became quite purple.

  “‘Well, what can I say? I did not examine her like a doctor!’

  “‘You eat fruit without enjoying the look of it?’ asked Luccia. ‘But perhaps you noticed one of Concetta’s peculiarities?’ She went on questioning him, laughing and winking as she did so.

  “‘It all happened so quickly,’ said Giuseppe, ‘that, to tell you the truth, I didn’t notice anything.’

  “‘That means that you never had her,’ said Catherine.

  “She was a kind woman, but, when necessary, she could be quite stern. In the end, they so confused the fellow and made him contradict himself so often that he lost his head—and confessed:

  “‘Nothing at all happened; I said it simply out of malice.’

  “This did not surprise the old women.

  “‘It is what we thought,’ they said; and, letting him go, they left the matter to the decision of the men.

  “Two days later our Workers’ Society met. Cirotta had to face them, having been accused of libelling a woman. Old Giacomo Fasca, a blacksmith, said in a way that did credit to him:

  “‘Citizens, comrades and good people! We demand that justice shall be done to us. We on our part must be just to everybody: let everybody understand that we know the high value of what we want, and that justice is not an empty word for us as it is for our masters. Here is a man who has libelled a woman, offended a comrade, disrupted one family and brought sorrow to another, who has made his wife suffer jealousy and shame. Our attitude to this man should be stern. What do you propose to do?’

  “Sixty-seven tongues exclaimed in one voice:

  “‘Drive him out of the commune!’

  “Fifteen of the men thought that this was too severe a punishment, and a dispute arose. And the dispute became a very noisy one, for the fate of a man hung on their decision, and not the fate of one man only: the man was married and had three children. What had his wife and children done? He had a house, a vineyard, a pair of horses, four donkeys for the use of foreigners. All these things had been acquired by his own labour and had cost him a deal of pains. Poor Giuseppe was skulking in a corner amongst the children and looked as gloomy as the very devil. He sat doubled up on a chair, his head bowed, fumbling his hat. He had pulled off the ribbon already, and now was slowly tearing off the brim. His fingers jerked as if he were playing the fiddle. When he was asked what he had to say he stood up slowly and, straightening his body, said:

  “‘I beg you to be lenient! There is no one without sin. To drive me off the land on which I have lived for more than thirty years, and where my ancestors have worked, would not be just.’

  “The women were also against his being exiled, so Giacomo Fasca at last made the following proposal:—

  “‘I think, friends, that he will be sufficiently punished if we saddle him with the duty of keeping Luigi’s wife and child—let him pay her half as much as Luigi earned!’

  “They discussed the matter at great length and finally settled on that. Giuseppe Cirotta was very pleased to get off so easily. Besides, this decision satisfied all: the matter was not taken into the law courts, it was decided in their own circle and no knives were used.

  “We do not like, signor, what they write about our affairs in the papers in a language unfamiliar to us. The words that we can understand occur only here and there, like teeth in an old man’s mouth. Besides, we don’t like the way the judges talk of us, for they are strangers to us and don’t understand our life. They talk of us as if we were savages and they themselves angels of God, who don’t know the taste of meat or wine, and don’t touch womenkind. We are simple folks and we look on life in a simple way.

  “So they decided that Giuseppe Cirotta should keep the wife and child of Luigi Meta.

  “The matter however had a different ending.

  “When Luigi found out that Cirotta’s words were untrue and that his wife was innocent, and when he heard our decision, he wrote her a short note in which he invited her to come home:

  *

  “‘Come to me and we shall live happily again. Do not take a farthing from that man and, if you have taken any, throw it in his face! I am guilty before you. Could I have thought that a man would lie in such a matter as love?’

  *

  “But he also wrote another letter to Cirotta:

  “‘I have three brothers and all four of us have sworn to one another that we will kill you like a ram if you ever leave the island and land in Sorrento, Castellamare, Torre, or anywhere else. As soon as we find it out we shall kill you, remember! This is as true as that we belong to your commune and are good honest people. My wife has no need of your help. Even my pig would refuse to eat your bread. Do not leave this island until I tell you you may!’

  “That is how it all happened. It is said that Cirotta took this letter to the judge and asked him whether Luigi could not be punished for threatening him, and that the judge said:

  “‘Of course he can, but then his brothers will certainly kill you; they will come over here and kill you. I advise you to wait. That is better. Anger is not like love: it does not last for ever!’

  “The judge may have said it: he is a good and clever man, and makes very good verses; but I don’t believe that Cirotta ever went to him or showed him the letter. No, Cirotta is a decent fellow and it is not likely that he would have acted so stupidly. People would have jeered at him.

  “We are simple working people, signor. We have our own life, our own ideas and opinions. We have a right to shape our life as we like and as we think best.

  “Socialists? Friend, in my opinion a working man is born a socialist; although we don’t read books we can smell the truth—truth has a strong smell about it which is always the same—the smell of the sweat of labour!”

  THE SOCIALIST

  Before the door of a white canteen hidden among the thick vines of an old vineyard, in the shade of a canopy of vine branches interspersed with morning glory and small Chinese roses, at a table on which stood a decanter of wine, sat Vincenzo, a painter, with Giovanni, a locksmith. The painter is a small man, thin and dark; his eyes are lit with the soft, musing smile of a dreamer. His upper lip and cheeks have the appearance of having been recently shaved, but his smile makes him look very young, almost childlike. He has a small, pretty mouth like that of a girl; his wrists are slender, and in his nimble fingers he twists a yellow rose, pressing it to his full lips and closing his eyes.

  “Perhaps so. I don’t know; perhaps so,” he says quietly, shaking his head, which has hollows at the temples. Dark curls fall over his high forehead.

  “Yes, yes, the farther north one goes the more persistent are the people,” asserts Giovanni, a broad-shouldered fellow with a large head and black curls. His face is copper-coloured, his nose sunburnt and covered with white scales of dead skin. His eyes are large and gentle like those of an ox, and there is a finger missing from his left hand. His speech is as slow as the movements of his hands, which are stained with oil and iron dust. Grasping his wineglass in his dark fingers, the nails of which are chipped and broken, he continues in his deep voice:

  “Milan, Turin—there are splendid workshops there in which new people are being made, where a new brain is growing. Wait a little while and the world will become honest and wise!”

>   “Yes,” said the little painter; and he lifted his glass, trying to catch a sunbeam in the wine, and sang:

  “When we are young

  How high the heart aspires!

  How Time hath slaked its fires

  When we are old!”

  “The farther north one goes, I say, the better is the work. The French, for instance, do not lead such a lazy life as we do. Farther on, there are the Germans, and last of all the Russians: they are men if you like!”

  “Quite true.”

  “Having no rights and no fear of being deprived of their freedom and life, they have done grand work: it is owing to them that the whole East has awakened to life.”

  “The county of heroes,” said the painter, inclining his head. “I should like to live amongst them.”

  “Would you?” exclaimed the locksmith, striking his knee with his fist. “You would turn into a piece of ice there in a week!”

  They both laughed good humouredly.

  Around them there are blue and golden flowers; sunbeams tremble in the air; in the transparent glass of the decanter and the tumblers the wine seems to be on fire. From afar comes the soft murmur of the sea.

  “Well, my good Vincenzo,” said the locksmith, with a broad smile. “Tell me in verse how I became a socialist. Do you know how it happened?”

  “No,” said the painter, filling the glasses with wine and smiling at the red stream. “You have never told me. This skin fits your bones so well that I thought you were born in it!”

  “I was born naked and stupid, like you and everybody else; in my youth I dreamed of a rich wife; when I was a soldier I studied in order to pass the examination for an officer’s rank. I was twenty-three when I felt that all was not as it should be in this world, and that it was a shame to live as if it were, like a fool.”