by Maxim Gorky
“Take care, bookworm. You will spoil your sight and grow blind!”
However, I soon realized that all these interestingly complicated books, despite the different incidents, and the various countries and towns about which they were written, had one common theme: good people made unhappy and oppressed by bad people, the latter were always more successful and clever than the good, but in the end something unexpected always overthrowing the wicked, and the good winning. The “love,” of which both men and women spoke in the same terms, bored me. In fact, it was not only uninteresting to me, but it aroused a vague contempt.
Sometimes from the very first chapters I began to wonder who would win or who would be vanquished, and as soon as the course of the story became clear, I would set myself to unravel the skein of events by the aid of my own fancy. When I was not reading I was thinking of the books I had on hand, as one would think about the problems in an arithmetic. I became more skilful every day in guessing which of the characters would enter into the paradise of happiness and which would be utterly confounded.
But through all this I saw the glimmer of living and, to me, significant truths, the outlines of another life, other standards. It was clear to me that in Paris the cabmen, working men, soldiers, and all “black people”[1] were not at all as they were in Nijni, Kazan, or Perm. They dared to speak to gentlefolk, and behaved toward them more simply and independently than our people. Here, for example, was a soldier quite unlike any I had known, unlike Sidorov, unlike the Viatskian on the boat, and still more unlike Ermokhin. He was more human than any of these. He had something of Smouri about him, but he was not so savage and coarse. Here was a shopkeeper, but he was much better than any of the shopkeepers I had known. And the priests in books were not like the priests I knew. They had more feeling, and seemed to enter more into the lives of their flocks. And in general it seemed to me that life abroad, as it appeared in books, was more interesting, easier, better than the life I knew. Abroad, people did not behave so brutally. They never jeered at other human creatures as cruelly as the Viatskian soldier had been jeered at, nor prayed to God as importunately as the old mistress did. What I noticed particularly was that, when villains, misers, and low characters were depicted in books, they did not show that incomprehensible cruelty, that inclination to jeer at humanity, with which I was acquainted, and which was often brought to my notice. There was method in the cruelty of these bookish villains. One could almost always understand why they were cruel; but the cruelty which I witnessed was aimless, senseless, an amusement from which no one expected to gain any advantage.
[1] The common people.
With every book that I read this dissimilarity between Russian life and that of other countries stood out more clearly, causing a perplexed feeling of irritation within me, strengthening my suspicion of the veracity of the old, well-read pages with their dirty “dogs’-ears.”
And then there fell into my hands Goncourt’s novel, “The Brothers Zemganno.” I read it through in one night, and, surprised at the new experience, read the simple, pathetic story over again. There was nothing complicated about it, nothing interesting at first sight. In fact, the first pages seemed dry, like the lives of the saints. Its language, so precise and stripped of all adornment, was at first an unpleasant surprise to me; but the paucity of words, the strongly constructed phrases, went straight to the heart. It so aptly described the drama of the acrobat brothers that my hands trembled with the enjoyment of reading the book. I wept bitterly as I read how the unfortunate artist, with his legs broken, crept up to the loft where his brother was secretly engaged in his favorite art.
When I returned this glorious book to the tailor’s wife I begged her to give me another one like it.
“How do you mean like that?” she asked, laughing.
This laugh confused me, and I could not explain what I wanted. Then she said:
“That is a dull book. Just wait! I will give you another more interesting.”
In the course of a day or two she gave me Greenwood’s “The True History of a little Waif.” The title of the book at first turned me against it, but the first pages called up a smile of joy, and still smiling, I read it from beginning to end, re-reading some of the pages two or three times.
So in other countries, also, boys lived hard and harassing lives! After all, I was not so badly off; I need not complain.
Greenwood gave me a lot of courage, and soon after that I was given a “real” book, “Eugénie Grandet.”
Old Grandet reminded me vividly of grandfather. I was annoyed that the book was so small, and surprised at the amount of truth it contained. Truths which were familiar and boring to me in life were shown to me in a different light in this book, without malice and quite calmly. All the books which I had read before Greenwood’s, condemned people as severely and noisily as my employers did, often arousing my sympathy for the villain and a feeling of irritation with the good people. I was always sorry to see that despite enormous expenditure of intelligence and willpower, a man still failed to obtain his desires. The good characters stood awaiting events from first to last page, as immovable as stone pillars, and although all kinds of evil plots were formed against these stone pillars, stones do not arouse sympathy. No matter how beautiful and strong a wall may be, one does not love it if one wants to get the apple on the tree on the other side of it. It always seemed to me that all that was most worth having, and vigorous was hidden behind the “good” people.
In Goncourt, Greenwood, and Balzac there were no villains, but just simple people, wonderfully alive. One could not doubt that, whatever they were alleged to have said and done, they really did say and do, and they could not have said and done anything else.
In this fashion I learned to understand what a great treat a “good and proper” book can be. But how to find it? The tailor’s wife could not help me in this.
“Here is a good book,” she said, laying before me Arsène Huissier’s “Hands full of Roses, Gold, and Blood.” She also gave me the novels of Beyle, Paul de Kock and Paul Féval, and I read them all with relish. She liked the novels of Mariette and Vernier, which to me appeared dull. I did not care for Spielhagen, but I was much taken with the stories of Auerbach. Sue and Huga, also, I did not like, preferring Walter Scott. I wanted books which excited me, and made me feel happy, like wonderful Balzac.
I did not care for the porcelain woman as much as I had done at first. When I went to see her, I put on a clean shirt, brushed my hair, and tried to appear good-looking. In this I was hardly successful. I always hoped that, seeing my good looks, she would speak to me in a simple and friendly manner, without that hsh-like smile on her frivolous face. But all she did was to smile and ask me in her sweet, tired voice:
“Have you read it? Did you like it?”
“No.”
Slightly raising her eyebrows, she looked at me, and, drawing in her breath, spoke through her nose.
“But why?”
“I have read about all that before.”
“Above what?”
“About love.”
Her eyes twinkled, as she burst out into her honeyed laugh.
“Ach, but you see all books are written about love!”
Sitting in a big arm-chair, she swung her small feet, incased in fur slippers, to and fro, yawned, wrapped her blue dressing-gown around her, and drummed with her pink fingers on the cover of the book on her knee. I wanted to say to her:
“Why don’t you leave this flat? The officers write letters to you, and laugh at you.”
But I had not the audacity to say this, and went away, bearing with me a thick book on “Love,” a sad sense of disenchantment in my heart.
They talked about this woman in the yard more evilly, derisively, and spitefully than ever. It offended me to hear these foul and, no doubt, lying stories. When I was away from her, I pitied the woman, and suffered for her; but when I was
with her, and saw her small, sharp eyes, the cat-like flexibility of her small body, and that always frivolous face, pity and fear disappeared, vanished like smoke.
In the spring she suddenly went away, and in a few days her husband moved to new quarters.
While the rooms stood empty, awaiting a new tenant, I went to look at the bare walls, with their square patches where pictures had hung, bent nails, and wounds made by nails. Strewn about the stained floor were pieces of different-colored cloth, balls of paper, broken boxes from the chemist, empty scent-bottles. A large brass pin gleamed in one spot.
All at once I felt sad and wished that I could see the tailor’s little wife once more to tell her how grateful I was to her.
CHAPTER X
Before the departure of the tailor’s wife there had come to live under the flat occupied by my employers a black-eyed young lady, with her little girl and her mother, a gray-haired old woman, everlastingly smoking cigarettes in an amber mouthpiece. The young lady was very beautiful, imperious, and proud. She spoke in a pleasant, deep voice. She looked at every one with head held high and unblinking eyes, as if they were all far away from her, and she could hardly see them. Nearly every day her black soldier-servant, Tuphyaev, brought a thin-legged, brown horse to the steps of her flat. The lady came out in a long, steel-colored, velvet dress, wearing white gauntleted gloves and tan boots. Holding the train of her skirt and a whip with a lilac-colored stone in its handle in one hand, with the other little hand she lovingly stroked the horse’s muzzle. He fixed his great eyes upon her, trembling all over, and softly trampled the soaked ground under his hoofs.
“Robaire, Robaire,” she said in a low voice, and patted the beautiful, arched neck of the steed with a firm hand.
Then setting her foot on the knee of Tuphyaev, she sprang lightly into the saddle, and the horse, prancing proudly, went through the gateway. She sat in the saddle as easily as if she were part of it. She was beautiful with that rare kind of beauty which always seems new and wonderful, and always fills the heart with an intoxicating joy. When I looked at her I thought that Diana of Poitiers, Queen Margot, the maiden La Vallière, and other beauties, heroines of historical novels, were like her.
She was constantly surrounded by the officers of the division which was stationed in the town, and in the evenings they used to visit her, and play the piano, violin, guitar, and dance and sing. The most frequent of her visitors was Major Olessov, who revolved about her on his short legs, stout, red-faced, gray-haired, and as greasy as an engineer on a steamboat. He played the guitar well, and bore himself as the humble, devoted servant of the lady.
As radiantly beautiful as her mother was the little five-year-old, curly-haired, chubby girl. Her great, dark-blue eyes looked about her gravely, calmly expectant, and there was an air of thoughtfulness about her which was not at all childish.
Her grandmother was occupied with housekeeping from morning to night, with the help of Tuphyaev, a morose, taciturn man, and a fat, cross-eyed housemaid. There was no nursemaid, and the little girl lived almost without any notice being taken of her, playing about all day on the front steps or on a heap of planks near them. I often went out to play with her in the evenings, for I was very fond of her. She soon became used to me, and would fall asleep in my arms while I was telling her a story. When this happened, I used to carry her to bed. Before long it came about that she would not go to sleep, when she was put to bed, unless I went to say good night to her. When I went to her, she would hold out her plump hand with a grand air and say:
“Good-by till to-morrow. Grandmother, how ought I to say it?”
“God preserve you!” said the grandmother, blowing a cloud of dark-blue smoke from her mouth and thin nose.
“God preserve you till to-morrow! And now I am going to sleep,” said the little girl, rolling herself up in the bedclothes, which were trimmed with lace.
The grandmother corrected her.
“Not till to-morrow, but for always.”
“But doesn’t to-morrow mean for always?”
She loved the word “to-morrow,” and whatever pleased her specially she carried forward into the future. She would stick into the ground flowers that had been plucked or branches that had been broken by the wind, and say:
“To-morrow this will be a garden.”
“To-morrow, some time, I shall buy myself a horse, and ride on horseback like mother.”
She was a clever child, but not very lively, and would often break off in the midst of a merry game to become thoughtful, or ask unexpectedly:
“Why do priests have hair like women?”
If she stung herself with nettles, she would shake her finger at them, saying:
“You wait! I shall pray God to do something vewy bady to you. God can do bad things to every one; He can even punish mama.” Sometimes a soft, serious melancholy descended upon her. She would press close to me, gazing up at the sky with her blue, expectant eyes, and say:
“Sometimes grandmother is cross, but mama never; she on’y laughs. Every one loves her, because she never has any time. People are always coming to see her and to look at her because she is so beautiful. She is ’ovely, mama is. ’Oseph says so—’ovely!”
I loved to listen to her, for she spoke of a world of which I knew nothing. She spoke willingly and often about her mother, and a new life gradually opened out before me. I was again reminded of Queen Margot, which deepened my faith in books and also my interest in life. One day when I was sitting on the steps waiting for my people, who had gone for a walk, and the little girl had dozed off in my arms, her mother rode up on horseback, sprang lightly to the ground, and, throwing back her head, asked:
“What, is she asleep?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right.”
The soldier Tuphyaev came running to her and took the horse. She stuck her whip into her belt and, holding out her arms, said:
“Give her to me!”
“I’ll carry her in myself.”
“Come on!” cried the lady, as if I had been a horse, and she stamped her foot on the step.
The little girl woke up, blinking, and, seeing her mother, held out her arms to her. They went away.
I was used to being shouted at, but I did not like this lady to shout at me. She had only to give an order quietly, and every one obeyed her.
In a few minutes the cross-eyed maid came out for me. The little girl was naughty, and would not go to sleep without saying good night.
It was not without pride in my bearing toward the mother that I entered the drawing-room, where the little girl was sitting on the knees of her mother, who was deftly undressing her.
“Here he is,” she said. “He has come—this monster.”
“He is not a monster, but my boy.”
“Really? Very good. Well, you would like to give something to your boy, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I should.”
“A good idea! I will see to it, and you will go to bed.”
“Good-by till to-morrow,” said the little girl, holding out her hand to me. “God preserve you till to-morrow!”
The lady exclaimed in surprise:
“Who taught you to say that? Grandmother?”
“Ye-es.”
When the child had left the room the lady beckoned to me.
“What shall we give you?”
I told her that I did not want anything; but could she let me have a book to read?
She lifted my chin with her warm, scented fingers, and asked, with a pleasant smile:
“So you are fond of reading? Yes; what books have you read?”
When she smiled she looked more beautiful than ever. I confusedly told her the names of several books.
“What did you find to like in them?” she asked, laying her hand on the table and moving her fingers slightly.
A s
trong, sweet smell of some sort of flowers came from her, mixed with the odor of horse-sweat. She looked at me through her long eyelashes, thoughtfully grave. No one had ever looked at me like that before.
The room was packed as tightly as a bird’s nest with beautiful, soft furniture. The windows were covered with thick green curtains; the snowy white tiles of the stove gleamed in the half-light; beside the stove shone the glossy surface of a black piano; and from the walls, in dull-gold frames, looked dark writings in large Russian characters. Under each writing hung a large dark seal by a cord. Everything about her looked at that woman as humbly and timidly as I did.
I explained to her as well as I could that my life was hard and uninteresting and that reading helped me to forget it.
“Yes; so that’s what it is,” she said, standing up. “It is not a bad idea, and, in fact, it is quite right. Well, what shall we do? I will get some books for you, but just now I have none. But wait! You can have this one.”
She took a tattered book with a yellow cover from the couch.
“When you have read this I will give you the second volume; there are four.”
I went away with the “Secrets of Peterburg,” by Prince Meshtcheski, and began to read the book with great attention. But before I had read many pages I saw that the Peterburgian “secrets” were considerably less interesting than those of Madrid, London, or Paris. The only part which took my fancy was the fable of Svoboda (Liberty) and Palka (stick).
“I am your superior,” said Svoboda, “because I am cleverer.”
But Palka answered her:
“No, it is I who am your superior, because I am stronger than you.”
They disputed and disputed and fought about it. Palka beat Svoboda, and, if I remember rightly, Svoboda died in the hospital as the result of her injuries.
There was some talk of nihilists in this book. I remember that, according to Prince Meshtcheski, a nihilist was such a poisonous person that his very glance would kill a fowl. What he wrote about nihilists struck me as being offensive and rude, but I understood nothing else, and fell into a state of melancholy. It was evident that I could not appreciate good books; for I was convinced that it was a good book. Such a great and beautiful lady could never read bad books.
