Selected short stories, 1892-1901

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A. IVT. Gorky

Mosco<w 1903

Digitized by the Internet Archive

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University of Toronto

http://www.archive.org/details/selectedshortstoOOgork

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ИЗБРАННЫЕ
РАССКАЗЫ

1892 - 1901

ИЗДАТЕЛЬСТВО ЛИТЕРАТУРЫ
НА ИНОСТРАННЫХ ЯЗЫКАХ

Москва

SELECTED
SHORT STORIES

1892-1901

FOREIGN LANGUAGES
PUBLISHING HOUSE

Moscow

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN

BY MARGARET WETTLIN

DESIGNED BY E. К О G A N

//P

г 1

896525

Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

CONTENTS

Page

PREFACE 9

MAKAR CHUDRA 17

AT THE SALT MARSH 45 '

OLD IZERGIL 69

CHELKASH .116

ABOUT A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL

WHO DID NOT FREEZE TO DEATH ... 184

SONG OF THE FALCON 201

EXPOSURE 212

A MITE OF A GIRL . 217

KOLUSHA 228

THE WOMAN WITH THE BLUE EYES .... 235

HOW SEMAGA WAS CAUGHT \ 260

A READER 274

7

Page

THE POET . 305

KONOVALOV 321

VANKA MAZIN N , 422

MISCHIEF-MAKER 450

THE ORLOVS .485

FOR WANT OF SOMETHING BETTER TO DO . . 602
SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL 638

//

PREFACE

Gorky's writings represent an impressive chronicle of
modern Russian history. His was a life of hardship
and labour, and of constant searching for social
justice which brought him to throw in his lot with
those fighting in the cause of the people. His personal
history reflects the intellectual growth of the Russian
working class as a whole, a class which became
the vanguard of the world revolutionary movement.
While still a child, Gorky began to work for his
living. In 1884, a sixteen-year-old apprentice avid
for learning, he set out for the town of Kazan in the
hope of being able to enter the university there. But
life had prepared other "universities" for him; in
( Kazan he was to make a study of the life of
vagrants, of slum-dwellers, of the workmen in the
dingy basement of Semyonov's bakery. And in ad-
dition he was to attend a "political university" con-
sisting of a revolutionary circle held by a group of
intellectuals. In this circle he became acquainted
with the basic tenets of Marxism, read books on phi-
losophy and political economy. The Kazan period
supplied him with abundant material for his future
writings.

(wo'

In 1891 Gorky set out to roam his native land.
He tramped through the Ukraine, Bessarabia, the
Crimea, and down the Caucasian sea-coast, doing
any odd job to earn a meal. He ended up in Tiflis,
where he got a job in a railway repair shop. There
he joined a workers* revolutionary circle and came
into close contact with Marxists. This determined
the course his intellectual searchings were to take
from then on. There, too, he made the acquaintance
of A. M. Kaluzhny, a champion of the people's cause,
who urged him to put in writing all he had seen and
experienced. His first short story, "Makar Chudra,"
was published in the Tiflis newspaper Kavkaz in
September 1892. It was signed by the pseudonym
"Maxim Gorky," under which the author wrote
ever after; his real name was Alexei Peshkov.

This, then, was the beginning of Gorky's literary
career. On returning to Nizhni-Novgorod he enjoyed
the patronage of the progressive Russian writer Ko-
rolenko, who read his stories with a sternly critical
eye and offered him invaluable advice. With the
aid of Korolenko another story, "Ghelkash," was
published in one of the popular magazines.

At this time Gorky began to contribute short
stories, feature articles and biting satirical feuil-
letons to the big Volga newspapers Nizhegorodsky
Listok and Samarskaya Gazeta.

The year 1898 was made momentous for Gorky
by the publication of the first collection of his
short stories and articles. He was becoming fa-
mous.

iO

In his early stories Gorky gives a broad and
many-sided picture of Russian life in the 90*s. But
he does not limit himself to the mere telling of a
story; he ponders deeply the significance of human
existence and the laws of human development. Gor-
ky tries not only to comprehend and generalize the

"facts of life, but also to give full expression to ideas
of freedom and bring them to "the poor and down-
trodden." He seeks and finds the form best suited
to his purpose: the short story written in revolu-
tionary-romantic style.

Gorky's cycle of romantic stories sprang from
the same source as his realistic ones. But if in the
lalter he was unable to completely express his ideals,
in his romantic stories and legends he had free sweep
for telling of his dreams for the future. In contrast
with the reactionary romanticism of the symbolists

•who escaped from actuality into a world of illusion,
Gorky's romanticism is inspired by dreams which
look beyond today's actuality into the actuality of
tomorrow.

Gorky's early heroic romanticism, charged as it
is with firm faith in future victory, reflects the up-
surge of the revolutionary movement in the 90's.
"We sing a song to the madness of daring" is the
leitmotiv of all Gorky's romantic stories ("Makar
Chudra," "Old Izergil," "Death and the Maiden,"
"Song of the Falcon," "Song of the Stormy Pet-
rel," and others). These words from "Song of the
Falcon" rang out like a revolutionary cry, a
"proud challenge to struggle for freedom and light."

Jt

The image of the Falcon symbolizes the revolution-
ary who bases his struggle to improve the people's
lot on demands of the highest justice.

In taking up a stand for freedom and in defend-
ing the cause of the oppressed, Gorky followed the
humanistic traditions of Russian classical literature.
He called himself a pupil of his older contempora-
ries—Tolstoy, Chekhov and Korolenko, and he al-
ways urged writers to learn from the classics. The
Russian revolutionary democrats and literary crit-
ics Belinsky, Chernyshevsky and Dobrolyubov
exercised strong influence on the development of
his aesthetic principles. Like these men, he looked
upon literature as a weapon in the struggle to change
the world.

Many of Gorky's contemporaries testify to the
enthusiastic reception accorded his stories of the
90's. '"The Heart of Danko' filled us with delight.
It pulsed in unison with our own hearts," wrote
P. A. Zalomov, a revolutionary worker who served
as the prototype for Pavel Vlasov in Gorky's novel
"Mother. " "Each of us felt that his own heart was
aflame with zeal for the socialist revolution, and
we found our only happiness, our only significance,
in the struggle to achieve this revolution. 'Song
of the Falcon' was of more importance to us than
dozens of proclamations."

Long years of wandering afforded Gorky an op-
portunity to make a thorough study of Russian pro-
vincial life. In the stories and articles written in
the 90 's he exposes the stagnancy of provincial

12

life, the narrow-mindedness, spiritual poverty, cru-
elty and indifference of the middle classes. The sto-
ry "For Want of Something Better to Do" is partic-
ularly incriminatory.

Gorky was unrelenting with professional people
of the type of schoolmaster Korzhik ("Leisure
Hours of Schoolmaster Korzhik"), whose weakness of
character made them incapable of contributing to
the improvement of life and even led them to neglect
their duties as members of society. At the same
time that Gorky denounced those who isolated them-
selves from the masses by living within the narrow
circle of selfish middle-class interests, he gave us
a picture of progressive-minded intellectuals and of
their growing discontent. One of the best stories
devoted to this theme is "A Mite of a Girl,"
depicting a young girl of the intellectual class who
sacrificed everything, even her life, to serve the rev-
olutionary cause. In this story we see how progres-
sive-minded intellectuals identified their fate with
that of the common people. The *'mite of a girl"
served as a sketch for the revolutionary intellectuals
Gorky gave us in his later works. The theme of the
intelligentsia as treated in Gorky's early realistic
stories is always linked wilh the theme of Ihe common
people, for Gorky saw in the intelligentsia a force
capable of spreading revolutionary consciousness
among the massas, who, at the time he wrote, were
already rising for the struggle.

The theme of people from "the lower depths,"
the outcasts of bourgeois society, held a prominent

13

place in Gorky's early writings. There were, for in-
stance, such stories as "Ghelkash," "Konovalov" and
"The Orlovs." He was not inclined to look upon
these people as positive characters. In presenting
them he pointed out their anarchistic tendencies and
their contempt for a life of labour. He showed that
their hatred of the bourgeois way of life became a
hatred of all forms of social organization, and their
contempt for property became a contempt for labour.
At the same time he revealed the positive traits of
character that they possessed in common with the
people as a whole. A love of freedom and of nature,
an inquisitiveness leading them to search for the
meaning of life — these are qualities possessed by most
of Gorky's vagrants. The psychology of a man like
Konovalov is typical. In spite of being a talented,
skilful workman and a man of noble impulses, he
comes to grief because he finds no support in his
environment and does not see where to apply his
energies. Without being linked to any conscious,
purposeful activity, his noble impulses are short-
lived and come to naught.

While employed in the railway repair shop in
Tiflis, Gorky became convinced that the future
belonged to the working class. It was only among
the working class that he found real heroes for his
stories. In his story "At the Salt Marsh" he shows
us how the minds of these workmen became distort-
ed by the insufferable labour. Hard, resentful, they
gave vent to their feelings by playing a cruel practical
joke on a youth who was a worker like themselves.

14

In the story "Mischief- Maker" we are shown a
workman (a type-setter) with a clearer understand-
ing of who his enemies are. But his protest is
voiced in a meaningless bit of mischief — he changes
the wording of the leading article in the day's news-
paper.

Soon after this Gorky was to create types who
presented a truly revolutionary programme of
action. Among them are Nil, the railway engineer
from the play "The Philistines," and Pavel Vlasov,
the revolutionary factory worker from the novel
"Mother. "

In the 90 's Gorky tried to clarify the task facing
writers in this period of awakening labour con-
sciousness. This entailed arguing with writers of the
naturalistic school, with futurists, impressionists,
and others. The result was a controversy of vast im-
portance between an artist of a new type and those
who championed old, outmoded principles. Gorky
denounced and ridiculed writers who glossed over
social problems in their works and who looked upon
the common people as a passive inert mass capable
of inspiring only a feeling of compassion.

Whenever he touched on the theme of art, Gorky,
like the revolutionary democrats who preceded him,
harshly criticized all theories of "pure art." In sto-
ries like "The Poet" he depicted writers of his day
who had broken with the tradition of serving the
people.

"The purpose of literature," writes Gorky in his
fantasy "A Reader," "is to help man to know him-

15

self, to fortify his belief in himself and support his
striving after the truth; to discover the good in people
and to root out what is ignoble; to kindle shame,
wrath, courage in their hearts; to help them acquire
a strength dedicated to lofty purposes and sanctify
their lives with the holy spirit of beauty."

In his early stories Gorky posed many of the prob-
lems that were to trouble him all his life, and we
can trace the origin of many of the characters of
his later works to their less developed types in these
early stories. Even in the work of the 90 's we can
detect the beginnings of that new method which
Gorky was to introduce into literature — the method
f of socialist realism, combining a truthful portrayal
' of life as it is with a clear perception of what it ought
to become.

Gorky paved the way for that new and free type
of literature to which, as Lenin said: "... more
and more writers will be drawn because of their
sympathy with the working people and the ideas of
socialism, and not because of considerations of gain
or personal ambition. It will be a literature of free-
dom, for instead of serving a few spoiled ladies or
the fat and bored 'upper ten thousand,' it will be
written for the millions of working people who
represent a country's pride, its strength and its
future. "

— — — 0€ II m

MAKAR CHUDRA

A COLD damp wind came out of the sea,
wafting over the steppe the pensive melody
of the waves breaking on the shore and the
rustle of dry bushes. Now and then a gust
would lift up some shrivelled yellow leaves
and throw them into our camp-fire, causing
the flames to flare up; then the darkness
of the autumn night would shudder and start
back in fright, giving us a glimpse of the
boundless steppe to the left, the limitless
sea to the right, and in front of me — the
form of Makar Chudra, an old Gipsy who
was keeping watch over the horses belong-
ing to his camp pitched some fifty paces
away.

Heedless of the cold wind that blew open
his Caucasian coat and struck mercilessly

2—327 17

at his bare hairy chest, he lay facing me in a
graceful and vigorous pose, drawing regularly
at his enormous pipe, emitting thick clouds
of smoke through his nose and mouth, gaz-
ing fixedly over my head into the silent
darkness of the steppe, talking incessantly
and making not the slightest effort to pro-
tect himself from the vicious attacks of the
wind.

/ , "So you go tramping about the world,
do you? Good for you. You have made the
right choice, young falcon. That is the only
way. Go about the world seeing things, and
when you have looked your fill, lie down
and die."

"Life? Your fellow-men?" he queried on
hearing my objections to his "That is the only
way." "Why should you w^rry about that?
Are not you life itself? And as for your fel-
low-men, they always have and always will
get on famously without you. Do you real-
ly think anybody needs you? You are nei-
ther bread nor a stick, and so nobody wants
you.

"Learn and teach others, you say. Can
you learn how to make people happy? No,

18

you cannot. Wait until your hair is grey be-
fore you try to teach others. What will you
teach them? Every man knows what he needs.
The wise ones take Avhat life has to offer,
the stupid ones get nothing, but each man
learns for himself.

"A curious lot, people: they all herd to-
gether, trampling on each other, when there
is this much space — " and he made a sweep-
ing gesture out towards the steppe. "And
all of them work. What for? Nobody knows.
Whenever I see a man ploughing a field
I think to myself: there he is pouring his
strength and his sweat into the earth drop
by drop, only to lie down in that very earth
at last and rot away. He will die as big an
ignoramus as he was born, leaving nothing
behind him, having seen nothing but his
fields.

"Is that what he was born for — to dig in
the soil and die without having had time
even to dig himself a grave? Has he ever
tasted freedom? Has he a knowledge of the
vastness of the steppe? Has his heart ever
been cheered by the murmur of the sea?
He is a slave — a slave from the day of

2^ 19

his birth to the day of his death. What
can he do about it? Nothing but hang him-
self, if he has the sense to do that.

"As for me, at fifty-eight I have seen so
much that if it were all put down on paper,
a thousand bags like the one you have there
would not hold it all. Can you name a land
I have not seen? You cannot. I have been to
places you have never even heard of. That
is the only way to live — moving from one
place to another. And never stop long in
one place — why should you? Just see how
day and night are always moving, chasing
each other round the earth; in just the same
way you must chase away your thoughts
if you would not lose your zest for life.
One is sure to lose it if he broods too much
over life. Even I did once; I did indeed,
young falcon.

"It was when I was in jail in Galicia.
'Why was I ever born?' I thought in my mis-
ery. It is a great misery to be locked up in
jail — ekh, what a misery! My heart was
gripped as in a vice every time I looked out
of the window at the open fields. Who can
say why he was born? No one can, and one

20

should never ask himself such a question.
Live, and be thankful to be alive. Roam
the earth and see what there is to see, and
then you will never be miserable. Ah, but
I almost hanged myself with my belt that
time.

"Once I had a talk with a certain man. A
stern man he was, and a Russian, like you.
A person must not live as he likes, he said,
but as is pointed out in the word of God.
If a man lives in obedience to God, he said,
God will give him whatever he asks for. He
himself was dressed in rags and tatters.
I told him to ask God for a new suit of clothes.
He was so angry he cursed me and drove
me away. But just a minute before he had
said one ought to love his neighbours and
forgive them. Why did he not forgive me
if I had offended him? There's your preacher
for you! They teach people to eat less, while
they themselves eat ten times a day."

He spat into the fire and was silent as he
refilled his pipe. The wind moaned softly,
the horses whinnied in the darkness, and the
tender impassioned strains of a song came
from the Gipsy camp. It was Nonka, Makar's

2J

beautiful daughter, who was singing. I
recognized the deep throaty timbre of her
voice, in which there was always a note
of command and of discontent, whether she
was singing a song or merely saying a word
of greeting. The haughtiness of a queen was
frozen upon her swarthy face, and in the shad-
ows of her dark eyes glimmered a conscious-
ness of her irresistible beauty and a contempt
for everything that was not she.

Makar handed me his pipe.

"Have a smoke. She sings well, doesn't she?
Would you like to have a maid like that fall
in love with you? No? Good for you. Put
no faith in women and keep away from them.
A maid gets more joy out of kissing a man
than I do out of smoking my pipe. But once
you have kissed her, gone is your freedom.
She holds you with invisible bonds that are
not to be broken, and you give yourself to
her heart and soul. That is the truth. Be-
ware of the maids. They always lie. She swears
she loves you above all else, but the first
time you cause her a pin-prick she will tear
your heart out. I know what I say. There are
many things I know. If you wish, I will tell

22

you a true tale. Remember it well, and if you
do, you will be as free as a bird all your life.

"Once upon a time there was a young Gipsy
named Zobar — Loiko Zobar. He was a
fearless youth whose fame had spread through-
out Hungary and Bohemia and Slavonia
and all the lands that encircle the sea. There
was not a village in those parts but had four
or five men sworn to take Zobar 's life, yet
he went on living, and if he took a fancy to
a horse, a regiment of soldiers could not keep
him from galloping off on it. Was there a soul
he feared? Not Zobar. He would knife the
devil himself and all his pack if they swooped
down on him, or at least he would curse them
roundly and give them a cuffing, you can be
sure of that.

"All the Gipsy camps knew Zobar or had
heard of him. The only thing he loved was
a horse, and that not for long. When he had
tired of riding it he would sell it and give
the money to anyone who asked him for it.
There was nothing he prized; he would have
ripped his heart out of his breast if he thought
anyone had need of it. That was the sort
of man he Avas.

23

"At the time I am speaking of — some ten
years ago — our caravan was roaming through
Bukovina. A group of us were sitting together
one spring night — Danilo, a soldier who
fought under Kossuth; old Nur; Radda,
Danilo 's daughter, and others.

"Have you seen my Nonka? She is a queen
among beauties. But it would be doing her
too great an honour to compare her with Rad-
da. No words could describe Radda 's beauty.
Perhaps it could be played on a violin, but
only by one who knew the instrument as he
knew his ow^n soul.

"Many a man pined away with love for
Radda. Once in Moravia a rich old man was
struck dumb by the sight of her. There he sat
on his horse staring at her and shaking all
over as if with the ague. He was decked out
like the devil on holiday, his Ukrainian coat
all stitched in gold, the sabre at his side set
with precious stones that flashed like light-
ning at every movement of his horse, the blue
velvet of his cap like a patch of blue sky.
He was a very important person, that old
man. He sat on and on staring at Radda, and
at last he said to her: *A purse full of money

24

for a kiss!' She just turned her head away.
This made the rich old man change his tune.
* Forgive me if I have insulted you, but
you might at least give me a smile, ' and
with this he tossed his purse at her feet, and
a fat purse it was. But she just pressed it
into the dust with her foot, as if she had not
noticed it.

"*Ah, what a maid!' he gasped, bringing
his whip down on his horse's flank so that
the dust of the roadway rose in a cloud as
the horse reared.

"He came back on the next day. *Who is
her father?' he asked in a voice that echoed
throughout the camp. Danilo came forward.
*Sell me your daughter. Name your own
price.' *It is only gentlemen who sell any-
thing from their pigs to their consciences,' said
Danilo. *As for me, I fought under Kossuth
and sell nothing.' The rich man let out a roar
and reached for his sabre, but someone thrust a
lighted tinder into his horse's ear and the beast
went flying off with its master on its back.
We broke camp and took to the road. When
we had been on the way two whole days, we
suddenly saw him coming after us. *Hey!'

25

he cried. *I swear to God and to you that
my intentions are honest. Give me the maid
to wife. I will share all that I own with you,
and I am very rich.' He was aflame with pas-
sion and swayed in his saddle like feather-
grass in the wind. We thought over what he
said.

"*Well, daughter, speak up,' muttered Da-
nilo into his beard.

"*If the eagle's mate went to nest with the
crow of her own free will, what would you
think of her?' said Radda.

"Danilo burst out laughing and so did the
rest of us.

"*Well said, daughter! Have you heard,
my lord? Your case is lost! Woo a pigeon —
they are more docile.' And we went on our
way.

"At that the rich man pulled off his hat and
hurled it down on the ground and rode off
at such speed that the earth shook under
his horse's hoofs. That was what Radda was
like, young falcon.

"Again one night we were sitting in camp
when all of a sudden we heard music coming from
the steppe. Wonderful music. Music that made

26

the blood throb in your veins and lured you
off to unknown places. It filled us all with
a longing for something so tremendous that
if we once experienced it there would be no
more reason to go on living, and if we did go
on living, it would be as lords of the whole
world.

'Then a horse came out of the darkness,
and on the horse a man was sitting and play-
ing the fiddle. He came to a halt by our camp-
fire and stopped playing, looking at us and
smiling.

"*Zobar! So it is you!* called out Danilo
heartily.

"This, then, was Loiko Zobar. His mous-
taches swept down to his shoulders, where
they mingled with his curly hair; his eyes
shone like two bright stars, and his smile
was the sun itself. It was as if he and his
horse had been carved of one piece. There
he was, red as blood in the fire-light, his
teeth flashing when he laughed. Damned if
I did not love him as I loved my own self,
and he had not so much as exchanged a word
with me or even noticed my existence.

'There are people like that, young falcon.

27

When he looked into your eyes your soul
surrendered to him, and instead of being
ashamed of this, you were proud of it. You
seemed to become better in his presence.
There are not many people like that. Perhaps
it is better so. If there were a lot of good things
in the world, they would not be counted good.
But listen to what happened next.

"Radda said to him: 'You play well, Zo-
bar. Who made you such a clear-voiced fid-
dle?' 'I made it myself,' he laughed. *And
not of wood, but of the breast of a maiden
I loved well; the strings are her heart-strings.
It still plays false at times, my fiddle, but
I know how to wield the bow.'

"A man always tries to becloud a girl's
eyes with longing for him so that his own
heart will be protected from the darts of those
eyes. And Zobar was no exception. But he did
not know with whom he was dealing this time.
Radda merely turned away and said with
a yawn: *And they told me Zobar was wise
and witty. What a mistake!' And she walked
away.

"'You have sharp teeth, my pretty maid!'
said Zobar, his eyes flashing as he got off

28

his horse. ^Greetings to you, friends. I have
come to pay you a visit.'

"*We are glad to have you,' replied Da-
nilo.

"We exchanged kisses, chatted a while and
went to bed. We slept soundly. In the morning
we found Zobar with a bandage round his
head. What had happened? It seems his
horse had kicked him in the night.

"Ah, but we knew who that horse had been!
And we smiled to ourselves; and Danilo smiled.
Could it be that even Zobar was no match
for Radda? Not at all. Lovely as she was,
she had a petty soul, and all the gold trin-
kets in the world could not have added one
kopek to her worth.

"Well, we went on living in that same place.
Things were going well with us, and Loiko
Zobar stayed on. He was a good companion —
as wise as an old man, and very knowing, and
able to read and write Russian as well as
Magyar. I could have listened to him talk
the night through, and as for his playing —
may the lightning strike me dead if there ever
was another his equal. He drew his bow once
across the strings and the heart leaped up

29

in your breast; he drew it again and every-
thing within you grew tense with listening —
and he just went on playing and smiling.
It made you want to laugh and cry at the
same time. Now someone was moaning bitterly
and crying for help, and it was as if a knife
were being turned in your side; now the steppe
was telling a tale to the sky — a sad tale.
Now a maid was weeping as she said farewell
to her lover. Now her lover was calling to
her from the steppe. And then, like a bolt
from the blue, would come a gay and sweep-
ing tune that made the very sun dance in the
sky. That was how he played, young falcon!
"You felt that tune with every fibre of
your body, and you became the slave of it.
And if at that moment Zobar had called out:
*Out with your knives, comrades!' every man
of us would have bared his knife against any-
one he pointed out. He could wind a person
round his little finger, but everyone loved
him dearly. Yet Radda would have nothing
to do with him. That was bad enough, but
she mocked him besides. She wounded his heart
and Avounded it badly. He would set his teeth
and pull at his moustache, his eyes deeper

30

than wells, and at times something would
flash in them that struck terror into your
heart. At night he would go deep into the
steppe and his violin would weep there until
morning — weep for his lost freedom. And
we would lie and listen and think to our-
selves: what will happen next? And we knew
that when two stones are rolling towards each
other, they will crush anything that stands
in their way. That was the way things
were.

"One night we sat for long round the fire
discussing our affairs, and when we got
tired of talking, Danilo turned to Zobar and
said: *Sing us a song, Zobar, to cheer our
hearts.' Zobar glanced at Radda who was
lying on the ground not far away gazing up
at the sky, and he drew his bow across the
strings. The violin sang out as if the bow
were really being drawn over a maiden's
heart-strings. And he sang:

Hi ho, hi ho! My heart is aflame,

The steppe is like the sea.
And like the wind, our gallant steeds

Are bearing you and me.

31

"Radda turned her head to him, propped
herself up on one elbow and laughed in his
face. Zobar flushed crimson.

Hi ho, hi ho! My comrade true,

The hour of dawn is nigh;
The steppe is wrapped in shades of night,

But we shall climb the sky.
Spur on your horse to meet the day

That glimmers o^er the plain,
But see that lovely Lady Moon

Is touched not by its mane!

"How he sang! No one sings like that now^a-
days. But Radda murmured under her breath:

"*I would not climb so high if I were you,
Loiko Zobar. You might fall down into a
puddle and spoil those lovely moustaches
of yours.'

"Zobar threw her a furious glance, but said
nothing. He was able to control himself and
go on singing:

Hi ho, hi ho! If daylight comes

And finds us both asleep,
Our cheelcs will burn with crimson shame

As out of bed we leap.

32

"*A splendid song,' said Danilo. *Never
have I heard a better one; may the devil
turn me into a pipe if I have!'

"Old Nur stroked his whiskers and shrugged
his shoulders, and all of us were pleased
with Zobar's brave song. But Radda did not
like it.

"*Once I heard a gnat trying to imitate the
eagle's call,' she said. It w^as as if she had
thrown snow in our faces.

"Terhaps you are longing for a touch of
the w^hip, Radda,' drawled Danilo, but Zobar
threw down his cap and said, his face as dark
as the earth:

"*Wait, Danilo! A spirited horse needs
a steel bridle! Give me your daughter to
wife!'

"*A fine speech,' chuckled Danilo. 'Take
her, if you can. '

"*Very well,' said Zobar; then, turning to
Radda: *Come down off your high horse, maid,
and listen to what I have to say. I have know^n
many a girl in my day — many, I say — but
not one of them ever captured my heart as
you have. Ah, Radda, you have enslaved
my soul. It cannot be helped — Avhat must

3—327 33

be will be, and the horse does not exist that
can carry a man away from himself. With
God and my own conscience as witness, and
in the presence of your father and all these
people, I take you to wife. But I warn you
not to try to curb my liberty; I am a freedom-
loving man and will always live as I please.'
And he walked up to her with set teeth and
blazing eyes. We saw him stretch his hand out
to her, and we thought: at last Radda has put
a bridle on the wild colt of the steppe. But sud-
denly Zobar's arms flew out and he struck
the ground with the back of his head.

"What could have happened? It was as if
a bullet had struck him in the heart. But it
was Radda who had flicked a whip about his
legs and jerked it. That was what had made
him fall.

"And again she w^as lying there motionless,
a scornful smile on her lips. We watched to
see what would happen next. Zobar sat up
and held his head in his hands as if he were
afraid it would burst, then he got up quiet-
ly and went out into the steppe without a
glance at anyone. Nur whispered to me: *You
had better keep an eye on him.' And so I

34

crept after him into the steppe, in the
darkness of the night. Think of that, young
falcon. ''

Makar scraped the ashes out of the bowl
of his pipe and began to refill it. I pulled
my coat tighter about me and lay back, the
better to study his aged face, bronzed by sun
and wind. He was muttering to himself, em-
phasizing what he said by shaking his head
gravely; his grey moustaches twitched and
the wind ruffled his hair. He reminded me
of an old oak which has been struck by light-
ning but is still strong and powerful and
proud of its strength. The sea went on whis-
pering to the sand, and the wind carried the
sound to the steppe. Nonka had stopped sing-
ing. The clouds that had gathered made the
autumn night darker than ever.

"Loiko dragged one foot after the other
as he walked, his head drooping, his arms
hanging as limp as whip-cords, and when he
reached the bank of a little stream he sat
down on a stone and groaned. The sound of
that groan nearly broke my heart, but I did
not go near him. Words cannot lessen a man's
grief, can they? That is the trouble. He sat

35

there for an hour, for another, for a third
without stirring, just sitting there.

"I lay not far away. The sky had cleared,
the moon bathed the whole steppe in silver
light so that you could see far, far into the
distance.

"Suddenly I caught sight of Radda hurry-
ing towards us from the camp.

"I was overjoyed. *Good for you, Radda,
brave girl!' thought I. She came up to Zobar
without his hearing her. She put her hand on
his shoulder. He started, unclasped his hands
and raised his head. Instantly he was on his
feet and had seized his knife. God, he'll kill
her, I thought, and was about to jump up
and raise the alarm when I heard:

"*Drop it or I'll blow your head off!' I
looked: there was Radda with a pistol in her
hand aimed at Loiko's head. A very daughter
of Satan, that girl! Well, I thought, at least
they are matched in strength; I wonder what
will happen next.

"*I did not come to kill you, but to make
peace,' said Radda, pushing the pistol into
her belt. Tut away your knife.' He put it
away and gazed at her with fuming eyes.

36

What a sight that was! These two staring
at each other like infuriated beasts, both of
them so fine and brave! And nobody saAv them
but the bright moon and me.

''^Listen, Zobar, I love you,' said Radda.
He did nothing but shrug his shoulders, like
a man bound hand and foot.

"'Many a man have I seen, but you are the
bravest and handsomest of all. Any one of them
would have shaved off his moustaches had
I asked him to; any one of them would have
fallen at my feet had I wanted him to. But
why should I? None of them were brave, and
with me they would soon have gone woman-
ish. There are few brave Gipsies left, Zobar —
very few. Never yet have I loved anyone,
Zobar. But I love you. And I love freedom, too.
I love my freedom even more than I love you.
But I cannot live without you any more than
youcanlive without me. And I want you to be
mine— mine in soul and body, do you hear?'

"Zobar gave a little laugh. *I hear,' he
said. *It cheers my heart to hear what you
say. Speak on.'

"*This is what else I would say, Zobar:
do what you will, I shall possess you; you

37

are sure to be mine. And so waste no more
time. My kisses and caresses are awaiting
you — and I shall kiss you passionately, Zo-
bar! Under the spell of my kisses you will
forget all the brave life of the past. No longer
will your gay songs, so beloved by the
Gipsies, resound in the steppe; now shall you
sing soft love songs to me alone — to Radda.
Waste no more time. This have I said, w^hich
means that from tomorro\v on you will serve
me as devotedly as a youth serves an elder com-
rade. And you will bow at my feet before the
whole camp and kiss my right hand, and then
only shall I be your wife.'

"This, then, Avas what that devilish girl
was after. Never had such a thing been heard
of. True, old people said that such a custom
was held among the Montenegrins in ancient
times, but it never existed among the Gipsies.
Could you think of anything more preposter-
ous, young man? Not if you racked your
brains a whole year.

"Zobar recoiled and the steppe rang with
his cry — the cry of one who has been mortally
wounded. Radda shuddered, but did not be-
tray her feelings.

7.^

'"Good-bye until tomorrow, and tomorrow
you will do what I have said, do you hear,
Zobar?'

"'I hear. I shall do it,' groaned Zobar and
held out his arms to her, but she went алуау
without so much as glancing at him, and he
swayed like a tree broken by the wind, and
he fell on the ground, sobbing and laughing.

"That was what she did to him, that ac-
cursed Radda. I could hardly bring him back
to his senses.

"Why should people have to suffer so?
Does anyone find pleasure in hearing the groans
of one Avhose heart is broken? Alas, it is a
great mystery.

"When I got back to camp I told the old
men what had taken place. We considered
the matter and decided to wait and see what
would happen. And this is what happened.
In the evening when we had gathered about
the fire as usual, Zobar joined us. He was look-
ing downcast, he had grown haggard in that
one night and his eyes were sunken. He kept
them fixed on the ground and did not raise
them once as he said:

This is how things are, comrades. 1

S9

«(<

searched my heart this night and found no
room in it for the freedom-loving life I have al-
ways lived. Raddahas taken up every corner of
it. There she is, the beautiful Radda, smiling
her queenly smile. She loves freedom more
than she loves me, but I love her more than
I love freedom, and so I have decided to bow
before her as she ordered me to, that all shall
see hoлv her beauty has enslaved the brave
Loiko Zobar who, until he met her, played
with women as a cat plays with mice. For
this she will become my wife and will kiss
and caress me, and I shall lose all desire to sing
songs to you and I shall not pine for the loss
of my freedom. Is that how it is to be, Radda?'
He raised his eyes and looked at her grimly.
She nodded without a word and pointed to
the ground in front of her. We could not im-
agine how this had been brought about. We
even felt an urge to get up and go away so
as not to see Loiko Zobar throw himself at
the feet of a maid, even though that maid
be Radda. There was something shameful
in it, something very sad.

"*Well?' cried Radda to Zobar.

"*Do not be in 30 great a hurry. There is

4П

plenty of time — time enough to grow tired
of me,' laughed Zobar. And his laugh had the
ring of steel.

"*So that is how things are, comrades.
What is left for me to do? The only thing left
for me to do is to see whether my Radda's
heart is as strong as she луоиИ have us think.
I shall test it. Forgive me.'

"And before we had time to guess what he
was up to, Radda was lying on the ground
with Zobar 's curved knife plunged into her
breast up to the handle. We луеге dumbstruck.

"But Radda pulled out the knife, tossed
it aside, held a lock of her black hair to the
wound, and smiled as she said in a loud clear
voice:

"'Farewell, Zobar. I knew you would do
this.' And with that she died.

"Do you see Avhat the maid was like, young
man? A devilish maid if there ever was one,
so help me God.

"*Now I shall throw myself at your feet,
my proud queen,' said Zobar in a voice that
rang out over the steppe. And throAving
himself on the ground, he pressed his lips
to the feet of the dead Radda and lay there

41

without stirring. We bared our heads and
stood in silence.

"What is to be said at a moment like that?
Nothing. Nur murmured: *Bind the fellow,'
but nobody would raise a hand to bind Loiko
Zobar; not a soul would do it, and Nur knew
this. So he turned and walked away. Danilo
picked up the knife Radda had tossed away
and stood staring at it for some time, his
grey whiskers twitching; there were still
traces of Radda 's blood on the blade, \vhich
was curved and sharp. Then Danilo went
over to Zobar and plunged the knife into
his back over the heart. After all, he was
Radda 's father, was the old soldier Danilo.

"* You've done it,' said Loiko clearly,
turning to Danilo, and then he went to join
Radda.

"We stood looking at them. There lay
Radda, pressing her hair to her breast with
her hand, her wide-open eyes gazing up into
the blue sky, while at her feet lay the brave
Loiko Zobar. His curly hair had fallen over
his face, hiding it from us.

"For some time we stood there lost in thought.
Old Danilo 's whiskers were quivering and

42

his thick brows were drawn. He looked up
at the sky and said not a word, but hoary-
haired Nur had thrown himself on the ground
and his body was shaking with sobs.

"And there was good cause to cry, young
falcon.

"The moral is, let nothing lure you off
the path you have taken. Keep going straight
ahead; then, perhaps, you will not come
to a bad end.

"And that is the whole story, young fal-
con."

Makar stopped talking, slipped his pipe
into his tobacco pouch, and pulled his coat
over his chest. A fine rain was falling and
the wind was stronger. The waves broke
with a dull angry rumble. One by one the
horses came up to our dying fire, gazed at
us with big intelligent eyes, then ranged
themselves in a ring about us.

"Hi, hi!" Makar called to them affection-
ately, and when he had patted the neck of
his favourite black, he turned to me and
said: "Time to go to sleep." He wrapped
himself from head to foot in his Caucasian
Qoat, stretched out on the ground and lay still,

4Я

I had no desire to sleep. I sat there gazing
into the darkness of the steppe, and before
my eyes floated the image of Radda, so proud,
so imperious, so lovely. She was pressing
the hand with the hair in it to her breast,
and from between the slender dark fingers
oozed drops of blood that turned into fiery
stars as they struck the ground.

And behind her floated the brave figure
of Loiko Zobar. Locks of curly black hair
covered his face, and from under the hair
streamed big cold tears.

The rain increased and the sea sang a sol-
emn dirge to these two handsome Gipsies —
Loiko Zobar and Radda, daughter of the old
soldier Danilo.

And the two of them whirled round and
round, soundlessly, gracefully, in the dark-
ness of the night, and try as he might the
handsome Zobar could not overtake the
proud Radda.

7892

€€ о Э»В

AT THE SALT MARSH

I

"Go TO THE SALT marsh, mate. You can al-
ways get a job there. Any time at all. Because
it's such damned hard work nobody can
stick it long. They run away. Can't stand it.
So you go and try it for a day or two. They
pay something like seven kopeks a barrow.
Enough to live on for a day."

The fisherman who gave me this advice
spat, gazed out at the blue horizon of the
sea, and hummed a dreary tune to himself.
I was sitting beside him in the shade of a
fishing shack. He was mending his duck
trousers, yawning and mumbling cheerless
observations about there not being enough

45

jobs to go round and Avhat a lot of work it
took to find work.

"When it gets too much for you, come here
and have a rest. Tell us about it. It's not
far away — about five versts. Hm. A queer
life, this."

I took my leave of him, thanked him for
his advice, and set out along the shore for
the salt marsh. It was a hot August morning,
the sky was clear and bright, the sea quiet
and gentle, its green waves running up on
the sand of the shore one after another with
a mournful little plash. In the blue mist far
up ahead of me I could see white patches on
the yellow sand of the shore. That was the
town of Ochakov. Behind me the shack was
swallowed up by bright-yellow dunes tinted
with the aquamarine of the sea.

In the shack where I had spent the night
I had listened to all sorts of preposterous
stories and opinions which had put me in
a very low mood. The sound of the waves
was in harmony with my mood and served
to intensify it.

Soon the salt marsh came into view. Three
plots of land, each about 400 metres square

46

and separated by low ridges and narrow
ditches, represented the three phases of salt-
digging. The first plot was flooded with sea
water which, as it evaporated, left a
layer of pale-grey salt tinged with pink. On
the second plot the salt was being gathered
into piles. The women with spades in their
hands w^ho did this stood knee-deep in glis-
tening black mud without talking or calling
to one another, their drab grey forms mov-
ing listlessly against the background of
the thick, saline, caustic rapp, as this mud
is called here. On the third plot the salt was
being removed. Bent in two over their bar-
rows, workmen plodded numbly and dumbly
ahead. The wheels of the barrows scraped
and squeaked, and the sound was like a rasp-
ing, mournful appeal to Heaven sent up
by the long line of bare human backs. And
Heaven poured down an insufferable heat
that scorched the parched grey earth spotted
with salt-marsh grasses and glittering salt
crystals. Above the monotonous creaking
of the barrows could be heard the deep voice
of the foreman cursing the workmen who
emptied their barrows of salt at his feet.

47

His job was to pour water out of a pail over
it and then build it up into an elongated
pyramid. He was a tall man, dark as an
African, and Avearing a blue shirt and full
white trousers. From where he stood on a
heap of salt waving his spade in the air,
he kept shouting at the men who were
pushing their barrows up the planks:

"Empty it to the left! To the left, you
hairy devil! Damn your hide! What you
want's a good jab in both eyes! Where you
going, you scorpion?"

Viciously he wiped his sweating face with
the hem of his shirt, grunted, and, without
interrupting his swearing for a minute, un-
dertook to level the salt by striking it with
the back of his spade with all his might.
The workmen automatically pushed up their
barrows and as automatically emptied them
in obedience to his commands: "To the
right! To the left!" This done, they would
straighten up with an effort and turn back
for another load, walking with uncertain
steps down the shaking planks half-buried
in thick black ooze, dragging their barrows
that now creaked less noisily but more wearily.

48

'Tut some pepper in it, you bastards!"
the foreman would shout after them.

They went on working in the same cowed
silence, but sometimes anger and resentment
was evinced in the twitching of their sullen
exhausted faces smeared with dust and sweat.
One of the barrows would occasionally slip
off the plank and sink in the mud; the for-
ward barrows would move away from it;
the barroAvs behind Vvould come to a halt
while the ragged and grimy tramps holding
them would stand gazing with dull indiffer-
ence as their mate struggled to lift the six-
teen-pood load and put it back on the plank.

Out of a cloudless sky the sun blazed down
through a haze of heat. It pressed its torrid
attentions upon the earth with increasing
ardour, as if this day of all others was the
one on which it must prove its devotion.

When I had taken this in, I decided to try
ray luck at getting a job. Assuming a nonchal-
ant air, I walked over to the plank down
which workmen were dragging empty bar-
rows.

"Greetings, mates. Good luck to you."

The response was utterly unexpected. The

4—327 49

first workman, a sturdy grey-haired old man
with trousers rolled to the knee and sleeves
to the shoulder, exposing a sinewy bronzed
body, did not hear me and walked past with-
out paying me any notice. The second
workman, a young chap with brown hair
and grey eyes, threw me a hostile glance
and made a face, throwing in a coarse oath
for good measure. The third — evidently a
Greek, for he was as brown as a beetle and
had curly hair — expressed his regret that his
hands were occupied and therefore he could
not introduce his fist to my nose. This was
said in a tone of indifference inconsonant
with the desire expressed. The fourth shouted
at the top of his lungs: "Hullo, glass-eye!"
and tried to give me a kick.

If I am not mistaken, this was what in
refined society is called getting "a cold re-
ception," and never before had I been given
it in such striking form. In my chagrin I uncon-
sciously took off my glasses and put them
in my pocket, then made my way to the
foreman to ask him if he could give me
work. Before I had reached him he shouted
at me:

50

"Hey, you, what do you want? A job?"

I told him I did.

"Have you ever worked with a barrow?"

I said I had hauled dirt.

"Dirt? That don4 count. Dirt's a differ-
ent story. We haul salt here, not dirt. You
can go to the devil and stay there. Come on,
Funny-Bones, dump it right here at my
feet."

And Funny-Bones, a limipish Hercules
with trailing moustaches and a pimply pur-
ple nose, gave a tremendous grunt and emp-
tied his barrow. The salt poured out. Funny-
Bones swore, the foreman out-swore him,
both of them smiled approvingly and turned
to me.

"Well, what do you want?" asked the
foreman.

"Maybe you've come to get some salt for
your pancakes, katsapV^ said Funny-Bones,
winking at the foreman.

I urged the foreman to take me on, assur-
ing him that I would soon get used to the
work and keep up with the others.

^ Katsap — derogatory nickname for a Russian.— Гг.
4' 51

"You'll break your back before you get
used to this work. But what the hell, go
ahead. But I won't pay you more than fifty
kopeks the first day. Hey there, give him
a barrow ! "

Out of nowhere appeared a half-naked
boy, his bare legs bound to the knee with
dirty rags.

"Come along, " he muttered after glancing
at me sceptically.

I followed him to where some barrows
were heaped one on top of another and set
about choosing the lightest for myself. The
boy stood scratching his legs and watching
me.

When I had made my choice he said: "Look
what you've took. Can't you see the wheel's
crooked?" — and with that he walked away
and stretched out on the ground.

I selected another barrow and joined the
other workmen who were going for salt, but
I was oppressed by a vague uneasiness that
kept me from speaking to my fellow-work-
men. The faces of all of them expressed wea-
riness and annoyance that was very definite,
though as yet disguised. The men were worn

52

out and furious: furious with the sun for
mercilessly scorching their skin, with the
planks for sagging under their barrows, with
the rapp — that vile ooze, thick and salty
and full of sharp crystals — for lacerating
their feet and then eating into the Avounds
until they became running sores — in a word,
with everything about them. This fury could
be detected in the overt glances they stole
at each other, and in the curses that now
and then came from their parched throats.
No one paid the least attention to me. But
when we entered the plot and moved along
the planks towards the four heaps of salt,
I suddenly felt a blow on the back of my
leg and turned to have someone hurl in my
face:

"Pick your feet up, clumsy!"

I made haste to pick my feet up, then put
down my barrow and began shovelling salt
into it.

"Pile it on," ordered the Ukrainian Her-
cules Avho was standing beside me.

I filled it as full as I could. At that moment
the fellows behind shouted to those in front:
"Get going!" Those in front spat on their

53

hands and lifted their barrows with loud
grunts, bending almost double and straining
forward with their necks stretched out as
if that lightened the load.

In imitation of their methods, I, too, bent
over as far as I could and strained forward.
I lifted the barrow. The wheel gave a screech,
my collar-bone seemed about to snap, and
the muscles of my arms quivered from strain.
I took one faltering step, then another. . . .
I was thrown to the right, to the left, jerked
ahead . . . the wheel of the barrow ran off
the plank and I went flying face down into
the mud. The barrow gave me an edifying
fillip on the head with its handle and then
turned slowly upside down. The piercing
whistles, the cries, and the shouts of laugh-
ter that accompanied my fall seemed to press
me further down into the thick warm muck,
and as I floundered in it, vainly trying to
lift the bogged barrow, I felt a sharp pain
in my chest.

"Lend a hand, friend," I said to the Ukrain-
ian who was standing beside me holding
his sides and rocking back and forth with
laughter.

54

"You mud-sucking bastard! Gone wading,
eh? Hoist it back on the plank. Push down
on the left side! Teh, tch! The rapp will
suck you down if you don't watch out."
And again he laughed till the tears came,
gasping and holding his sides.

The grey-haired old man in front glanced
at me and dismissed me with a wave of his
hand.

"Why the hell couldn't he keep to the
boards?" he said, and went on with his bar-
row, grunting angrily.

The men in front continued on their way;
those behind watched ill-humouredly as I
struggled to extricate my barrow. The mud
and sweat were pouring off me. No one of-
fered to help me. From the salt-heap came
the voice of the foreman:

"What's the hold-up, you devils? You
dogs. You swine. Out of sight, out of mind,
eh? Get a move on, God damn you!"

"Make way," barked the Ukrainian behind
me, almost striking me on the head лvith
the side of his barrow as he lumbered past.

Left alone, I pulled the barrow out some-
how, and since it was empty now and

55

plastered all over with mud, I ran it off
the plot with the intention of exchanging
It for another.

"Took a flyer, mate? Don't mind; that
happens to everybody at first."

I glanced round to see a chap of about
twenty squatting on a board in the mud be-
side a salt-heap. He was sucking the palm
of his hand. He nodded to me, and the eyes
that glanced through his fingers were kindly
and smiling.

"I don't mind. I'll catch on soon. What's
the matter with your hand?" I asked.

"Just a little scratch, but the salt eats
into it. If you don't suck it out you might
just as well quit the job — you won't be
able to use your hand. But you'd better get
back to work before the foreman starts shout-
ing at you."

I went back. I had no accident with the
second load; I hauled a third and a fourth
and then two more. No one paid the slight-
est attention to me, and I was deeply grati-
fied by this circumstance, which ordinarily
I would have regretted.

"Time for dinner," someone cried.

56

With a sigh of relief the men went to have
their dinner, but even then they displayed
no enthusiasm, no joy in the opportunity
to rest. Everything they did was done re-
luctantly, with suppressed anger and dis-
gust. It was as if rest could bring no pleasure to
bones racked by labour, to muscles exhaust-
ed by heat. My back ached, so did my legs
and my shoulders, but I tried not to show
it and walked briskly over to the soup pot.

"Hold on there," said a grim old workman
in a ragged blue blouse. His face was as blue
as his blouse from drink, and he had heavy
scowling eyebroAvs from under which flashed
inflamed eyes, fierce and mocking.

"Hold on there. What's your name?"

I told him.

"Hm. Your father was a fool to give you
a name like that. Maxims aren't allowed to
go near the soup pot the first day. Maxims
live on their OAvn food the first day, see?
It would be different if you was named Ivan
or something else. Take me, for instance.
My name's Matvei, and so I get dinner. Rut
not Maxim. He can only watch me eat. Get
away from that pot!"

57

I looked at him in astonishment, then walked
away and sat down on the ground. I w^as
astounded by such treatment. Never before
had I experienced anything like it and cer-
tainly I had done nothing to deserve it.
Dozens of times before this I had had occa-
sion to join groups of workmen, and our
relations had always been simple and com-
radely from the very first. There was some-
thing strange about all this, and my cu-
riosity was aroused despite the insult and
injury I had suffered. I made up my mind
to discover the answer to this mystery, and,
having resolved on this, I was outwardly
composed as I watched the others eat and
waited to go back to work. It was essential
to find out why I had been treated so.

II

At last they finished eating, finished belch-
ing, and began to smoke as they strolled
away from the pot. The Ukrainian Hercules
and the boy with the bandaged legs came
over and sat down in front of me, cutting

58

off my view of the line of barrows left on the
planks.

"Want a smoke, mate?" asked the Ukrain-
ian.

"Thanks, I wouldn't mind," I replied.

"Haven't you got any tobacco of your
own?"

"If I had, I wouldn't take yours."

"True enough. Here," and he gave me his
pipe. "Going to keep on working?"

"Yes, as long as I'm able."

"Hm. Where you from?"

I told him.

"Is that far from here?"

"About three thousand versts."

"Oho! Pretty far. What brought you here?"

"Same thing as brought you."

"So you were driven out of your village
for stealing, too?"

"What's that?" I asked, realizing I had
been trapped.

"I came here because I was driven out of
my village for stealing, and you said you
had come for the same reason," and he burst
out laughing, delighted to have caught
me.

59

His companion said nothing, only winked
at him and smiled slyly.

"Wait—" I began.

"No time to wait, mate. Got to get back
to work. Come along. Take my barrow and
line up behind me. Mine's a good depend-
able barroAv. Come along."

And off he went. I was about to take his
barrow when he put in hastily: "Here, Г 11
take it myself. Let me have yours; I'll put
mine in it and give it a ride — let it rest up
a bit."

My suspicions were aroused. As I walked
beside him I studied his barrow, which was
lying upside down in mine, to make sure
that some trick was not being played on me,
but the only thing I noticed was that I had
suddenly become the centre of attention.
Efforts \vere made to conceal this, but I
could tell it by the frequent winks and nods
in my direction and all the whispering that
was going on. I knew that I must be on my
guard and supposed that, judging from what
had gone on before, whatever was being
schemed was highly original.

"Here we are," said the Ukrainian, taking

60

his barrow out of mine and pushing it towards
me. "Fill it up."

I glanced round. Everyone was hard at
work, and so I, too, began to shovel in the
salt. There was no other sound but the rus-
tle of the salt as it fell off the spades, and I
found the silence oppressive. I was convinced
that I would do well to get away from here.

"That's enough. Have you fallen asleep?
Get going," ordered blue-faced Matvei.

I grasped the handles of the barrow and
with a tremendous effort pushed it forward.
A sharp pain made me cry out and drop the
barrow. This caused more pain, worse than
the first: I had ripped the skin off both palms.
Clenching my teeth in pain and anger, I exam-
ined the handles and saw that they had
been split at the outer edge and chips of
wood inserted to hold the crack open. So
skilfully had this been done that it could
hardly be detected. It had been calculated
that when I grasped the handles tightly the
chips would fly out and my flesh would be
caught as the wood came together. The cal-
culation proved correct. I raised my head
and looked about me. Cries, hoots, jeers

61

slapped me in the face, and all around me
I saw ugly, gloating grins. From the salt-
heap came the coarse oaths of the foreman,
but nobody cared; they were too much taken
up by me. I looked about me blankly, daz-
edly, conscious that I was seething inside
with a sense of hurt, with hatred for these
men, and with a desire to get revenge. The
men crowded in front of me, laughing and
swearing, and I wanted terribly — excruciat-
ingly— to insult and humiliate them.

"You beasts!" I cried, shaking my fists as
I advanced and cursing them as vilely as
they had cursed me.

A tremor passed through the crowd and they
retreated uneasily. But the Ukrainian Hercu-
les and the blue-faced Matvei stood their ground
and began to roll up their sleeves calmly.

"Gome on, come on, " murmured the Ukrain-
ian with relish, not taking his eyes off me.

"Give it to him, Gavrilla," urged Matvei.

"What did you do that to me for?" I cried.
"What have I ever done to you? Aren't I
a man like the rest of you?" I shouted some
other stupid, absurd, senseless words and
trembled all over with fury, at the same

62

time keeping a sharp eye out to see that no
more tricks were played on me.

But the vapid faces turned to me were not
so lacking in sympathy now, and some of
them wore an expression almost of guilt.
Even Matvei and the Ukrainian moved back a
step'or two. Matvei began to pluck at his blouse
and the Ukrainian to rummage in his pockets.

"What did you do it for? What made you? "
I insisted.

They maintained a blank silence. The Uk-
rainian toyed with a cigarette, his eyes fixed
on the ground. Matvei walked off until
he was farther away from me than anyone
else. The others scratched their heads glumly
and turned back to their barrows. The fore-
man came up, shouting and shaking his fists.
All this happened so quickly that the women
raking the salt, who had stopped work on
hearing my cry, reached us only when the work-
men had gone back to their barrows. I was
left alone with a bitter sense that my wrong
was undeserved and unavenged. This made it
all the harder to bear. I wanted an answer
to my question; I wanted revenge. And so
I shouted:

63

"Just a minute, mates!"

They stopped and looked at me sullenly.

'Tell me why you hurt me so. Surely you
have a conscience."

Still they were silent, and this silence was
their answer. More composed now, I began
to speak to them. I began by saying I was
a man like themselves; that, like them, I
had to eat, and so had to Avork; that I had
joined them as an equal, for we were united
by a common fate; that I did not look down
upon them or think myself above them.

"We are all equal," I said, "and we ought
to understand one another and help one anoth-
er in any way we can."

They stood there listening attentively,
although they avoided my eye. I saw that
my words affected them, and this inspired
me. A glance round at them convinced me
of this. I was filled with a bright and poig-
nant joy, and, throwing myself down on a
heap of salt, I wept. Who would not?

When I raised my head I was alone. The
working day was over and the workmen, in
groups of five or six, were sitting near the
salt-heap, forming big dark smudges on the

64

rosy background of sunlit salt. It was very
quiet. A breeze came from the sea. A little
white cloud was sailing slowly across the sky;
little wisps of mist broke away from it and
dissolved in the blue expanse. It was all
very sad. ...

I got up and went towards the salt-heap
with the firm intention of taking my leave
and going back to the fishing shack. Matvei,
the Ukrainian, the foreman, and three other
solid middle-aged rough-necks got up as I
approached and came to meet me, and before
I had a chance to say a word Matvei held
out his hand and said, without looking at me:

"Here's what, mate: you'd better quit and
go your way. We've collected a little sum
to help you. Take it."

Some copper coins lay in his hand, which
shook as he held it out to me. I was so taken
aback that I could only stare at them. They
stood with hanging heads, silently, foolishly
pulling at their rags, shifting from one foot
to the other, glancing about furtively, jerk-
ing their shoulders, their every movement
revealing extreme discomfiture and a desire
to have done with me as soon as possible.

5—327 65

"I won't take it," I said, pushing Matvei's
hand away.

"Come, don't offend us. We're really not
such a bad lot. We know we hurt your feel-
ings, but, when you come right down to it,
are we to blame? No, we're not. It's the way
we live that's to blame. What sort of a life
do we live? A dog's life. The sixteen-pood
barrow, the rapp gnawing at your feet, the
sun scorching your back all day long, and —
fifty kopeks a day. It's enough to turn any
man into a beast. Work, work, work, drink
up your pay, and back to work again. And
that's the beginning and the end of it. When
you've lived like this for five years — well,
there you are — nothing human left — a beast,
and that's that. Listen, mate, we do worse
things to each other than we did to you;
and we're chums, so to speak, while you're
a newcomer. Why should we be easy on you?
So there you are. The things you said to us —
well, what of it? You put it right — it's all
true — but it don't fit us. You oughtn't to take
it so hard. We were just fooling. And after
all, we do have hearts. You'd better go away;
you think your way, we think ours. Take

66

this little mite and good-bye, mate. We've
done you no wrong, and уоиЧе done us none.
It*s true things turned out bad, but what do
you expect? They never turn out good with
us. And there's no point in your staying on
here. You just don't fit in. We've got used
to each other, and you— ^you're not our kind.
Nothing will come of it. So you'd better go.
Go your own way. Good-bye."

I looked round at them. Clearly they all
agreed with Matvei, so I tossed my knapsack
over my shoulder and was about to leave.

"Just a minute, let me put in a word,"
said the Ukrainian, laying a hand on my
shoulder. "If it was anyone but you I'd give
him a punch in the jaw as a keepsake. But
nobody's touching you, and we've even made
you a present. You might say thank you for
it." He spat and began twirling his tobacco
pouch, as much as to say: just see what a
clever fellow I am!

Crushed by all this, I hastened to take my
leave. Once more I set out along the edge of
the sea, this time for the fishing shack where
I had spent the night. The sky was clear
and hot, the sea empty and majestic. Little

5* 67

green waves came rolling noisily over the
beach. For some reason I felt unspeakably
hurt and ashamed. Slowly I dragged my feet
over the hot sand. The sea gleamed tranquilly
in the sun, the waves murmured something
sad and incomprehensible. . . .

When I reached the shack the fisherman of
my acquaintance got up to meet me.

"Not to your taste, that salt, eh?" he said
with the satisfaction of one whose predic-
tions have turned out to be correct.
I looked at him without a word.
"A little too much salt," he said emphat-
ically. "Hungry? Go and have some porridge.
Don't know why they made so damned much
— half of it's left. Get your spoon going.
First-rate porridge, with flounder and stur-
geon in it."

Two minutes later I was sitting in the shade
outside the shack, very dirty, very tired and
hungry, eating a cheerless meal of porridge
with flounder and sturgeon in it.

1893

I€€o 9

OLD IZERGIL

I

These stories were told to me on the shore of
the sea near Akkerman, in Bessarabia.

One evening, when our grape-picking was
over for the day, the group of Moldavians
with whom I had been working went down
to the sea-shore, leaving me and an old wom-
an^ named Izergil lying in the deep shadow
of the grape-vines, silently watching the sil-
houettes of the people who had gone down
to the shore merge Avith the blue shadows of
night.

They sang and laughed as they went; the
men were bronzed by the sun, they had thick
black moustaches and curly hair that hung
down to their shoulders, and they were wear-

69

ing short jackets and wide trousers tight at
the ankle; the girls and women were gay,
they had dark-blue eyes and graceful bodies,
and their skins were as bronzed as the men's.
Their silky black hair hung loose and the
warm breeze played with it, making the
coins plaited into it tinkle. The wind flowed
over us in a broad continuous current, but
from time to time it seemed to come up against
some obstacle, and then there would be a
great gust that blew out the women's hair,
making it stream about their heads in fantas-
tic manes. This gave them the appearance of
strange creatures out of fairy-tales. As they
went farther and farther away, the night
and my imagination clothed them in increas-
ing beauty.

Someone was playing a violin, a girl was
singing in a deep throaty voice, bursts of
laughter could be heard. . . .

The air was heavy with the tang of the sea
and the vapours rising from the earth, which
had been drenched by rain just before night-
fall. Even now tattered storm-clouds were
meandering across the sky in odd forms and
colourings — here they were vague, like col-

70

limns of smoke, grey and ashen-blue; there
they were mottled black and brown and as
sharp as fragments of rock. And between
them gleamed the tender night sky dotted
with gold. All of this — the sounds and the
smells, the clouds and the people — was sad
and beautiful and seemed to be the introduc-
tion to a marvellous tale. It was as if every-
thing had been checked in its growth and was
dying. The sound of the voices faded away
as they receded, becoming nothing but mourn-
ful sighs.

"Why did you not go with them?" asked
old Izergil, nodding in the direction of the sea.

She had become bent in two by time, her
eyes, once shining black, were now dull and
rheumy. And she had a strange voice — it
sounded as if her tongue were made of crunch-
ing bone.

"I did not wish to," I replied.

"You Russians are born old. All of you
are as gloomy as demons. Our girls are afraid
of you. But you, my lad, are young and
strong. "

The moon came up. Large, round and blood-
red, it seemed to have emerged from the boAvels

'71

of that steppe which had swallowed up so
much human flesh and blood; this, perhaps,
was why it was so rich and fertile. The old
woman and I were caught in the lacy shadow
of the leaves as in a net. Across the steppe,
which extended to our left, flitted cloud
shadows made pale and transparent by the
blue moonshine.

"Look, there goes Larra!"
I turned to where the old woman pointed a
crooked shaking finger and saw the shadows
moving — there were many of them, and one,
darker than the others, was travelling faster;
it was cast by a wisp of cloud sailing closer
to the earth and more swiftly than its sisters.
"There is no one there," I said.
"You are blinder than me, an old woman.
Look. Do you not see something dark fleeing
across the steppe?"

I looked again, and again saw nothing but
shadows.

"It is only a shadow. Why do you call it
Larra?"

"Because it is Larra. A shadow is all
that is left of him, and no wonder — he has
been living for thousands of years. The suji

72

has dried up his flesh and blood and bones
and the wind has scattered them like dust.
Just see how God can punish a man for his
pride!"

"Tell me the story," I said to the old wom-
an, anticipating one of those delightful
tales born of the steppe.

And she told me the story.

"Many thousands of years have passed
since this took place. Far across the sea, in
the place where the sun rises, is a land where
a great river flows, and in that land every
leaf and blade of grass casts a shadow large
enough to protect a man from the sun, which
pours down mercilessly there.

"That is how generous the earth is in that
land.

"A tribe of powerful people once lived
there; they tended their flocks and displayed
great strength and courage in hunting
wild animals, and they feasted when the
hunt was over, singing songs and making
merry with the maids.

"One day, during such a feast, an eagle
flew out of the sky and carried off a black-

73

haired maiden as lovely as the night. The
arrows the men sent after the bird fell back
on the ground without injuring it. And so
the men set out in search of the maiden, but
they could not find her. And in time she was for-
gotten, as everything on this earth is forgotten. "

The old woman drew a deep breath and grew
silent. When she spoke in her crackling voice
it was as if she were voicing the sentiments
of all the forgotten ages embodied in the
shades of remembrance dwelling in her breast.
Softly the sea echoed the introduction to
this ancient legend which may have had be-
ginning on these very shores.

"But in twenty years she herself came back,
worn and wizened, and with her was a youth
as strong and handsome as she had been
twenty years before. And when she was
asked where she had been, she replied that
the eagle had carried her off to the mountains
and had lived with her there as his wife.
This was their son. The eagle was no more;
on feeling his strength ebbing he had soared
high into the sky for the last time, and,
folding his wings, had plunged to his death
upon the jagged cliffs.

74

"Everyone gazed in amazement at the son
of the eagle, and they saw that he in no way
differed from them except that his eyes had
the cold proud gleam of the king of birds.
When they addressed him, he sometimes
did not deign to reply, and when the elders
of the tribe approached him, he spoke to
them as their equal. This they took as an in-
sult, and they called him an unfeathered arrow
with an unsharpened tip, and they told him
that thousands like him and thousands twice
his age paid them homage and obeyed their
commands. But he looked them boldly in
the eye and said that there were no others
like himself; let others pay them homage if
they wished, but he had no mind to. Oh,
then the elders were angry indeed, and in
their anger they said:

"*There can be no place for him among
us. Let him go wherever he wishes.'

"He laughed and went where he wished:
he went over to a fair maid who had been
studying him intently, and he took her in
his arms. And she was the daughter of one of
the elders who had reproved him. And al-
though he was very handsome, she thrust

75

him away, for she was afraid of her father.
She thrust him away and walked off, and he
struck her mightily, and when she fell down
he stamped upon her breast until the blood
spurted out of her mouth as high as the sky,
and the maiden gave a great sigh and writhed
like a snake and died.

"Those who saw this happen were speech-
less with fear; never before had they seen a
woman killed so brutally. And for a long
time they stood there in silence, looking at
her where she lay with wide-open eyes and
blood-stained mouth, and at him who was
standing beside her, standing alone, apart
from everyone else, very proud — he even
held his head high as if he were calling down
punishment upon it. When at last people
recovered from their surprise, they seized
him and bound him and left him there, find-
ing that to kill him now would be too sim-
ple and would give them little satisfaction."
The night deepened and darkened and be-
came filled with odd little sounds. The mar-
mots peeped mournfully in the steppe, the
grasshoppers whirred among the vines, the
leaves sighed and whispered to one another,

76

the disc of the moon, which had been blood-
red, paled as it withdrew from the earth and
poured its blue light down on the steppe
more lavishly than ever.

"And then the elders gathered to decide on
a punishment equal to such a crime. At first
they thought of having horses tear him to
pieces, but this seemed too mild; they thought
of having each of them send an arrow
into his body, but this, too, was rejected;
it was suggested that they burn him alive,
but the smoke of the fire would hide his
sufferings from them; many suggestions were
made, but not one of them satisfied everyone.
And all the while his mother knelt silently
before them, finding neither words nor tears
to move them to pity. For a long time they
spoke together, and at last one of their wise
men said, after due consideration:

"*Let us ask him why he has done this.'

"And they asked him.

"*Unbind me,' he said. *I shall not say a
word so long as I am bound.'

"And when they had unbound him he said:

"*What would you have of me? ' — and his
tone was that of a master to his slaves.

77

"*You have heard,' said the wise man.

"'Why should I explain my actions to
you?'

"'That we may understand them. Listen,
proud one: it is certain that you are to die;
then help us to understand why you have
done such a thing. We shall go on living, and
it is important that we add to our store of
knowledge.'

"'Very well, I shall tell you, although
perhaps I myself do not wholly understand
why I did it. It seems to me that I killed her
because she repulsed me. And I had need of
her.'

"'But she was not yours,' they said to
him.

"'And do you make use of only those things
which are yours? I see that each man has
nothing but arms and legs and a tongue to
speak with. And yet he owns cattle and wom-
en and land and many other things.'

"To this they replied that a man must
pay for whatever he takes possession of —
pay with his mind or his strength or even
his life.

"He said that he had no wish to pay.

78

"When they had spoken to him for some
time they saw that he considered himself
above everyone else, that indeed he had no
thought for anyone but himself. And they
were horrified when they realized that he
had isolated himself from the whole world.
He had neither tribe nor mother nor cattle
nor wife; nor did he wish to have any of
these things.

"And, seeing this, they again discussed
what might be a fitting punishment for him.
But they had not spoken long before that
same wise man, who until this moment had
taken no part in the discussion, said:

"*Wait. A punishment has been found, and
a dreadful one it is. In a thousand years you
could not think of anything to equal it. The
punishment lies in himself. Unbind him and
let him go free. That will be his punishment.'

"And then a wonderful thing happened. A
bolt of thunder struck out of a cloudless sky.
In this way the heavenly powers confirmed
the decision of the wise man. Everyone accept-
ed it, and, having done so, they went away.
And the youth, who was henceforth named
Larra, meaning the despised and rejected —

79

the youth laughed at the people Avho had re-
jected him; laughed loudly on finding him-
self alone and as free as his father had been.
But his father had not been a man, whereas
he was. Yet he began to live as free as a bird.
He stole cattle and maidens and anything
else he wished from the tribesmen. They shot
arrows at him, but they could not pierce his
body, protected as it was by the invisible
armour of the highest punishment. He was
adroit, rapacious, strong and cruel, and
never did he meet people face to face. He only
saw them from a distance. Thus for a long
time did he hover alone at the edge of human
communities — for a long, long time. And then
one day he crept close to a settlement, and
when the people rushed out to attack him,
he remained where he was and made not the
slightest effort to defend himself. Then one of
the men guessed his intention and cried out:
"*Do not touch him! He is seeking death!*
"And the people stayed their hands, not
wishing to kill him and thereby bring relief
to one who had wronged them so. They stayed
their hands and laughed at him. And he shud-
dered at the sound of their laughter, and he

80

clutched at his breast, as if searching for
something there. And suddenly he hurled
himself at the people and threw stones at
them. But they dodged his stones and did not
throw a single one in return, and when at
last, exhausted, he let out a cry of despair
and threw himself down on the ground, they
withdrew and stood watching him. They saw
him struggle to his feet and pick up a knife
someone had dropped in the scuffle and strike
himself in the breast with it. But the knife
broke in two as if it had struck upon stone.
And again he threw himself down on the ground
and beat his head against it, but the earth,
too, withdrew from him, leaving a hollow
where his head struck it.

"*He is unable to die!' cried the people
in joy.

"And they went away and left him. He lay
on his back gazing up into the sky, and he
saw the black dots of mighty eagles soaring
far, far away. And there was enough misery
in his eyes to sadden the whole world. From
that time to this he has been alone, at large,
waiting for death. He does nothing but wan-
der over the earth. You yourself have seen

6—327 * 81

how like a shadow he has become, and like
a shadow he will remain till the end of time.
He understands nothing, neither human speech
nor actions; he just goes on and on, for
ever in search of something. He cannot be
said to live, and yet he is unable to die. And
there is no place for him among men. Just
see what a man's pride can bring him
to!"

The old woman heaved a sigh, and once
or twice she gave an odd shake of her head,
which had fallen on her breast.

I looked at her. Sleep, it seemed, was over-
powering her, and for some reason I felt sorry
for her. She had ended her story in an ex-
alted, admonishing tone, and yet I had de-
tected a note of fear and servility in it.

The people down by the sea were singing,
and singing in an unusual way. The tune
was begun by a contralto, who sang only
two or three notes before a second voice
took it up from the beginning while the first
carried it forward. A third, fourth and fifth
voice joined in in the same way, and suddenly
this same tune was begun by a chorus of men's
voices.

82

Each of the women's voices was heard sepa-
rately, and they were like streams of differ-
ent colours tumbling down over rocks, leap-
ing and sparkling as they rushed to join the
rising swell of men's voices, were drowned
in it, darted up out of it, drowned it out in
their turn, and again, one by one, separated
themselves from the heavier stream and
soared, clear and strong, into the heights.

The sound of the surf could not be heard
for the singing.

II

"Have you ever heard such singing before?"
asked Izergil, raising her head to give me a
toothless smile.

"No, I have not. Not anywhere."
"And you never will. We love to sing. Only
a handsome race can sing well — a handsome
race that is filled with love of life. We are
such a race. Look, think you those people
who are singing are not weary from the day's
labour? They laboured from sunrise to sunset,
but now that the moon has risen they are sing-
ing. People with no interest in life would have

6* 83

gone to bed; but those who find life sweet are
singing."

"But their health—" I began.

"One always has enough health to last a
lifetime. Health! If you had money, would
you not spend it? Health is gold no less than
money. Do you know how my youth was spent?
I wove rugs from dawn till dusk, scarcely un-
bending my back. I, who was as full of life
as a ray of sunlight, had to sit as motionless
as a stone. Sometimes my very bones ached
from sitting so long. But when evening came
I ran off to embrace the man I loved. For the
three months that my love lasted I ran to
him and spent all my nights with him. Yet
see to what a great old age I have lived! The
blood in my veins was sufficient, it seems.
How often I fell in love! How many kisses I
gave and took!"

I looked into her face. Her black eyes were
still dull; not even her memories could re-
store their shine. The moon poured light on
her dry, cracked lips, on her sharp chin tuft-
ed with grey hair, and on her wrinkled nose
that was curved like the beak of an owl.
There were dark hollows where her cheeks had

84

been, and in one of them lay a strand of
grey hair that had escaped from under the
red rag she had twisted round her head. A
web of wrinkles covered her face, neck, and
hands, and at every movement she made I ex-
pected this parchment-like skin to split and
peel off, leaving a bare skeleton with dull
black eyes sitting beside me.

Once more she began to talk in her cracked
voice:

"I lived with my mother near Falmi, on
the banks of the Birlat River, and I was fif-
teen years old when he came to our farm. He
was tall and dark and graceful and very gay.
He stopped his boat under our window and
called out in a ringing voice: * Hullo! Can I get
some wine and something to eat here?' I
looked out of the window, and through the
branches of the ash-tree I saw the river all blue
in the moonlight, and him standing there in
a white blouse tied with a wide sash, one foot
in the boat, the other on the bank. And he was
rocking the boat and singing, and when he
caught sight of me he said: *Just see what
a fair maid lives here, and I knew nothing
of it!' — as if he knew all the other fair maids

85

in the world. I gave him some wine and some
pork, and four days later I gave myself to
him. Every night he and I went boating to-
gether. He would come and whistle softly,
like a marmot, and I would jump out of the
window like a fish on to the river-bank.
And off we would go. He was a fisherman from
the Prut, and when my mother found out about
us and beat me, he urged me to run away to
Dobruja with him and even further — to the
tributaries of the Danube. But I had grown
tired of him by then — he never did anything
but sing and make love. I found it boring.
And just at that time a band of Hutsuls came
roaming through these parts and they found
sweethearts for themselves here. Those maids
had a merry time of it! Sometimes one of the
lovers would disappear, and his sweetheart
would pine away, sure that he had been put
in prison or killed in a fight, and then, lo and
behold! he would drop out of a clear sky,
alone or with two or three comrades, bringing
rich gifts (they came by their riches easily).
And he would feast with her, and boast of
her to his comrades. And this would give her
pleasure. Once I asked a girl who had such

86

a lover to introduce me to the Hutsuls. Yet
see, what was that girl's name? I have for-
gotten. My memory has begun to fail me. But
it happened so long ago, anyone луоиИ forget.
Through this girl I met a young Hutsul.
He was handsome. A red-head. Red hair and
red whiskers. Flaming red. At times he was
moody, at others tender, and again he would
roar and fight like a wild beast. Once he struck
me in the face. I sprang up on his chest like
a cat and sank my teeth into his cheek. From
then on he had a dimple in his cheek, and he
liked me to kiss him on that dimple."

"But what happened to the fisherman?" I
asked.

'The fisherman? He stayed on. He joined
their band — the Hutsuls. At first he begged
me to come back to him and threatened
to throw me into the river if I did not, but he
soon got over it. He joined their band and
found himself another sweetheart. They were
both hanged together — the fisherman and my
Hutsulian lover. I went to sec them hanged.
In Dobruja. The fisherman was deathly pale
and wept when he went to his death, but
the Hutsul smoked his pipe. He walked

87

straight ahead, smoking his pipe, his hands
in his pockets, one of his moustaches sweeping
his shoulder, the other his chest. When he
caught sight of me, he took the pipe out of his
mouth and cried out: * Farewell!' I wept for
him a whole year. They had been caught just
when they were ready to go back to their na-
tive mountains. They were holding a farewell
party at the house of a certain Rumanian
when they were captured. Just the two of
them. Several others were killed on the spot
and the rest escaped. But the Rumanian was
made to pay for what he had done. His farm
and his mill and his barns of grain were burnt
to the ground. He was turned into a beggar."

"Did you do it?" I hazarded a guess.

"The Hutsuls had many friends — I was
not the only one. Whoever was their best
friend did this in their memory."

The singing on the sea-shore had ceased
by this time, and no other sound but the mur-
mur of the waves accompanied the old wom-
an's tale. Their murmur, restless and brood-
ing, was fitting accompaniment to this tale
of a restless life. Milder grew the night, deep-
er the blue of the moonshine, and softer the

88

indefinable sounds of night's invisible den-
izens whose clamour was drowned out by the
increasing roar of the sea as the wind rose.

"And then there was a Turk I fell in love
with. I was one of his harem in Scutari. For
a whole week I lived there without minding
it, but then I found the life tiresome. Nothing
but women everywhere. He had eight of them.
All day long they ate and slept and chattered
nonsense. Or they quarrelled, and then they
were like a set of cackling hens. The Turk
was not a young man. His hair was almost
white, and he was very rich and important.
He spoke like an emperor. His eyes were black
and straight — I mean they looked straight
into your soul. And he was always praying.
I first saw him in Bucharest. He was strut-
ting about the bazaar like a king, looking
very important. I smiled at him. That same
evening I was seized in the street and brought
to him. He traded in sandal and palm wood
and had come to Bucharest to make pur-
chases of some sort.

"'Will you go away with me?' he asked.

"a will indeed,' I said.

"*Very well,' he said.

89 '

"And I went away with him. He was very
rich. He had a son, a slim dark-haired youth of
sixteen. It was with him I ran away from the
Turk — ran away to Bulgaria, to Lom-Pa-
lanka. There a Bulgarian woman knifed me
in the chest because of her husband or lover,
I have forgotten which.

"For a long time after that I lay ill in a
nunnery. A Polish girl, a nun, took care of
me, and her brother, a monk from a monastery
near Artzer-Palanka, used to come to see her.
He kept wriggling round me like a worm,
and when I got well I went off with him to
Poland."

"But wait: what happened to the Turkish
boy?"

"Oh, him? He died. He pined away with
homesickness, or perhaps it was love. He be-
gan to wither like a sapling that has too much
sun. Just withered away. I remember him
lying there blue and transparent as ice, yet
consumed by the flames of love. He kept
asking me to bend over and kiss him. I loved
him dearly and kissed him a lot. Little by
little he became so weak he could hardly
move. He would just lie there and beg me,

90

as if he were begging alms, to lie down beside
him and warm his poor body. And I did. The
minute I lay down beside him he would be all
aflame. One day I woke up to find him stone-
cold. He was dead. I wept over him. Who
can tell? Perhaps it was I who had killed him.
I was twice his age and very strong and vig-
orous, but he? — he was just a child."

She sighed and crossed herself — I had not
seen her do that before. Three times she made
the sign of the cross, muttering something
between her dry lips.

"So you went off to Poland—" I prompted.

"I did, with that little Pole. He was beast-
ly and absurd. When he wanted a woman,
he would rub up against me like a tom-cat,
the honey oozing between his lips; when his
desire was satisfied he would lash me with his
tongue as with a knout. One day when we were
walking along the bank of a river, he said
something proud and insulting. Oh, I was
angry! I seethed like boiling pitch. I picked
him up like a baby — he was very small — and
squeezed him until he went black in the face.
Then I swung out and hurled him over the
bank into the river. He gave a shout, and it

91

sounded very funny. From the top of the bank
I watched him struggling in the water, and
then I went away and I have never seen him
since. I was lucky in that respect: I never
met my lovers after I had left them. It would
be bad to meet them — like meeting the
dead.'^

The old woman grew silent. In my mind's
eye I saw the people her tale had conjured up.
I saw her Hutsulian lover with the flaming-red
hair and moustache calmly smoking his pipe
as he went to his death. His eyes, it seemed to
me, were a cold blue, and their glance was
firm and intense. Beside him walked the dark-
whiskered fisherman from the Prut. Loath
to die, he was weeping, and his once merry
eyes stared dully out of a face that had grown
white in the anticipation of death, while his
tear-drenched moustaches drooped mourn-
fully at the corners of his twisted mouth. I
saw the important old Turk who was no
doubt a fatalist and a despot, and beside him
his son, a pale delicate flower of the Orient,
poisoned by kisses. And the conceited Pole,
polite and cruel, eloquent and cold. And all
of them now were but wan shades, and she

92

whom they had kissed so ardently was sit-
ting beside me, still alive but shrivelled with
age — bloodless, fleshless, with a heart be-
reft of all desire and eyes bereft of their shine
— almost as much of a shade as they them-
selves.

She continued:

"I found it hard to live in Poland. The
people there are false and cold-blooded. And I
could not speak their snake-like tongue that
does nothing but hiss. Why do they hiss?
God gave them a snake-like tongue because
they are so false. And so I set off, I knew not
for where, and saw the Poles getting ready
to rise up against you Russians. I came to the
town of Bochnia. There a certain Jew bought
me, not for himself, but to trade with my body.
I agreed to this. One has to know how to do
something if he is to earn a living; I did not
know how to do anything, and I paid for it
with my body. But I resolved that if I could
get enough money to take me back to my na-
tive town on the Birlat, I would break my
bonds, however fast they w^ere. I could not
complain of my life there. Rich gentlemen came
and feasted with me. That cost them big sums.

93

They fought with each other over me and
were brought to ruin. One of them tried for
a long time to win my heart, and at last this
is what he did: he came with his servant,
who was carrying a big sack, and he emptied
the sack over my head. Gold coins came
showering down over me and it cheered my heart
to hear their ring as they struck the floor.
And yet I turned the man out. He had a fat
greasy face and his belly was as puffy as a pil-
low. He looked like a stuffed pig. Yes, I
turned him out, even though he told me he had
sold all his land and his house and his horses
to bring me that gold. But by that time I
was in love with a worthy gentleman w^th
a scarred face. His face was criss-crossed with
scars left by Turkish sabres. He had just
come back from helping the Greeks fight the
Turks. There was a man for you! What were
the Greeks to him, a Pole? Yet he went
and helped them fight their enemy. The Turks
marred him cruelly — under their blows he
lost an eye and two fingers of the left hand.
What were the Greeks to him, a Pole? Yet
he fought for them, and he did this because
he yearned to do brave deeds, and when a man

94

yearns to do brave deeds, he will always find
an opportunity. Life is full of such opportu-
nities, and if a man does not find them, it is
because he is lazy or cowardly or does not un-
derstand life, for if he understands, he is sure
to want to leave some memory of himself be-
hind him. And if everyone wished to do this,
life would not gobble people up without leav-
ing a trace of them. A very fine man he was,
he with the scarred face. He would have gone
to the ends of the earth to do a good deed. I
am afraid your people killed him in the up-
rising. Why did you go to fight the Mag-
yars? But hush, say nothing."

And admonishing me to hold my tongue,
old Izergil herself grew silent and thought-
ful.

"I knew a certain Magyar. One day he left
me — it was in the depths of winter — and in the
spring, when the snow melted, they found him
in a field with a bullet through his head. As
many people die of love as of the plague —
quite as many, if they were to be counted.
But what Avas I talking about? Ah, yes, about
Poland. It was there I played my last game.
I happened to meet a gentleman who was very

95

handsome, devilishly handsome. But by
that time I was old. Ugh, so old! I must have
been forty by then — at least forty. And he
was proud and had been pampered by the wom-
en. I came to love him dearly. He thought
I would be his for the asking, but I did not
give myself up so easily. Never had I been the
slave of anyone, and by that time I had
broken off with the Jew, which cost me a pretty
penny, I can tell you. I was living in Krakow
in fine style, with horses and gold and serv-
ants and everything else I wanted. He came
to see me, the proud demon, and expected
me to throw myself into his arms. A pitched
battle took place between us. I grew haggard
under the strain, for it lasted a long time, but
at last I won. He fell on his knees before me.
But no sooner had he got me than he cast me
off. Then I knew I had grown old, and a bitter
realization it was. Very bitter. I loved him,
the fiend, and he would laugh in my face when
he met me. He was a beast. And he would
speak mockingly of me to others, and I knew
it. Oh, how I suffered! But there he was, al-
ways near me, and I doted on him in spite
of everything. And then one day he went away

96

to fight the Russians. I could not bear it,
I tried to take myself in hand, but I could
not master my feelings. I decided to go to him.
He was stationed in a wood near War-
saw.

"But when I got there I found out that your
soldiers had beaten them and he had been
taken prisoner and was being held in a
village not far away.

"*In other words, I shall never see him
again!' I thought to myself. And I wanted des-
perately to see him. So I thought of a way to
do so. I dressed myself as a beggar-woman,
pretended to be lame, covered my face, and
set out for the village where he was impris-
oned. I found it full of soldiers and Cossacks;
it cost me dear to stay there. When I found
out where the Poles were, I realized it would
be very hard to reach them. Rut reach them
I must. And so one night I set out. As I was
crawling between the beds of a vegetable
garden I saw a sentry standing in front of me.
I could hear the Poles singing and talking
in loud voices. They were singing a song to
the Virgin, and my Arkadek was singing Avith
Ihem. And I remembered with bitterness that

7—327 97

once men had crawled after me, and now here
was I crawling like a worm after a man, per-
haps crawling to my death. The sentry had
pricked up his ears and was leaning forward.
What was I to do? I stood up and went to-
wards him. I did not have a knife or any other
weapon with me — nothing but my hands and
my tongue. I was sorry I had not taken a knife
with me. The sentry levelled his bayonet at
my throat, and I whispered: *Wait! Listen
to what I have to say and spare my life if
you have a heart in your breast. I have noth-
ing to offer you, but I beg your mercy. '
He lowered his gun and whispered: *Go away,
old woman. Go away. What brings you here?'
And I said that my son was imprisoned there.
*My son, soldier; does that mean nothing to
you? You, too, are somebody's son. Then look
at me and understand that I have a son like
you, and that he is imprisoned here. Let me
have one look at him. Perhaps he must
die soon, and perhaps you, too, will be killed
on the morrow. Will your mother not shed
tears over you? And will it not be hard for
you to die without a last look at her, your
mother? It will be just as hard for any son.

98

Take pity on yourself, and on him, and on
me, his mother!'

"How long I stood thqre trying to persuade
him! The rain poured down, drenching us.
The wind blew and wailed, buffeting me now
in the back, now in the chest. And I stood
swaying in front of that stony-hearted sol-
dier. He kept saying *no,' and every time
I heard that unfeeling word, the desire to see
Arkadek flared up hotter within me. As I talked
I measured him with my eye — he was small
and thin and had a cough. At last I threw my-
self on the ground in front of him, and, still
pleading with him, I seized him round the
knees and threw him on the ground. He fell
in the mud. Quickly I turned him face down
and pressed his head into a puddle to keep
him from crying out. He did not cry out, but
he struggled to throw me off his back. I took
his head in both hands and pushed it deeper
into the puddle. He was suffocated. Then I
rushed over to the barn where the Poles were
singing. *Arkadek!' I whispered through a
chink in the wall. They are sly fellows, those
Poles, and so they did not stop singing on
hearing me. But suddenly I saw his eyes

99

opposite mine. 'Can you get out of here?^ 1
asked. *Yes, under the wall/ he said. 'Then
come quickly. ' And so four of them crawled out
of the barn, my Arkadek among them. 'Where
is the sentry?^ asked Arkadek. 'There he lies.'
Then they crept away as quietly as possi-
ble, bent almost double. The rain kept coming
down and the wind wailed loudly. We reached
the end of the village and walked on through
the woods for a long time without saying a
word. We walked quickly. Arkadek held my
hand in his, and his hand was hot and trem-
bling. Oh, how good it was to walk there be-
side him as long as he kept silent! They were
my last moments — the last happy moments
of an insatiable life! But at last we came to
a meadow, and there we stopped. All four of
them thanked me for what I had done. They
talked on and on — I thought they would
never stop — and as I listened to them I kept
feasting my eyes on Arkadek. How would he
treat me now? And he put his arms about
me and said something in a very pompous
tone, I do not remember just what he said,
but it was something to the effect that he
would love me for having set him free, and

100

he knelt before me and said with a smile:
*My queen!' Ugh, what a false dog he was!
I gave him a kick and луоиЫ have slapped
him in the face, but he sprang aside and leapt
to his feet. And he stood before me, very grim
and white. And the other three stood there
looking sullen and saying not a word. I stared
back at them. And I remember that a great
weariness and indifference came over me. And
I said to them: 'Go your way.' And they said
to me, the dogs: *And will you go back and
tell them in what direction we have gone?'
That is what beasts they were. But they went
away. And I, too, Avent away. And on the
next day your soldiers caught me, but they
did not keep me long. Then I realized it was
time for me to make a home for myself — the
life of a cuckoo was a thing of the past. My
body had grown heavy, my wings feeble, my
feathers dull. I was old, I was old. And so I
went to Galicia, and from there to Dobruja.
For the last thirty years I have been living
here. I had a husband, a Moldavian, but he
died about a year ago. And I go on living.
All alone. No, not alone— with them — " and
the old woman pointed to the waves. They

were quiet now. Now and again there would
be a faint suggestion of sound that died away
as soon as it was born.

"They love me. I tell them many tales,
and they like them. They are so young. I
feel happy with them. I gaze at them and think:
*Time was when I was as they are. But in
my day people had more strength and fire, and
that made life gayer and more worth while.
It did indeed.'"

She relapsed into silence again. I felt sad,
sitting there beside her. Soon she dozed off,
nodding her head and muttering something,
perhaps a prayer, under her breath.

A thick dark cloud with the jagged out-
lines of a mountain range rose out of the sea
and moved towards the steppe. A wisp was
torn off its highest tip and went flying ahead,
putting out the stars one by one. The sea be-
gan to murmur. A sound of kissing, of whisper-
ing, and of sighing came from the grape-arbour
not far away. A dog howled out in the steppe.
The air was filled with a strange odour that
pricked the nostrils and made one's nerves
tingle. The clouds cast dark clusters of shad-
ow which crept over the earth, now fading,

102

now growing sharply distinct. Nothing re-
mained of the moon but a vague opalescent
glow that at times was completely blotted out
by a bit of cloud. Tiny blue lights flickered
far out in the steppe, which now had become
dark and lowering, as if something fearful
were lurking there. The lights flared up as
if people were wandering over the steppe in
search of something, lighting matches which
the wind instantly blew out. They were very
strange, these blue lights, and suggested the
fantastic.

"Do you see any sparks out there?" asked
Izergil.

"Those little blue lights?" said I, pointing
out to the steppe.

"Blue? Yes, those little lights. So they are
still to be seen! But not by my eyes. There
are many things I do not see any more."

"Where do they come from?" I asked the
old woman.

I had already heard one explanation of them,
but I wanted to hear what old Izergil would say.

"They come from the flaming heart of Dan-
ko. Once upon a time there was a heart that
broke into flame, And those sparks are what

W3

is left of it. I shall tell you that tale. It, too,
is old. Everything is old. See how many fine
things there were in olden times! Today there
is nothing — no men, no deeds, no tales —
that can be compared with those of olden
times. Why is that so? Come, tell me. Ah,
you cannot. What do you kno\v? What do
any of you young people know? If you
searched the past you would find the answer
to all life's riddles. But you do not, and so
you know nothing. Think you I do not see
what is happening? I see only too well, even
if my eyes have grown weak. And I see that
instead of living, people spend their whole
lives getting ready to live. And when they
have robbed themselves by wasting all that
time, they blame it on fate. What has fate
to do with it? Each man is his own fate. There
are all sorts of people in the world today,
but I see no strong ones among them. What
has become of them? And the handsome ones
are growing fewer and fewer."

The old woman stopped to reflect on what
had become of the strong and the handsome,
and as she mused she gazed out into the dark
steppe, as if searching for the answer there,

t04

I waited in silence until she should begin
her tale, fearing that any comment would
distract her.

And presently she began.

Ill

"Long, long ago there lived some people
in a place that Avas bounded on three sides
by impenetrable forests and on the fourth
by the steppe. They were a strong, brave, and
cheerful people, but evil times came upon
them. Other tribes put in an appearance and
drove them into the depths of the forest. The
forest was dark and swampy, for it was very
ancient, and the boughs of the trees were so
closely interwoven that they shut out the
view of the sky, and the sun's rays had all
they could do to pierce the thick foliage and
reach the waters of the swamp. And wherever
they reached those waters, poisonous vapours
arose, and the people began to take sick and
die. Then the women and children of that
tribe began to weep, and the men brooded on
what had happened and grew despondent.
There was nothing for it but to get out of tbf

105

forest, but there were only two means of getting
out: one of them was to go back over the road
they had come, but at the end of this road
strong and vicious foes awaited them; the
other was to push forward through the forest,
but here they would come up against the giant
trees whose mighty branches were closely en-
twined and whose gnarled roots were sunk deep
into the mire of the bogs. These stone-like
trees stood silent and motionless in the grey
gloom of daylight, and they seemed to close
in upon the people at nightfall when the fires
were lit. And always, day and night, this
tribe, born to the freedom of the steppe, was
walled in by shadows that seemed waiting to
crush them. Most fearful- of all was the wind
that went wailing through the tops of the
trees, causing the whole forest to sing a grim
dirge to the people imprisoned there. .They
were, as I have said, a brave people, and they
would have fought to the death with those
who had once defeated them, had they not
feared being wiped out in the fight: they had
their ideals to defend, and if they perished,
their ideals would perish with them. And for
that reason they sat pondering their fate

106

through the long nights, with the poisonous
vapours rising all around them and the forest
singing its mournful song. And as they sat
there, the shadows of the fires leaped about
them in a soundless dance, and it seemed as
if it were not mere shadows that were dancing,
but the evil spirits of forest and bog cele-
brating their triumph. And nothing, not even
Avork or women, can exhaust a man as do des-
pondent thoughts. The men grew weak from
brooding. Fear was born in their hearts, bind-
ing their strong arms; terror gripped them
as they listened to the women wailing over
the bodies of those who had died of the poi-
sonous vapours or lamenting over the fate of
the living made helpless by fear. And cowardly
words came to be spoken in the forest — at
first softly and timidly, but louder and loud-
er as time went on. And at last the people
thought of going to the enemy and making him
a gift of their freedom. So frightened were
they by the thought of death that not one
of them shrank from living the life of a
slave. But at this moment Danko appeared
and saved them from such a fate."
The old woman, it seems, had often recounted

m

this tale about the flaming heart of Dan-
ko. As she intoned it in her hoarse crackling
voice, I seemed to hear the sounds of the for-
est, in whose depths these unfortunate exiles
were poisoned to death.

"Danko was one of them, and he was young
and handsome. Handsome people are always
courageous. And he said to his comrades:

'**Stones are not to be removed by thinking.
He who does naught will come to naught.
Why should we exhaust our energies thinking
and brooding? Arise, and let us go through the
forest until we come out at the other end;
after all, it must have an end — everything
has an end. Come, let us set forth!'

"They looked at him and saw that he was
the best man among them, for his eyes were
agloAv with life and strength.

"'Lead us,' they said.

"And he led them."

The old woman stopped talking and gazed
out over the steppe, which was growing dark-
er and darker. Sparks from the flaming heart of
Danko flared up in the distance like ethereal
blue flowers that bloomed but for a moment.

"And so he led them, Danko. And they fol-

108

lowed him willingly, for they believed in him.
It was a difficult path. It was dark, and at
every step the yawning bogs swallowed peo-
ple up, and the trees were like a mighty
wall barring the way. Their branches were
closely interwoven, their roots were like snakes
reaching out in every direction, and every
step these people took cost them blood and
sweat. For a long time they went on, and the
further they went, the thicker grew the forest
and the weaker grew their limbs. And then
they began to murmur against Danko, say-
ing that he was young and inexperienced and
had no right to bring them here. But he kept
walking at their head, his spirit undaunted,
his mind unclouded.

"But one day a storm broke over the forest,
and the trees whispered together menacingly.
And instantly it became as dark as if here
were gathered all the nights that had passed
since the forest was born. And the little
people walked on under the big trees amid the
roar of the storm, and as they walked the
giant trees creaked and sang a sinister song,
and the lightning flashed above the tree-tops,
throwing a cold blue light over the forest

109

for a brief instant, disappearing as quickly
as it had appeared and striking terror into
the hearts of the people. And in the cold
flashes of the lightning the trees seemed to be
live things that were stretching out long gnarled
arms and weaving them into a net to catch
these people who were trying to escape from
darkness. And something cold and dark and
fearful peered at them through the dark fo-
liage. It was a difficult path, and the people
who had set out on it grew exhausted and lost
heart. But they were ashamed to admit their
weakness, and so they poured out their anger
and resentment on Danko, who was walking
at their head. They began to accuse him of
being incapable of leading them.

"They came to a halt, and, tired and angry,
they began to upbraid him there in the quiv-
ering darkness, amid the triumphant roar
of the storm.

"*You are a despicable and evil creature
who has brought us to grief,' they said. *You
have exhausted us by leading us here, and
for that you shall die.'

"*You said: "Lead us!" and I led you,'
cried out Danko, turning to face them. *I

110

have the courage to lead you, and that is
why I undertook to do it. But you? What
have you done to help yourselves? You have
done nothing but follow me, without so
much as husbanding your strength for the
greater march. You merely followed me like
a flock of sheep.'

"His words only infuriated them the more.

"*You shall die! You shall die!' they
shrieked.

"The forest roared and echoed their cries,
and the lightning tore the darkness to shreds.
Danko gazed upon those for whose sake he
had undertaken such great labour, and he
saw that they were like wild beasts. Many
people were pressing about him, but he could
detect no signs of humanity in their faces and
he knew that he could expect no mercy from
them. Then resentment seethed in his breast,
but it was quelled by compassion. He loved
these people, and he feared that without him
they would perish. And the flames of a great
yearning to save them and lead them out on
to an easy path leaped up in his heart, and
these mighty flames were reflected in his eyes.
And seeing this, the people thought he was

lU

enraged; they thought that \vas why his eyes
flashed so. And they instantly grew wary,
like wolves, expecting him to throw himself
against them, and they drew closer about him
that they might seize him and kill him. He
saw what they were thinking, but the flames
in his heart only flared up the brighter, for
their thoughts added the oil of sorroAV to the
flames of his yearning.

"And the forest went on singing its mournful
song, and the thunder crashed, and the rain
poured down.

"*What else can I do to save these people?'
cried out Danko above the thunder.

"And suddenly he ripped open his breast and
tore out his heart and held it high above his
head.

"It shone like the sun, even brighter than
the sun, and the raging forest was subdued
and lighted up by this torch, the torch of a
great love for mankind, and the darkness
retreated before it and plunged, quivering,
into a yawning bog in the depths of the for-
est. And in their astonishment the people
were as if turned to stone.

"'Follow me!' cried Danko, and he rushed

112

forward, holding his flaming heart high above
his head to light the way.

"And the people followed him as if under
a spell. And once more the forest began to
murmur and wave its tree-tops in wonder.
But its murmur ^vas drowned out by the
sound of running feet. The people were running
ahead boldly and swiftly, lured on by the won-
derful vision of the flaming heart. And even
now there were those who perished, but they
perished without tears and complaints. And
Danko went on ahead of them, his heart flam-
ing brighter and brighter.

"And suddenly the forest in front of them
parted; it parted to make way for them and
then closed behind them, a mute and solid
wall, and Danko and his followers plunged
into a sea of sunlight and rain-washed air.
The storm was now behind them over the
forest, while here the sun shone, the steppe
throbbed with life, the grass w^as hung with
diamond rain-drops and the river was streaked
with gold. It w^as evening, and the rays
of the sunset painted the river as red as the
blood which poured in a hot stream from the
wound in Danko 's breast.

8—327 ПЗ

"The brave Danko cast his eye over the
endless steppe, cast a joyful eye over this land
of freedom, and gave a proud laugh. And
then he fell down and died.

"And his followers were so full of joy and
hope that they did not notice he had died and
that his brave heart was still flaming beside
his dead body. But one timid creature no-
ticed it and, fearing he knew not \vhat,
stamped on the flaming heart. And it sent up a
shower of sparks and went out.

"And that is why blue sparks are always to
be seen in the steppe before a thunder-storm."

As the old woman finished her beautiful
tale, the steppe grew incredibly still, as if
overawed by the strength of the brave Danko,
who set fire to his own heart for the sake of his
fellow-men and died without seeking the
least reward for what he had done.

The old woman dozed off. And as I looked
at her I wondered how many more tales and
memories her mind contained. And I rumi-
nated on the flaming heart of Danko and on
the power of the human imagination, which
has created so many beautiful and inspiring
legends.

114

The wind blew the rags off the bony chest
of old Izergil, \vho had fallen fast asleep by
this time. I covered up her old body and lay
down on the ground beside her. It was dark
and still in the steppe. Clouds floated slowly
. . . w^earily . . . across the sky, and the sea
murmured softly . . . mournfully. . . .

1894

8^

<Co Э>»

CHELKASH

The blue southern sky was so obscured by
dust that it had a murky look. The hot sun
stared down at the greenish sea as through
a thin grey veil, and its rays found poor re-
flection in the water, churned up as it was by
the strokes of oars, the propellers of steamers
and the sharp keels of Turkish feluccas and
other craft which ploughed the crowded 'har-
bour in all directions. The waves of the sea,
crushed within their granite encasements by
the enormous weights gliding over their sur-
faces, hurled themselves at the shore and the
\ sides of the ships — hurled themselves growl-
ing and foaming, their flanks littered with
all sorts of rubbish.

116

The clang of anchor chains, the clash of
the buffers of goods cars, the metallic wail
of sheets of iron being unloaded on to paving-
stones, the dull thump of wood against wood,
the clatter of carts, the whistle of steamships
rising from a wail to a shriek, the shouts of
stevedores, seamen and customs guards — all Дал

this merged to form the deafening music of ] /^y^
the working day which surged rebelliously \
in the sky above the harbour, while from the
earth below new waves of sound kept rising
to meet it — now a rumble that shook the earth,
now a crash that rent the sultry air.

The granite, the steel, the wood, the paving-
stones, the ships and the people — everything
was impregnated with the mighty sounds of
this impassioned hymn to Mercury. But hu-
man voices could hardly be detected in the
general chorus, so weak and even ridiculous
were they. And the people themselves, they
whose efforts had given birth to all this [
sound, were ridiculous and pitiable; their \
ragged dirty wiry bodies were bent double un-
der the loads on their backs as they rushed
hither and thither in the dust and the heat
and the noise, and they were as nothing com-

If7

pared with the steel leviathans, the mountains
of merchandise, the clanging railway cars, and
all the other things which they themselves had
I created. The things of their own creating had
( enslaved them'and robbed them of personality.
The gigantic ships lying with steam up
whistled and hissed and heaved great sighs,
j and every sound they uttered was filled with
1 mocking contempt for the drab and dusty crea-
tures crawling over their decks to load their deep
holds with the products of the servile labour.
It made one laugh till the tears ran to see
these long files of stevedores carrying thou-
sands of poods of grain on their backs to be
deposited in the iron bellies of the ships so
that they themselves might earn a few pounds
of grain to fill their own bellies. A poem
of bitter irony could be read in the con-
trast between these ragged sweating men,
stupefied by the heat, the noise, and the ex-
hausting labour, and the powerful machines
these men had made and which stood radiat-
ing well-being in the sunlight — machines
which, when all is said and done, had been
set in motion not by steam, but by the blood
and muscles of those who made them.

118

The noise was oppressive; the dust tickled
the nose and got into the eyes; the heat scorched
and enervated the body, and everything f
seemed tense, as if the end of endurance
had been reached and catastrophe was immi-
nent, a tremendous explosion that would
clear the air so that men might breathe free-
ly and easily. And then silence would descend
on the world and there would be no more
dust and turmoil to deafen and irritate peo-
ple and drive them mad; and the air of the
town, of the sea, and of the sky would be
fresh and clear and beautiful. . . .

Twelve measured strokes of a bell were
heard. When the last brassy vibrations had died
away the savage music of labour was found
to have subsided, and a minute later it turned
into a mere rumble of discontent. Now
the voices of the people and the plash of the
sea were more audible. It was the dinner
hour.

I

When the stevedores stopped w^rk and scat-
tered over the docks in noisy groups to buy
victuals from the vendors and find shady

//9

corners where they could squat on the pavement
to take their meal, Grishka Chelkash put in
an appearance. He was well known to all the
dockers, a confirmed drunkard, a bold and
clever thief. He was barefooted and bare-
headed, had on a pair of threadbare cor-
duroy trousers and a filthy cotton shirt ^vith
a torn collar that exposed a bony chest cov-
ered by brown skin. The matted state of his
iron-grey hair and the crumpled look of his
lean and hawk-like face indicated that he
had just waked up. A straw had become
caught in his moustache, another in the stubble
of his left cheek, while behind his ear he had
stuck a sprig of linden. Long and lanky and
a bit stooped, he sauntered slowly down the
cobbled street, sniffing the air with his
hooked nose and casting a glittering grey eye
about him as he searched for someone among
the dockers. His long dark moustache kept
twitching like a cat's; beheld his hands behind
his back and kept rubbing them together and
twisting his crooked grasping fingers. Even
here, among hundreds of other roughs, ho
instantly attracted attention because of the
i resemblance to a steppe-hawk conveyed by

120

his predatory leanness and aimful walk, which,
like the flight of the bird of prey he resem-
l)led, concealed a tense alertness under an
appearance of poised tranquillity.

As he came up to a group of stevedores sit-
ting in the shadow cast by a pile of coal bas-
kets, a stocky young chap, with a blotched
and vapid face and with scratches on his neck
suggesting a recent fight, got up to meet him.
He fell into step beside Chelkash and said
under his breath:

"The seamen have discovered two bales of
cloth missing. They^re searching."

"So what?" Chelkash asked, calmly running
his eyes over him.

"What d'ye mean *so what'? They're search-
ing, I tell you."

"And you thought I might join in the
search?"

"Go to hell!"

The chap turned back.

"Wait! Who gave you those beauty-marks?
A pity to mess up your shop front like that!
Seen Mishka?"

"Not for a long time," called back the chap
as he joined his comrades.

121

Everybody who met Chelkash greeted him
as an old acquaintance, but he, usually so
cheery and biting, must have been out of
sorts, for his replies were all very terse.

From behind a pile of merchandise sud-
denly appeared a customs guard — dark-green,
dusty, aggressively erect. He planted himself
in front of Chelkash in a challenging pose,
his left hand on the hilt of his dirk, his right
reaching out for Chelkash 's collar.

"Halt! Where you bound?"

Chelkash retreated a step, lifted his eyes
to the guard's red face and gave a cool smile.

The face, wily but good-natured, tried to
assume a dread aspect: the cheeks puffed out
and turned purple, the browns drew together, the
eyes rolled, and the effect on the whole was
extremely comical.

"I told you orfce to keep away from these
docks if you didn't want me to smash your
ribs in, and here you are again!" he roared.

"Howdy, Semyonich! Haven't seen you
for a long time," said the imperturbable Chel-
kash, holding out his hand.

"I wouldn't cry if I didn't see you for an-
other fifty years. Move on, move on."

122

But he shook the extended hand.

"Here^s what I wanted to ask," went on
Chelkash, holding the guard's hand in steel
fingers and shaking it in an intimate sort of
way. "Seen Mishka anywhere?"

"What Mishka? I don't know any Mishka.
Move on, man, or the packhouse guard may
see you and then — "

"The red-headed chap I worked with on the
Kostroma last time," persisted Chelkash.

"That you thieved with, you mean. They've
put him in hospital, that Mishka of yours —
got his leg crushed by some iron. Get out
of here, I tell you, get out before I throw you
out by the scruff of the neck."

"Listen to that, now! And you said you
didn't know no Mishka. What makes you
so nasty, Semyonich?"

"None of your talk! Get out!"

The guard was getting angry; he glanced
about him and tried to free his hand, but Chel-
kash held on to it as he looked at him calmly
from under bushy eyebrows and went on talk-
ing:

"What's the rush? Don't you want to have
a nice little chat with me? Hoav you getting

111

oil? How's the wife and kiddies? Well?" His
eyes twinkled and his teeth flashed in a mock-
ing grin as he added: "Been Avanting to drop
in to see you for ever so long, but just can't
seem to manage it. It's the drink — "

"Drop it, I tell you! None of your joking,
you lanky lubber. I mean what I say. But may-
be you're turning to house-breaking, or rob-
bing people in the street?"

"Why should I? There's enough here to
keep you and me busy a lifetime. Honest
there is, Semyonich. But I hear you've
snitched another two bales of cloth. Watch out,
or you'll find yourself in trouble yet!"

Semyonich trembled with indignation and
the saliva flew as he tried to give voice to it.
Chelkash let go of his hand and calmly strode
off on his long legs to the dock gates. The
guard followed at his heels, cursing him
roundly.

Chelkash Avas in better spirits now; he whis-
tled a tune through his teeth, thrust his hands
into his pockets, and retarded his steps, toss-
ing off well-aimed quips to right and left.
He was paid in his own coin.

"Just see what good care of you the bosses

124

are taking, Grishka!" called out a stevedore
who was stretched out on the ground with
his comrades, taking a rest after their meal.

"Semyonich's seeing I don't step on any
nails in my bare feet," replied Chelkash.

They got to the gates. Tavo soldiers ran their
hands down Chelkash 's clothes and pushed
him out into the street.

He crossed the road and sat down on the curb-
stone opposite a pub. A line of loaded carts
came thundering out of the dock gates, while
a line of empty ones moved in the other di-
rection, their drivers bouncing in their seats.
The docks belched forth a roar of sound and
clouds of dust that stuck to the skin.

Chelkash was in his element amid this mad
welter. He was anticipating a good haul that
night, a haul that would cost him little effort
but require a great deal of skill. He did not
doubt but that his skill was sufficient, and
he screwed up his eyes with pleasure as he
reflected on how he would spend all his bank-
notes the next morning. He thought of his
pal Mishka. He needed him badly, and here
he had gone and broken his leg. Chelkash
cursed under his breath, for he feared he

125

could not handle the job alone. What would
the weather be like? He glanced up at the sky,
then down the street.

Sitting on the pavement, his back against
a hitching post some half a dozen paces
away, was a young lad in a blue homespun
shirt and trousers, with bast sandals on his feet
and a torn brown cap on his head. Beside him
lay a small knapsack and a haftless scythe
wrapped in straw and neatly tied wdth string.
The lad was sturdy, broad-shouldered, fair-
haired, his face was tanned by wind and sun,
and he had large blue eyes that stared amia-
bly at Ghelkash.

Chelkash bared his teeth, stuck out his
tongue, made a frightful face and stared
back with popping eyes.

The boy blinked in astonishment at first,
then he burst out laughing, calling out be-
tween spasms: "Crazy as a loon!" Without
getting up, he hitched along the curbstone
to where Chelkash was sitting, dragging his
knapsack through the dust and allowing the
tip of his scythe to clank over the cobbles.

"Been on the booze, eh?" he said to Chel-
kash, giving a tug at his trousers.

m

"You're right, baby-face, you're right/'
confessed Chelkash with a smile. He was in-
stantly drawn to this wholesome good-natured
chap with eyes as clear as a baby's. "Been
haymaking? "

"Yes. Made hay, but no money. Times are
bad. You never saw so many people! They
all come drifting down from the famine dis-
tricts. No point in working for such pay. Six-
ty kopeks in the Kuban, think of that! They
say they used to pay three or four rubles, or
even five."

"Used to! They used to pay three rubles
just to get a look at a Russian! That's how
I earned a living ten years ago. I'd com^e to a
Cossack village: 'Here I am, folks, an honest-
to-God Russian!' They'd all crowd round,
look me over, poke me, pinch me, oh-and-ah
and pay me three rubles. Give me food and
drink besides and invite me to stay as long
as I liked."

At first the boy opened wide his mouth,
an expression of wondering admiration on his
round face, but as he realized Chelkash was
fabricating, he snapped his mouth shut, then
burst out laughing again. Chelkash kept a

127

straight face, hiding his smile in his mous-
tache.

"A queer bird you are, talking talk as if it
was God's truth and me swallowing it. But
honest to goodness, it used to be — "

"Isn't that just what I was saying? It
used to be — "

"Oh, come!" said the boy with a wave of
his hand. "What are you, a cobbler, or a tailor,
or what?"

"Me?" Chelkash mused awhile and then
said: "I'm a fisherman."

"A fisherman? Think of that! So you catch
fish, do you?"

"Why fish? The fishermen here don't only
catch fish. Mostly dead bodies, old anchors,
sunken boats. There's special fish-hooks for
such things."

"Lying again. Maybe you're one of those
fishermen who sing:

We cast our nets

Upon the shores,

In market stalls, in open doors.

"Ever met fishermen like that?" asked Chel-
kash, looking hard at the boy and grinning.

128

"No, but Tve heard about them."

"Like the idea?"

"Of people like that? Why not? At least
they're free; they can do what they please."

"What's freedom to you? Do you hanker
after freedom?"

"Of course. What could be better than to
be your own boss, go where you like and do
what you like? Only you've got to keep
straight and see that no millstones get hung
round your neck. Outside of that, go ahead
and have a good time without a thought for
anything save God and your conscience."

Chelkash spat contemptuously and turned
away.

"Here's what I'm up against," went on the
boy. "My father died without leaving any-
thing much, my mother's old, the land's
sucked dry. What am I supposed to do? I've
got to go on living, but how? God knows. I
have a chance to marry into a good family.
I wouldn't mind if they'd give the daughter
her portion. But they won't. Her old man
won't give her an inch of land. So I'd have
to work for him, and for a long time. For
years. There you are. If only I could lay hands

9—327 129

on, say, a hundred and fifty rubles I'd be able
to stand up to her father and say: *Do you
want me to marry your Marfa? You don't?
Just as you say; she's not the only girl in
the village, thank God.' I'd be independent,
see? and could do what I liked." The boy
heaved a sigh. "But it looks as if there was
nothing for it but to be his son-in-law. I
thought I'd bring back a couple of hundred
rubles from the Kuban. That would be the
thing! Then I'd be a gentleman! But I didn't
earn a damn thing. Nothing for it but to
be a farm-hand. I'll never have a farm of
my own. So there you are."

The boy squirmed and his face fell at the
prospect of being this man's son-in-law.

"Where you bound now?" asked Chelkash.

"Home. Where else?"

"How do I know? Maybe you're bound for
Turkey."

"Turkey?" marvelled the boy. "What hon-
est Christian would ever go to Turkey? A
fine thing to say!"

"You are a blockhead," murmured Chelkasli,
turning away again. Yet this wholesome vil-
lage lad had stirred something in him; a vague

130

feeling of dissatisfaction was slowly tak-
ing form within him, and this kept him
from concentrating his mind on the night's
task.

The boy, offended by Chelkash's words,
muttered to himself and threw sidelong glances
at the older man. His cheeks were puffed
up in a droll way, his lips were pouting and
his narrowed eyes blinked rapidly. Evident-
ly he had not expected his talk with this be-
whiskered ruffian tramp to end so suddenly
and so unsatisfactorily.

But the tramp paid no more attention to him.
His mind was on something else as he sat there
on the curbstone whistling to himself and
beating time with a dirty toe.

The boy w^anted to get even with him.

"Hey, you fisherman! Do you often go on
a bout?" he began, but at that moment the
fisherman turned to him impulsively and
said:

"Look, baby-face, would you like to help i
me to do a job tonight? Make up your mind,
quick!"

"What sort of job?" asked the boy dubi-
ously.

/5/

"*What sortM Whatever sort I give you.
We're going fishing. You'll row."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind doing that, I'm. not
afraid of work. Only — what if you get me
into trouble? You're a queer egg; there's
no understanding you."

Chelkash had a sensation as of heart-burn.

"Don't go spouting on things you don't
know anything about, " he said with cold ani-
mosity. "I'll give you a good crack over the
bean, and then you'll understand a thing or
two."

He jumped up, his eyes flashing, his left
hand pulling at his moustache, his right
clenched in a hard and corded fist.

The boy was frightened. He glanced quick-
ly about him and then he, too, jumped up,
blinking nervously. The two of them stood
there silently measuring each other with their
eyes.

"Well? " said Chelkash harshly. He was seeth-
ing inside, twitching all over from the in-
sult taken from this puppy he had held in
such contempt so far, but whom he now
\, hated with all his soul because he had such
^< clear blue eyes, such a healthy tanned face,

132

such short sturdy arms; because he had a na-
tive village and a house there, and an offer
to be the son-in-law of a well-to-do muzhik;
he hated him for the way he had lived in the
past and would live in the future, but most
of all he hated him because he, a mere child
as compared with Chelkash, dared to hanker
after a freedom he could neither appreciate
nor have need of. It is always unpleasant to
discover that a person you consider beneath
you loves or hates the same things you do,
thereby establishing a certain resemblance to
yourself.

As the lad looked at Chelkash he recognized
in him a master.

"I don't really— er— mind," he said. "Aft-
er all, I'm looking for work. What difference
does it make whether I work for you or some-
body else? I just said that because — well,
you don't look much like a workingman.
You're so — er — down at heel. But that can
happen to anybody, I know. God, haven't
I seen drunks before? Plenty of them, some
even worse than you."

"All right, all right. So you're willing?"
said Chelkash in a milder tone.

133

"With pleasure. State your price."

"The price depends on the job. How much
we catch. Maybe you'll get five rubles."

Now that the talk was of money, the peas-
ant wanted to be exact and demanded the
same exactness from the man who was hiring
him. Once more he had his doubts and sus-
picions.

"That won't suit me, brother."

Chelkash played his part.

"Don't let's talk about it now. Come
along to the tavern."

And they walked down the street side by
side, Chelkash twirling his moustache with
the air of a master; the lad fearful and dis-
trusting, but willing to comply.

"What's your name?" asked Chelkash.

"Gavrilla," answered the lad.

On entering the dingy, smoke-blackened tav-
ern, Chelkash went up to the bar and in
the off-hand tone of a frequenter ordered a
bottle of vodka, cabbage soup, roast beef
and tea; he repeated the list and then said
nonchalantly: "On tick," to which the bar-
man replied by nodding silently. This in-
stantly inspired Gavrilla with respect for his

134

employer, who, despite his disreputable ap-
pearance, was evidently well known and
trusted.

"Now we'll have a bite and talk things
over. Sit here and wait for me; Г11 be right
back."

And he went out. Gavrilla looked about
him. The tavern was in a basement; it was
dark and damp and filled with the stifling
smell of vodka, tobacco smoke, pitch, and
something else just as pungent. A drunken
red-bearded sailor smeared all over with pitch
and coal-dust was sprawling at a table op-
posite him. Between hiccups he gurgled a
song made of snatches of words which were
all sibilant one minute, all guttural the next.
Evidently he was not a Russian.

Behind him were two Moldavian women.
Swarthy, dark-haired, ragged, they too were
wheezing out a drunken song.

Out of shadows loomed other figures, all
of them noisy, restless, dishevelled, drunk-
en. .. .

Gavrilla was gripped by fear. If only his
boss would come back! The noises of the tav-
ern merged in a single voice, and it was a?

135

if some huge multiple-tongued beast were
roaring as it vainly sought a means of escape
from this stone pit. Gavrilla felt some intox-
ication seeping into his body, making his
head swim and his eyes grow hazy as they
roved the tavern with fearful curiosity.

At last Chelkash came back and the two
men began to eat and drink and talk. Gav-
rilla was drunk after his third glass of vodka.
He felt very gay and was anxious to say
something nice to this prince of a chap who
had treated him to such a fine meal. But
somehow the words that surged in his throat
would not come off his tongue, suddenly
grown thick and unwieldy.

Chelkash looked at him with a condescend-
ing smile.

fl "Stewed? Ekh, you rag! On five swigs.

'^How are you going to work tonight?"

ЮГ pal!" lisped Gavrilla. "Don4 be Afraid.
I'll show you. Gimme a kiss, c'mon."

"That's all right. Here, take another guz-
zle."

Gavrilla went on drinking until he reached
the point at which everything about him
seemed to be moving up and down in rhyth-

136

mic waves. This was unpleasant and made
him sick. His face wore an expression of fool-
ish solemnity. Whenever he tried to say any-
thing, his lips slapped together comically and
garbled sounds came through them. Chelkash
twisted his moustache and smiled glumly as
he gazed at him abstractedly, his mind on
something else.

Meanwhile the tavern was roaring as
drunkenly as ever. The red-headed sailor had
folded his arms on the table and fallen fast
asleep.

"Time to go," said Chelkash, getting up.

Gavrilla tried to follow him but could
not; he let out an oath and laughed idioti-
cally, as drunks do.

"What a wash-out!" muttered Chelkash,
sitting down again.

Gavrilla kept on laughing and looking at
his boss with bleary eyes, while Chelkash
turned a sharp and thoughtful eye on him.
He saw before him a man whose fate he held
in his wolfish paw. Chelkash sensed that he
could do what he pleased with him. He
could crush him in his hand like a playing-
card, or he could help him get back to the

137

solid peasant way of life. Conscious of his
power over him, he reflected that this lad
would never have to drink the cup it had
been the fate of him, Chelkash, to drink.
He envied and pitied the boy; he despised
him, and yet he was sorry to think that he
might fall into other hands, no better than
his own. In the end, Chelkash 's various emo-
tions combined to form a single one that was
both fatherly and practical. He pitied the
boy and he needed him. And so he took Gav-
rilla under the arms and lifted him up,
giving him little pushes with his knee as he
led him out into the tavern yard where he
laid him down in the shade of a wood-pile,
he himself sitting beside him and smoking
his pipe. Gavrilla tossed about awhile, gave
a few grunts and fell asleep.

II

"Ready?" whispered Chelkash to Gavrilla,
who was fussing with the oars.

"In a minute. The rowlock's loose. Can I
give it a bang with the oar?"

"No! Not a sound! Push it down with your
hands; it'll slip into place."

!38

Both of them were noiselessly busy with a
boat tied to the stern of one of a whole fleet
of barges- loaded with oaken staves and of
Turkish feluccas carrying palm and sandal
wood and thick Cyprus logs.

The night was dark, heavy banks of tat-
tered clouds floated across the sky, the sea
was calm and black and as heavy as oil. It
gave off a moist saline odour and made ten-
der little noises as it lapped at the shore and
the sides of ships, causing Chelkash's boat
to rock gently. At some distance from shore
could be seen the dark outlines of ships
against the sky, their masts tipped by vari-
coloured lights. The sea reflected these lights
and was strewn with innumerable yellow
spots that looked very beautiful quivering
upon the background of black velvet. The
sea was sleeping as soundly as a workman
who has been worn out by the day's labour.

"Let's go," said Gavrilla, dipping an oar
into the water.

"Let's." Chelkash pushed off hard with the
steering oar, sending the boat into the lanes
between the barges. It glided swiftly over the
water, which gave off a blue phosphorescent

IB9

glow wherever the oars struck it and
formed a glowing ribbon in the wake of the
boat.

"How's your head? Ache?" asked Chelkash
solicitously.

"Something fierce. And it's heavy as lead.
Here, I'll wet it."

"What for? Wet your insides; that'll bring
you round quicker," said Chelkash, hold-
ing out a bottle.

"Ah, God be thanked."

There was a gurgling sound.

"Hey! That's enough!" interrupted Chel-
kash.

Once more the boat darted forward, weav-
ing its way among the other craft swiftly
and soundlessly. Suddenly it was beyond
them, and the sea — the mighty boundless
sea — stretched far away to the dark-blue ho-
rizon, from which sprang billowing clouds:
grey-and-mauve with fluffy yellow edges;
greenish, the colour of sea water; leaden-
hued, throwing dark and dreary shadows.
Slowly moved the clouds across the sky, now
overtaking each other, merging in colour and
form, annihilating each other only to appear

140

again in new aspects, grimly magnificent.
There was something fatal in the slow move-
ment of these inanimate forms. It seemed as
if there were endless numbers of them at the
rim of the sea, and as if they would go on
crawling across the sky for ever, impelled
by a vicious desire to keep the sky from gaz-
ing down upon the slumbering sea with its
millions of golden orbs, the many-hued stars,
that hung there alive and pensively radiant,
inspiring lofty aspirations in the hearts of
men to whom their pure shine was a pre-
cious thing.

"Nice, the sea, isn't it?" asked Chelkash. I

"I suppose so, but it makes me afraid," j
said Gavrilla as he pulled hard and evenly
on the oars. The water let out a faint ring
and splash as the oars struck it, and it still
gave off that blue phosphorescent glow.

"Afraid! You are a boob," grunted Chelkash.

He, a thief, loved the sea. His nervous, t
restive nature, always thirsting for new im-
pressions, never had enough of contemplat-
ing its dark expanses, so free, so powerful,
so boundless. And he resented such a tepid
response to his question about the beauty of

141

the thing he loved. As he sat there in the
stern of the boat letting his steering oar cut
through the water while he gazed calmly
ahead, he was filled with the one desire to
travel as long and as far as he could over
that velvety surface.

He always had a warm expansive feeling
when he was on the sea. It filled his whole
being, purging: it of the dross of daily life.
He appreciated this and liked to see himself
a better man hero among the waves and in
the open air, where thoughts about life lose
their poignancy and life itself loses its value.
At night the soft breathing of the slumber-
ing sea is wafted gently over the waters,
and this unencompassing sound fills the
heart of man with peace, crams away its evil
impulses, and gives birth to great dreams.

"Where's the fishing tackle?" asked Gav-
rilla suddenly, glancing anxiously about the
boat.

Chelkash gave a start.

"The tackle? I've got it here in the stern."

He did not wish to lie to this green youth
and he regretted having his thoughts and
feelings dispelled in this abrupt лvay, It made

W

liim angry. Again ho had thai burning sen-
sation in his throat and chest and said to
Gavrilla in a hard and impressive voice:

"Listen, sit where you are and mind your
own business. I hired you to row, so you
row; and if you start wagging your tongue it
will go hard with you. Understand?"

The boat gave a little jerk and came to a
halt, the oars dragging and stirring up the
water. Gavrilla shifted uneasily on his seat.

"Row!"

A fierce oath shook the air. Gavrilla lifted
the oars and the boat, as if frightened, leaped
ahead in quick nervous spurts that made
the water splash.

"Steadyl"

Chelkash half rose without letting go of
the steering oar and fastened cold eyes on
Gavrilla's white face. He was like a cat
about to spring as he stood there bent for-
ward. The grinding of his teeth could be heard,
as could the chattering of Gavrilla's teeth.

"Who's shouting there?" came a stern cry
from out at sea.

"Row, you bastard! Row! Shhh! I'll kill
you, damn your hide! Row, I tell you! One,

W

two! Just you dare to make a sound! Г 11
rip you to pieces!" hissed Chelkash.

"Holy Virgin, Mother of God!" murmured
Gavrilla, trembling with fear and exertion.

The boat swung round and went back to
the harbour where the ships' lanterns formed
clusters of coloured lights and their masts
stood out distinctly.

"Hi! Who's shouting?" came the cry again.

But it came from a distance now. Chelkash
was reassured.

"It's you w^ho's shouting!" he called back,
then turned to Gavrilla who was still mut-
tering a prayer.

"Luck's with you this time, lad. If those
devils had chased us it would have been all
over with you. I'd have fed you to the fishes
first thing."

Seeing that Chelkash had calmed down and
was in a good humour, the trembling Gav-
rilla pleaded with him:

"Let me go; for the love of Christ, let me
go. Set me down somewheres. Oi, oi, oi,
I've been trapped! For God's sake, let me
go. What do you want of me? I can't do
this. I've never been mixed up in such

144

business. It's the first time. God, I'm lost for
sure. Why have you done this to me? It's
a sin. You'll pay for it with your soul. Oh,
what a business!"

"Business?" asked Chelkash sharply. "What
business?"

He was amused by the boy's terror; he took
pleasure in contemplating it and in thinking
what a ferocious fellow he himself was.

"Bad business, brother. Let me go, for the
love of God. What do you need me for? Come,
be a good chap — "

"Hold your tongue! If I didn't need you
I Avouldn't have brought you, understand?
So shut up!"

"Dear God," murmured Gavrilla.

"Stop blubbering," Chelkash cut him off
sharply.

But Gavrilla could no longer control him-
self; he whimpered softly, coughed, sniffled,
wriggled, but rowed with a strength born of
despair. The boat flew ahead like an arrow.
Once more they found themselves surrounded
by the dark forms of ships. Their boat became
lost among them as it turned and twisted
through the narrow lanes of Avater.

10—327 145

"Listen, you! If you get asked any ques-
tions, keep your mouth shut if you value
your life, understand?"

"God!" breathed Gavrilla, adding bitterly:
"It must be my fate."

''Stop blubbering, " whispered Chelkash
again.

This whisper robbed Gavrilla of his mental
power; he was benumbed by a chill premo-
nition of disaster. Like one in a trance he
dropped his oars into the water, threw him-
self backwards as he pulled, lifted them and
dropped them again, his eyes fixed steadily
on his bast sandals.

The sleepy plash of the waves was dreary
and terrifying. But now they were in the
docks. From the other side of a stone wall
came the sound of human voices, of singing
and whistling and a splashing of water.

"Stop," whispered Chelkash. "Put down
your oars. Push with your hands against the
wall. Shhh, damn you!"

Gavrilla guided the boat along the wall by
holding on to the slippery masonry. The
boat moved without a sound, the slime on
the stones deadening the sound of its bumping.

146

"Stop. Give me the oars; give them to me,
I say. Where's your passport? In your knap-
sack? Let's have it. Hurry up. That's to
keep you from running away, pal. No danger
of that now. You might have run away with-
out the oars, but not without your passport.
Wait here. And mind, if you blab, I'll find
you even if it's at the bottom of the sea!"

And then, pulling himself up by his hands,
Chelkash disappeared over the wall.

It happened so quickly that Gavrilla gave
a little gasp. And then the heaviness in his
heart and the fear inspired by that lean be-
whiskered thief fell from him like a garment.
Now he would run away! Drawing a free
breath, he glanced round. To his left rose a
black hull without a mast, a sort of gigantic
coffin, empty and abandoned. Every time
the waves struck it, it let out a hollow sound
that might have been a groan. To the left
was the slimy wall of the breakwater, a cold
heavy serpent uncoiled upon the sea. Behind
him loomed other dark forms, while ahead,
in the opening between the wall and the cof-
fin, he got a glimpse of the empty sea with
black clouds banked above it. Ponderous,

10* 147

enormous, they moved slowly across the sky,
spreading horror in the darkness, threatening
to crush human beings with their great weight.
Everything was cold, black, sinister. Gav-
rilla was frightened. And his present fear was
greater than that inspired by Chelkash. It
clamped him tightly round the chest, squeez-
ing all resistance out of him and pinning
him to his seat.

Everything was quiet. Not a sound was to
be heard but the sighing of the sea. The
clouds moved as slowly and drearily as ever,
and so many of them rose out of the sea tЪat
the sky was like a sea itself, an agitated sea
turned upside down over this smooth, slum-
bering one. The clouds were like waves whose
foamy crests were rushing down upon the
earth, rushing back into the chasms out of
which they had sprung, rushing upon the
new-born billows which had not yet broken
into the greenish foam of savage fury.

So oppressed was Gavrilla by the austere
silence and beauty about him that he was
anxious to have his master come back. What
if he should not come? Time dragged slowly —
slower than the movement of the clouds

148

across the sky. And the longer he waited, the
more menacing grew the silence. But at last
a splash, a rustle, and something like a whis-
per came from the other side of the break-
water. Gavrilla felt that he would die in an-
other minute.

"Hullo! Sleeping? Here, catch this. Care-
ful," came the muffled voice of Chelkash.

Something square and heavy was let down
over the wall. Gavrilla put it in the boat.
A similar bundle followed. Then the lanky
form of Chelkash slid down, the oars ap-
peared, Gavrilla 's knapsack fell at his feet,
and Chelkash, breathing hard, took his seat
in the stern.

Gavrilla gave a diffident smile of joy.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Ra-ther! Well, lay on the oars. Pull with
all your might. You've earned a neat little
sum. Half the job's over; all you've got to
do now is slip past those bastards and then —
collect and go back to your Masha. I s'pose
you've got a Mashka, haven't you?"

"N-no." Gavrilla Avas putting forth his
best effort, his lungs working like bellows,
his arms like steel springs. The water gurgled

149

under the boat and the blue ribbon in its
wake was Avider than before. Gavrilla became
drenched in s\veat but he did not let up on
the oars. Twice that night he had a great
fright; he did not wish to have a third one.
The only thing he wanted was to get this
accursed job over as quickly as possible, set
foot on dry land and escape from that man
while he \vas still alive and out of jail. He
resolved not to talk to him, not to oppose
him in any way, to do everything he ordered
him to, and if he managed to get away safe-
ly, to say a prayer to St. Nicholas the
Miracle-Worker on the very next day. An im-
passioned prayer was ready on his tongue,
but he held it back, panting like a locomotive
and glancing up at Chelkash from under
drawn brows.

Chelkash, long and lean, was crouching
like a bird about to take wing, his hawk-
like eyes piercing the darkness ahead, his
hooked nose sniffing the air, one hand clutch-
ing the steering oar, the other pulling at
his moustache, which twitched as his thin
lips spread in a smile. Chelkash was pleased
with his haul, with himself, and with this

/Л/7

youth whom he had terrorized and converted
into his slave. As he watched Gavrilla exert-
ing himself, he felt sorry for him and thought
he would offer him a word of encourage-
ment.

"Ekh!" he said softly, with a little laugh,
"got a good scare, did you?"

"Not so bad," grunted Gavrilla.

"You can take it easier now. The danger's
over. There's just one place more we've got
to slip past. Take a rest."

Gavrilla obediently stopped rowing, and
dropped his oars into the water again.

"Row softly. Keep the water from talking.
There's a gate Ave've got to get past. Slihh.
The men here can't take a joke. Always ready
with their guns. You'll have a hole in your
head before you know what's struck you."

Now the boat was gliding through the water
almost without sound. The only sign of its
movement was the blue shine of the Avater
dripping off the oars and the blue flare of
Ihe sea as the drops struck it. The night grew
darker and stiller. The sky no longer resem-
bled an agitated sea — the clouds had spread
out -to forn>-a heavy blanket that hung low

/5/.

and immobile over the water. The sea was
even more calm and black, its w^arm saline
odour \vas stronger than ever, and it no long-
er seemed so boundless.

"If only it would rain! " murmured Chelkash.
"It would hide us like a curtain."

Great forms rose out of the water to right
and left of the boat. They were barges — dark
and dreary and motionless. On one of them
a light could be seen moving: someone was
walking about with a lantern in his hand.
The sea made little pleading sounds as it
patted the sides of the barges, and they gave
chill and hollow answers, as if unwilling to
grant the favours asked of them.

"A cordon!" said Chelkash in a scarcely
audible voice.

Ever since he had told Gavrilla to row soft-

f ly, the latter had again been gripped by a

feeling of^ tense expectatioru. As he strained
ahead 'into the darkness it seemed to him

^ that he was growing — his bones and sinews

ached as they stretched and his head ached,
too, filled as it was with a single thought.
The skin of his back quivered and he had a
sensation of pins-and-needles in his feet.

152

His eyes felt as if they would burst from
straining so hard into the darkness, out of
which he expected someone to rise up any
minute and shout at them: "Stop, thieves!"

Gavrilla shuddered on hearing Chelkash
say "A cordon." A dreadful thought flashed
through his mind and struck upon his taut
nerves: he thought of calling out for help.
He even opened his mouth, pressed his chest
against the side of the boat and took a deep
breath, but horror of what he was about to
do struck him like a lash; he closed his eyes
and fell off the seat.

From out of the black waters rose a flam-
ing blue sword of light; rose and cleaved the
darkness of night; cut through the clouds in
the sky and came to rest on the bosom of the
sea in a broad blue ribbon of light. There
it lay, its rays picking the forms of ships,
hitherto unseen, out of the darkness — black
silent forms, shrouded in the gloom of night.
It was as if these ships had lain for long at
the bottom of the sea, to which they had
been consigned by the forces of the storm,
and now, at the wall of this flaming sword
born of the sea, they had Ьеец raised, that

153

they might gaze on the sky and on all things
that exist above water. The rigging of their
masts was like clinging seaweed that had
been brought up from the bottom of the sea
along with the gigantic black forms it en-
meshed as in a net. Then once again this
fearsome blue sword rose, flashing, off the
bosom of the sea, and once again it cleaved
the night and lay down again, this time in
another spot. And again the forms of ships
which had not been seen before were illumi-
nated by its light.

Chelkash's boat stopped and rocked on the
water as if deliberating what to do. Gavrilla
was lying in the bottom of the boat, his
hands over his face, while Chelkash poked
him with his foot and whispered savagely:

"That's the customs cruiser, you fool!
And that's its spotlight. Get up. They'll
have it pointed at us in a minute. You'll
be the ruin of me and yourself as well, you
idiot. Get up!"

A particularly effective kick in the back
brought Gavrilla to his feet. Still afraid to
open his eyes, he sat down, felt for the oars,
and began to row. /

f54

"Easy! Easy, damn you! God, what a fool
I picked up! What you afraid of, snout-face?
A lantern — that's all it is. Easy with those
oars, God damn you! They're searching for
smugglers. But they won't catch us. They're
too far out. Oh, no, they won't catch us.
Now we're — " Chelkash looked about trium-
phantly " — we're out of danger. Phew! Well,
you're a lucky devil, even if you are a block-
head."

Gavrilla rowed on, saying nothing, breath-
ing heavily, stealing sidelong glances at the
flaming sword that kept rising and falling.
Chelkash said it was only a lantern^ but he
could not believe it. There was something
uncanny about this cold blue light cleaving
the darkness, giving the sea a silver shim-
mer, and once more Gavrilla was gripped
by fear. He rowed mechanically, all his mus-
cles taut as in expectation of a blow from
above, and there was nothing he wanted now;
he was empty and inanimate. The excitement'
of that night had drained everything human
out of him.

But Chelkash was jubilant. His nerves,
used ta strain, quickly relaxed. His mous-

Ш.

tache twitched with gratification and his eyes
sparkled. Never had he been in better humour;
he whistled through his teeth, drew in deep
breaths of the moist sea air, looked about
him, smiled good-naturedly when his eyes
came to rest on Gavrilla.

A wind sprang up, rousing the sea and
covering it with little ripples. The clouds
grew thinner and more transparent but the
whole sky was still covered with them. The
wind rushed lightly back and forth across
the sea, but the clouds hung motionless, as
if deeply engrossed in drab, uninteresting
thoughts.

"Come, snap out of it, brother. You
look as if you'd had all the spirit knocked
out of you; nothing but a bag of bones left.
As if it was the end of the world."

Gavrilla was glad to hear a human voice,
even if it was Chelkash's.

"I'm all right," he murmured.

"You look it! Got no stuffings in you.
Here, take the steering oar and lot me row.
You must be tired."

Gavrilla got up mechanically and changed
places with him. In passing, Chelkash got

156

a look at the boy's white face and noticed
that his knees were trembling so that they
could hardly hold him. This made him more
sorry than ever for him, and he gave him a
pat on the shoulder.

"Come, chin up! You did a good job. I'll
reward you well for it. What would you
think if I handed you a twenty-five ruble
note, eh?"

"I don't want anything. Nothing but to
get on shore."

Chelkash gave a wave of his hand, spat,
and began to row, swinging the oars far back
with his long arms.

The sea was quite awake now. It amused
itself by making little waves, ornamenting
them with fringes of foam, and running them
into each other so that they broke in showers
of spray. The foam hissed and sighed as it
dissolved, and the air was filled with mu-
sical sounds. The darkness seemed to have
waked up, too."

"So now," said Chelkash, "you'll go back
to your village, get married, start working
the land, raise corn, your wife will bear
I children, there won't be enough to eat, and

157

U

all your life you'll work yourself to the bone.
What fun is there in that?"

"Fun?" echoed Gavrilla faintly and with
a little shudder.

Here and there the wind tore rifts in the
clouds, revealing patches of blue sky set with
one or two stars. The reflection of these stars
danced on the water, now disappearing,
now gleaming again.

"Bear more to the right," said Chelkash.
"We're almost there. Hm, the job's over.
A big job. Just think, five hundred rubles
in a single night!"

"Five hundred?" repeated Gavrilla incred-
ulously. Frightened by the words, he gave
the bundles a little kick and said, "What's
in them? "

"Things that are worth a lot of money.
They'd bring in a thousand if I got the right
price, but I can't be bothered. Slick, eh?"

"Good Lord!" said Gavrilla unbelievingly.
"If only I had as much!" He sighed as he
thought of his village, his wretched farm,
his mother, and all those dear and distant
things for whose sake he had set out in search
of work; for whose sake he had undergone

158

the tortures of that night, lie was caught
up in a wave of memories — his little village
on the side of a hill running down to the
river, and the woods above the river with
its birches, willows, rowans, and bird-
cherry.

"How I need it!" he sighed mournfully.

"You don't say. I s'pose you'd jump
straight on a train and make a dash for home.
And wouldn't the girls be mad on you! Why,
you could have any one of them you liked.
And you'd build yourself a new house; al-
though the money's hardly enough for a
house."

"No, not for a house. Timber's dear up
our way. "

"At least you'd repair the old one. And
what about a horse? Have you got a horse?"

"Yes, but it's a feeble old thing."

"So you'll need to buy a new horse. A first-
rate horse. And a cow. . . . And some sheep.
And some poultry, eh?"

"Ekh, don't mention it! Couldn't I set
myself up fine!"

"You could, brother. And life would be '
like a song. I know a thing or two about

159

such things myself. I had a nest of my own
once. My father was one of the richest men
in the village."

Chelkash was scarcely rowing. The boat was
tossed by the waves splashing mischievously
against its sides, and it made almost no
progress through the dark waters, полу grow-
ing more and more playful. The two men
sat there rocking and looking about them,
each absorbed in his own dreams. Chelkash
had reminded Gavrilla of his village in the
hope of quieting the boy's nerves and cheer-
ing him up. He had done so with his tongue
in his cheek, but as he taunted his com-
I panion with reminders of the joys of peasant
/i life, joys which he himself had long since
' ceased to value and had quite forgotten un-
til this moment, he gradually let himself be
carried away, and before he knew it he him-
self was expounding on the subject instead
of questioning the boy about the village and
its affairs.

"The best thing about peasant life is that
a man's free, he's his own boss. He's got
his own house, even if it's a poor one. And
he's got his own land — maybe only a little

160

patch, but it's his. He's a king, once he's
got his own land. He's a man to be reckoned
with. He can demand respect from anybody,
can't he?" he endod up with animation.

Gavrilla looked at him curiously, and he,
too, became animated. In the course of their
talk he had forgotten who this man was;
he saw in him only another peasant like
himself, glued fast to the land by the sweat
of many generations of forefathers, bound
to it by memories of childhood; a peasant
who of his own free choice had severed con-
nections wath the land and with labour on
the land, for which he had been duly pun-
ished.

"True, brother. How very true! Look at
you, now; what are you without any land?
The land, brother, is like your mother; there's
no forgetting it."

Chelkash came back to his surroundings.
Again he felt that burning sensation in his
chest that always troubled him when his pride
— the pride of a reckless dare-devil — was
injured, especially if injured by someone he
considered a nonentity.

"Trying to teach me!" he said fiercely.

11-327 161 ^,^''-

I

"Did you think I meant what I said? Know
your place, upstart ! "

"You're a funny one," said Gavrilla with
his former timidity. "I didn't mean you.
There's lots of others like you. God, how
many miserable people there are in the Avorld !
Homeless tramps."

"Here, take over the oars, " snapped Chel-
kash, holding back the flood of oaths that
surged in his throat.

Once more they exchanged places, and

. as Chelkash climbed over the bundles he

l\^ had an irresistible desire to give Gavrilla

' a push that would send him flying into the

water.

They did no more talking, but Gavrilla
emanated the breath of the village even
when he was silent. Chelkash became so en-
grossed in thoughts of the past that he for-
got to steer, and the current turned the boat
out to sea. The waves seemed to sense that
I this boat was without a pilot, and they played
I with it gleefully, tossing it on their crests
and leaping in little blue flames about the
oars. In front of Chelkash 's eyes passed a
kaleidoscope of the past, of the distant past,

162

separated from the present by the gulf of
eleven years of vagrancy. He saw himself
as a child, saw his native village, saw his
mother, a stout red-cheeked woman with
kindly grey eyes, and his father, a stern-
faced, red-bearded giant. He saw himself
as a bridegroom, and he saw his bride, the
plump black-eyed Anfisa with a mild, cheer-
ful disposition and a long plait hanging down
her back. Again he saw himself, this time
as a handsome Guardsman; again his father,
now grey-haired and stooped with labour;
and his mother, Avrinkled and bent to earth.
He saw the reception the village gave him
when his army service was over, and he re-
called how proud his father had been to show
off this healthy, handsome, bewhiskered sol-
dier-son to the neighbours. Memory is the
bane of those who have come to misfortune;
it brings to life the very stones of the past,
and adds a drop of honey even to the bitter-
est portion drunk at some far time.

It was as if a gentle stream of native air were
wafted over Chelkash, bringing to his ears
his mother's tender words, his father's earnest
peasant speech and many other forgotten

11^ res . , . - y^^

>"

^^ ..

sounds; bringing to his nostrils the fragrance
of mother-earth as it thawed, as it was new-
ploughed, as it drew on an emerald cover-
let of springing rye. He felt lonely, uprooted,
thrown once and for all beyond the pale of
that way of life which had produced the
blood flowing in his veins.

"Hey, where are we going?" cried Gavrilla.

Chelkash started and glanced about with
the alertness of a bird of prey.

"Look where we've drifted, damn it all.
Row harder."

"Daydreaming?" smiled Gavrilla.

"Tired."

"No danger of getting caught with them
things?" asked Gavrilla, giving the bundles
a little kick.

"No, have no fear. I'll turn them in now
and get my money."

"Five hundred?"

"At least."

"God, what a pile! If only I had it!
Wouldn't I play a pretty tune with it, just!"

"A peasant tune?"

"What else? I'd. . . ."

And Gavrilla soared on the wings of his

164

i

imagination. Chelkash said nothing. His
moustache drooped, his right side had been
drenched by a wave, his eyes were sunken
and lustreless. All the hawkishness had
gone out of him, had been wrung out of him
by a humiliating introspection that even
glanced out of the folds of his filthy shirt.

He turned the boat sharply about and
steered it towards a black form rising out
of the water.

Once more the sky was veiled in clouds and
a fine warm rain set in, making cheerful
little plopping sounds as its drops struck the
water.

"Stop! Hold it!" ordered Chelkash.

The nose of the boat ran into the side of
a barge.

"Are they asleep or what, the bastards?"
growled Chelkash as he slipped a boat-hook
into some ropes hanging over the side. "Throw
down the ladder! And the rain had to wait
till this minute to come down! Hey, you
sponges! Hey!"

"Selkash?" purred someone on deck.

"Where's the ladder?"

"Kalimera, Selkash."

165

"The ladder, God damn you!"

"Oo, what a temper he's in tonight! Eloy!"

"Climb up, Gavrilla," said Chelkash to
his companion. .

^ The next minute they were on deck,
where three bearded, dark-skinned fellows
were talking animatedly in a lisping tongue
as they stared over the gumvale into Chel-
kash's boat. A fourth, wrapped in a long
chlamys, went over to Chelkash and shook
his hand without a word, then threw Gavrilla
a questioning look.

"Have the money ready in the morning,"
Chelkash said to him briefly. "I'm going to
take a snooze now. Come along, Gavrilla.
Are you hungry?"

"I'm sleepy," said Gavrilla. Five min-
utes later he was snoring loudly while Chel-
kash sat beside him trying on somebody
else's boots, spitting off to one side and
whistling a sad tune through his teeth. Pres-
ently he stretched out beside Gavrilla with
his hands behind his head and lay there with
his moustache twitching.

The barge rolled on the waves, a board
creaked plaintively, the . rain beat on the

166

deck and the waves against the sides of the
barge. It was all very mournful and remind-
ed one of the cradle-song of a mother who
has little hope of seeing her child happy.

Chelkash bared his teeth, raised his head,
glanced about him, muttered something to
himself and lay doлvn again with his legs
spread wide apart, making him look like
a pair of giant scissors.

Ill

He was the first to w^ake up. He glanced
anxiously about him, Avas instantly reas-
sured, and looked doAvn at Gavrilla, who
was snoring happily, a smile spread all over
his wholesome, sunburnt, boyish face. Chel-
kash gave a sigh and climbed up a narrow
rope-ladder. A patch of lead-coloured sky
peered dow^i the hatchway. It was light,
but the day was dull and dreary, as is often
so in autmim.

Chelkash came back in a couple of hours.
His face was red and his whiskers had been
given a rakish twist. He was wearing a sturdy
pair of high-boots, a leather hunting: jacket

/67

and breeches as a hunter wears. The outfit
was not new, but in good condition and very
becoming to him, since it filled out his fig-
ure, rounded off the edges and gave him
a certain military air.

"Get up, puppy, " said he, giving Gavrilla
a little kick.

Gavrilla jumped up only half- awake and
gazed at Chelkash with frightened eyes,
not recognizing him. Chelkash burst out
laughing.

"Don't you look grand!" said Gavrilla
with a broad grin at last. "Quite the gen-
tleman."

"That don't take us long. But you're a
lily-livered fellow if there ever was one.
How many times were you about to pass out
last night?"

"You can't blame me; I'd never been on a
job like that before. I might have lost my soul. "

"Would you do it again, eh?"

"Again? Only if— how shall I put it? What
would I get for it?"

"If you got, let's say, two smackers?"

"You mean two hundred rubles? Not bad.
I might. "

168

"And what about losing your soul?"
"Maybe I wouldn't lose it after all,"
grinned Gavrilla.

"You wouldn't lose it, and you'd be made
for the rest of your life."
Chelkash laughed gaily.
"Well, enough of joking; let's go ashore."
And so they found themselves in the boat
again, Chelkash steering, Gavrilla rowing.
Above them stretched a solid canopy of
grey clouds; the sea was a dull green and it
played joyfully with the boat, tossing it up
on waves that had not yet grown to any
size, and throwing handfuls of pale spray
against its sides. Far up ahead could be
glimpsed a strip of yellow sand, while behind
them stretched the sea, chopped up into cov-
eys of white-caps. Behind them, too, were the
ships — a whole forest of masts back there
to the left, with the white buildings of the
port as a background. A dull rumble came
pouring out of the port over the sea, min-
gling with the roar of the waves to form fine
strong music. And over everything hung a
thin veil of fog that made all objects seem
remote.

I

"Ekh, it'll be something to see by night-
fall!" exclaimed Chelkash, nodding out to
sea.

"A storm?" asked Gavrilla as he ploughed
powerfully through the waves with his oars.
His clothes were soaked with wind-blown
spray.

"Uh-huh," said Chelkash.

Gavrilla looked at him inquisitively.

"Well, how much did they give you?" he
asked at last, seeing that Chelkash had no
intention of broaching the subject.

"Look, " and Chelkash pulled something
out of his pocket and held it out.

Gavrilla 's eyes were dazzled by the sight
'X)i so many crisp bright bank-notes.

"And here I was thinking you had lied
to me! How much is it?"

"Five hundred and forty."

"Phe-e-w!" gasped Gavrilla, following the
course of the notes back to the pocket with
greedy eyes. "God! If only I had that much
money!" and he gave a doleful sigh.

"You and me '11 go on a big spree, mate,"
cried Chelkash ecstatically. "We'll paint
the town red. You'll get your share, neveT

f70

6

fear. Г И give you forty. That enough, eh? ^
Give it straight away if you want me to." ;^'

"All right, I'll take it if you don't mind. " (

Gavrilla was shaking with anticipation.

"Ekh, you scarecrow^ you! *Г11 take it!'
Here, go ahead and take it. Take it, damn
it all. I don't know what to do with so much
money. Do me a favour and take some of
it off my hands."

Chelkash held out several notes to Gavrilla,
who let go of the oars to clutch them in trem-
bling fingers and thrust them inside his shirt,
screwing up his eyes as he did so and taking
in great gulps of air as if he had just scalded
his throat. Chelkash watched him, a squeam-
ish smile on his lips. Once more Gavrilla
picked up the oars and began to row nerv-
ously, hurriedly, with his eyes cast down,
like a man who has just had a bad fright.
His shoulders and ears were twitching.

"You're a greedy bloke. That's no good.
But what's to be expected? — you're a peas-
ant," mused Chelkash.

"A man can do anything with money!" I
exclaimed Gavrilla in a sudden flare of ex- (
citement. And then hurriedlv, incoherentJv,

77/

chasing his thoughts and catching his words
on the fly, he drew the contrast between
life in the village with money and without it.
Honour, comfort, pleasure!

Chelkash followed him attentively, his
face grave, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
From time to time he would give a pleased
smile.

"Here we are!" he interrupted Gavrilla's
tirade.

The boat was caught on a wave that drove
it into the sand.

"Well, this is the end. But w^e4^e got to
pull the boat up good and high so that it
don't get washed away. Some people will
come for it. And noAv it's good-bye. We're
about ten versts from town. You going back
to town?"

Chelkash 's face was beaming with a sly
and good-natured smile, as if he were con-
templating something very pleasant for him-
self and very unexpected for Gavrilla. He
thrust his hand into his pocket and rustled
the notes there.

"No— I'm not going. I'm— I'm— " Gav-
rilla stammered as if choking.

172

Chelkash looked at him.

"What's eating you?" he said.

"Nothing." But Gavrilla's face turned
first red, then grey, and he kept shifting on
his feet as if he Avanted to throw himself
at Chelkash or do something else of insuper-
able difficulty.

Chelkash was nonplussed by the boy's
agitation. He waited to see what would
come of it.

Gavrilla broke into laughter that sounded
more like sobbing. His head was hanging,
so that Chelkash could not see the expres-
sion of his face, but he could see his ears going
from red to white.

"To hell with you," said Chelkash with
a disgusted wave of his hand. "Are you in
love with me, or what? Squirming like a
girl. Or maybe you can't bear to part with
me? Speak up, spineless, or I'll just walk off. "

"You'll walk off?" shrieked Gavrilla.

The deserted beach trembled at the shriek,
and the ripples of yellow sand made up by
the washing of the waves seemed to heave.
Chelkash himself started. All of a sudden
Gavrilla rushed towards Chelkash, threw

173

himself at his feet, seized him round the
knees and gave him a tug. Chelkash staggered
and sat down heavily in the sand; clench-
ing his teeth, he swung up his long arm
with the hand closed in a tight fist. But the
blow was intercepted by Gavrilla's plead-
ings, uttered in a cringing whisper:
{\ "Give me that money, there's a good fel-

i low! For the love of Christ give it to me.
What do you need with it? Look, in just one
night — in one single night! And it would
take me years and years. Give it to me. I'll
pray for you. All my life. In three churches.
For the salvation of your soul. You'll only
throw it to the winds, while I? I'll put it
in the land. Give it to me! What is it to
I you? It comes so easy. One night, and you're
I a rich man. Do a good deed once in your life.
After all, you're a lost soul; there's nothing
ahead of you. And I'd — oh what wouldn't
I do with it! Give it to me!"

Chelkash — frightened, dumbfounded, infu-
riated— sat in the sand leaning back on
his elbows; sat without a word, his eyes
boring into this boy whose head was pressed
against his knees as he gasped out his plea.

f74

At last Chelkash jumped to his feet, thrust
his hand into his pocket and threw the notes
at Gavrilla.

"Here, lick it up!" he cried, trembling
with excitement, with pity and loathing
for this greedy slave. He felt heroic when he
had tossed him the money.

"I was going to give you more anyway.
Went soft last night thinking of my own
village. Thought to myself: Г 11 help the
lad. But I Avaited to see if you'd ask for
it. And you did, you milksop, you beggar,
you. Is it worth tormenting yourself like
that for money? Fool. Greedy devils. No
pride. They'd sell themselves for five ko-
peks."

"May Christ watch over you! What's
this I've got? Why, I'm a rich man now!"
squealed Gavrilla, twitching all over in ec-
stasy and hiding the money inside his shirt.
"Bless you, my friend. I'll never forget you.
Never. And Г 11 have my wife and children
say prayers for you, too."

As Chelkash heard his joyful squeals and
looked at his beaming face distorted by this
paroxysm of greed, he realized that, thief

175

and drunk that he was, he would never stoop
so low, would never be so grasping, so lack-
ing in self-pride. Never, never! And this
thought and this feeling, filling him with
a sense of his own freedom, made him linger
there beside Gavrilla on the shore of the sea.

"You've made me a present of happiness,"
cried Gavrilla, snatching Chelkash's hand
and pressing it against his own face.

Chelkash bared his teeth like a wolf but
said nothing.

"And just to think what I almost did!"
went on Gavrilla. "On the way here I thought
— to myself — I'll hit him — you, that is —
over the head — with an oar — bang! — take
the money — and throw him — you, that is —
overboard. Who'd ever miss him? And if
they found his body — nobody 'd bother to find
out who did it and how. He's not worth mak-
ing a fuss over. Nobody needs him. Nobody 'd
go to the trouble. "

"Hand over that money!" roared Chel-
kash, seizing Gavrilla by the throat.

Gavrilla wrenched away once, twice, but
Chelkash's arm wound about him like a
snake. The sound of a shirt ripping, and —

176

there Avas Gavrilla flat on his back in the
sand, his eyes popping out of his head,
his fingers clutching the air, his feet kick-
ing helplessly. Chelkash stood over him
lean, erect, hawk-like, his teeth bared as
he gave a hard dry laugh, his whiskers
twitching nervously on his sharp bony face.
Never in all his life had he been wounded
so cruelly, and never had he been so
furious.

"Well, are you happy now?" he laughed,
then turned on his heel and set off in the di-
rection of the town. Before he had gone five
steps Gavrilla arched himself like a cat,
sprang to his feet, swung out with his arm
and hurled a big stone at him.

"Take that!"

Chelkash let out a grunt, put his hands to
his head, staggered forward, turned round to
Gavrilla, and fell on his face in the sand. Gav-
rilla was frozen with fear. Chelkash moved
one leg, tried to lift his head, stretched out,
trembling like a harp string. Then Gavrilla
ran for all he was worth, ran out into the
dark space where a shaggy black cloud was
hanging over the fog-enshrouded steppe. The

12—327 177

waves rustled as they scurried up the sand,
mingled with the sand for a brief moment,
scurried back again. The foam hissed and
the air was filled with spray.

It began to rain. At first it came down
in single drops, but soon turned into a torrent
that came pouring out of the sky in thin
streams. These streams wove a net of watery
threads that enveloped the whole expanse
of the steppe, the whole expanse of the sea.
Gavrilla was swallowed up in it. For a long
time nothing was to be seen but the rain and
the long figure of the man laying in the sand
at the edge of the sea. Then Gavrilla came
swooping like a bird out of the darkness.
When he reached Chelkash he fell on his
knees beside him and tried to lift him up.
His hand came in contact with something
warm and red and sticky. He shuddered
and started back, with a wild expression
on his white face.

"Get up, brother, get up!" he whispered
in Chelkash 's ear above the noise of the
rain.

Chelkash opened his eyes and gave Gavrilla
a little push.

178

"Go away, " he whispered hoarsely.

"Brother! Forgive me! It was the devil's
doings," whispered Gavrilla trembling as
he kissed Chelkash's hand.

"Go away. Leave me."

"Take this sin off my soul. Forgive me,
brother."

"Away! Go away! Go to hell!" Chelkash
suddenly cried out and sat up in the sand.
His face was white and angry, his eyes w^ere
hazy and kept closing as if he were sleepy.
"What else do you want? You've done what
you wanted to do. Go away. Get out!" He
tried to give the grief-stricken Gavrilla a
kick, but he could not and would have col-
lapsed again had not Gavrilla put an arm
round his shoulders. Chelkash's face was on )^ ^v
a level with Gavrilla's. Both faces were f ^^^^"^^
white and dreadful to see.

"Bah!" And Chelkash spat into the wide-
open eyes of his assistant.

Gavrilla humbly wiped his face on his
sleeve.

"Do what you want to me," he whispered.
"I won't say a word. Forgive me, in the
name of Christ."

12* 179

"Scum. СапЧ even do your dirty work
like a man, " cried Chelkash scathingly as
he slipped his hand inside his jacket and
ripped off a piece of shirt with which he si-
lently bound his head, grinding his teeth
from time to time. "Have you taken the
money?" he asked through his teeth.

"I haven't, brother. And I won't. I don't
want it. Nothing but bad luck comes of it. "

Chelkash thrust his hand into a pocket of

his jacket, pulled out the pile of notes,

peeled off a hundred-ruble one, put it

\ back into his pocket, and threw the rest at

Gavrilla.

"Take it and go away."

"I won't, brother. I can't. Forgive me
what I've done."

"Take it, I say," roared Chelkash, roll-
ing his eyes fearfully.

"Forgive me. I can't take it if you don't,"
said Gavrilla humbly, falling at Chelkash 's
feet in the rain-drenched sand.

"That's a lie. You will take it, you scum,"
said Chelkash with conviction. Pulling up
his companion's head by the hair, he thrust
the money under his nose.

180

"Take it. Take it. You didn't work for
nothing. Don't be afraid, take it. And don't
be ashamed that you almost killed a man.
Nobody would hunt you down for killing
a man like me. They'd even say thank you
if they found out. Here, take it."

Seeing that Chelkash was laughing, Gav-
rilla's heart grew lighter. He clutched the
money.

"And do you forgive me, brother? Don't
you want to do that for me?" he begged
tearfully.

"My beloved friend," replied Chelkash
in the same vein, as he got up and stood
swaying on his feet. "What's there to for-
give? Nothing to forgive. Today you get
me; tomorrow I get you. "

"Ah brother, brother," sighed Gavrilla
disconsolately, shaking his head.

Chelkash stood in front of him with an
odd smile on his face. The rag on his head,
which had gradually been getting redder,
resembled a Turkish fez.

The rain had become a downpour. The sea
gave a low roar, the Avaves hurled themselves
savagely at the shore.

181

The two men were silent.

"Well, good-bye," said Chelkash mocking-
ly as he turned to go.

He staggered, his legs were shaking, and he
held his head as if afraid of losing it.

"Forgive me, brother," pleaded Gavrilla
once more.

"That's all right," said Chelkash coldly,
setting off.

He stumbled away, holding his head with
his left hand, pulling gently at his dark
moustache with his right.

Gavrilla stood watching him until he disap-
peared in the rain which kept coming down
in fine endless streams, enveloping the steppe
in impenetrable steel-grey gloom.

Then he took off his wet cap, crossed him-
self, looked at the money in his hand,
heaved a deep sigh of relief, hid the money in
his shirt, and strode off firmly down the
shore in the opposite direction to that taken
by Chelkash.

The sea growled as it hurled its huge waves
on the sand, smashing them to foam and
spray. The rain lashed at the water and the
land. The wind howled. The air was filled

182

with a roar, a howl, a murmur. The rain
cut off sight of sea and sky.

Soon the rain and the spray washed away
the red spot on the sand where Chelkash
had lain, washed away the footsteps of
Chelkash, washed away the footsteps of the
youth who had walked so bravely down the
beach. And not a sign was left on this desert-
ed shore to testify to the little drama en-
acted here by these two men.

1894

^с^»э

ABOUT А LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL
WHO DID NOT FREEZE TO DEATH

A Christmas Story

It has become the custom to freeze a number
of little boys and girls to death once a year
in Christmas stories. The little poor boy or
the little poor girl of a respectable Christmas
story ordinarily stands gazing through the
window of a mansion admiring the Christ-
mas-tree blazing in the splendid drawing-
room, and then freezes to death, bitter and
despairing.

I appreciate the good intentions of the
authors, despite the cruel manner in which
they despatch with their little heroes and
heroines; I know that the authors freeze
these little poor children to remind little

184

rich children of their existence, but as for
me, I could not bring myself to freeze a little
poor boy or a little poor girl to death even
for such a noble purpose.

I myself have never frozen to death and
have never witnessed the freezing to death
of a little poor boy or girl, and therefore I am
afraid I might make myself ridiculous if
I attempted to describe the sensation of
freezing to death. And besides, it seems a bit
preposterous to kill off one living creature
just to remind another living creature of
his existence.

And that is why I prefer to tell a story
about a little boy and a little girl who did
not freeze to death.

It was six o'clock of a Christmas Eve.
The wind was blowing, raising up clouds
of snow. These cold diaphanous clouds, light
and graceful as crushed gauze, Avhirled about
everywhere; they whisked across the faces
of passers-by, pricking the cheeks like needles
of ice, and sprinkled the heads of the
horses with snow. The horses bobbed their
heads and neighed loudly, blowing clouds
of steam out of their nostrils. A covering of

185

hoar-frost turned wires into white plush
cords. The sky was clear and full of stars.
They shone so brightly it seemed as if
someone had used brass-polish on them for
the occasion, which was hardly probable.

The streets were crowded and noisy. Horses
pranced down the roadway, people walked
along the pavements, some of them hur-
riedly, others unhurriedly: the former hur-
ried because they had cares and responsibil-
ities and did not have warm coats; the latter
dawdled because they did not have cares
or responsibilities and did have warm coats,
even fur coats.

It was to one of these people who did not
have cares but who did have a fur coat, and
one with a very handsome collar — it was
straight under the feet of this gentleman,
who was walking along very properly, that
two little balls of rags and tatters rolled,
and at the same time two little voices were
heard.

"Kind sir . . . " piped the voice of a little
girl.

"Most honoured gentleman ..." chimed
in the voice of a little boy.

186

1

"Could you spare a mite for us poor
'uns?"

"A kopek for bread. For the holiday, "
they ended in chorus.

They were my hero and heroine — little poor
children; the boy was named Mishka Pryshch,
the girl Katka Ryabaya.

Since the gentleman did not stop, the
children kept diving under his feet and cross-
ing in front of him, while Katka, breath-
less with expectation, whispered: "Just a
mite, just a mite," and Mishka did his best
to get in the gentleman's way.

And when the gentleman had had just about
all he could take of this, he threw open his
fur coat, pulled out his purse, held it up to
his nose and breathed into it snuffily as he
extracted a coin, which he thrust into one
of the very small and exceedingly dirty hands
outstretched to him.

In a trice the two balls of rags had rolled
out of the gentleman's path and come to rest
in a gateway, where they stood clinging to
each other for a while and glancing silently
up and down the street.

"Didn't see us, the old devil," whispered

187

the little poor boy in a tone of malicious
triumph.

"He's gone to the izvozchiks round the
corner, " explained the girl. ''How much did
he give, that swell?"

'Ten kopeks," said Mishka indifferently.

"So how much does that make?"

"Seven tens and seven kopeks."

"That much? Then we'll go home soon,
won't we? It's cold."

"Plenty of time for that," said Mishka
discouragingly. "See you don't work too
open. If the copper sees you he'll take you
in and give you a clipping. Here comes a
barge. Let's go!"

The barge was a fat woman in a fur cloak,
which shows that Mishka was a very naughty
boy, very coarse and disrespectful to his
elders.

"Kind lady. . ." he wailed.

"In the name of the Virgin ..." put in
Katka.

"Pshaw! She couldn't squeeze out more
than three kopeks, the damned old sow, "
swore Mishka, and made another dash for
the gateway.

188

The snow still swept up and down the
street and the wind grew sharper. The tele-
graph wires hummed, the snow creaked be-
neath the runners of the sleighs, and from
somewhere far down the street came a wom-
an's ringing laughter.

"Think Aunt Anfisa will get drunk again
tonight?" asked Katka, pressing closer to
her companion.

"I s'pose so. What's to keep her from
drinking? She will," replied Mishka defi-
nitely.

The wind blew the snow off the roofs and
began to whistle a Christmas tune. A door-
weight banged. It was followed by the slam-
ming of glass doors, and a deep voice
called out:

"Izvozchik!"

"Let's go home," said Katka.

"The old song, " snapped the long-suffer-
ing Mishka. "What makes you want to go
home? "

"It's warm there," Katka explained
briefly.

"Warm!" mocked Mishka. "And when they
all get together and make you dance, how

189

will you like that? Or pour vodka down
your throat and make you throw up like the
last time? Home? Bah!"

And he hunched his shoulders with the
air of a man who knows his worth and is
certain of the correctness of his opinions.
Katka yawned convulsively and collapsed
in a corner of the gateway.

"You just keep mum. If it's cold, grit
your teeth and bear it. It'll pass. You and
me '11 get warmed up one of these days. I know,
I do. What I want, is—"

And here he broke off to force his lady
to evince curiosity as to what he wanted.
But she only snuggled down without show-
ing the slightest curiosity. At which Mishka
warned her, somewhat anxiously:

"See you don't go to sleep! You might
freeze to death. Hey, Katka!"

"Never fear, I won't," said Katka with
chattering teeth.

Had it not been for Mishka, Katka might
indeed have frozen to death, but that know-
ing little scamp firmly resolved to prevent
her doing anything so trite on Christmas
Eve.

190

"Get up. It's worse when you're down.
When you're up you're bigger, and it's
harder for the cold to get you. Big ones are
too much for the cold. Take horses, for in-
stance. They never freeze. People are smaller
than horses, and so they're always freezing.
Get up, I tell you. When we've got a ruble
we'll call it a day."

Katka, who was shivering all over, got
up.

"It's — it's awful cold," she whispered.

It had, in fact, become extremely cold.
Gradually the clouds of snow had grown
into dense whirlwinds which here took the
form of pillars, there — of long veils studded
with diamonds. They made a pretty sight bil-
lowing above street lamps or streaming past
the brightly lit shop-windows. They sparkled
with a myriad of colours whose sharp
cold glitter hurt the eye.

But the beauty of all this did not interest
my little hero and heroine.

"Oho!" said Mishka, thrusting his nose
out of his hole. "Here comes a whole flock!
Up and at them, Katka!"

"Kind gentleman..." wailed the little

191

girl in a tremulous voice as she darted out
into the street.

"The least little mite, mister, " pleaded
Mishka, and then, shouting: "Run, Katka!"

"The imps! Just let me lay hands on you!"
sputtered a tall policeman who suddenly
appeared on the pavement.

But they were not to be seen. The two
shaggy balls had rolled swiftly out of sight.

"Gone, the little devils," snorted the po-
liceman, and smiled good-naturedly as he
gazed down the street.

The little devils were running and laughing
for all they were worth. Katka kept catching
her foot in her rags and falling down.

"Heavens, down again!" she would say
as she struggled to her feet and looked be-
hind her fearfully, laughing in spite of her-
self. "Where is he?"

Mishka, holding his sides with laughter,
kept lunging into passers-by, an offence which
earned him not a few smart fillips.

"Stop it . . . devil take you . . . just look
at her! You simpleton, you! Whoop, there
she goes again! Was there ever anything so
funny? "

192

Katka's falls put him in high spirits.

''He'll never catch us now, we can slow
down. He's not a bad sort. That other one,
the one that whistled — once 1 was running,
and all of a sudden — smack! straight into
the belly of the night watchman! Whacked
my head against his rattle."

"I remember. Got a lump this big, " and
Katka broke into another peal of laughter.

"All right, that's enough," Mishka inter-
rupted soberly. "Listen to what I have to
say."

They walked along side by side looking
grave and anxious.

"I lied to you back there. That swell
slipped me twenty kopeks, not ten. And I lied
before that, too. So that you wouldn't say
it was time to go home. Today's been a good
day. Know how much we took in? A ruble
and five kopeks. That's a lot!"

"Isn't it," breathed Katka. "You could
almost buy a pair of boots with that much —
at the second-hand market."

"Boots, humph! I'll steal you a pair of
boots. Just wait a bit. I've had my eye on
a certain pair for some time. Just wail,

13—327 193

ГЦ snitch them. But here's what: let's go
to a pub now, shall we?"

"Auntie 41 find out again and give it to
us — like she did that other time," said Katka
apprehensively, but her tone belied an incli-
nation to succiunb to the temptation of warm-
ing herself in a pub.

"Give it to us? No, she won't. We'll find
a pub, you and me, where not a living soul
will know who we are."

"Will we?" whispered Katka hopefully.

"So here's what we'll do: first and fore-
most we'll buy half a pound of sausage —
eight kopeks; a pound of Avhite bread —
five kopeks. That makes thirteen. Then
we'll buy two sweet buns for three kopeks
each — six kopeks; that's nineteen. Then
a pot of tea — six; there's a quarter for you.
Think of that! And we'll have left—"

Mishka faltered and giew silent. Katka
gave him a grave, questioaing look.

"That's an awful lot to spend" she ven-
tured mildly.

"Shut up. Wait. It's not so much. In fact,
it's very little. We'll eat another eight
kopeks' worth. Thirty-three in all. If we

194

do it at all, we may as well do it right. It's
Christmas, isn't it? So we'll have left . . .
if it's a quarter of a ruble . . . eight ten-
kopek pieces . . . and if it's thirty-three . . .
seven ten-kopek pieces and something left
over. See how much? What more can she
expect, the damned old witch! Come along!
Make it quick!"

Hand in hand, they went hopping and
skipping along the pavement. The snow blew
into their eyes and blinded them. Now and
again a cloud of snow would swoop down
upon them and wrap both their little forms
in a transparent sheet that they quickly
rent in their dash for food and warmth.

"Listen," gasped Katka, out of breath
from rushing so, "I don't care what you
think . . . but if she finds out ... I'll say
it was ... all your doing. I don't care. You
always run away . . . and I have to take it
. . . she always catches me . . . and beats
me worse than you. That's what I'll say,
mind."

"Go ahead and say it," nodded Mishka.
"If she licks me . . . I'll get over it. Go
ahead. . . . Say it if you want to."

13» /95

He was feeling very gallant, and walked
along whistling, his head thrown back. He
had a thin face with roguish eyes that usually
wore an expression too old for his age; his
nose was sharp and slightly curved.

"Here's the pub. Even tw^o. Which shall
it be?"

"The little one. But first to the grocer's.
C'mon!"

When they had bought all the food they
wanted, they went into the little pub.

It was full of smoke and steam and a heavy
sour smell. Tramps, izvozchiks and soldiers
were sitting in the murky shadows, while
superbly filthy waiters moved among the
tables. Everything in the place seemed to
be shouting, singing, and swearing.

Mishka spied an empty table in the cor-
ner, nimbly made his way to it, took his
coat off, then went to the bar. Casting shy
glances about her, Katka, too, began to take
off her coat.

"May I have some tea, mister?" said Mishka
to the man, beating lightly with his fists on
the counter.

196

"Tea? Quite. Help yourself. And go and
fetch some hot water. Mind you don't break
anything. Г 11 teach you a thing or two if
you do."

But Mishka had run off for the wa-
ter.

Two minutes later he was sitting gravely
beside his girl, rolling himself a cigarette
with the air of a drayman who has put in
a good day's work. Katka was looking at
him admiringly, aAved by the easy grace
with which he deported himself in public.
For the life of her she could not feel at ease
amid the deafening roar of the pub, and the
least of her fears was that at any moment
they would be "thrown out on their ear."
But she would not for the world have had
Mishka guess her thoughts, and so she patted
down her tow-coloured hair and tried to
look about her very simply and unaffectedly.
The effort to do so brought floods of colour
to her smudged cheeks, and she screwed up
her blue eyes to hide her embarrassment.
Meanwhile, Mishka instructed her solemnly,
trying to imitate the tone and phraseology
of a yard porter named Signei, whom he

197

found to be a very impressive person, even
if he was a drunk, and had just spent three
months in jail for stealing.

"So let's say, for example, you're begging.
How do you go about begging? It's no damn
good just saying, 'Be so kind, be so kind.'
That's no way. What you've got to do is
get under the bloke's feet — make him afraid
he'll fall over you."

"I'll do it," agreed Katka meekly.

"Good," said her companion with an ap-
proving nod. "That's the thing. And then
take Aunt Anfisa for example. What's Aunt
Anfisa? First of all, she's a sot. And be-
sides. ..."

And Misha announced with commendable
frankness just what Aunt Anfisa was besides.

Katka nodded her head, fully agreeing
with his appraisal of their aunt.

"You don't obey her, and that's not right.
You ought to say, for instance, *Г11 be a
good girl, Auntie, Г 11 mind what you say. . . .*
In other words, give her a lot of soft soap,
and then do what you please. That's the
way."

!9Я

Mishka fell silent and scratched his sto-
mach impressively, as Signei always did
when he had delivered himself of a speech.
Since no other topic presented itself, he
gave a little toss of his head and said:

"Well, let's oat."

"Let's," nodtled Katka, who for some
time had been eying the bread and sausage
hungrily.

And they began to eat their supper in the
damp smelly obscurity of the ill-lighted pub,
to the accompaniment of bawdy songs and
coarse oaths. Both of them ate with feeling,
with discrimination, with little pauses, like
true Epicureans. And if Katka, losing her
sense of propriety, greedily took a bite that
made hor cheek stick out and her eyes pop
comically, the staid Mishka would remark
indulgently:

"Rushing ah3ad there, aren't you, lady?'*

At which she would almost choke in
her haste to swallow down the unseemly
bite.

And that is the end of my story. I have
not the slightest qualms about leaving these
children to wind up their Christmas Eve,

199

You can be quite sure there is no danger
of their freezing to death. They are in their
element. Why in the world should I make
them freeze to death?

I find it the height of folly to freeze chil-
dren to death who are sure to meet their doom
in a way that is much more simple and or-
dinary.

1894

SONG OF THE FALCON

The boundless sea, lapping lazily where the
shore-line ran, slumbering motionless in
the distance, was steeped in blue moon-
light. Soft and silvery, it merged at the ho-
rizon with the blue of the southern sky and
slept soundly, mirroring the transparent fab-
ric of fleecy clouds that also hung motion-
less, veiling, but not concealing, the golden
tracery of the stars. The sky seemed to be
bending down to the sea, trying to catch
what the restless waves were whispering as
they washed languidly over the shore.

The mountains, covered with wind-broken
trees, hurled their jagged peaks into the
blue wastes above, where their harsh

201

contours were softened by the warm and
caressing darkness of the southern night.

The mountains were gravely contempla-
tive. Their dark shadows lay like confining
garments upon the surging green waves,
as if they wished to stay the tide, to silence
the ceaseless plashing of the water, the sigh-
ing of the foam— all sounds violating the
mysterious silence which flooded the scene,
as did the silvery blue radiance of a moon
not yet emerged from behind mountain peaks.

"Al-lah ak-bar!" came softly from the
lips of Nadir Ragim ogly, an aged Crimean
herdsman — tall, white-haired, tanned by
southern sun — a lean and wise old man.

He and I were lying in the sand beside a
huge rock draped in shadow and overgrown
by moss — a sad and sombre rock that had
broken away from its native mountain. One
side of it was festooned with seaweed and wa-
ter plants which seemed to bind it to the
narrow strip of sand between sea and moun-
tains. The flames of our camp-fire lighted
the shore-side, and their flicker sent shadows
dancing upon its ancient surface, scarred by
a network of deep cracks.

XQ^

Ragim and I were boiling some fish we
had just caught, and we were both in a mood
that made everything seem lucid, inspired,
accessible to the understanding; our hearts
were light and innocent and the only thing
we wanted to do was lie here and
dream.

The sea lapped at the shore, the sound
of the waves so gentle that they seemed
begging to warm themselves at our fire.
Now and then the even hum of the surf was
interrupted by a higher and more playful
note: that would be one of the bolder waves
creeping to our very feet.

Ragim lay facing the sea, his elbows dug
into the sand, his head in his hands, gazing
thoughtfully into the shadowy distance. His
sheepskin hat had slipped to the back of
his head, and a fresh sea breeze fanned his
high forehead covered with fine lines. He
made philosophical observations, unconcerned
as to whether I listened or not, as if he were
talking to the sea.

"A man who serves God faithfully goes to
heaven. And one who does not serve God
or the Prophet? Maybe he's out there — in

7ПЗ

that foam. Maybe those silver spots on the
water are him. Who knows?"

The dark and heaving sea grew brighter,
and patches of moonlight were scattered
haphazardly over its surface. The moon had
slipped out from behind the shaggy moun-
tain-tops and was now dreamily pouring
its radiance on the shore, on the rock beside
which we were lying, and on the sea, which
rose to meet it with a little sigh.

"Ragim, tell me a story," I said to the
old man.

"What for?" he asked, without turning
his head.

"Oh, just because I enjoy listening to your
stories."

"I've told you all of them. I don't know
any more."

He wanted to be coaxed, and I coaxed
him.

"If you want me to, I'll sing you a song,"
he consented.

I was only too glad to listen to one of his
old songs, and so he began reciting in a sing-
song voice, trying to preserve the cadence
of the ancient melody.

204

I

High in the mountains crawled a Snake,
and it came to rest in a misty gorge looking
down on the sea.

High in the sky shone the sun, and the
breath of the mountains rose hot in the sky,
and the waves down below broke loud on
the rocks.

And sAvift through the gorge, through the
darkness and mist, flowed a river, up-turn-
ing the stones in its rush to the sea.

Crested with foam, vigorous, hoary, it
cut through the rook and plunged to the sea
with an angry roar.

Suddenly a Falcon with blood on its wings
and a wound in its breast fell out of the sky,
fell into the gorge where the Snake lay coiled.

It uttered a cry as it struck the earth and
lay beating its wings on the rock in despair.

The Snake was frightened and darted away,
but soon it saw that the bird was doomed,
that the bird would die in a minute or
two.

So back it crawled to the wounded bird
and tauntingly hissed in its ear:

205

"So soon must thou die?"

"So soon must I die, " said the Falcon,
sighing. "But oh, I have lived! I have tasted
of happiness, fought a good fight! I have
soared in the sky! Never shalt thou, poor
thing, see the sky as have I!"

"The sky? What is that? Why, nothing
at all. Could I crawl in the sky? Far better
this gorge— so warm and so damp."

Thus said the Snake to the Falcon, the
lover of freedom. And it laughed in its heart
at the Falcon's brave words.

And it thought to itself: what matters it
whether one flies or one crawls? The end is
the same: all will lie in the earth, all to
dust will return.

Of a sudden the Falcon up-lifted its head
and swept the dark gorge with a lowering
glance.

Water came oozing from cracks in the rock,
and the air of the gorge smelt of death and
decay.

With a mighty effort the Falcon cried out
in sorrow and longing:

"Ah, to soar in the sky, to soar once
again!. . . I would capture the foe . . . crush

206

his head to my breast . . . make him choke
on my blood. . . . Oh, the joy of the ctrug-

gle!" - -

Thought the Snake: it must really be fine to
live in the sky if it wrings such a cry from
the Falcon!

And it said to the Falcon, the lover of
freedom: "Crawl out to the cliff's edge and
throw thyself over. Perhaps thy wings will
carry thee still, and again thou shalt soar
in the sky."

A tremor passed over the Falcon. It gave
a proud cry and crawled out on the cliff,
seeking a hold in the slime.

And on reaching the edge it spread wide
its wings, drew a deep breath, and, with a
flash of its eyes, plunged into space.

Swift as a stone fell the Falcon, scattering
feathers, tearing its wings as it fell.

A wave caught it up, washed it of blood,
wrapped it in foam, and carried it down
to the sea.

Mournful the cry of the waves of the sea
as they broke on the face of the cliff. And
gone was the bird — lost to sight in the vast
expanse of the sea.

207

II

For long the Snake lay coiled in the gorge,
pondering the death of the bird, pondering its
love of the sky.

And it glanced into space, where dreams are
born to comfort the restless heart.

"What did it see, that hapless Falcon,
in emptiness — space without end? Why should
such birds rob others of peace with their
passion for soaring? What is revealed in
the sky? All this can I learn in a single flight,
be it ever so brief."

Thus having spoken, it coiled itself tighter,
leaped into space, and flashed, a dark streak,
in the sun.

But never shall those born to crawl, learn
to fly. Down on the rocks fell the Snake, but
not to its death did it fall. It laughed, and
it said:

"So this is the joy of the flight: the joy of
the fall! Oh, foolish birds! Unhappy on
earth, which they know not, they would climb
to the sky and live in its throbbing expanses.
But what is the sky but an emptiness? Light
in abundance, but nothing to sustain the

208

body. Why, then, such pride? And why such
contempt? To hide from the world their
mad aspirations, their failure to cope with
the business of life? Ridiculous birds! Never
again will your words deceive me. For now I
know all. 1 have seen the sky. I have mounted,
explored it; and out of the sky have I fallen,
though not to my death. All the stronger has
grown my faith in myself. Let them live
with illusions who love not the earth. I
have found out the truth. Never again shall
I heed the birds' challenge. Born of the
earth, I am earthly."

So saying, it coiled on a stone, full of
pride in itself.

The sea was shining, a dazzle of light,
and fiercely the waves beat the shore.

In their leonine roar rang the song of the
Falcon. Trembled the rocks from the blows
of the sea; trembled the sky from the notes
of the song:

"We sing a song to the madness of daring!

"The madness of daring is the wisdom of
life. Oh, Falcon undaunted! Thou hast shed
precious blood in the fight with the foe,
but the time will yet come when the drops

14—327 209

of thy blood will glow like sparks in the
gloom of life and fire brave hearts with love
of freedom and light.

"Thou hast paid with thy life. But thou
shall live on in the songs of the brave, a
proud challenge to struggle for freedom and
light!

"We sing a song to the madness of daring!"

. . . Silent are the opalescent reaches of
the sea. Softly sing the waves lapping the
shore, and I, too, am silent as I gaze into
the distance. Now there are more silvery
patches of moonlight on the water. . . . Our
kettle is himiming quietly.

One of the waves outdistances its brothers
and gives a mocking little cry as it reaches
for Ragim's head.

"Get back! Where do you think you're
going?" cries Ragim, waving his hand, and
the wave rolls back obediently.

I find nothing funny or startling in Ra-
gim's personification of the wave. Every-
thing about us is exceptionally alive,
gentle and soothing. The sea is calm, and
one feels power in the cool breath it wafts

210

towards mountain peaks still charged with
the heat of the day. In golden letters upon
the dark blue background of the sky the
stars have traced a solemn message, some-
thing enchanting the soul and disturbing the
mind with the sweet expectation of a reve-
lation.

Everything is drowsing, but with tense
awareness, as if in another moment all objects
would shake off their slumber and lift their
voices in a choir of unutterably sweet har-
mony. This harmony would speak of the
mysteries of life, would explain them to the
mind and then extinguish the mind like a
phantom flame and whisk the soul up into
the blue spaces of the night where the deli-
cate tracery of the stars sings the same di-
vine music of revelation.

1895

14'

■€■-€■■<>>»

EXPOSURE

Down the village street, past its white
clay huts, moved a crowd of people shouting
loudly.

The procession moved slowly, like an
enormous wave, and in front of it walked
a mangy horse with drooping head. When-
ever it lifted a front leg it bobbed its head
as if about to fall forward and bury its nose
in the dust of the road, and when it moved
a back leg its hind-quarters sagged as if about
to collapse.

A young woman scarcely out of her teens,
very small and stark naked, was tied by the
wrists to the dashboard of the cart. She
walked sidewise, her knees trembling and
threatening to give way under her; her head,

212

covered with dishevelled dark hair, was
tipped upwards and her wide-open eyes
gazed into space with a blank inhuman
stare. Her body was striped and dotted with
black-and-blue marks; her firm maiden-like
left breast had been gashed, and blood was
streaming from it. The blood formed a red
line passing over her stomach and down
her left leg to the knee, and the calves of
her slender legs were caked with dust. It
was as if a long narrow ribbon of skin had
been stripped off the woman's body. And
no doubt her belly had been beaten with
a club or trampled on by booted feet, so
horribly swollen and discoloured was it.

The woman could hardly drag one foot
after the other through the grey dust; her
whole body was twisted, and one Avondered
how her legs which, like her body, were cov-
ered with bruises, could support her;
how she kept from falling down and being
dragged over the ground by the arms.

A tall muzhik was standing in the cart.
He was wearing a white Russian blouse and
a black Astrakhan hat, from under which
a lock of bricrht red hair hung down over

213

his forehead. In one hand he held the reins,
in the other a whip with which he systemat-
ically struck out first at the horse, then
at the little woman who already had been
beaten beyond recognition. The man's eyes
were bloodshot and flashed with vindictive
triumph; his hair threw them into greenish
shadow. The sleeves of his blouse were rolled
up to reveal muscular arms covered with
red fuzz. His mouth was open, showing two
rows of sharp white teeth, and from time
to time he would shout hoarsely:

"Take that, you bitch! Ha-ha! And that!''
Behind the woman and the cart came the
crowd — shrieking, laughing, hooting, whistl-
ing, goading, jeering. Urchins darted here
and there. Occasionally one of them would
run ahead and shout filthy words into the
woman's face. Then a burst of laughter from
the crowd would drown out the thin whistle
of the whip through the air. The faces of the
women in the crowd wore a look of unusual
animation and their eyes sparkled with pleas-
ure. The men kept shouting obscenities to
the muzhik standing in the cart. He would
turn round to them and laugh loudly, open-

214

iiig his mouth as wide as possible. Suddenly
the whip lashed out at the woman's body.
Long and thin, it circled round her shoul-
ders and struck her under the arm. At that the
muzhik gave it a sudden jerk, and with a
shrill cry the woman fell on her back in the
dust. People from the crowd sprang forward
and hid her body from view as they bent
over her.

The horse came to a halt, but a moment
later it was plodding ahead again and the
shamed woman was walking behind it. And
as the horse moved on it kept shaking its
frowsy head, as much as to say:

"What a fate to be a horse that people can
make do any of their loathsome tasks!"

And the sky, the southern sky, was with-
out blemish. Not a sign of a cloud was to
be seen, and the sun lavishly poured its
warm rays upon the earth.

What I have written is not a picture of
retributive justice conceived by my imagi-
nation. No, unfortunately it is not some-
thing I have made up. It is called "Ex-
posure," and is a means by which husbands

215

punish unfaithful wives. Il is a picture taken
from life; it is one of our customs, and
I was witness to it on the 15th of July, 1891,
in the village of Kandybovka, Kherson
Gubernia, Nikolayevsky District.

I had heard that in the Volga region
where I come from, women who deceived
their husbands were tarred and feathered.
I knew that there had been cases of inven-
tive husbands and fathers-in-law smearing
unfaithful wives with treacle in the summer-
time and tying them to trees to be stung
and bitten by insects. I had also heard that
occasionally such women were bound and
thrown on to ant-hills.

Now the witness of my own eyes has
proved to me that such things are really
possible among ignorant, heartless people
whose dog-eat-dog way of life has turned
them into wild beasts consumed by greed
and envy.

1895

A MITE OF A GIRL

"Just a mite of a girl she was, stranger."
Every time I recall this phrase, two pairs
of old and feeble eyes smile at me through
the years — smile with a soft and tender
smile full of love and compassion; and I hear
two cracked voices impressing on me in
identical tones that she was "just a mite of
a girl."

And I am made happy and hopeful by
this remembrance, the best of all those re-
lating to those ten months I spent tramping
the winding roads of this my native land —
a land so vast and sorrowful.

On my way from Zadonsk to Voronezh
I overtook two pilgrims, an old man and an

2П

old woman. Both ot* them seemed to be over
a hundred years old, so slowly and halt-
ingly did they walk, so painfully did they
lift their feet out of the scorching dust of the
road. There was an illusive something in
their dress and their faces that led one to
assume they had come a long way.

"All the way on foot from Tobolskaya Gu-
bernia,^ with God's help," said the old man
in confirmation of my assumption.

As we walked along, the old woman looked
at me with kindly eyes that had once been
blue and added with a sigh and a benign
smile:

"All the way from the X Factory in the
village of Lysaya, my old man and me."

"Aren't you very tired?"

"Not very. We can still make our way,
still crawl on, by the grace of God."

"Did you make a vow to come, or is it
just an old-age pilgrimage?"

"We made a vow, stranger. We made a
vow to the saints of the Kiev and the So-

^ A far province in Siberia to which political pris-
oners were exiled by the tsarist government. — Tr.

218

lovki monasteries. A vow," repeated the
old man, and then, turning to his compan-
ion: "Come mother, let's sit down and
ease our bones a bit."

"Let's," said she.

And so we sat down in the shade of an
old willow growing at the side of the road.
The day was hot, the sky cloudless; before
and behind us wound the road into the heat-
hazy distance. It Avas a quiet lonely spot.
On either side of the road stretched fields of
sickly rye.

"They've sucked the earth dry," said the
old man, handing me a few stalks he had
plucked.

We talked about the earth and about the
cruel dependence of the peasants on its char-
ity. The old woman sighed as she listened
to us, and from time to time she would con-
tribute a wise and knowing word.

"If she was alive, how she would strain
her poor muscles in a field like that," said
the old woman suddenly, glancing round
at the rows of stunted, shrivelled rye and the
bald spots in the field where it did not grow
at all.

219

"Ah, yes, she would have worn herself
out," said the old man, shaking his head.

There was a pause.

"Who are you talking about?" I asked.

The old man smiled good-naturedly.

"About a certain little lass," he said.

"She was quartered on us. One of the gen-
tlefolk, " sighed the old woman.

And then they both looked at me, and as
if by mutual consent said in unison, slowly
and plaintively:

"Such a mite of a girl she was!"

The odd way in which they said it went to
my heart; the words sounded almost like a
last rite intoned by these two faltering voices.
And suddenly the old man and woman
began to talk so quickly that they fairly
took the words out of each other's mouths
and kept me, who was sitting between them,
turning my head from one to the other.

"A gendarme brought her to our village
and turned her over to the elders. ^Quarter her
on someone,' he said — "

"In other words, find her a home," ex-
plained the old man.

"And they sent her to us."

220

"You should have seen her — all red
and shivering with cold."

"Such a mite of a girl!"

"It made us cry to see her — "

"Lord, thinks us, to have sent such a one
to such a place!"

"For what reason? For what offence?"

"It's from these parts she came — "

"The west, that is—"

"We put her up on the stove-bunk
first—"

"Ours is a big stove and a warm one,"
sighed the old woman.

"And then we gave her to eat. "

"How she laughed!"

"She had shining black eyes, like a
mouse's — "

"She was like a mouse herself, so round
and smooth."

"When she felt better she began to cry.
*Thank you, dears,' she said."

"And then how she did set the house on
end!"

"How she did turn things upside down!"
laughed the old man gleefully, screwing up
his eyes.

221

"Went bouncing like a bail about our
hut — here, there, everywhere, putting this
in order, putting that in order. 'The swills,'
says she, *are to go out to the pigs/ And
she picks up the swill-tub herself, and then
she slips, and plop! in go her arms up to the
shoulder. My, oh my! What a sight!"

And both of them laughed till they coughed
and had to wipe the tears from their
eyes.

"And then the pigs — "
"Kissed them right on the snout!"
"*Out with the pigs, too!' says she. *The
hut's no place for pigs!'"

"For a whole week she made order — "
"Worked both of us to a sweat — "
"Laughing and shouting and stamping
her little feet—"

"And then all of a sudden going quiet
and solemn — "

"As if she was going to die — "
"Bursting into tears and crying as if her
heart would break. I'd fuss about her, won-
dering what could be the matter. Such a
strange thing. And I'd cry myself, cry with-
out knowing why. And I'd put my arms

222

about her and there we'd be, both of us cry-
ing our eyes out — "

"As was only natural. After all, she was
little more than a child — "

"And us all alone. One son in the army,
the other in the gold-fields — "

"And her only seventeen years old—"

"Seventeen! No one would give her more
than twelve!"

"Come now, that's stretching it a point,
father. Twelve's stretching it."

"And would you give her more? Would
you, now? "

"Why, she was a ripe little piece. As for her
being so little, is that to be held against her?"

"And am I holding it against her? Tut,
tut!"

"You're not," conceded the old woman
good-naturedly.

Their quarrel over, they both grcAv silent.

"And what happened after that?" I asked.

"After that? Why, nothing, stranger, "
sighed the old man.

"She died. Died of the fire-fever," and two
tears stole down the old woman's wrinkled
cheeks.

223

"She died, stranger; only lived with us
two years. P^verybody in the village knew
her. The village, did I say? Why, lots more
knew her. She had learning and would sit
in council with the elders. Sometimes she
spoke sharp, but nobody minded. A clever
one." •

"Ah, but it was her heart that counted.
She had the heart of an angel. There was
room in her heart for all our troubles, and
she took them all to herself. She was a lady
like any other from the town, with a velvet
jacket and ribbons and shoes, and she read
books and all that, but how she did under-
stand us peasants! She knew all there was
to know about us. *How did you learn it,
dear?' 'It's all written in the books,' she
would say. Fancy that! But why should
she have cared? She ought to have got mar-
ried and been a lady, and instead they sent
her here, and — she died."

"It was funny to see her teaching every-
body. Such a tiny little thing, and teaching
everybody so serious: you mustn't do this,
you mustn't do that — "

"Oh, she had learning, indeed she did!

224

And how she worried about everything,
about everybody! If someone was sick, off
she went to cure him; if someone was — "

"Her mind was wandering when she died;
she kept saying, *Mama, Mama,' — so plain-
tive-like. We sent for the priest, thinking
he might bring her back to us. But she
didn't wait for him, the darling; she passed
away. "

Tears streamed down the old woman's
face, and a feeling of beatitude came over
me, as if these tears were being shed for me.

"The whole village gathered at our house,
crowded into the yard, into the roadway,
saying *What? Is it possible?' They loved
her so."

"And where else could such a lass be found? "
sighed the old man.

"All the people gave her burial. And at
Shrovetide her forty days were over, and it
came to us: why should we not go on a pil-
grimage to pray for her soul? And the neigh-
bours, too, said why not indeed? Go, they said.
You are free, with no work-bonds to hold
you. Perhaps your prayers will be added to
her account. And so we went."

15—327 225

"You mean you have done this for her?"
I asked.

"For her; for that bless(id child. The dear
Lord may hear our prayers, sinners though
we be, and absolve her of sin. In the first week
of Lent we set out, on a Tuesday it was — "

"For her!" I repeated.

"For her, stranger, " said the old man.

I wanted to hear them say again and again
that it was just to pray for the soul of this
girl they had come these thousands of \ersts.
It struck me as being too wonderful to believe.
And so anxious was I to be convinced that
it was only "for her, " the little lass with the
black eyes, that they had done this marvel-
lous thing, that I suggested all sorts of other
possible motives. But to my enormous satisfac-
tion they convinced me tliere was no other.

"And have you really come all this way on
foot?"

"Oh, dear no! Sometimes we ride. Ride
for a day, then walk for a day. Labouring
along, little by little. We're too old to go
the whole way on foot. God sees how old
we are. It would be differeat if it was her feet
we walked on."

226

I

And once more they interrupted each other
in their eagerness to talk about her, a young
girl whom fate had cast on such a distant
shore, so far from home and mother, to die
of the "fire-fever. "

Two hours later we got up and went on
our way. My thoughts луеге all about this
girl, but try as I might I could not conjure
up an image of her. And it was a hurtful thing
to realize the feebleness of my imagination.

It is always hard for a Russian to imagine
the good and the beautiful. . . .

Soon we луеге overtaken by a Ukrainian
driving a cart. lie threw us a melancholy
glance and lifted his cap in response to our
bows.

"Climb in. I'll take you to the next village, "
he called to the old couple.

They climbed in and were swallowed up in
a cloud of dust. And I walked on in this cloud
with my eyes on the cart that was taking
away the old man and the old woman who had
come thousands of versts to pray for the soul
of a mite of a girl who had made them lovelier.

1895
15*

,айышт^

R С€ »

KOLUSHA

In the pauper's corner of the cemetery
among leaf -strewn, rain-washed, wind-worn
grave mounds, a woman in a worn gingham
dress and with a black shawl over her head was
sitting on one of the graves in the lacy shad-
ow cast by two sickly birches.

A strand of greying hair hung down over
one withered cheek, her fine lips were tightly
compressed and their corners drooped, form-
ing mournful lines on either side of her
mouth; the lids of her eyes, too, had the droop
that comes of much weeping and of lying
awake for long weary nights.

She sat without stirring as I stood at some
distance observing her, nor did she move
even when I drew closer; she merely raised

228

big lustreless eyes to mine and let them
fall again without showing the least curiosity,
embarrassment, or any other sentiment which
my approach might be expected to arouse.

I said a word in greeting and asked who
was buried there.

"My son," she replied with resigned indif-
ference.

"A big boy?"

"Twelve years old."

"When did he die?"

"Four years ago."

She drew a deep breath and tucked the stray
lock back under her shawl. It was a hot day.
The sun blazed mercilessly down on this city
of the dead; the scanty grass on the graves
had turned brown from heat and dust, and the
dusty scraggy trees that stuck up dismally
among the crosses were as motionless as if
they, too, were dead.

"What did he die of?" I asked, nodding
toward the boy's grave.

"Trampled to death by horses," she replied
briefly, reaching out a wrinkled hand to
stroke the grave.

"How did it happen?"

229

I knew I was showing a lack of delicacy,
but I was intrigued and irritated by this
woman's impassivity. Some inexplicable w^him
made me want to see tears in her eyes. There
was something unnatural in her indifference,
and at the same time I could see it was not
affected.

My question made her raise her eyes to
mine again. And when she had silently scru-
tinized me from head to foot she gave a little
sigh and began to tell her story in an even,
pensive voice.

"This is how it happened. His father was
in jail for a year and a half for embezzlement,
and in that time we ate up all the money
we had saved; it wasn4 much, the money
we had saved. By the time my man got out
of jail I was burning horse-radish for fire-
wood. A gardener I knew gave me a waggon-
load of spoiled horse-radish. I dried it and
burned it together with dried manure. They
smoked dreadful and made the food taste bad.
Kolusha went to school. He was a quick
lad and very thrifty. He'd always bring home
any logs or sticks he happened to find on his
way from school. It was spring, then; the snow

230

was melting and Kolusha had nothing but
felt boots to w(5ar. When he pulled them
off, his feet were as red as red. Just at that
time they let his father out of jail and brought
him home in carriage. He'd had a stroke in
jail. He lay there looking up at me with a
crooked sort of smile on his face, and I looked
down at him and thought to myself: It's you
who brought me to this, and now how am
I going to feed you? Throw you in a puddle,
that's what I'd like to do with you! But
Kolusha cried when he saw him — went white
as a sheet and great big tears ran down his
cheeks. 'What's the matter with him, Mummy?'
he asked. *He's lived his day,' I said. And
from then on things went from bad to worse.
I worked my fingers to the bone, but try as
I might I couldn't make more than twenty
kopeks, and that only on lucky days. Worse
than death it was, and I was often tempted
to lay hands on myself. Kolusha saw this
and went about in a black mood. Once when
I thought I couldn't stand it any longer I
says: *This accursed life of mine! If only I
could die, or if one of you would!' — that to
Kolusha and his father. His father just nodded

231

his head, as much as to say: I'll be going soon,
don't scold; just be patient. But Kolusha
gave me a long look and then turned and went
out of the house. As soon as he was gone I
was sorry for my words, but it was too late. Too
late. Not an hour had passed before a policeman
comes riding up. *Are you Gospozha Shishe-
nina?' he says. My heart sank. * You're want-
ed at the hospital, ' he says. * Merchant Ano-
khin's horses ran over your boy. ' I rode straight
off to the hospital. It was as if somebody had
spread hot coals on the carriage seat, and I
kept saying to myself: You wretched woman,
what have you done?

"We got there at last. Kolusha was lying
in bed all bandaged up. He smiled at me . . .
and tears rolled down his cheeks . . . and
he whispered: 'Forgive me, Mummy. The po-
liceman's got the money.' *What money are
you talking about, Kolusha?' I says. *Why,
the money the people in the street gave me,
and Anokhin, too,' he says. *What did they
give you money for?' I says. *For this,' he
says, and gives a weak little groan. His eyes
were big as saucers. * Kolusha,' I says, *how
is it you didn't see the horses coming?' And

232

then he says tome, very plain and clear: *I did
see them, Мшпту, but I didn't want to get
out of the way because I thought if they
ran over me the people would give me money.
And they did/ Those were his very words.
Then I saw everything and I understood what
he had done, my angel, but it was too late.
The next morning he died. His mind was clear
to the very end and he kept saying: *Buy
Daddy this and that, and buy something for
yourself, too. ' As if there was lots and lots
of money. There really was forty-seven
rubles. I went to merchant Anokhin, but
he only gave me five rubles and grumbled
about even that. *The boy threw himself under
the horses,' he said. *Lots of people saw it,
sp what are you coming begging for?' I never
went back. So that's how it happened, young

man."

She stopped talking and became as cold
and indifferent as before.

The cemetery was quiet and deserted; the
crosses, the sickly trees, the mounds of earth,
and this impassive woman sitting on the grave
in such a mournful attitude — all these things
made me reflect on death and human suffering.

233

But the sky was cloudless and poured a
withering heat down upon the earth.

I took some coins out of my pocket and
held them out to this woman w^ho, killed by
misfortune, still went on living.

She nodded and said with strange slowness:

"Do not trouble yourself, young man. I
have enough for today. I don't need much
any more; Vm all alone. All alone in the
world."

She gave a deep sigh and once more pressed
her thin lips into that grief-twisted line.

1895

f€€ о >Э

THE WOMAN WITH THE BLUE EYES

I

Assistant Police Officer Podshiblo, a fat
and melancholic Ukrainian, was sitting in his
office twisting his moustache and staring bale-
fully out of the window into the yard of the po-
lice-station. It was dark and stuffy in the
office and very quiet, the only sound being the
ticking of the clock pendulum as it monoto-
nously counted off the minutes. Out in the
yard it was so bright and inviting! Three
birches growing in the middle of it gave abun-
dant shade, and in this shade policeman
Kukharin, who had just come off duty, was
sleeping on a pile of hay intended for the

235

fire-horses. It was this sight that roused the
ire of Assistant Police Officer Podshiblo. His
subordinate could sleep while he, the unfor-
tunate chief, had to sit in this hole and
breathe in the smelly vapours given off by the
four stone walls! He imagined the pleasure
with which he would have slept on that fra-
grant hay in the shade of the birches if time
and position had allowed, and the thought
made him stretch and yawn and grow more
wroth than ever. He had an irresistible desire
to wake up that Kukharin.

"Hey, you! Hey, you swine! Kukharin!"
he roared.

The door opened behind him and someone
came into the office. Podshiblo went on look-
ing out of the window without turning round
and without experiencing the least curiosity
as to who had come in and was standing in
the door-way with the floor-boards creaking
under his weight. Kukharin did not so much
as stir in response to his shouts. He was sleep-
ing soundly with his hands under his head
and his beard pointing up at the sky, and
it seemed to the Assistant Police Officer that
he could hear his subordinate snoring in э

236

mocking tantalizing way that increased his
own longing for a nap and his exasperation at
not being able to take it. He felt an urge to
go down and give Kukharin a good kick in
his fat belly and then drag him by the beard
out of the shade into the blazing sun.

"Hey, you, snoozing out there! Hear me?"

"Your Honour, it's me who's on duty,"
said a soft voice behind him.

Podshiblo turned round and glared at the
policeman, who was looking at him with
blank popping eyes as he waited for orders
that would send him dashing off.

"Did I send for you?"

"No, sir."

"Did I ask for you?" Podshiblo raised his
voice and twisted round in his chair.

"No, sir."

"Then get to hell out of here before I throw
something at your head!" His left hand was
already feeling* for something on the desk and
his right had taken firm hold of the back of the
chair, but the policeman ducked through the
door and was gone. Such an exit was not to
the liking of the Assistant Police Officer,
who found it disrespectful. Furthermore, he

237

was badly in need of giving vent to the bad
temper induced by the stuffiness, the work,
the coming Fair, and many other unpleasant-
nesses that forced their way into his mind
without his asking.

"Come back!" he shouted through the door.

The policeman came back and stood stiffly
in the door-way with a look of terrified expec-
tation on his face.

"You oaf!" growled Podshiblo. "Go down
into the yard and wake up that ass of a Ku-
kharin and tell him the station yard's no place
to snore in! Get along with you!"

"Yes, sir. There's a woman asking — ^"

"What's that?"

"A woman — "

"What kind of a woman?"

"A tall one—"

"Idiot! What does she want?"

"To see you—"

"Ask her what for. Get out!"

"I did ask her. She won't tell. Says she
wants to speak to Your Honour herself."

"Damn these women! Have her come up.
Is she young?"

"Yes, sir."

238

"Well, show her up. Quick, now," said
Podshiblo in milder tones. He straightened
up and leafed through some papers on his
desk, and his glum countenance took on a
stern official look.

Behind him he heard the rustle of a woman's
skirts.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, half
turning to his client and taking her in with
a critical eye. She bowed without a word
and sailed slowly towards the desk, gazing
at the officer with grave blue eyes that looked
out from under drawn brows. She was dressed
poorly and simply, like a woman of the lower
middle class, wearing a shawl on her head
and a worn grey cape over her shoulders whose
ends she kept twisting in the slender fingers
of her pretty little hands. She was tall and
plump and full-busted, had a high forehead,
and was more grave and stern than most
women. She seemed to be about twenty-seven.
She walked slowly and thoughtfully, as if say-
ing to herself: perhaps I had better turn back.
"A fine specimen, a regular grenadier, "
thought Podshiblo as soon as he caught sight
of her. "One of your trouble-makers."

239

"I should like lo know, *' she began in a
deep rich voice and then broke off, her blue
eyes resting uncertainly on the officer's be-
whiskered face.

"Please sit down. What is it you would
like to know?" asked Podshiblo in an official
tone, thinking to himself: very nice and
juicy.

"Fve come about those cards," she said.

"Residence cards?"

"No, not those."

"Then what ones?"

"Those that — the ones that are given to—
to women, " she said falteringly, blushing crim-
son.

"What's that? What sort of women?" asked
Podshiblo, lifting his eyebrows and smiling
playfully.

"Different sorts — who walk the streets — at
night. "

"Tut, tut, tut! You mean prostitutes?"
grinned Podshiblo.

"Yes, that's what I mean." The woman
took a deep breath and smiled, too, as if it
was easier for her now that the word had been
pronounced.

240

"You don't say! Hm. Well— ^' began Pod-
shiblo, anticipating something exciting.

"It's about those cards I've come," went
on the woman, dropping on to a chair with a
sigh and giving her head an odd toss as if
someone had struck her.

"I see. So you're thinking of running
a house? Hm."

"No. I want a card for myself," and she
let her head fall very low.

"Oh. Where's your old card?" asked Pod-
shiblo as he moved his chair closer to hers
and reached out for her Avaist, one eye on the
door.

"What old card? I haven't got any." She
threw him a swift glance but did nothing to
avoid his touch.

"So you worked in secret, did you? Without
being registered? Some do so. But now you
want to be registered? That's right. Safer,"
said Podshiblo encouragingly, pressing his
attentions on her more boldly.

"I've never done it before," blurted out
the луотап, dropping her eyes.

"Really? How's that? I don't understand,"
said Podshiblo with a shrug of his shoulders.

16—327 241

"Vm just thinking of it. For the first time
I came here to the Fair, " explained the woman
softly, without raising her eyes.

"So that's it!" Podshiblo took his hand
off her waist, pushed back his chair and
leaned back, nonplussed.

Both of them were silent.

"So that's how it is. Hm. You want — hm.
It's wrong, of course. And hard. That is, you
see — But after all — well, it's very strange.
To tell you the truth, I don't see how you
can bring yourself to do it. That is, if what
you say is true."

Being an experienced police officer, he could
see it was true. She looked too wholesome
and decent to be a member of that well-
known profession. The signs of the trade
which stamp themselves on a prostitute's face
and manners, however inexperienced she is,
were not to be found on hers.

"It's true, on my honour," she said, lean-
ing towards him in a burst of confidence.
"Would I bother to lie, once I had decided
on such a wretched thing? Of course not.
But I've just got to make money. I'm a wid-
ow. My husband — he was a steamboat pilot —

242

was drowned when the ice broke last April.
Tve got two kids — a little boy of nine and
a little girl of seven. And no money. Nor
relatives. I was an orphan when I got married.
My husband's relatives live far away, but
they never liked me — they're well-off and they
look on me as a beggar. Who can I turn to?
I could go to work, of course. But I need a
lot of money, more than I could ever earn. My
boy studies at the gymnasium. I suppose I
could file a request to have him study free
of charge, but who would pay any attention
to it, coming from me, a lone woman? And he's
such a smart little fellow. It would be too bad
to take him out of school. My little girl, too —
she needs all sorts of things. As for an honest
job, there aren't many of them to be had.
And even if I did find one, how much could
I make? And what could I do? Be a cook?
I'd only make five rubles a month. Not
enough. Not nearly enough. While in this
business, if a woman's lucky she can make
enough in one go to feed her family a whole
year. One of our women made over four hun-
dred rubles at the last Fair. With that little
pile she married the forest warden and now

16* 243

she lives like a lady. Getting on fine. If it
wasn't for the shame — the disgrace. But judge
for yourself. It's fate, I guess. It's always
fate. If this idea could have taken root in
my mind, I must be meant to carry it out.
Fate put me up to it. If I make money — all
well and good; if it brings me nothing but
shame and misery — fate again. That's how
I see it."

Podshiblo grasped every word she said, for
her whole face spoke to him. At first she wore
a frightened look, but gradually it changed
to one of cold resolution.

The Assistant Police Officer felt very un-
comfortable and even a bit nervous.

Let a woman like that get hold of some
fool and she'll skin him alive and pick all
the meat off his bones, was the explanation
he gave of his apprehension, and when she
had finished he said drily:

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do
for you. Apply to the Chief of Police. That's
his business — and the Medical Commission's.
I have nothing to do with it."

He was anxious to get rid of her. She instant-
ly got up, made him a little bow and glided

244

slowly over to the door. Podshiblo watched
her go with tight lips and narrowed eyes,
and it was all he could do to keep from spit-
ting after her.

"So it's to the Chief of Police I must go?"
she asked, turning round when she got to
the door. Her blue eyes looked at him with
calm determination; a deep, hard line cut
across her forehead.

"That's right," Podshiblo hastened to reply.

"Good-bye. Thank you," and she went out.

The Assistant Police Officer put his elbows
on his desk and sat there whistling something
to himself for about ten minutes.

"The bitch, eh?" he muttered out loud
without lifting his head. "Children! What
have children got to do with it? Himaph! The
hussy ! "

And again he was silent for a long time.

"But life, too — if what she said was the
truth. It twists a person round its little fin-
ger. Hm. Very hard on a person."

After a moment's pause he summed up all
the work of his brain in a deep sigh, a snap
of his fingers, and an energetic ejacula-
tion:

245

"The slut!"

"Did you send for me?" asked the police-
man on duty, who was again in the door-way.

"Huh?"

"Did you send for me, Your Honour?"

"Get out!"

"Yes, sir."

"Idiot'" muttered Podshiblo and glanced
out of the window.

Kukharin was still sleeping on the hay;
evidently the policeman on duty had forgot-
ten to wake him up.

But the Assistant Police Officer's indigna-
tion was gone; the sight of the slumbering po-
liceman did not affect him in the least.
Something had frightened him. In his mind's
eye he kept seeing that woman's calm blue
eyes. They w^ere looking straight at him de-
terminedly, and this depressed him and made
him feel uneasy.

With a glance at the clock he tightened
his belt and walked out of the office.

"I suppose I'll see her again some time.
I'm bound to," he muttered.

246

II

And he did.

One evening as he was standing on duty
outside the Main Office, he noticed her about
five paces away. She was going towards the
Square with that same slow gliding walk.
Her blue eyes were staring straight ahead, and
there was something in her figure, so tall and
graceful; something in the movement of her
hips and bust; something in the resigned ex-
pression of her eyes that held a person off.
The deep line in her brow, which showed
too great a resignation to fate and was more
noticeable now than when he had first seen
her, spoiled her round Russian face by making
it too severe.

Podshiblo twisted his moustache, indulged
certain playful fancies, and decided not to
let her get out of sight.

"Just wait, you crocodile, you!" was the
warning he mentally shouted after her.

Five minutes later he was sitting beside
her on one of the benches in the square.

"Don't you recognize me?" ho asked with
a smile,

247

She raised her eyes and regarded him
calmly.

"Yes. How do you do," she said in a deject-
ed tone without offering him her hand.

"Well, how are things? Did you get^ your-
self a card?"

"Here it is," and she fumbled in the pocket
of her dress with that same air of resignation.

This embarrassed him.

"Oh, you don't have to show it to me,
I believe you. And besides, I have no right —
that is— how are you making out?" As soon
as he had asked the question, he said to him-
self: What the deuce do I care? x\nd why
should I beat round the bush лvith her? Come
straight out with it, Podshiblo!

But however he encouraged himself with
similar exhortations, he could not make him-
self "come straight out with it." There was
something about her that kept a person from
broaching a certain subject.

"How am I making out? Not bad, praise
the — " She broke off and turned red.

"That's very nice. Congratulations. Hard
until you get used to it I suppose, isn't it?"

Suddenly she leaned towards him, her face

248

white and twisted and her mouth round, as if she
wanted to cry out, but she drew back just as sud-
denly— drew back and assumed her old attitude.

'That's all right. Г 11 get used to it," she
said in a clear even voice, then took out her
handkerchief and blew her nose loudly.

Her proximity, her movements, and her
calm immobile blue eyes produced a sinking
sensation in the pit of Podshiblo's stomach.

In an access of annoyance, he got up and
held out his hand without a word.

"Good-bye," she said gently.

He nodded his head and walked away brisk-
ly, cursing himself for being a fool.

"Just you wait, my fine lady! Г11 show
you yet! Once you get a taste of what Гт
like you'll come down off your high horse!"
he muttered to himself. And at the same time
he realized she had done nothing to warrant
such an outburst.

And this made him angrier than ever.

Ill

One evening of the following week, as Pod-
shiblo was walking from the caravan-sarai
to the Siberian Pier, he stopped on hearing

249

oaths, women's shrieks, and other scandalous
sounds coming from the window of a tavern.

"Help! Police!" gasped a woman. He heard
some frightful clanking blows, the bumping
of furniture, and a man's deep voice that
drowned out all other sounds:

"That's it! Give it to her again, straight in
the snout!" he shouted enthusiastically.

The Assistant Police Officer ran quickly up
the stairs, pushed his way through the onlook-
ers clustered about the tavern door, and
beheld the following sight: his acquaintance
of the blue eyes was lying across a table and
holding another woman by the hair with her
left hand while she delivered swift and mer-
ciless blows to the woman's swollen face with
her right.

Her blue eyes were narrowed cruelly, her
lips tightly compressed; two deep lines ran
from the corners of her mouth to her chin,
and her face, once so strangely serene,
was now filled with the merciless fury of a
wild beast; it Avas the face of a person ready
to torture her kind without end, and to take
pleasure in doing it.
The woman she was striking could only mur-

25Q

mur faintly, try to pull away and wave her
arms in the air.

Podshiblo felt the blood rush to his head;
he had a wild desire to avenge someone for
something, and, dashing forward, he seized
the infuriated woman by the waist and pulled
her away.

The table overturned, dishes crashed to
the floor, the onlookers let out wild shrieks
and laughs.

In a state of frenzy Podshiblo saw all kinds
of grimacing red faces flash before his eyes
as he held the struggling woman in his arms
and hissed in her ear:

"So it's you, is it? Making a scene? A row?"

The blue-eyed woman's victim was lying
on the floor among the broken dishes, sobbing
and wailing hysterically.

A nimble little man in a long coat explained
to Podshiblo what had happened:

"Her, that one, says to this one. Your
Honour: *you hussy,' she says, *you dirty
tart!' So this one gives her a flip, and that
one lets go at her with a glass of tea, and then
this one grabs that one by the hair and sails
into her — smack! And then another smack!

251

The beating she gives her would do anybody
credit! She's got muscles, that woman!"

"She has, has she? " roared Podshiblo, squeez-
ing the woman in his arms harder and feel-
ing a fierce desire to fight himself.

A man with a red neck and a broad back
which he arched comically as he leaned out of
the window, shouted down into the street:

"Izvozchik! Come here!"

"Come along! Off you go to the police-sta-
tion! Both of you! Get up, you!. . . What took
you so long to get here? Don't you know your
duty? You oaf! Take them to the station and
be quick about it! Both of them!"

A gallant policeman poked first one, then
the other woman in the back as he led them
away.

"Cognac and soda-water, and be quick about
it!" said Podshiblo to the waiter as he sank
heavily into a chair by the window, feeling
tired and cross with everyone and everything.

* « ♦

The next morning she stood before him as
calm and resolute as she had been the first
time they met. She looked straight at him

252

with her blue eyes and waited for him to
speak first.

Podshiblo, who was particularly irritable
because he had not had enough sleep, flung
papers about his desk, but this did not help
him find anything to say to her. Somehow the
prejudiced charges and epithets usual to such
occasions refused to come off his tongue;
he wanted something stronger and more vindic-
tive to hurl in her teeth.

"How did it begin? Come now, speak
up."

"She insulted me," declared the woman.

"Think of that! What a crime!" said Pod-
shiblo ironically.

"She has no right to. I'm not to be com-
pared with her. "

"Good Lord, and who do you think you
are?"

"It's need drives me to it, but she — "

"Hm. She does it for pleasure, is that it?"

"Her?"

"Yes, her."

"She hasn't got any kids."

"Enough of that, you scum. Don't think
you can get round me with those children of

253

yours, г и let you go this time, but if you
make trouble again I'll give you twenty-four
hours to get out of town. Away from the
Fair, understand? Never fear, I know your
kind! I'll show you a thing or two! A trouble-
maker, eh? I'll teach you, you slut! " The words
rolled easily off his tongue, each one more
insulting than the last. She grew pale and
narrowed her eyes as she had the night before
in the tavern.

"Get out!" shouted Podshiblo, bringing his
fist down on the desk.

"May the Lord be your judge," she said in
a dry and threatening tone, then walked
quickly out of the office.

"I'll show yoa who's judge!" screamed Pod-
shiblo. He took pleasure in insulting her.
That serene face and the way she looked
straight at him with those blue eyes drove him
frantic. Who did she think she was, anyway?
Children? Bosh! Presumption! What had chil-
dren to do with it? An ordinary street-walker,
that's what she was, who had come to the Fair
to make money and was putting on airs,
God only knew why. A martyr . . . driven to it
. . . children. Who did she think would

254

swallow that? She just hadn't the courage to
call a spade a spade, and so she tried to blame
it on circumstances. Bah!

IV

But there were children after all — a shy,
tow-headed little boy in an old worn gymna-
sium uniform and with a black kerchief tied
over his ears; and a little girl in a plaid mack-
intosh that was much too big for her. Both
of them were sitting on some boards on the
Kashin pier, shivering in an autumn wind and
carrying on a quiet conversation. Their moth-
er was standing beside them, leaning against
some bales and gazing down at them with
adoring blue eyes.

The little boy looked like her. He, too,
had blue eyes, and he would frequently twist
his head in the cap with the broken peak to
smile up at her and say something. The little
girl was badly pock-marked. She had a sharp
little nose and large grey eyes that had a live-
ly and intelligent sparkle. Various bundles
and packages were spread out on the boards
about them.

255

It was the end of September. Rain had been
falling all day, the river-bank was muddy
and a cold damp wind was blowing.

The Volga was rough, murky waves broke
noisily on the bank, the air was filled with
a low steady roar. People of all sorts kept
coming and going, all of them with anxious
looks on their faces as they hastened on
their way. And against the seething back-
ground of this river scene, the quiet group con-
sisting of a mother and two children instantly
caught the eye.

Assistant Police Officer Podshiblo had no-
ticed it, and w^hile he kept at some distance,
he watched the three closely. He was aware
of their every movement, and for some reason
he was ashamed.

In half an hour the Kashin steamboat was to
leave from this pier to go up the Volga.

People began to move out on the jetty.

The woman with the blue eyes bent down,
straightened up with bags and bundles over
her shoulders and under her arms, and went
down the steps behind her children, who
walked along hand in hand, their share of
bundles slung over their shoulders.

256

Podshiblo had to go out on the jetty, too.
He would have preferred not to, but he had no
choice, and in a little while he was standing
not far from the ticket office.

His acquaintance bought tickets. In her
hand she held a bulging brown purse with a
roll of bank-notes sticking out of it.

"I want," she said, ". . . that is, here's
how it is: the children are to go second class —
to Kostroma — and I am to go third. But could
I please take one ticket for the two of them?
No? You'll make an exception? Oh, thank
you so much. God bless you."

And she walked away with a beaming face.
The children pressed about her, tugging at
her skirt and asking for something. She lis-'
tened and smiled.

"Goodness gracious, I said I'd buy it,';
didn't I? Would I deny you anything? Two
each? Very well, wait for me here. "

She went to some stands near the entrance,
where fruit and sweetmeats were sold.

Presently she was back with her children
and saying to them:

"Here's some nice-smelling soap for you,
Varya — sniff it! And a pen-knife foj* you,

17—327 257

Petya. See, 1 didn't forget. And a whole
dozen oranges. But don't eat them all at

once."

The steamboat drew up at the pier. A jolt.
People were thrown off balance. The woman
reached out for her children and hugged them
to her, glancing round with startled eyes.
Seeing there was no cause for alarm, she
laughed. The children did, too. The gangway
was thrown down and the passengers streamed
on to the boat.

"Take your time! Don't push!" shouted
Podshiblo to the crowd.

"Hey, you idiot!" he roared to a carpenter
who was bristling with hammers, saws, drills,
files, and other tools. "Damn it all, make way
for the woman with the children! Man, what
a dolt you are!" he added more gently as
the woman — his acquaintance with the blue
eyes — smiled at him in passing and bowed
when she was on the boat.

The third whistle.

"Off with the hawsers!" came a command
from the captain's bridge.

The boat shuddered and began to move.

Podshiblo searched among the people on

258

deck for his acquaintance, and when he had
found her he doffed his cap and bowed.

She responded by making a low Russian
bow and crossing herself.

And so she and her children went back to
Kostroma.

When Assistant Police Officer Podshiblo had
seen them off, he gave a deep sigh and went
back to his post, feeling very glum and un-
happy.

1895

17-

HOW SEMAGA WAS CAUGHT

Semaga was sitting all by himself at a table
in a tavern with a pint bottle of vodka and
fifteen-kopeks worth of stew in front of him.

The basement room with its smoke-blackened
vaulted ceiling was lighted by one lamp
over the bar and two in the middle of the room.
The air was dense with smoke in whose billows
floated vague dark forms that talked and
sang and swore boisterously, knowing that
here they were beyond the law.

One of those fierce storms of late autumn
was raging outside, Avith big stickly snow-
flakes coming down heavily, but inside it
was warm and noisy and had a good familiar
smell.

260

Semaga sat gazing intently through the
smoke at the door, his eyes growing sharper
every time it opened to let someone in. When
this happened he would lean forward slightly
and might even raise a hand to shield his face
as he scrutinized the features of whoever had
entered. And he had good reason to do this.

When he had studied the newcomer in
detail and convinced himself of whatever it
was he wished to be convinced of, he would
pour himself out another glass of vodka,
gulp it down, fork half a dozen pieces of meat
and potatoes and sit there munching slowly,
smacking his lips and licking his bristling
soldier-moustache.

A curiously shaggy shadow was cast upon
the damp grey wall by his big tousled head,
and it bobbed as he chewed, as if it were in-
sistently nodding to someone who made no
response.

Semaga 's face was broad, high-cheekboned,
and beardless; his eyes were big and grey
and he had a habit of screwing them up; dark
bushy eyebrows shaded his eyes and a curly
lock of no-colour hair hung down over tho
left eyebrow, almost touching it.

26 1

On the whole, Semaga's face was not one
to inspire trust; there was something discon-
certing about the expression of strained de-
termination it wore, an expression out of place
even among these people and in this place.

He was wearing a ragged woollen coat tied
at the waist with a piece of cord, beside him
lay his cap and mittens, and leaning against
the back of his chair was a club of impres-
sive dimensions w4th a bulge at one end
formed by the root.

And so he sat on enjoying his meal and was
just about to ask for more vodka when the
door was thrown open with a bang, and into
the tavern rolled something round and ragged
that looked for all the world like a big ball
of tow coming unwound.

"Beat it, men! A raid!" it cried excitedly
in a high childish voice.

The men instantly sat back, fell silent, be-
gan to confer anxiously, while from their midst
came a few questions in hoarse uneasy voices:

"D'ye mean it?"

"So strike me dead! They're coming from
both sides. On horses and on foot. Two offi-
cers and ever so many policemen."

267

"Who are they after, have you heard?"

"Semaga, I guess. They questioned Niki-
forich about him," piped the childish voice
while the ball-like figure of its owner rolled
in the direction of the bar.

"Why, have they caught Nikiforich?" asked
Semaga, clapping his cap on to his matted hair
and getting up unhurriedly.

"Yes, they just caught him."

"Where?"

"At Aunt Maria's,. in Stenka Street."

"You just come from there?"

"Uh-huh. I came rushing here over the gar-
den fences and noAv Fm off to *The Barge';
they'll be wanting to know there, too, I
guess."

"Run along."

The boy was out of the tavern in a trice. No
sooner had the door closed behind him than
skinny old lona Petrovich, the proprietor, a
God-fearing man in big spectacles and black
skull-cap, called after him:

"Hey, you little imp, you son of Satan!
What's this you've done, you accursed off-
spring of Ham! Gobbled up a whole plate-
ful!"

263

"Of what?" asked Semaga, who was now
making his way to the door.

"Liver. Licked the plate clean. How he
ever did it so quick is more than I can see,
the scamp! All in one go!"

"So now you'll have to go begging, I sup-
pose," observed Semaga dryly as he Avent out
of the door.

A wet, buffeting wind made little sounds as
it swirled above and along the street, and the
air was like a mass of boiling porridge, so
thickly fell the wet snowf lakes.

Semaga stood there listening a moment, but
nothing was to be heard but the swish of the
wind and the rustle of the snow falling on
the walls and roofs of the houses.

He walked off, and when he had taken about
ten steps, he climbed over a fence and found
himself in somebody's back garden.

A dog barked and in reply a horse neighed
and stamped on the floor. Semaga quickly
climbed back into the street and set out
towards the centre of town, walking faster
now.

A few minutes later he heard a noise in
front of him that sent him over another fence.

264

This time he crossed the front yard without
mishap, went through the open gate into the
garden, climbed other fences and crossed other
gardens until he found himself in a street run-
ning parallel to the one on which lona Petro-
,vich's tavern stood.

As he walked he tried to think of a safe place
to hide in, but he could not.

All the safe places had become unsafe now
that the police had taken it into their heads
to make a raid, and the prospect of spending
the night outside in such a storm and with
the danger of being caught by the raid-
ers or a night watchman was not very
cheerful.

He walked on slowly, peering ahead into
the white murk of the storm out of which,
soundlessly, rose houses, hitching posts, street
lamps, trees, all of them plastered with soft
clumps of snow.

Above the noise of the storm he caught a
strange noise coming from somew^here in front
of him. It resembled the soft crying of a baby.
He stopped with his neck thrust out in the
attitude of a wild animal sensing danger.
' ; The sound died away.

26.5

Semaga shook his head and went on, pulling
his cap further down over his eyes and hunch-
ing up his shoulders to keep the snow out of
his neck.

Again he heard a wail, and this time it
came from under his very feet. He started,
stopped, bent down, felt the ground with his
hands, stood up and shook the snow off the
bundle he had found.

"A fine how-d>e-do! A baby! What d'ye
think of that!" he muttered to himself as he
studied the infant.

It \vas warm, it wriggled and was all wet
with melted snow. Its face, not quite as big
as Semaga 's fist, was red and wrinkled, its
eyes were closed and its tiny mouth kept open-
ing and making little sucking movements.
Water dripped off the rags round its face into
its tiny toothless mouth.

Dumbstruck as he was, Semaga realized
that the baby ought not to swallow the water
dripping off these rags, and so he turned the
bundle upside down and shook it.

This, it seems, was not to the baby's liking,
for it let out a squeal of protest.

"Tut-tut!" said Semaga severely. "Tut-tut!

2fie

Not a word, or you'll get it from me! What am
I fussing with you for anyway, eh? As if I
had any need of you! And you go and cry,
you little simpleton!"

But Semaga's words had not the least
effect on the baby, which kept on squealing
so softly and plaintively that Semaga was
very much put out.

"Come, matey, that's n6t nice. I know you're
<iold and wet — and that you're just a little
shaver, but what the deuce am I to do with
you?"

Still the baby squealed.

"There's just nothing I can do with you,"
«aid Semaga conclusively, pulling the wrap-
pings tighter round his find and putting it
back on the ground.

"Can't be helped. You can see for yourself
there's nothing I can do with you. I'm a
sort of a foundling myself. So it's good-bye
to you and that's that."

And with a wave of his hand Semaga walked
off, muttering the while:

"If it wasn't for the raid, maybe I'd find
a place to stick you in. But there is a raid.
What can I do about it? Nothing, matey.

267

You'll just have to forgive me. It's an inno-
cent soul you are, and your mother's a fiend.
If I ever find out who you are, you hussy, I'll
break your ribs and knock the stuffings out
of you. That'll teach you how to behave next
time! Go just so far and no further. O-o-o, you
she-devil, you heartless cow! May you die
in misery, and may the earth vomit you up.
So you think you can go about having babies
and throwing them away, do you? And if I
drag you through the street by the hair? Oh,
I'd do it all right, you strumpet! Don't you
know you can't go tossing babies around in a
storm like this? They're weak and helpless
and they can die from swallowing this snow.
Want to pick a nice dry night to throw your
babies away in, you fool. They'll live longer
on a dry night, and people are more apt to
find 'em. As if anybody was out on a night
like this!"

At just what point in his reflections Semaga
returned to his find and picked it up again he
himself did not notice, so engrossed was he in
his conversation with its mother. But he did
pick it up and put it inside his coat, and after
one last wilherins: blast at its mother, he went

2f^s

on his way with a heavy heart, as pitiable
as the baby for whom he felt such pity.

His find wriggled feebly and let out faint
peeps that were smothered by the heavy wool-
len coat and Semaga's enormous paw. Semaga
had on nothing but a torn shirt under his coat,
and so he soon felt the warmth of the baby's
tiny body.

"You little brat!" muttered Semaga as he
made his way through the snow. "Your affairs
look pretty bad, matey, because what am I
supposed to do with you? Tell me that. As
for that mother of yours — come, now, lie
quiet! You'll fall out."

But the infant kept on wriggling and Sema-
ga felt its warm face rubbing against his breast
through a hole in his shirt.

Suddenly Semaga stopped dead in his tracks
and exclaimed in a loud voice:

"Why it's the breast he's after! His
mother's breast! Good God! His mother's
breast!"

And for some reason Semaga began to trem-
ble all over, perhaps from shame, perhaps
from fear — from some emotion that was strange,
powerful, painful and heart-breaking.

269

"It takes me for its mother! Ekh, you poor
little beastie! What d'ye want of me? And
what are you doing to me? I'm a soldier,
matey, and a thief, if you must know. *'

The wind whistled desolately.

"You'd ought to go to sleep. Go to sleep,
now. Hush-a-bye. Go to sleep. You'll not get
a drop out of me. Sleepy-bye. I'll sing you
a song, though it's your ma as ought to be doing
that. Come, now, come; lulla-lulla-lullaby.
I'm no nursemaid — go to sleep."

And suddenly Semaga, his head bent low
over the baby, sang in soft long-drawn tones,
as tenderly as he could:

You're a whore and you're a bore,
There's nothing much to love you for.

These words he sang to the tune of a lullaby.

The milky murk kept seething all around
and Semaga walked down the pavement with
the baby inside his coat, and while the baby
kept up its squealing, the thief sang tenderly:

/'// come and see you one fine night,
And when I leave you'll look a fright.

270

And down his cheeks stole drops of what
must have been melting snow. From time to
time the thief gave a little shudder, there was
a lump in his throat and a weight on his heart,
and never had he felt so desolate as while
walking down that empty street in the storm
with the baby squealing inside his coat.

But he went on just the same.

Behind him he heard dull hoof-beats. The
silhouettes of mounted policemen loomed out
of the darkness and soon they were beside him.

Two voices asked simultaneously:

"Who goes there? "

"What's your name?"

"What's that you're carrying? Out with
it!" ordered one of the policemen, leading his
horse straight up the pavement."

"This? A baby."

"Your name?"

"Semaga — from Akhtyr."

"Oho! The very man we're looking for!
Get up there in front of my horse!"

"Me and the baby'd better hug the houses.
The wind's not so strong there. The middle
of the street's no place for us — we're froze as
it is."

271

The policemen did not grasp what he was
saying, but they let him keep to the shelter
of the houses while they rode as close as possi-
ble and did not take their eyes off him.

With such an escort Semaga walked all
the way to the police-station.

"So you've caught him, have you? That's
fine, " said the Chief of Police as they entered
his office.

"What about the baby? What am I to do
w^ith it?" asked Semaga with a toss of his head.

"What's that? What baby?"

"This one. I found it in the street. Here. "

And Semaga pulled his find out of his
coat. The baby hung limp in his hands.

"But it's dead!" exclaimed the Chief of
Police.

"Dead?" echoed Semaga. He stared down
at the little bundle and laid it on the desk.

"Funny," he observed, adding with a sigh:
_^"rd ought to have picked it up straight away.
Maybe if I had — But I didn't. I picked it up
and then put it down again."

"What's that you're muttering?" asked
the Chief.

Semaga cast a forlorn look about him.

?7<>

With the death of the baby had died most
of the sentiments he had felt while walking
down the street.

Here he was surrounded by cold official-
dom, with nothing to look forward to but
jail and a trial. A sense of injury welled up
within him. He glanced reproachfully at the
body of the baby and said with a sigh:

"A fine one you are! I let myself get caught
on account of you, and all for nothing it turns
out. And here I was thinking — But you went
and died on me. Humph!"

And Semaga scratched the back of his neck
vigorously.

"Lead him away, " said the Chief, nodding
towards Semaga.

So they led him away.

And that's all.

1895

18—327

g € о Э >

А READER

It was late at night when I left the house
where I had just read one of my published
stories to a group of friends. They had been
lavish of their praises, and I walked slowly
down the street in a pleasant state of excite-
ment, experiencing a joy of life such as I had
never known before.

The month was February, the night was
clear, and the cloudless sky, thickly studded
Avith stars, breathed an invigorating cold-
ness upon the earth, now richly garbed in
new-fallen snow. The branches of the trees
hanging over the fences threw a fantastic
shadow-pattern across my path and the snow-
crystals scintillated joyously in the tender
blue shine of the moon. There was not a soul

274

in sight and the creak of the snow under my
boots was the only sound violating the sol-
emn stillness of that clear and memorable
night.

"How good it is to be something on this
earth, among people. " I thought.

And my imagination w-as not stinting of
bright colours in painting a picture of my
future.

"Yes, you have written a very jiice little
thing — no doubt about it," mused someone
behind me.

I started with surprise and turned round.

A small man in dark clothes caught me up
and glanced into my face with a sharp little
smile. Everything about him w^as sharp: his
glance, his cheekbones, his chin, ending in
a goatee; his whole small and wizened form
had an odd angularity that pricked the eyes.
He walked lightly and noiselessly, seeming
to glide over the snow. I had not noticed him
among the people at the reading and so was
astonished by his remark. Who was he? Where
had he come from?

"Did you — er — hear my story?" I asked.

"Yes, I had the pleasure."

18* 275

He spoke in a high voice. He had thin lips
and a little black moustache that did not
hide his smile. The smile never left his lips
and I found this unpleasant; I sensed that it
hid a critical appraisal of me that was caus-
tic and unflattering. But 1 was in too good
a humour to dwell for long on this feature of
my companion; it flashed before my eyes like
a shadoAV and swiftly faded in the bright
light of vcff self-complacency. I walked along
beside him wondering what he would say and
secretly hoping he would add to the pleasant
moments I had enjoyed that evening. Fate
is so sparing of her favours that man has
become greedy for them.

"It is pleasant to fee] that you are excep-
tional, isn't it?" asked my companion.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary in the
question, 1 hastened to agree.

"Heh, heh, hehi" he laughed bitingly, rub-
bing his little hands with their thin claw-
like fingers.

"You are a very jolly fellow," I remarked
dryly, for his laughter had offended me.

"Oh yes, very," he confirmed with a smile
and a nod. "And I am inquisitive as well. I

276

am always wanting to know things — to
know everything. My curiosity never leaves
me and that is what keeps me in such high
spirits. At present, for instance, I should
like to know what your success has cost
you."

I glanced down at him and replied without
enthusiasm:

"About a month's work. Perhaps a little
more."

He pounced on my words. "Ah! A little
work and a little experience of life, which
always costs something. But that is not a
high price to pay for the realization that at
present thousands of people are thinking your
thoughts as they read your work. And in
addition you acquire the hope that perhaps,
in time — heh, heh! — after you are dead — heh,
heh, heh! In exchange for such acquisitions
one might expect you to give more — more,
that is, than you have given us so far, don4
you think so?"

Again he laughed his biting laugh, gazing
at me the while with piercing black eyes. I
threw him a glance from my superior heic^ht
and asked coollv:

277

"I beg your pardon, but with whom have
I the pleasure? . . /'

"Who am I? Can't you guess? Well, I shall
not tell you for the present. Do you find a
man's name of more importance than what
he has to say?"

"Certainly not, but this is so — odd," I re-
plied.

He gave a little tug at my sleeve.

"Let it be odd," he said with a quiet laugh.
"Surely a person can allow himself to go be-
yond the bounds of the ordinary and common-
place once in a while. If you have no objec-
tion, let us talk frankly to each other. As-
sume that I am one of your readers — a queer
sort of reader who would like to know how
and for лvhat purpose a book is written— by
you, for instance. Shall we have such a talk?"

"Oh, do let's," I said. "I shall be delighted.
Not every day does one have a chance to talk
with such a person." But I was lying, for I
found all this extremely unpleasant. WTiat is
he after? I thought. And why should I allow
this chance encounter with a perfect stranger
to assume the nature of a controversy?
And yet T kept on walking slowly beside

278

him, trying to wear a look of courteous atten-
tion, and this, as I remember, I found diffi-
cult. But since I was still in a buoyant mood
and did not want to offend the gentleman
by refusing to talk to him, I tried to take
myself in hand.

The moon was shining behind us, throwing
our shadows before. They merged into a
single dark spot that glided over the snow,
and as I watched it I was conscious of some-
thing as dark and illusive as our shadows
being born within me, something which, like
they, seemed to be straining ahead.

My companion was silent for a moment
before he said in the confident tone of one
who is sole master of his thoughts:

"Nothing is more curious and important
than the motives behind human conduct. Do
you agree?"

1 nodded.

"Good. Then let us speak frankly — and let]
no opportunity to speak frankly escape you
while you are still young."

A queer fellow, I thought, but I was in-
trigued by his words.

"But what shall we speak about?" I smiled.

279

He looked into my face with the intimacy
of an old acquaintance.

"Let us speak about the aims of literature,*'
he exclaimed.

"Very well . . . only I'm afraid it is too
late. ..."

"Oh, for you it is not yet too late."

I stopped, astonished by his words; he had
pronounced them with a gravity that made
them sound prophetic. I stopped wath a ques-
tion on my lips, but he took me by the arm
and led me on quietly but firmly.

"Don't stop, you're on the right path
with me," he said. "Enough of these pre-
liminaries! Tell me this: what is the purpose
of literature? You serve its cause; you should
know. "

My astonishment increased at the expense
of my self-composure. What did this man
want of me? Who was he?

"Look," I said, "you cannot deny that what
is taking place between us — "

"Has its reasons, you can take my word
for it. Indeed, nothing ever happens in this
world unless it has its reasons. But come, let
us hasten — not forward, but into the depths."

m

Unquestionably he was an interesting spec-
imen, but he vexed me. I made another im-
patient dart ahead. He followed me, say-
ing calmly:

"I understand. You find it difficult to de-
fine the purpose of literature on the spur of
the moment. Let me see if I can. "

He took a deep breath and looked up at
me with a smile:

'*I think you will agree with me if I say
that the purpose of literature is to help man
to know himself, to fortify his belief in him-
self and support his striving after the truth;
to discover the good in people and root out
what is ignoble; to kindle shame, wTath, cour-
age in their hearts; to help them acquire a
strength dedicated to lofty purposes and sanc-
tify their lives with the holy spirit of beauty.
This, then, is my definition; clearly it is
sketchy and incomplete; you may add to it
whatever else serves to refine life, but tell
me, do you accept it?"

"Yes," I said. "It is correct — more or less.
It is generally accepted that the purpose of
literature is to make men better. "

"Just see what a nol)le cause vou serve!"

281

said my companion with grave emphasis, and
then he laughed his caustic laugh: "Heh,
heh, heh!"

"But why are you telling me this?" I asked,
feigning indifference to his laughter.

"Why do you suppose?"

"To be perfectly frank," I began, trying to
think of some withering remark and finding
none. What did it mean to be perfectly frank?
This man was not stupid; he should have real-
ized how quickly one reaches the border-
line of frankness, and with what jealousy
this border-line is guarded by one's pride. I
glanced into my companion's face and winced
from the pain of his smile. What irony
and contempt there was in it! I felt that I
was beginning to be afraid, and this fear
made me want to get away.

"Good-bye," I said shortly, and lifted my
hat.

"But why?" he exclaimed.

"I don't like practical jokes that go too far."

"And so you are leaving? That is up to
you. But if you leave me now, you and I
will never meet agaiUc"

He laid special emphasis on the word

282

"never, " so that it rang in my ears like the
tolling of a funeral bell. I loathe that word
and am afraid of it: I find it cold and heavy,
like a hammer for smashing people's hopes.
And now it made me stay my steps.

"What do you want of me? " I cried in pain
and exasperation.

"Sit down," he said with another little
laugh, taking my hand and pulling me down.

At that moment we were in an alley of the
town park, with the bare ice-coated branches
of acacias and lilacs all around. They hung
over my head in the light of the moon, and
it seemed to me that these brittle branches,
armoured in ice, pierced my breast and
reached my heart.

I looked at my companion without a word,
puzzled and perplexed by his behaviour.

"He is mentally unbalanced," thought I,
consoling myself with this explanation of his
behaviour.

"Perhaps you think Гт touched," he said,
as if he had read my thoughts. "Drop the
thought. It is harmful and unworthy of you.
How often do we use this as an excuse for
not trying to understand anyone Avho is dif-

28Я

ferent from us, and how well it supports and
elaborates the sad indifference one man feels
for another."

"Oh, yes,'' I said, my vexation stronger
than ever. "But excuse me, I must go. It
is time."

"Go," he said with a shrug of his shoul-
ders. "Go, but know that you are running
away from yourself." He released my hand,
and I walked away.

He stayed on in the park, on the embank-
ment overlooking the Volga which now wore
a coverlet of snow interlaced with dark rib-
bons of roads. In front of him stretched the
vast plains of the far bank, silent and dreary.
He stayed on, sitting on one of the benches
and gazing out over the empty plain, while
I walked on down the alley despite a presen-
timent that I could not leave him. And as
I walked I thought: would it be better to
slow or quicken my steps to show him —
that man sitting there on the bench — how
little I care for him?

I heard him softly whistling a familiar
tune. It was a sad and amusing song about a
blind man who undertook to guide the blind.

284

I wondered why he should have chosen pre-
cisely that song.

Suddenly I realized that from the moment
of meeting this little man I had stepped in-
side a dark circle of strange and exceptional
experiences. The calm felicity my spirit had
enjoyed so recently had become wrapped in
mists of foreboding. It Avas as if something
sombre and important were about to happen.

I recalled the words of the song he was
whistling:

Hoiv can you show us the way
When you yourself go astray?

I turned round and looked at him. With
one elbow on his knee and his chin in his
hand he was gazing at me as he whistled, and
on his face, luminous in the moonlight, I
could see the little black moustache twitch-
ing. A sense of fatality made me decide to go
back. I went quickly and sat down beside him.

"Look, if we are to talk, let it be simply,"
I said vehemently, but without losing my
composure.

"People should always talk simply, " he
nodded.

285

"I am aware that you wield a strange in-
fluence over me, and apparently there is some-
thing you want to tell me. Am I right?"

"At last you have found the courage to
listen," he exclaimed with a laugh. But this
time his laugh лvas not harsh, and I even
thought I detected a note of joy in it.

"Speak then," I said, "but without your
odd mannerisms, if you can."

"Oh, gladly," he said. "But you must
agree that those mannerisms had to be resort-
ed to as a means of attracting your attention.
These days the simple and the lucid are ig-
nored as being too cold and hard; yet we are
unable to lend warmth or softness to anything
for we ourselves are cold and hard. We long
to indulge in pretty fancies and day-dreams
and to be quaint and different, for the life
of our creating is dull, colourless and boring.
Life, which w^e were once so passionately set
on changing, has crushed and broken us.
Well, then, what are we to do? Let us see —
perhaps the imagination can help man to
rise above this world, if only for a brief
space, and survey his lost place in it. For
he has lost his place in it, hasn't he? He is

286

no longer lord of the earth, but a mere slave.
He worships facts of his own creating, draws
conclusions from them and then says to him-
self: behold immutable law! And in submit-
ting to this law he is unaware that he has
raised a barrier preventing him from freely
changing life; hindering him in his struggle
for the right to tear down in order to build
up. And indeed he no longer even struggles;
he simply adjusts himself to circumstances.
Why should he struggle? Where are the ideals
for whose sake he is willing to perform feats
of valour? And so life has become dull and
uninteresting. And so the creative spirit has
died out in man. There are those who blindly
search for something that will set their minds
soaring and thus restore their faith in them-
selves. But often they wander away from
the place where God dwells and the eternal
verities uniting all mankind are hidden.
Those who wander off the path of truth are
doomed to perish. Let them! Do not inter-
fere, nor waste your pity on them — there are
lots of others in this world. The important
thing is the longing to find God, and as long
as there are souls which yearn after God, He

287

will manifest Himself unto them and abide
with them, for what is He but the eternal
striving after perfection? Am I right?"

"Yes," I said, "you are right."

"You are very quick to acquiesce," observed
my interlocutor with his biting laugh.
Then he grew silent and gazed off into space.
He was silent so long that I sighed with im-
patience. At that he said, his eyes still wan-
dering in space:

"Who is your god?"

Until then he had spoken softly and gently
and it had been pleasant to listen to him.
Like all people given to reflection, he was a
bit sad; I was drawn to him, I understood
him, and my exasperation vanished. But why
should he have come out with this fatal ques-
tion which any man of our times who is
honest with himself would find difficulty in
answering? Who was my god? If only I knew!

I was overwhelmed, and indeed who in my
place could have preserved his equanimity?
Now he turned his sharp eyes upon me and
smiled as he awaited my answer.

"It would not take you so long to answer
if you had an answer to give. Perhaps you

288

can make a reply if 1 put it this way: you
are a writer, and thousands of people read
what you write. What do you preach? And
have you ever questioned your right to teach
others?"

For the first time in my life I scrutinized
my own soul. Let no one think I am exalting
or humbling myself for the sake of attracting
people's attention — one does not beg of beggars.
I discovered that I was not without generous
sentiments and aspirations, not without my
share of qualities commonly called good, but
they were not linked together by some domi-
nating emotion, some lucid harmonious con-
ception embracing all the phenomena of life.
There was a great deal of hate in my heart;
it smouldered there all the time and upon
occasion broke out into bright flames of wrath.
But there was even more doubt. At times it
so paralyzed my mind, so devastated my soul
that for long periods I dragged out an empty
existence. Nothing could awaken me to an
interest in life; my heart was as cold as death,
my mind torpid, my imagination a prey to
nightmares. Thus for long days and nights I
lived on — deaf, dumb and blind — wanting

19—327 289

nothing, understanding nothing. And it seemed
as if I were already a corpse and remained
unburied only because of some inexplicable
misunderstanding. The horror of such an exist-
ence was augmented by the realization that
I must go on living, for death was even more
dark, even more meaningless. No doubt it
even robbed a man of the joy of hating.

Well, then, Avhat did I preach — I, such as
I was? What had I to say to people? The same
things that had been said for ages and are al-
ways said and ahvays listened to, but without
changing man for the better? And had I a
right to preach these ideas and precepts when
I myself, brought up on them, often failed
to do as they taught? And if I went against
them, did that not mean that my belief in
their truth was not a sincere belief, rooted in
the very foundations of my ego? What was I
to say to this man sitting next to me?

But he, tired of waiting for my answer,
began to talk again:

"I would not put these questions to you if
I did not see that ambition has not yet de-
stroyed your sense of honour. You have the
courage to listen tome, and from that! conclude

290

that your self-love is rational, for so anxious
are you to increase it that you do not even
flee from torment. x\nd therefore I shall mod-
erate the charges made against you and
henceforth address you as one who is not
blameless, yet cannot be called a criminal.
"There was a time when on this earth lived
great masters of the written word, students
of life and the human heart, men inspired by
an all-compelling desire to improve the world,
as well as by a profound faith in human na-
ture. They wrote books which shall never fall
into oblivion, for immortal truths are printed
therein and incorruptible beauty emanates
from their pages. The characters drawn in
these books are true to life, for they are ani-
mated by the breath of inspiration. There is
courage in these books, and flaming wrath,
and love which is free and sincere, and they
contain not a single superfluous word. It is
from these books, I know, that you have drawn
nourishment for your soul. And yet your soul
must have badly digested it, for what you
write of truth and love sounds false and in-
sincere, as if the words were forced out of
you. Like the moon, you reflect another's

19* 291

light, and this light is sadly sombre; it throws
many shadows but gives little illumination
and no warmth at all. You yourself are too
poor to offer others anything of real value,
and when you do give, it is not for the supreme
satisfaction of knowing you have enriched
life by adding to its store of beautiful thoughts
and words, but rather to elevate' the chance
fact of your existence to the level of essential
phenomena. You give merely that you may
take more from life and people. You are too
poor to present gifts; you are a usurer, lend-
ing out bits of experience for the sake of
the interest you will be paid in fame. Your
pen scratches feebly at the surface of things,
pokes ineffectively among life's trifling cir-
cumstances; as you describe the commonplace
feelings of commonplace people, you perhaps
teach them many insignificant truths, but
are you able to create even the smallest decep-
tion capable of elevating the human spirit?
No! Are you sure it is so important to rake
through the garbage of the commonplace
where one finds nothing but dismal crumbs
I of truth going to prove that man is evil, stu-
t pid, and without honour, that he is complete-

292

ly and forever dependent on external cir-
cumstances, that he is weak and pitiable
and utterly alone? If you ask .me, they have
already succeeded in convincing him that this
is so, for just see how dull his mind has grown
and how unresponsive his spirit! And that is
not strange. He sees himself as represented in
books — and books, particularly if they are
written with that glibness which is often taken
for talent — cast a certain hypnotic spell over
their readers. Observing himself as you have
presented him, he sees his own ugliness but
fails to see any possibility of improvement.
Are you able to point out this possibility?
How can you, when you yourself — but I shall
spare your feelings because I see you are listen-
ing without trying to contradict me or jus-
tify yourself. That is good, for a teacher, if
he is honest, Avill always be an attentive pu-
pil. Nowadays all you teachers take much
more from people than you give them, for you
speak only of their shortcomings, see nothing
but them. But surely a person has virtues as
well; do you yourselves not have them?
You? Pooh! In what way do you differ from
the colourless people whom you portray so

293

L-

critically," so cruelly? You look upon your-
selves as prophets called upon to expose vice
that virtue may triumph, but in your efforts
to distinguish vice from virtue, have you
not observed that the two are entangled like
two balls of yarn, one black, one white, and
that, being entangled, they have become grey,
each having been influenced by the colouring
of the other? And I seriously doubt that God
has sent you as His prophet. He would have
chosen stronger men than you. And He would
have fired their hearts with an impassioned
love of life and truth and people, so that
they would shine forth in the darkness like
torches proclaiming His strength and glory.
You smoke like the brands of Satan's power,
and this smoke seeps into the minds and
hearts of men, filling them with lack of faith
in themselves. Tell me this: what do you
teach?"

I felt his hot breath upon my cheek and avert-
ed my eyes, afraid to meet his. His words
seared my brain like fire. I was awe-struck
by the realization of how hard it was to ansAver
his simple questions. And I did not answer
them.

294

"And so I, a conscientious reader of all
that is written by you and others of your
kind, ask you: why do you write? You hap-
pen to have written a lot. Is it to rouse noble
sentiments in people's hearts? You will nev-
er do it with your cold, jejune words. Not
only are you unable to contribute anything
now to life; you present the old in a rumpled-
crumpled form lacking clear images. Your
works teach nothing and make the reader
ashamed of nothing but you. Everything in
them is commonplace: commonplace people,
commonplace thoughts, commonplace happen-
ings. ^Vhen will people begin to speak of the
revolt of the spirit and the need of the soul's
renascence? Where is the challenge to crea-
tive living, where are the lessons of valour,
where the words of encouragement giving wings
to the soul?

"Perhaps you will say: life presents no pat-
terns but those we present. Speak not thus,
for it is a shame and a disgrace that one blessed
with the power to write should acknowl-
edge his impotence in the face of life and
his inability to rise above it. If you stand on
the same level as life, if your imagination is

295

incapable of creating patterns that do not
exist in life but are essential to its improve-
ment, what is the good of your work and
what is the justification of your calling? As
you clutter up people's intellects with your
photographic facsimiles of their uneventful
lives, ask yourself if you are not doing harm?
For— come now, confess it! — you do not
know how to present a picture of life capable
of evoking a vindictive sense of shame and a
burning desire to create new forms of exist-
ence! Do you know how to quicken the pulse
of life and infuse energy into it, as others
have done?"

My strange interlocutor paused, and I pon-
dered his words without speaking.

"All about me I see many who are astute,
but few who are noble, and those few have
sick and broken souls. And for some reason
my observations always lead me to the same
conclusion: the better a man is and the more
honest and unsullied his soul, the less his
store of energy, the sicklier his soul, and the
harder his life. Such people are fated to be
lonely and miserable. But though they yearn
with all their hearts for something better.

296

they lack the strength to create it. Is it not
possible that they are so crushed and impotent
simply because at the right moment no one spoke
a needed word of encouragement to them?"

"And another thing," went on my strange
companion; "can you call forth the joyful
laughter that purifies the soul? Just see,
people have completely forgotten how to
laugh in the right way. They laugh mali-
ciously, they laugh basely, they often laugh
through their tears, but they never laugh
with the whole-hearted merriment that should
shake the sides of grown people, for a good
laugh is a wholesome thing. It is essential
that human beings laugh — after all, this abil-
ity is one of the few things that distinguish
men from animals. Can you call forth any
laughter but that of censure, cheap laughter
at the expense of human beings who are funny
only because they are pitiable? Try to un-
derstand that your right to preach must spring
from an ability to awaken sincere sentiments
which, like hammers, must knock down and
destroy old confining forms of life so that room-
ier ones may be built up. Wrath, hate, cour-
age, shame, disgust, and, in the end, enraged

297

despair— these are levers by means of which
anything on earth can be destroyed. Can you
produce such levers? And can you put them
to work? You must nurture in your breast
a great hatred of himian shortcomings or a
great love for the common man — a love born
of his sufferings — if you would have the right
to address the people. If you feel neither the
one nor the other, be humble and consider
well before you speak."

It was getting light by this time, but the
gloom in my heart deepened. And this man,
who knew all the secrets of my soul, kept on
talking. From time to time I was struck by
the thought: is he a man at all?

But I was too taken up by what he said to
consider the question. Once more his words
pricked my brain like needles:

"In spite of everything life is growing broad-
er and deeper, albeit this growth is a slow
one because you have neither the strength
nor the knowledge to accelerate it. Life is
growing, and day by day people are becoming
more inquiring. Who is to answer their ques-
tions? You are the ones who ought to, you
self-appointed apostles. But do you know

298

life well enough to explain it to others? Do
you know what the demands of the times are,
have you knowledge of the future, and can
you speak revivifying words to one who,
corrupted by the baseness of life, has lost
heart? He has lost heart, he has no zest for
life, he . no longer wants to live decently,
but would live simply, like a pig, and — do
you hear? — he smiles mockingly whenever
anyone utters the word 4he ideal.' He has
degenerated into a heap of bones covered by
flesh and a thick skin, and this heap of bones
is animated not by the spirit, but by lust. He
is desperately in need of your attention.
Hurry! Teach him how to live while he still
bears human semblance! But how can you
be expected to revive in him a zest for life
when you do nothing but miunble and grum-
ble and complain, or paint an impassive pic-
ture of his deterioration? The odour of decay
hangs over the earth; cowardice and servility
have seeped into men's hearts; laziness has
bound their minds and hands with soft fet-
ters. . . . And what do you bring to this loath-
some muddle? How shallow, how insignifi-
cant you are, and how^ many there are of you!

299

Oh, if only a stern but loving soul with a
heart of flame and a great all-encompassing
mind would appear! Then prophetic w^rds
would come ringing through the shameful
silence like the striking of a bell, and then
perhaps a shudder would pass over the despi-
cable souls of the living dead. ..."

So saying, he became silent. I did not look
at him. I cannot recall which feeling pre-
vailed in me — shame or terror.

"What have you to say to me?" came his
unconcerned query.

"Nothing," I replied.

And again there was silence.

"How will you go on living?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"What will you write?"

I was silent.

"Silence is the highest wisdom."

A nerve-racking pause separated these
words from the laugh that followed. He laughed
delightedly, like a person who has long
waited for a chance to laugh with such ease
and enjoyment. And my heart laughed blood
to hear this accursed laughter.

"Heh, heh! And this from you, who would

300

teach others to live? You, who are so easily
disconcerted? Now, I warrant, you are aware
of who I am, eh? Heh, heh, heh! And all
the rest of the youths who are born old men
would be just as disconcerted if they had deal-
ings with me. Only one who dons the armour
of lies, audacity and shamelessness does not
wince to hear the judgement passed on him
by his conscience. So that is how strong you
are: one push and over you go! Speak one
word — only one word in your defence; deny
the truth of what I have said; relieve your
heart of its pain and its shame; be strong and
self-confident if but for a moment, and I
will take back all that I have said. I will
bow before you. Show me the least attribute
of your soul that gives you the right to be
called teacher. I need to be taught, for I am
but a man. I have become lost in this dark
maze of life and am searching for a path that
will lead me out to the light, to truth, to
beauty, and a new form of life. Show me the
way. I am a man. Hate me, flog me, but rescue
me from this slough of indifference. I long
to be better than I am, but how can I achieve
it? Teach me how. "

301

And 1 thought: can I do it? Can 1 satisfy
the demands which this man justly places
upon me? Life's fires are dying out, shadoAvs
of doubt are gathering more and more thickly
about the minds of men, and some way out
must be found. What is this way? One thing
I know: it is not after happiness the soul
must yearn. Of what value is happiness? Not
in happiness lies the meaning of life, nor will
self-complacency satisfy man for long — he is,
after all, above that. The meaning of life lies
in the beauty and strength of his striving
toward some goal, and it is essential that
every moment of existence has its high pur-
pose. And this is possible. But not in the
old framework of life, which cramps the soul
and robs it of freedom.

Once more my companion laughed, but
quietly this time — the laugh of a man whose
heart is being eaten out by thought.

"How many people this planet has brought
forth, yet how few monuments there are to
great men! Why should that be so? In the past
— but a fig for the past! It only fills us with
envy, for in the present there is no one who
will leave the least trace of himself on this

302

earth after he is dead. Man is slumbering,
and there is nobody to wake him up. He is
slumbering and reverting to the beast. He
needs the lash, and after the lash — the im-
pulsive caresses of love. Do not fear to hurt
him. If, loving him, you flog him, he will
understand and accept his stripes as well-
earned. And when he has suffered and is
ashamed, lavish on him your caresses and he
will be reborn. People are mere children, even
though at times we are shocked by the vicious-
ness of their actions and the perversion of
their minds. They are always in need of love
and of fresh and лvhclesome spiritual food. Are
you capable of loving people?"

"Loving people?" I repeated dubiously,
for indeed I did not kno\v whether I loved
people or not. In all sincerity, I did not know.
Who would say of himself: "Behold, here is
one who loves people!" Anyone who folloAvs
his own behaviour attentively will think
long before he dares to say: "I love." We
all know what a gulf separates each man from
his neighbour.

"You do not answer? It makes no differ-
ence— I understand you. I am going now."

303

"So soon?*' I asked faintly, for however
afraid of him I was, I was even more afraid
of myself.

"Yes, I am going. But I shall come back.
Wait for me."

And he went.

Did he really? I did not notice his going.
He vanished as swiftly and silently as a shad-
ow. I went on sitting there in the park for
a long time, unconscious of the cold, unaware
that the sun had risen and was gleaming on
the ice-covered branches of the trees. And
it seemed strange to behold that bright day,
with the sun shining as impersonally as ever
and the old long-suffering earth clad in a cov-
erlet of snow that sparkled blindingly in the
rays of the sun. ...

1895-98

КС€ o>>

THE POET

A Sketch

Shura came home from the gymnasium, took
off her coat and went into the dining-room.
She noticed something unusual in the way
mother, who was already sitting at the laid
table, smiled at her. This circumstance im-
mediately awakened Shura 's curiosity, but
she was a big girl and considered it undignifi-
ed to display curiosity by asking questions.
She kissed mamma on the forehead, and,
throwing a glance at herself in the mirror,
took her seat. Once again something unusual
struck her— the table was laid "full dress/'
and for five persons. Then it wasn't anything
more than someone being invited to dinner.
Shura sighed with disappointment. She knew

20—327 305

ail of papa's and mamma's and Aunt Zina's
acquaintances. Tliere wasn't a single inter-
esting person among them. Heavens! How
boring they all were, and how boring every-
thing was!

"Who's that for?" she asked indifferently,
nodding her head at the extra cover.

Before answering, her mother looked at her
watch, then at the clock, then turned towards
the window and listened to something, and
at last said with a smile:

"Guess."

"No fun, " said Shura, conscious that her
curiosity was flaring up again. She remembered
that Lyuba, the housemaid, on opening the
door to her, had also said somewhat unusually:

"I'm so glad you've come, Miss!"

Lyuba rarely said she was glad she had
come, and never with such emphasis. Shura
knew this very well, for the slightest new
detail in the dull routine of family life produced
a marked ripple on its quiet surface and regis-
tered firmly in Shura 's little head, so thirst-
ing for impressions.

"But perhaps it will be fun. Do make a
try," her mother proposed again.

306

Having deliberated Lyuba's intonation,
Shura was certain that it would be fun, lots
of fun. But somehow she was reluctant to ask
outright.

"Someone come from somewhere? " she said,
feigning indifference.

"Of course," nodded mother, "but who?"

"Uncle Zhenya," Shura ventured, feeling
crimson flow over her cheeks.

"No, not a relative. But it's someone you're
mad on."

Shura made round eyes. Then she suddenly
leaped up and threw herself on mamma's
neck:

"Mummy! Really?"

"Stop it, stop it!" Mother was laughing and
pushing her away. "You giddy child! Wait
till I tell him all this!"

"Mummy! Krymsky? Has he come? And has
papa gone to meet him? And Aunt Zina?
They'll be here any minute. . . . Mummy,
I'll put on my grey dress! Oh, they're coming!
They're here!"

Excited and blushing, she jumped around
mother's chair, then rushed to the mirror,
was about to run off to change, but hearing

20* 307

the front-door shut downstairs, she returned
to the mirror, patted her hair, sat down se-
dately at the table and closed her eyes, to Ц
suppress her excitement. When she opened
them Krymsky would be in the room, close i
to her, only a chair away. The poet whose
verses she read over and over, and whom the
whole gymnasium took to be the best poet
of all the moderns! He wrote such gentle,
caressing lines, so sonorous, so sad. Heavens!
And he'd be here in the flesh, and he'd be
close to her, talk to her, read verses \vhich
the girls at the gymnasium couldn't possibly
know yet! Tomorrow she'd say to them:
"You ought to hear what Krymsky has writ- |
ten!" "What?" they'd ask, and she'd recite
the new verse, and they'd ask her where they
could find it, and she'd say nonchalantly —
oh, so nonchalantly! — she'd say it hadn't
been published yet, that Krymsky had read
it to her at their dinner table the day before!
What astonishment there would be, what
envy! That shrew Kikina — she'd have a fit!
That would teach her what was better — to
have a singer for a sister, or a poet for an ac-
quaintance! And all the others. They'd keep

308

asking her: "Shura, show him to us." And —
and what if he suddenly fell in love with her?
That was quite possible. Because he was a
poet. Poets always fell in love all at once.
Heavens! What kind of a moustache would
he have? And his eyes? Large and sad, no
doubt, with dark circles under them. And an
aquiline nose. The moustache would be black.
"Shura," he would say, twisting his hands
and dropping to his knees before her, "Shura!
As soon as I saw you, 4he dawn of a new
life burst upon me, and my heart trembled
with hope. . . . You are the one. This I swear
— for my soul has recognized you.'" Oh, but
he had already written these lines. Then. . . .

"The stuffiness, the dust. Some ghastly
smells — I couldn't get to sleep all night."

The voice which brought Shura back to
reality from the dreamland of poesy and fancy
was very soft and attractive, though there
sounded in it the harsh and peevish notes of
a pampered man. Shura opened her eyes and
got up as a tall thin man in a black velvet
jacket and wide grey trousers came towards her.

"Good day, young lady. You've forgotten
me, haven't you? Why, of course."

309

"I — " Shura was confused, "I always read
your verses, but I was a little girl when you
were here last."

"And now you're a big girl," smiled the
poet, measuring her with a glance; he wanted
to add something, but only pulled in his
lips, as old men do, and sank into a chair,
addressing Shura's father:

"It's a cosy place you have here, Mikhail."

Dropping her head, Shura gazed into her
plate and saw the poet's likeness on its smooth
surface. She did not like his grey trousers,
the cropped head, and the thin red mous-
tache— oh, all of it was extremely prosaic!

And his bluish shaven cheeks, and his
chin, and his habit of pulling in his lips. His
eyes were very light — one might say colour-
less eyes — and they had bags under them,
and his forehead was wrinkled. In fact, he
was just like a clerk she had seen at the post-
office. There was nothing, nothing at all
poetic in his appearance. His hands? Shura
glanced at them sideways. They were plump,
with short, thick fingers. On one finger he
wore a ring set with an agate. Shura sighed,
feeling very miserable.

"So you read my verses?"

He was saying this to her. She nodded and
blushed.

"Well, and — may I ask — do you like them?"

"Oh, they're all crazy about your verses,"
said mother.

"Ah! That's flattering."

"Not at all, it isn't true," Shura contra-
dicted her mother, but her words came after
the poet's.

The girl was embarrassed — it was stupid
of her. Mother, father, aunt, and he — they
were all laughing. He even raised his eye-
brows for some reason, and his face took on a
clownish look. Wliy did he raise his eyebrows?
And why did he laugh with the others? He was
a poet, and should be sensitive and tactful.
Should her embarrassment seem funny to him,
as it did to the others? Was he like
everybody else? Perhaps he was just trying
to be polite, and later he would be his own
self.

"What class are you in, Shura?"

"The sixth."

Why did he want to know? And why did
he call her Shura?

31!

"And which teacher do you like best? The
drawing teacher, I suppose?"

"No, literature."

"Oh, yes, the teacher of literature." Deafen-
ing laughter followed.

It seemed to Shura she was being torn to
pieces, pinched, that thousands of pins were
being thrust into her body. She wanted to
leave the table and escape. She felt cold, and
she feared she would not be able to hold
back the tears. How could she have given
herself away like that? Trembling with in-
dignation, she looked into the poet's face, an
angry and nervous sparkle in her eyes. She
was afraid her courage would fail before she
had said all the things teeming in her brain,
and so she began speaking breathlessly, crush-
ing her fingers under the table:

"Does it seem funny to you? But it isn't
funny at all. He's the best teacher we have,
and we love him very much. He speaks so in-
terestingly— reads to us — all sorts of books —
points out the new in literature, and, on tbo
whole, he's a very good man. Ask anybody
you like, from our class, or the seventh. Why
are you lau^hincy? Of course, T, , , ," .

.312

"Shura! What's the matter with you?"
exclaimed her father.

"We have offended the young lady, " Krym-
sky said gently, "I apologize."

His apology grated on Shura's ears. It
seemed to her they were insincere, and that
he wasn't in the least interested in how she
would accept his words. Moreover, she felt
like a stranger here, and not needed by any
of these people. She was sorry for herself,
and sat through the dinner in a fog, concentrat-
ing on the sadness gathering in her heart, a
quiet, gnawing sadness.

"So that's what he's like, the poet! The
same as everybody else," she kept thinking
after dinner as she sat at the window in her
room looking at her favourite lilac bushes in
the garden — looking at them fixedly, as if
seeing them for the first time.

"Like everybody else. But why, then,
doesn't papa write poetry? Is he any worse
than this poet?" Some of the poet's lines
came to her mind — so wistful, so stirring —
and rhymed phrases full of sorrowful tender-
ness. "He never mentioned them during din-
ner. He must have grown used to writing them,

3t3

as Sonya Sazikova has grown used to making
her wonderful paper-flowers. Everyone en-
vies her, but she only laughs and says: *0h,
it's very simple!'"

A sound of voices came from the garden: it
was father and Krymsky. If they sat down on
the bench behind the lilac she would hear
every word they said. Stretching her neck,
Shura looked out to see Avhere they would go.

"How is your latest book selling?" father
was asking.

"Not bad. Гт thinking of a second edition.
But people are buying it more out of curiosity
than from a love of poetry. As soon as the
book appeared, the wretched critics set up
a cry: Decadence! The public wants to know
what decadence means, of which so much is
being said, all of it quite incomprehensible.
It's all to my advantage. They buy the book
just to have a look at decadence."

Krymsky 's voice was sadly derisive, yet
resentment sounded in his words, and this
note called forth a kindred echo in the heart
of the girl at the window.

"Yes," said papa, "the critics are severe
with you writers."

3N

'They demand that the poet voice the ven-
geance and lamentation of a citizen. Snug
in their nests, they think people want ven-
geance and lamentation. Ridiculous. There
aren't any citizens in our life. There are only
stupid and self-satisfied people, and people
who are worn out and dissatisfied. Nothing
more. This sad circiunstance is unknown to
the gentlemen who are our critics. They
have to do with books, not with life; with
old traditions, not with new ideas. The young
people? *Young people, my friend, are born
old nowadays,' someone has aptly said. They
haven't much use for poetry, nor for anything
else that could purify the soul. However,
let's drop this boring subject. . . . What a
pretty daughter you have!"

"Ever the poet! You've taken note of that
already?"

"Bless his heart!" whispered Shura, blush-
ing with pleasure. She concluded from his
words that he wasn't understood and was
complaining about it. Once more he had
become a poet in her eyes. And then this
unexpected praise!

"By the way, pardon my indiscretion, but- "

5/5

"What about that wife of mine? I don4
know where she is. About two years ago I
heard she was teaching school somcAvhere
in the Caucasus. Ugh! Can't think of her
without a shudder. There are women whose
virtue and naivete inspire nothing but ter-
ror— an unfeigned terror in me, miserable
sinner that I am. That's the sort of woman
my wife is. Never have I felt more sorry for
myself than I did when I discovered what
she was. A Christian who just must suffer
at any cost. Very boring. I say, will they
serve us tea soon?"

"Very soon. But what I wanted to ask you
was: what are you now — married, or single?"

"Single. Since May. All winter I lived
with an angel. An extraordinary affair, old
fellow! She was an admirer of my talent, a
fiery little thing, and not without education,
which, by the way, didn't prevent her from
being a perfect imbecile. We came together
quite by accident — at least on my part there
was nothing premeditated. It happened at a
picnic — I'd had a bit to drink. The devil
knows how she came to be at my flat. I woke
up in the morninor and rubbed my eyes: Mar-

316

ried! I congratulated myself, dressed and
waited for what would happen next."

Father was laughing loudly, and it seemed
to Shura that the sound of his laughter split
something within her. It hurt terribly.

"The deuce, you say. What then?"

"Well, she woke up. Tears followed; a
million kisses and just as many vows. We had
a week of arrant abandon which pretty well
wore me out. "

"What about her parents?"

"She concealed it from them. Then, little
by little, life began stepping into its rights,
and it all started, the devil knows what.
First of all she tried to prove to me that my
tender, wonderful, enchanting verses didn't
harmonize with my dressing-gown — something
I had paid sixty-five rubles for. I protested,
she wept. A scene. And then it turns out that a
poet is a creature so celestial in her concep-
tion that in his flat there should not exist
premises, which by dint of physiological
laws, even a poet must visit sometimes. Oh,
the devil take this idiotic upbringing that
addles the brains of our women! Quarrels,
tears, allusions to motherhood, a demand to

3t7

concede on all points. 1 escaped and wrote
to her in prose: 'A poet needs freedom above
all else'."

"Well, and then what?" father asked slowly.

"I'm paying her twenty-five rubles a
month."

Shura felt cold and was seized with a nerv-
ous chill but she went on staring wide-eyed
out of the window.

"So that's why your poetry has been so
pessimistic of late ! "

"Have you read 'A motley crowd of memo-
ries keeps milling in the darkness of the night'? "

"Well?"

"In it I describe my sensations — the hang-
over of this stupid story."

"It is well described," sighed father. "You
always were a master at portraying 4he
vague tracery of the heart's emotions'."

"But I see you really do read me!"

"Very much so. All flattery aside, your
verse is delightful. "

"Thanks. It isn't often I hear that, although,
to be frank, I know I deserve the praise."

"Doubtlessly, old fellow! Let's go and have
tea."

318

I

"Just look at who writes nowadays, and
how they write! Vultures, not poets. They
torture the language, they mutilate it. I
cherish it and try to — "

Shura watched them go through the garden
side by side, father's arm round the poet's
waist. Their voices grew indistinct, vanished.

Shura straightened herself slowly, as though
something heavy were pressing her down and
it was difficult to move.

"Shura, come and have your tea!" called
mother.

She got up and started for the door. Pass-
ing the mirror she saw that her face was
pale, drawn, and frightened. A mist veiled
her eyes, and when she entered the dining-
room the familiar faces appeared like shape-
less white blots.

"I hope the young lady isn't angry with
me any more?" came the poet's voice.

She said nothing, gazing at his cropped
head and trying to recall what he, this man,
had seemed like to her when she had read
his poetry and didn't know him.

"Shura, wliy don't you answer? How very
impolite!" exclaimed father.

3fo

"What do you want of me?" she cried out,
jumping up. "Leave me alone! Fakers!''

Sobbing, she rushed out of the dining-room.

"Fakers!" she repeated hysterically.

For several moments the four people at
the table sat without speaking, looking at
each other in astonishment. Then mother and
aunt went out.

"Could she have overheard our conversa-
tion?" father asked the poet.

"Damn it all!" the latter ejaculated in em-
barrassment, fidgeting about on his chair.

Mother came back.

"She's crying," she said with a shrug of
her shoulders in reply to the questioning looks
directed at her.

7896

E€€ g ЭаН!

KONOVALOV

As I WAS glancing through the paper I came
upon the name of Konovalov; it instantly
caught my attention, and this is what I read:

"Last night in cell 3 of the local jail, a man
from Murom named Alexander Ivanovich Ko-
novalov, aged 40, hanged himself from the dam-
per-knob of the chimney. The suicide had been
arrested in Pskov for vagrancy and was being
returned to his native town. The prison au-
thorities assert that he was a quiet, peace-
able, contemplative man. His suicide, accord-
ing to the report of the prison doctor, is
to be attributed to melancholia."

As I read this brief notice, I felt that I
could throw more light on the reasons inducing

21—327 .?2/

this quiet contemplative man to put an end
to his life. I knew him. Perhaps it was my
duty to spealc: he was a splendid chap, and
one does not meet such people too often in
this world.

. . . I was eighteen when I made the acquaint-
ance of Konovalov. At that time I worked
in a bakery as the baker's assistaut. The baker
was a soldier from the "music squad," a pro-
digious drinker who often spoiled the dough.
\ЛЪеп drunk he would j^lay tunes on his
lips or drum them out with his fingers on
anything that саш.е to hand. If the owner
of the bakery flew at him for spoiling the bread
or not having it ready by morning, he would
become furious, would curse the owner round-
ly and try to make him realize it was a ти-
sician he was dealing with.

"Spoiled the dough!" he would shout, his
long red moustache bristling, his thick wet
lips slapping together loudly. "Burnt the crust!
Soggy! To hell with you, you cross-eyed hy-
ena! Do you think I was born for such work?
To hell with you and your work! Гт a mu-
sician, Г11 have you know. It used to be if
the viola got drunk, I played the viola; if

322

the oboe was arrested, 1 played the oboe; if the
cornet got sick, who took his place? Me! Тшп-
tarra-lum-tum! Bah, you miserable katsapl
Гт quitting!"

And the owner, a puffy, underdone man
with short fat legs, a womanish face, and eyes
of different colours, would stamp his feet till
his belly shook and shriek:

"You thief! You murderer! You Christ-
selling Judas!" And he would raise his hands
over his head with the stubby fingers spread
wide apart and shriek even louder: "And
what if I turn you over to the police as a
rebel?"

"Me, the servant of the tsar and the coun-
try, turned over to the police?" the soldier
would bawl back, and then^he would advance
slowly on the owner, brandishing his fists. The
owner would back away snorting and spitting
in rage; there was nothing else for him to
do — good bakers were not to be found in that
Volga town in summer.

Such scenes took place almost daily. The
soldier drank, spoiled the dough, and played
marches and waltzes — "numbers," as he
called them; the boss grit his teeth, while I,

21* 323

as a result of all this, had to do the work of
two.

And so I was very glad when the following
scene took place between the owner and the
soldier:

"Well, soldier," said the boss as he came
into the bakery, his face beaming, a look of
triшnph in his eyes, "Well, soldier, poke out
your lips and sing a march."

"What's that?" said the soldier glumly from
where he lay on the bin drunk as usual.

"Get ready to set out on a march, " exulted
the owner.

"Where to?" asked the soldier, dropping
his legs over the edge of the bench and sens-
ing something Avrong.

"\Vherever you like. "

"What d'ye mean?" barked the sol-
dier.

"I mean I'm not keeping you any longer.
Take your pay and — forward, march! To the
four corners of the earth."

The soldier, who was used to bullying the
boss because he was sure he could not do with-
out him, was sobered by this announcement;
he knew only too well that it would be hard

324

lor one with his poor knowledge of the trade
to find another job.

"Come now, you're fooling," he said anxi-
ously, struggling to his feet.

"Get along, get along. "

"Get along?"

"Clear out."

"Worked out, eh?" said the soldier, with a
bitter shake of his head. "You've sucked my
blood — sucked me dry — and now you throw
me out. Slick of you, you spider."

"Me, a spider?" seethed the boss.

"Yes, you. A blood-sucking spider, that's
what you are," said the soldier definitely,
and went staggering towards the door.

The boss gave a nasty laugh as he watched
him go, and there was a gay sparkle in his
eyes.

"Try and find somebody who'll hire you
now! Nobody '11 take you as a gift after what
I've told them about you. Not a soul."

"Have you found a new baker?" I asked.

"The new one's an old one. He was my
helper once. What a man! Worth his weight in
gold. But he's a drunk, too, tut-tut! Only
he goes off on bouts. He'll work like an ox

325

for three or four months; won't sleep or rest
or give a hang for the pay. Just work and sing.
And when he sings it goes straight to your
heart. When he's had his fill of singing he'll
go off on the booze."

The owner sighed and gave a hopeless wave
of his hand.

"Wild horses can't stop him once he's start-
ed. He drinks till he's sick or stark naked.
And then, maybe because he's ashamed, he
slinks off somewhere like an evil spirit that's
caught a whiff of incense. But here he is. Have
you come for good, Sasha?"

"For good," came a deep rich voice from the
door-way.

There with his shoulder against the jamb
stood a tall broad-shouldered man of about
thirty. His clothes were those of a typical
tramp, his face that of a true Slav. He was
wearing a red calico shirt that was torn and
indescribably dirty, wide trousers of coarse
linen, on one foot he had the remains of a rub-
ber galosh, on the other a battered leather
shoe. His fair hair Avas tousled and bits of
straw were entangled in it. They were in his
fair beard, too, which spread like a fan over

326

his chest. His pale, worn, longish face was light-
ed by a pair of large blue eyes with a gentle
look in them. His lipr — fine, but lacking col-
our— smiled from underneath a blond mous-
tache. His smile was such that he seemed
to be saying apologetically:

"Гт just what I am; don't be too hard

on me."

"Come in, Sasha, this is your helper," said
the boss, rubbing his hands together as he
gazed admiringly at the powerful physique of
the new baker, who advanced without a word
and held out an enormous hand. We ex-
changed greetings. He sat down on a bench,
stretched out his legs, stared at his feet, and
said to the owner:

"Buy me two shirts, Vassili Semyonovich,
and some shoes. And some linen for a cap. "

"You'll have everything, don't worry. I've
got caps, and I'll bring the shirts and trou-
sers this evening. Meanwhile, get to work;
I know what a good fellow you are, and you'll
have no reason to complain of me. Nobody
could treat Konovalov bad because he never
treats anybody bad himself. I've got a heart,
even if I am your boss. I used to work once

W

myself, and I know horse-radish draws tears.
Well, get together, fellows, Г11 be leaving
you."

And he left us alone.

Konovalov sat there without a word, look-
ing about him with a smile on his face.

The bakery was in a basement with a vault-
ed ceiling, and its three windows were below
street level. There was little light and little
air, but plenty of dirt, dampness, and flour
dust. Three big bins stood against the wall,
one of them empty, another with ready dough
in it, the third with dough that was being
leavened. Across each of them fell a pale
shaft of light from the windoAv. Sacks of flour
lay on the dirty floor beside a stove that took
up nearly one-third of the room; big logs
burned furiously in the stoлю, and the reflec-
tion of the flames flickering on the grey walls
gave the impression that they were noiselessly
chattering together.

It was depressing to have that sooty vault-
ed ceiling hanging over our heads. The fu-
sion of daylight with the light from the stove
produced a vague illumination that tired the
eyes. Dust and street-sounds camp pouring

in a steady stream through the windows.
Konovalov took all this in, heaved a sigh, and
said in an expressionless voice:

"Been working here long?"

I told him. We both fell silent and gazed
at each other from under bent broAvs.

"A regular prison," he said. "Let's go out-
side and sit on the bench by the gate, shall
we?"

We did.

"A fellow can breathe out here. It'll take
me some time to get used to that hole. I've
just come from the sea, so you can judge for
yourself. Worked on the Caspian. And all
of a sudden to find yourself slapped down into
a hole in the ground!"

He gave me a rueful smile and stopped talk-
ing, gazing hard at the people walking and
riding past. There лvas a sad light in his clear
blue eyes. Evening fell; the street was noisy,
stuffy, dusty; the shadows of the houses crept
across the road. Konovalov sat leaning
against the wall, his arms crossed on his chest,
his fingers playing with his silky beard. I
stole a glance at his pale oval face and
JLhought: J wonder what he's like? But I did not

329

dare speak to him because he was my chief,
and also because he inspired me with respect.

Three fine lines crossed his forehead, but
from time to time they vanished, and I
longed to know what this man was thinking
about.

"Come along, it's time. You mix the second
batch and I'll set the third."

When we had weighed out one lot of dough
and mixed another, we sat down for a glass
of tea. Konovalov thrust his hand into his
shirt and said to me:

"Can you read? Here, read this," and he
handed me a soiled and wrinkled piece of
paper.

I read:

"Dear Sasha,

"Greetings and a kiss by mail. Гт lonely
and unhappy and I can't wait for the day when
Г 11 go off with you or begin living- with you.
I'm sick and tired of this rotten life, even if
I did like it at first. You understand w^hy,
and I began to understand, too, after I met
you. Please write to me soon, I want awfully
to hear from you. Good-bye lor the present

330

but not farewell, dear bearded friend of my *
heart. I won't scold you even if I am disap-
pointed in you because you're a pig. You
went away without even saying good-bye to
me, but even so I was always happy with
you and I never was with anybody else and
Г 11 never forget it. Couldn't you try to have
me taken off the list, Sasha? The girls told
you I'd throw you over if I was off the list
but that's all nonsense and an absolute lie.
If you were only nice to me I'd be as faithful
to you as a dog once I was off the list. You
could do it easy but it's hard for me. When
you came to see me I cried because I have to
live such a life but I didn't tell you that was
why.

"Good-bye,
"Your Capitolina."

Konovalov took the letter from me and be-
gan to turn it absently in one hand while he
twisted his beard with the other.

"Do you know how to write?"

"I do."

"And have you any ink?"

"I have."

33t

"Then write her a letter, will you? She
probably thinks Гт a rotter — that I've for-
gotten all about her. Do write."

"I will, but who is she?"

"A prostitute. See, she's asking me to have
her taken off the list. That means Г 11 have
to promise the police to marry her; then they'll
give her back her passport and take away her
card and she'll be free, understand?"

In half an hour a touching missive was
ready.

"Well, read it; how does it sound?" asked
Konovalov impatiently.

This is how it sounded:

"Dear Capa,

"Don't think I'm low enough to have for-
gotten all about you. I didn't forget, but I
went on a bout and drank up everything I
had. But I'm working again, and tomorrow
I'll get an advance from my boss and send
it to Philip and he'll have you taken off
the list. Г 11 send enough to pay your fare here.
So long for the present.

"Yours,

"Alexander."

332

"Hm-m," said Konovalov, scratching his
head, "not much of a writer, you aren't. No
feeling in your letter, no tears. And besides,
I asked you to bawl me out in strong language,
and you haven't."

"Why should I?"

"To let her know I'm ashamed of myself
and realize how bad I treated her. That's
why. This is dry as split peas. Drop a tear
or two."

There was nothing for it but to drop a tear
or two, which I did effectively. Konovalov
was satisfied. He put his hand on my shoulder
and said enthusiastically:

"Now everything's fine. Thanks. I can see
you're a good sort. You and I will get on to-
gether."

I had no doubt of this, and asked him to
tell me about Capitolina.

"Capitolina? She's young — just a kid. From
Vyatka. A merchant's daughter. She left the
straight and narrow, and the further she went,
the worse it got, and at last she landed in a
brothel. When I first saw her I thought, God!
how could it have happened? She's just a baby.
We got to be good friends. She'd cry. I'd

333

say, *Don't worry , have patience, I ' 11 get you out
of here, just wait a while.' And I got every-
thing ready, money and everything, and then
all of a sudden I went off on a bout and found
myself in Astrakhan. And then here. A cer-
tain chap let her know where I was, and she
wrote me that letter."

"What are you thinking of doing— marry-
ing her?" I asked.

"Me get married? How can a drunk get mar-
ried? Oh, no, I'll just have her taken off the
list and then she'll be free to go wherever she
likes. She'll find some place to fit into and
maybe turn out to be a decent woman. "

"She wants to live with you. "

"She's just kidding. They're all like that,
the women. I know them through and through;
I've had lots of them. Even had a mer-
chant's wife once. I was working as a groom
in a circus when she laid eyes on me. *Come
and be our coachman,' she said. I was fed
up with the circus, so I went. Well, one thing
led to another. They had a big house, with
horses and servants, and all the rest. Lived
like lords. Her husband was short and fat,
like our boss, but she was slim and graceful

334

as a cat, and a hot little parcel. She'd hug
me tight and kiss me on the mouth, and her
kisses were like hot coals. They made me
tremble all over, and I was afraid of her. There
she'd be, kissing me and sobbing so hard
that her shoulders shook. * What's the mat-
ter, Vera?' I'd say. *You're like a child,
Sasha, you don't understand a thing,' she'd
answer. She was a sweet little woman, and
it's the truth what she said, I really don't
understand anything. I'm a blockhead and I
knoAv it. I don't understand why I do what
I do, and I never give a thought to how I
live."

He stopped speaking and gazed at me with
wide-open eyes filled with an expression that
was half fear, half wonder — some sense of a larm.
that heightened the sadness of his handsome
face, making it still handsomer.

"And how did your affair with the mer-
chant's wife end?" I asked.

"You see, every once in a while I feel so
miserable I just can't bear to go on living.
It's as if I was the only creature in the whole
wide world, as if there wasn't another liv-
ing thing but me anywhere on earth. And at

335

such limes I bate everybody; myself and every-
one else. I wouldn't give a damn if every-
body died. It must be some sickness in me.
That's what started me drinking. So I went
to her and said, 'Let me go, Vera Mikhailovna,
I can't stand it any longer.' *Wliy, have you
grown tired of me?' she asks and gives an
unpleasant laugh. 'It's not you I've grown
tired of, it's myself,' I said. At first she
didn't understand and she began to shout and
scold me. But when she came to understand,
she just dropped her head and said, *Go
along, then.' And she cried. She had black
eyes and her hair лvas black, too, and curJy.
She came from a family of clerks, not mer-
chants. I felt sorry for her and hated myself.
Of course it was hard for her to live with such
a husband. He was like a sack of flour. She
cried for a long time — she had got used tome by
then. I was verv tender to her: sometimes I'd
take her up m my arms and rock her like a
baby. She'd fall asleep and I'd sit and look
at her. A person can look very pretty asleep
— ^so sweet and simple; just breathes and smiles
and nothing else. Sometimes we'd go for
a drive, when we were living in the country

3S6

in the summer. She liked to drive like the
wind. When we'd get to the woods we'd tie
the horse to a tree and lie down on the chillj^
grass. She'd make me put my head in her
lap while she read a book to me. I'd listen
until I fell asleep. They were good stories
she read, very good. Г11 never forget one of
them about a mute named Gerasim and his
dog. This mute was an outcast, nobody loved
him but his dog. Wlien people made fun of
him, he'd go off to find his dog. A very sad
story. He was a serf, this Gerasim, and one
day his mistress says to him, 'Go and drown
your dog, Gerasim, it's always howling.'
So off he went. He took a boat, put the dog
in it, and pushed off. I'd start shivering when-
ever she got to that place. God, think of
making a man kill a creature that w^as his
only happiness! What sort of a thing was that
to do? A wonderful story, and true to life —
that's what made it so good. There are people
like that: some one thing is the whole world
to them. This dog, for instance. Why the dog?
Because nobody else loved him, but the dog
did, and a man can't live without love of
some kind — why else was he given a heart

22-327 337

to love with? She read me lots of stories. A
sweet little woman, and to this day I feel
sorry for her. If it wasn't for the star I was
born under, I wouldn't have left her until
she asked me to, or until her husband found
out about us. A loving soul, that's the main
thing, and it Avasn't the favours she granted that
shoAved her lovingness; the very heart of her
was loving. She kissed me and all the rest,
like any other woman, but sometimes a great
quietness would come over her, and then it
was wonderful how good she was. She'd look
straight into my very soul and talk to me like
a mother, and I'd feel about five years old.
And even so I left her. The misery. The misery
kept dragging me off somewhere. *Good-bye,
Vera Mikhailovna, and forgive me,' I said.
*Good-bye, Sasha,' she said, and then, the
crazy woman, she pulled my sleeve up and
sank her teeth into my flesh. I almost cried
out. She nearly bit a chunk out of my arm —
it took three weeks to heal. I still wear the
marks."

He bared his muscular arm, very white and
well formed, and held it out with a sad and
kindly smile. The scar was plainly to be seen

338

near the elbow joint— two semi-circles with their
ends almost meeting. The smiling Konova-
lov shook his head as he looked at them.

'The crazy woman. That's what she gave
me to remember her by."

I had heard such stories before. Almost
every tramp will tell you about some "mer-
chant's wife" or "gentlewoman" with whom
he has had an affair. And the gentlewoman
or merchant's wife has assumed so many as-
pects in the countless tales told about her that
she has become a fantastic personality for
all tramps, and one comprising the most
contradictory physical and psychological traits.
If today she is gay, quick-tempered and
blue-eyed, next Aveek she wall be kindly, sen-
timental and black-eyed. Usually the tale
is recounted cynically, with innumerable de-
tails intended to humiliate the woman.

But I detected a note of truthfulness in Ko-
novalov's account, w^hich contained elements
I had never heard before, such as the reading
of books and the comparing of himself, a
strong and powerful man, to a child.

I imagined this slip of a woman sleeping
in his arms, her head resting on his broad

22* 339

chest. There was something beautiful in the
picture, and this helped to convince me of
its truth. And in the end, there was the sad
and gentle tone— a very special tone — in
which he gave his reminiscences of the "mer-
chant's wife." A true tramp пел^ег speaks of
women or anything else in such a tone; on
the contrary, he boasts that there is nothing
on earth he holds sacred.

"Why don't you say something? Do you
think I'm lying?" asked Konovalov, and
there was anxiety in his voice. He was sitting
on a sack of flour holding a glass of tea in
one hand and slowly stroking his beard with
the other. His blue eyes bored into me inquir-
ingly and the lines on his forehead were
very marked.

"It's all the truth. \ЛЪу should I lie? Oh,
I know we roughs like to spin yarns. And why
shouldn't we? If a felloAv's never known any-
thing worth while in life, why shouldn't he
make up a fairy-tale and give it out as the
truth? It don't do anybody any harm. He
comes to believe it himself as he tells it — as
if it really did happen that way. Believes it,
and — well, it makes him feel good. Lots of

340

people keep going that way. Can't be helped.
But what I told you's the honest truth — that's
exactly Avhat happened. Is there anything
strange about it? Here's a woman who's not
getting any joy out of life. WTiat if I am only
the coachman? It makes no difference to a
woman — coachmen, gentlemen, officers — луе'ге
all the male sex. And all pigs in her eyes —
all after the same thing and each of us trying
to get it as cheap as possible. The simpler
the man, the more conscience he's got, and
I'm the simplest of the simple. Women al-
ways see that in me — they see I'll never do
them harm and never laugh at them. When
a woman sins, there's nothing she fears so
much as being laughed at, being made sport
of. A woman has more sense of shame than Ave
have. When we've had our fun, we're readv
to brag about it even in the market-place:
you ought to see what a fool of a skirt I
caught last night. But a луотап can't brag.
Nobody thinks she's clever for sinning. The
very lowest of them has more sense of shame
than we have."

As I listened, I thought: strange sentiments
coming from a man like him; can he mean them?

341

I grev/ even more astonished as he went on
talking, gazing at me with his clear child
like eyes.

The wood in the stove burnt out, leaving
a heap of bright coals that cast a rosy glow
on the wall of the bakery.

The window framed a square of blue sky
set with two stars. One of them, very large,
had an emerald sparkle; the other, quite close
to it, w^as very faint.

In a week's time Konovalov and I had be-
come good friends.

"You're a simple sort, and that's what I
like," he said with a wide grin, slapping me
on the back with an enormous hand.

He was an artist at his job. You should
have seen him tossing the seven-pood lump
of dough about as he rolled it, or bending over
the bin to knead it, his arms buried to
the eJbow in the resilient mass which gave
off a thin squeak as he pressed it in steel
fingers.

I scarcely had time to empty a form on to
his long-handled tray before he had thrust
it into the oven. At first I was afraid he would

■N'j

place the loaves too close together in his haste,
but when he had baked three batches and
not one of the hundred and twenty loaves (all
well browned and light as a feather) had "col-
lided, " I realized he was a master-workman.
He loved his work, took it to heart, became
fretful if the oven did not heat or the dough
was slow in rising, scolded the boss whenever
he bought flour of a poor grade, and took a
child-like joy and satisfaction in having the
loaves turn out perfectly round and fluffy,
baked to a turn, with a crisp crust. Some-
times he Avould take the most perfect loaf
off the tray and say laughingly, as he tossed
it, steaming, from hand to hand:

"Just see what a pretty thing we've made,
you and me!"

It was a pleasure for me to watch thii> over-
grown boy at work, he put so much spirit
into it — a thing everyone should do, no mat-
ter what his job.

One day I said to him:
"Sasha, they say you can sing. ''
"1 can. But I don't sing any old time, I
sing in spells, so to speak. I start when I get
the misery. Or if I begin singing first, tbQ

343

misery's sure to follow. But don't talk about
it, and don't tease me. What about you, don't
you sing? That's something, singing is! But
don't start till I get round to it. Then we'll
sing together, shall we?"

I agreed to wait, and would whistle when-
ever I felt an urge to sing. But sometimes I
would forget and begin to hum to myself
as I kneaded or rolled the dough. Konovalov
would listen, his lips moving, and then remind
me of my promise. Occasionally he shouted
at me roughly:

"Shut up! Stop wailing!"

One day I took a book out of my box and
sat at the window to read.

Konovalov was dozing on a bin, but the
rustle of the paper above his head as I turned
the pages made him open his eyes.

"What's your book about?"

It was The Podlipovites,

"Read it to me, will you?" he asked.

Sitting there on the window-sill I began
to read out loud, and he sat up and put his
head against my knee as he listened. From
time to time I glanced over the book and met
bis eyes, and to this day they are impressed

344

on my memory — wide-open, strained, filled
with concentrated attention. His mouth,
too, was open, showing two rows of even white
teeth. It was an inspiration to see his up-
lifted eyebrows, the broken lines furrowing
his high forehead, the hands gripping his knees,
his whole form, so still and tense. It made me
try to put as much expression as possible
into my reading of the sad tale of Pila and Sy-
soika.

At last I grew tired and closed the book.

"Is that all? "asked Konovalov in a whisper.

"Less than half."

"Will you read it all to me?"

"If you want me to."

"Ah!" he said, taking his head in his hands
and swaying from side to side. There was some-
thing he wanted to say and he opened and
shut his mouth, puffing like a pair of bellows,
and narrowing his eyes. I had not expected
the reading to have such an effect on him
and did not understand what it meant.

"How you read that!" he whispered. "In
different voices, each person as if he was
alive. Aproska. Pila. What fools they were!
Very comical. What comes next? Where will

345

they go? Jesxis, why, it's all true, they're
real people, honest-to-goodness muzhiks, with
true-to-life voices and faces and all the rest.
Listen, Maxim, when we've put the bread in
the oven, let's read some more."

We put the bread in the oven, got ready
another batch, and then I read for another
hour and a half. When the bread was ready
we stopped again, took it out, put other
loaves in, kneaded fresh dough and mixed
some yeast. All this we did in feverish haste
and almost without speaking. From time to
time the frowning Konovalov would snap
out monosyllabic instructions to me as he
rushed ahead with the work.

It was morning when we finished the book,
and my tongue was stiff and sore.

Konovalov was sitting on a sack of flour
and looking at me without a word, a strange
expression in his eyes, his hands gripping
his knees.

"Did you like it?'' I asked.

He nodded, screwing up his eyes, and when
he spoke it was in a whisper again.

"Who made that up?" His eyes were full
of a wonder not to be expressed in words, and

Я46

suddenly his face was lighted by an upsurge
of strong feeling.

I told him who had written the book.

"What a man! He caught it just right,
didn't he? It almost makes you afraid. Makes
the shivers run up and down your spine, it's
so true to life. What about him — that writer-
fellow — what did he get for doing it?"

"That is. . .?"

"Didn't they give him something — a dec-
oration or something?"

"Why should they give him a decoration?"
I asked.

"Well, a book — it's like a police procla-
mation: people read it and begin talking
about it. x\bout w^hat Pila and Sysoika were
like, for instance. Nobody could help feeling
sorry for them, living in such darkness. A
dog's life. And so. ..."

"And so what? "

Konovalov glanced at me self-consciously.

"There ought to be some measures taken, "
he said meekly. "They're human beings. Some-
body ought to help them."

I made a long speech in reply, but alas! it
did not make the impression I hoped it would,

347

Konovalov grew thoughtful, dropped his
head, sighed, and rocked back and forth, but
not once did he interrupt me. I grew tired at
last and stopped.

He raised his head and looked at me sadly.

"So they didn't give him a thing?" he said.

"Who?" I asked, having quite forgotten
about the author.

"That writer-fellow. "

I did not answer, annoyed because he evi-
dently considered himself incapable of grap-
pling with philosophical problems.

Konovalov took up the book, turned it
reverently in his hands, opened it, shut it,
put it down, and gave a sigh.

"What a deep thing!" he said in a low
voice. "Here's a тад writes a book. . . nothing
but paper with little marks on it. . . writes it,
and. . . is this man dead?"

"Yes," I said.

"He's dead, but his book is here and peo-
ple read it. A person looks at it with his eyes
and pronounces different words. And another
person listens and finds out that there once
lived people named Pila, Sysoika and Ap-
roska. And he feels sorry for them, even

3^8

though he never set eyes on them and they're
just — just nothing to him. Maybe he passes
dozens of live people like them on the street
every day without knowing anything about
them, and it makes no difference to him —
he doesn't even notice them. But when he
meets them in a book his heart fairly bursts
with pity for them. How do you explain that?...
So that writer-fellow died Avithout any reward,
did he? Just nothing at all?"

I grew angry and told him how writers
were rewarded.

Konovalov looked at me with frightened
eyes and clicked his tongue to show his sym-
pathy.

"A fine state of affairs," he sighed, then
hung his head and chewed the left end of
his moustache.

I began to speak about the fatal role of the
pub in the life of Russian men of letters, I
told him about the truly great and profound
writers who have been ruined by vodka, to
which they turned as their only comfort in a
life full of hardship.

"Do such people drink?" asked Konovalov
in an awed whisper. In his wide eyes I read

349

distrust of what I had said, and fear and pity
for those men. "Do they really drink? I
suppose it's after they write their books that
they take to drink, isn't it?"

Not finding much point to this question,
I ignored it.

"After, of course," decided Konovalov.
"These Avriter-fellows are like sponges that suck
up other people's sorrow. They have a spe-
cial kind of eyes for this. And hearts, too.
If they look at life for a long time it gives
them the misery. And they pour it out into
their books. But that don't help, because
their hearts are touched, and you can't even
burn out the misery, once it's in your heart.
So there's only one thing left — to drown it
out in vodka. That's why they drink. Am
I right?"

I said he was, and this seemed to encour-
age him.

"But to be fair, " he went on, delving deeper
into the psychology of a writer, "they ought
to be rewarded, oughtn't they? Because they
understand more than other people and
point out to others what is wrong with life.
Take me, for instance — what am I? A tramp.

350

a drunkard, a good-for-nothing, a soiled
character. There's no sense in a life like mine.
What's the point of my living in this world?
Who needs me, when you come to it? No wife,
no children, no place to call my олуп, and
not even any hankering after them. I just live
on in my misery, nobody knoAvs why. There's
nothing inside me to point the way. How
shall I put it? No spark in my soul — no
strength, perhaps. Whatever you call it, it's
just not there, and that's that. So I go on
living and searching for that something,
and longing for it, but what it is, I don't
know. "

He looked at me, his head resting on his
hand, his face reflecting the thoughts striv-
ing to take shape in his mind.

"Well?" I urged.

"Well — I don't know how to put it, but
I think if one of those writer-fellows came
along and had a look at me, he might be able
to explain my life, mightn't he? Wliat do
you think?"

I thought that I myself could do this, and
instantly undertook to give what I thought
a very clear and simple explanation. I spoke

351

about circumstances and environment, about
inequality, about those who were the lords
of life, and those who were their victims.

Konovalov listened attentively. He was
sitting opposite me, his cheek in his hand,
and gradually a veil seemed to be drawn over
his big blue eyes that Avere wide-open and
bespoke a gifted and thoughtful nature; the
lines in his forehead deepened, and he scarce-
ly seemed to breathe, so intense was his
effort to grasp \vhat I was saying.

This flattered me. With great fervour I
drew a picture of his life for him, showing
that he was not to blame for what he was.
He was a victim of circumstances, a person
who, equal to all others by birth, had been
made a social nonentity by a chain of injus-
tices stretching far back in history. I finished
by saying:

"You have nothing to blame yourself for.
You have been wronged."

He said nothing, just sat there with his
eyes fixed on me. I could see a bright smile
forming in their depths, and I waited impa-
tiently to hear what he would say.

With a soft laugh he leaned toward me and

352

put his hand on my shoulder in a soft femi-
nine gesture.

"How easy you explain it, pal. Where did
you get all that? Out of books? You've cer-
tainly read a lot. If only I'd read that much!
But the main thing is, you put the milk of
human kindness into what you say. I've never
heard anyone talk like that before. A strange
thing — most people blame others for the
wrongs they suffer, but you blame the whole
of life, the whole system. According to you,
a man isn't to blame for anything himself;
if he was born to be a tramp, a tramp he'll
be. And what you say about convicts is very
queer: they steal because they have no work
and have to get food somehow. Very gen-
erous you are. You've got a damned soft
heart."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Do you agree
with me? Do you think what I said is right
or not?"

"You know better than me whether it's
right or not. You can read. If you take other
folks, I guess you're right, but if you take
me. . . ."

"Well?"

23—327 353

"I'm a special case. Who's to blame for
me being a drunkard? My brother Pavel
don4 drink. He's got his own bakery in Perm.
I'm a bettt)r workman than he is, yet I'm
a tramp and a drunk, and there's nothing else
you can say for me. Yet we were both born
of the same mother. He's even younger than
I am. So you see there must be something
wrong with me myself. I must have been born
wrong. You say all people are equal. But I'm
a special case. And not only me — there are
lots of others like me. We're special people —
don't fit into any picture. And we need spe-
cial judgement. And special laws — hard laws,
to drive us off the earth, because we don't
do anybody any good; we only take up room
and stand in other people's way. Who's
to blame for that? We ourselves are to blame.
Because we have no love of life, nor even of
ourselves."

This enormous man Avith eyes as clear as
a baby's despatched with himself so lightly,
branded himself as worthless and therefore
to be driven off the earth with such a heart-
rending smile, that I was dumbfounded. Nev-
er before had I found the quality of self-

354

abiiegalioii hi a tramp, iiiubl of wliuiii are by
their very natures isolated from everything
about them, hostile to everything, and only
too eager to make everything the target of
sneering spitefulness. The people I had met
thus far were always blaming others, always
lodging complaints, stubbornly closing their
eyes to the undeniable evidence contradicting
their claims to impeccability. They invari-
ably attributed their failures to the cruelty
of fate or the wickedness of others. Konova-
lov did not blame fate or accuse others. He
alone was to blame for the mess his life had
become, and the harder I tried to prove to
him that he was "a victim of circumstances
and environment," the stronger he insisted
that he alone was to blame for his state. This
was an original approach, but it infuriated
me. He found pleasure in chastising himself;
it was pleasure that gleamed in his eyes as
he cried out in his resounding voice:

"Every man is his own master, and nobody
but me is responsible if I am a rascal!"

I would not have been surprised to hear
a cultivated person say such a thing, for all
sorts of sores break out on that elaborate

23* 355

psychic organism known as "an intellectuaL "
But it was strange to hear it coming from the
lips of this rough, albeit he was an intellec-
tual among those wronged, hungry, naked,
resentful half-men and half-beasts who are
to be found in the festering slums of oar
cities. There was nothing for it but to conclude
that Konovalov was indeed "a special case, "
but I did not wish to.

In outward appearance he was, dow^n to
the slightest detail, a typical tramp, but the
better I got to кполу him, the more convinced
I became that here was a type at variance
with the ideal I had formed in my mind of
a people who should long ago have been looked
upon as a class, and who well deserve our
attention as being uncommonly avid and ea-
ger, extremely vicious, and by no means stupid.

Our argument waxed hotter.

"Listen," I cried, "how can a man stand
on his feet when all sorts of dark forces are
pressing him down on all sides?"

"Let him hold on tighter," said my oppo-
nent vehemently, his eyes flashing.

"Hold on to what?"

"Let him find something and hold on to it. "

356

"Why don4 you?"

"You fanny duck! Didn't I tell you I my-
self was to blame? I haven't found anything
to hold on to. I keep looking for it and long-
ing for it, but I can't find it."

But it was time to think of the bread, and
we set to work, still trying to prove to
each other the correctness of our points of view.
Of course we proved nothing, and when our
work was over, we lay down, tired and over-
wrought.

Konovalov flung himself on the floor and was
soon asleep. I lay on some sacks of flour, from
which vantage point I looked down upon his
powerful bearded form, stretched like a
storied hero on some bast matting near one of
the bins. There was a smell of hot bread, sour
dough and burning logs in the room. Grad-
ually it grew light, and a grey sky glanced
through the flour-dusted window-pane. A cart
squeaked past and a cowherd blew his horn
to gather the herd.

Konovalov snored. As I watched the rise
and fall of his massive chest I tried to think
of a quick means of converting him to my creed,
but I dozed off before I had succeeded.

B5I

In the morning we got up, mixed the yeast,
washed ourselves, and sat dow^n on a bench
to drink tea.

"Have you got any other books?" asked
Konovalov.

"Yes."

"Will you read them to me?"

"All right."

"Good. Look here, Г 11 go on working for
a month, get my pay from the boss and give
you half."

"What for?"

"To buy books. Buy whatever you like
for yourself, and buy me — maybe two. Books
about muzhiks. People like Pila and Sysoika.
But see they're written with feeling, not
just for the fun of it. Some books are just
rubbish. Take that "Panfilka and Filatka"—
trash, even if it has got a picture on the front.
Or about the Poshekhontsy and other fairy-
tales. I don't like such stuff. I never knew
there were books like the one you have."

"Would you like me to read to you about
Stenka Razin?"

"Stenka? Is it good?"

"Vorv/*

358

"Let's have it."

And so I began reading him Kostomarov's
Stenka Razin's Uprising. At first this talent-
ed monograph, almost an epic poem, was not
to the taste of my bearded listener.

"\Vby isn't there any talk in it?" he asked,
glancing into the book. While I was explain-
ing he tried to hide a yawn. This made him
feel ashamed, and he said guiltily:

"Go ahead and read. Don4 mind me."
But as, with the skill of an artist, the his-
torian drew the portrait «of Stepan Razin,
and this "prince of the Volga freemen" rose
imposingly from the pages of the book, Ко-
novalov under\vent a transformation. Hitherto
bored, indifferent and heavy-eyed, he grad-
ually and without my noticing it appeared
before me in an astonishing new aspect. From
where he sat on the bench opposite me, his
arms encircling his knees, his chin on his knees
so that his beard covered his legs, he de-
! voured me wilh burning eyes that looked out
1 from under drawn brows. There was not a sign
I of that child-like naiveness that I found so
I surprising in him, and all the simplicity, the'
Ц feminine gentleness that went so well with

S59

his kindly blue eyes — now dark and slit-
like— had disappeared. There was something
flaming, something leonine, in his body, which
had become a bundle of taut muscles. I stopped
reading.

"Go on," he said quietly but firmly.

"What's the matter?"

"Go on!" he repeated, and his request was
tinged with irritation.

I went on, and I could see as I glanced up at
him from time to time that he was growing
more and more excited. He emanated some-
thing— a sort of hot vapour — that stimulated,
even intoxicated me. At last 1 came to the
place where Stenka is captured.

"So they caught him!" cried Konovalov.

The cry was full of pain, wrath, resentment.

Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead
and his eyes were strangely dilated. Tie jumped
up off the bench and stood in front of me,
tall and trembling.

"Wait. Stop reading," he said quickly,
putting his hand опту shoulder. "Tell me Avhat
will happen next. No, don't tell me. Will
they kill him? Read on, Maxim, quickly."

One might have thought that Konovalov

360

and not Frolka was Razin's brother. It seemed
that there were blood ties undissolved by
the passage of three hundred years binding
this tramp to Stenka. With all the force of
his strong and vigorous body, with all the
passion of a soul yearning for "something to
hold on to," he was experiencing the pain
and wrath the freedom-loving rebel had known
on being captured three centuries before.

"Go on reading, for Christ's sake!"

I read on, deeply agitated, conscious of
the beating of my own heart, sharing with
Konovalov the pain that Stenka suffered.
Soon we came to the place where he is tor-
tured.

Konovalov set his jaws and his blue eyes
flashed fire. Tie leaned over my shoulder, keep-
ing his eyes glued to the page. His breath was
loud in my ear and it blew my hair into my
eyes. I tossed it back. Seeing this, Konovalov
laid a heavy palm on my head.

"Then Razin clenched his teeth so hard
that they fell out, and he spat them out with
the blood on the floor. ..."

"Stop! To hell with it!" cried Konovalov,
and he snatched the book out of my hands

Sfil

and threw it on the floor with all his might,
he himself sinking down beside it.

He cried, and since he was ashamed to cry,
he growled to disguise the sound. He hid his
head between his knees and cried, wiping his
eyes on his dirty cotton trousers.

I sat on the bench in front of him, unable
to find words of comfort.

"Maxim!" said Konovalov from where he
sat on the floor. "Think of it! Pila . . . Sy-
soika . . . and now Stenka. What an end.
Think of spitting your teeth out like that!"

A shudder passed over him.

He was especially shocked by Stenka 's
spitting out his teeth, and kept coming back
to it, giving nervous little jerks of his shoul-
ders as he mentioned it.

Our heads reeled under the impression of
the brutal picture of human torture that had
been presented to us.

"Read it to me again, will you?" coaxed
Konovalov, picking up the book and handing
it to me. "Here, show me where that place
about the teeth is."

I pointed it out to him and he fixed his eyes
on the lines.

M2

"Is that really what's written: he spat out
his teeth with the blood? The letters here are
just like all the others. God! how it must have
hurt him, eh? Even his teeth. And Avhat will
come later? Will they kill him? Thank God
they'll kill him in the end!"

His joy was expressed with intense feeling,
with a look of supreme satisfaction in his eyes,
and I shuddered at the contemplation of a
compassion so ardently desiring the death
of the tortured Stenka.

We lived in a daze for the rest of the day,
speaking only of Stenka, recalling the events
of his life, the songs written about him, the
tortures he underwent. Twice Konovalov be-
gan singing one of these songs in his rich bari-
tone, but both times he broke off in the middle.

From that day he and I were even closer
friends.

I read Stenka Razin' s Uprising, Tar as
Bulba and Poor People to him several times.
My listener was greatly impressed by 2'aras
Bulba, but it could not eclipse the deep im-
pression made on him by Kostomarov's book.
He could not nndorstend Makar Devushkin

H6a

and Varya. He found the language of Makar's
letters laughable, and was sceptical in his
attitude towards Varya.

"Just see how she makes up to that old man!
Sly of her — making up to a scarecrow like
him. But stop wasting time on that junk,
Maxim. WTiat's there in it? Ilim writes to her,
her writes to him — nothing but a w^aste of
paper. To hell with them. Nothing funny,
nothing sad in it; лvhat's it written for?"

I said they resembled the Podlipovtsi, but
he disagreed.

"Pila andSysoika—that's different. They're
real people, living and putting up a fight.
But what are these? All they do is Avrite let-
ters. Boring. They're not even live people —
just made up. Take Taras and Stenka — God,
if they ever got together, wouldn't they do
things! They'd put new life into Pila and
Sysoika!"

< He had a muddled conception of time and
supposed that all his favourite characters
had been contemporaries, two of them living
in Usolye, one among the khokhols,^ the fourth

^ Derogatory nickname for Ukrainians. — Tr.
364

on the Volga. I had difficulty in convinc-
ing him that if Sysoika and Pila had sailed
down the Volga they would not have found
Stenka, and if Stenka had ever reached the
Don Cossacks and joined the khokhols^ he
would not have found Rulba there.

Konovalov was disappointed on learning
the truth. I told him something about the Pu-
gachev uprising, anxious to see what he would
think of Pugachev. Konovalov would have
none of him.

"A dirty swindler, that's what he was.
Hid behind the tsar's name to stir up the peo-
ple. How many good men died because of
him! Stenka? He was different. That Pugachev
was a skunk and nothing more. Got any more
books like the one about Stenka? Look and
see. But drop that idiot of a Makar, he's not
interesting. I'd rather hear you read how they
killed Stenka again."

On our days off Konovalov and I would
go to the meadows across the river. We would
take some vodka and bread and a book, and set
out in the morning for "our airing," as Kono-
valov called it.

We were especially fond of going to the

365

"glass works." That, for some inexplicable
reason, was the name given to a building stand-
ing in an open field not far from the toлvn.
It was brick, three-storeyed, with a caved-
in roof, broken windows, and a cellar filled
with foul-smelling water all summer long.
Ramshackled, grey-green, with a run-to-seed
look, it stood there in the field gazing at the
town out of the dark sockets of its shattered
windows, for all the луогИ like a dying crip-
ple who has been banished from town. Year
after year the spring floods washed over it,
but it remained standing, surrounded by
pools of water that protected it from frequent
visits by the police. Despite its caved-in
roof, it offered shelter to all sorts of dubious
vagabonds.

There were always lots of them there.
Ragged, half-starved, shrinking from sunlight,
they lived like ov^is among the ruins. Konova-
lov and I were always welcome guests, be-
cause on leaving the bakery we would each
take a loaf of white bread and buv a half-
pint of vodka and a hawker's trayful of
"stew" — liver, lungs, heart and tripe. For
only two or three rubles we provided the

зев

"glass-folk," as Konovalov called them, with
a fine meal.

In exchange for our treat they would tell
us stories in which the horrible soul-stirring
truth was fantastically interwoven with the
most obvious falsehood. Each story was a bit of
black lace (the truth), stitched with bright col-
ours (the lies). This lace twisted itself about
heart and brain, strangling them in its harsh,
diverse patterns. The "glass-folk" grew attached
to us in their way. I often read to them, and
they usually listened with thoughtful at-
tention.

I was struck by the profound knowledge
of life shown by these people whom life had
thrown overboard, and I eagerly listened to
their stories. Konovalov listened, too, but
only so that he could contradict their philo-
sophical views and draw me into an argu-
ment.

When one of these creatures in a fantastic
state of undress and with a physiognomy
suggesting that one would do well to keep
one's distauce, told the story of his life and
ruin (which invariably became a speech in
self-defence and self-justification) Konovalov

S67

would smile musingly and shake his head. They
noticed this.

"Don't you believe me, Sasha?" the one
who had told the story would demand.

"Of course, I believe you. You've got to
believe what a man says. Even if you know
he's lying, believe him; listen to him and try
to find out what makes him lie. ^Sometimes
a man's lies show you what he is, better than the
truth. And what are our lives like, when you
get down to it? Just plain muck. So we dress
them up by telling lies. Am I right?"

"You're right, " his interlocutor would agree.
"But why did you shake your head?"

"Because you don't look at things right.
You talk as if it wasn't you yourself who
made you what you are, but the first bloke
who came along. Why did you let him? Why
didn't you put up a fight? We're always com-
plaining about other people, but we're men,
too, aren't we? And so we can be complained
of, too. If somebody's always getting in our
way, we're probably getting in somebody else's
way, isn't that so? How can you explain that? "

"Life ought to be made over so that there
would be plenty of room for everybody and

368

nobody would get in anybody else^s way,'*
they answered.

"Who's to make it over?" he demanded chal-
lengingly, and hastened to answer before any-
one else could, "We are. We ourselves. But
how are we to make it over if we don't know^
how? If we can't make anything worth while
out of our own lives? It turns out we have no
one to turn to but ourselves, and as for our-
selves— well, we all know what we are."

They objected and tried to find excuses
for themselves, but he stubbornly stuck to
his point: each man is responsible for what he is
and nobody else is to be blamed for his failure.

It was quite impossible to budge him from
this position, and just as impossible to accept
his view of people. On the one hand, they were,
in his opinion, fully capable of remaking life
so that all should enjoy freedom, and on the
other, they were a weak, spineless lot, in-
capable of doing anything but complain of
each other.

Often these arguments, begun at noon, ended
at midnight, and Konovalov and I would re-
turn from the "glass-folk" in pitch darkness
and up to our knees in mud.

24—327 369

Once we were nearly sucked down into a
bog; another time we got caught in a police
raid and spent the night in the station along
with some twenty of our pals from the '*glass-
works" who had roused the suspicion of the
police. Sometimes we had no desire to philoso-
phize, and then the two of us would walk far
out over the meadows on the other side of the
river until we came to some small lakes teeming
with little fish deposited there by the spring
floods. For the sole purpose of enhancing the
beauty of the scene we would build a fire in
the bushes lining the shore of one of these
lakes and then read or talk about life. Some-
times Konovalov would say whimsically:
"Maxim, let's just look at the sky."
And we would lie on our backs and gaze into
the fathomless blue vault above us. At first
we were conscious of the rustling of the leaves
and the rippling of the water and felt the
ground beneath us. But slowly the blue sky
seemed to draw us up into it, we lost all sense
of existence, and, as if taking off from the
earth, floated out in the heavenly expanses
in a state of drowsy contemplation which we
feared to disturb by word or movement.

370

Thus would луе lie for hours at a time, and
would return to work with new strength, phys-
ically and spiritually refreshed.

Konovalov loved nature with a profound,
inarticulate love, and whenever he Avas in
the fields or on the river he would fall into
a serene and gentle mood which increased
his resemblance to a child. Occasionally he
would say Avith a deep sigh, as he gazed at the
sky:

"Ah, this is the thing!"

And there was more thought and feeling
in this single exclamation than in the effu-
sions of many poets, especially those who are
inspired rather by the desire to be looked
upon as people of exquisite sensibilities, than
by true adoration of the beauties of nature.
Poetry, like everything else, loses its sacred
simplicity when it is made a profession.

Thus, day by day, two months passed.
Konovalov and I did a great deal of talking
and a great deal of reading. I read him Stenka
Razin's Uprising so often that he could tell
the story in his own words, page by page,
from beginning to end. It became for him

24* 371

what a delightful fairy-tale is to an impres-
sionable child. He named the objects used
in his work after different characters in the
book, and once when a bowl fell off the shelf
and broke, he exclaimed angrily:

"Damn you, Captain Prozorovsky! "

If the dough was slow in rising he called
if'Frolka"; the yeast was "Stenka's thoughts";
while Stenka himself was synonymous for
everything great and exceptional, though
ill-starred and doomed to failure.

During all that time Capitolina, whose
letter I had read and answered on the day
1 first met Konovalov, was almost never
mentioned.

Konovalov sent her money through Phi-
lip, asking him to speak to the police about
her, but no reply came from either Philip
or the girl.

And then suddenly one evening when we
were getting the dough ready to put into the
oven, the bakery door was opened and from
the darkness of the damp area came a girl's
deep voice:

"I beg your pardon."

The tone was at once timid and bantering.

372

"Who do you want?" I asked.

Konovalov let one end of the tray fall on
the floor and began to pull at his beard
disconcertedly.

"Does baker Konovalov work here? "

Now she was standing in the door-way,
and the light from the hanging lamp fell
full on her head, which was swathed in a
white woollen shawl. From out of its folds
glanced a round and pretty face Avith up-
tilted nose and round cheeks that dimpled
when her full red lips parted in a smile.

"He does, " I answered.

"He does, he does!" broke in Konovalov
joyfully, throwing down the other end of
the tray and taking long strides to reach
her. Щ

"Sasha!" she gasped.

They threw their arms about each other,
Konovalov bending almost double.

"How are you? When did you get here?
Just think! Are you free? Good! See, what
did I tell you? Now you've got a clear path
ahead. Walk straight down it without being
afraid of anything, " said Konovalov impetu-
ously, still standing in the door-Avay and

373

keeping his arms about her shoulders and
waist.

"You carry on alone today, Maxim, while
1 look after the lady. Wtiere are you plan-
ning to stay, Capa?"

"Here, with you."

"Here? You can't stay here. We bake bread
here, and besides— well, you just can't stay
here. Our boss is very strict. We'll have to
fix you up for the night somewhere else. May-
be in a hotel. Come along. "

And out they went. I stayed behind to do
the baking and did not expect Konovalov
back until morning, but to my great surprise
he turned up in three hours. My surprise in-
creased when, on glancing into his face, I
found him looking tired and crest-fallen, in-
stead of beaming with happiness as I thought
he should be.

"What's the matter?" I asked, wondering
what could have thrown my friend into a mood
so out of keeping with the circumstances.

"Nothing, " he answered gloomily, and after
a moment's silence he spat fiercely.

"But, after all ..." I insisted.

"What's it to you?" he said Avearily, lying

374

down on the bench. "* After all, after all . . .'
After all she's a skirt. "

It took a great deal of effort on my part to
wring an explanation from him, but at last
he gave it to me in approximately the follow-
ing words:

"A skirt, I tell you. And if I wasn't such a
damn fool all this would never have happened,
understand? You keep saying women are hu-
man beings, too. Of course they walk about
on their hind legs, they don't chew grass,
they know how to talk and laugh, but still
they're not our kind. Why? I don't know.
I just know they're not, that's all. Take this
Capitolina, here's her line: *I want to live
with you,' she says, *like your wife. I want
to follow you around like your dog.' Did
you ever hear anything so crazy? *Come now,
sweetheart,' I says, *you're talking nonsense.
Judge for yourself — how could you ever live
with me? First of all, I'm a drunk. Secondly,
I haven't got a roof over my head. Thirdly,
I'm a tramp and can't live in one place a long
time . . .' and so on, giving lots of reasons.
But she says, *To hell with your being a drunk-
ard, all workmen are drunkards, but they

375

have wives just the same; as for a roof over
your head, once you have a wife you'll have
a roof, and then you won't want to go roam-
ing any more.' *No, Capa, ' I says, *I can't
see it your way because I know I'm not fit
for that sort of life and I never will be.'
But she says, *Then I'll throw myself into
the river.' *You little fool!' I says, and then
she lams into me: 'You swine, you crook,
deceiving me like this, you long-legged louse!'
she says, and goes on and on until I'm
ready to run away. Then she begins to cry.
Cries and keeps blaming me: *Why did you let
me come here if you didn't want me? Why did
you have me leave that place,' she says, *and
what am I to do with myself now, you blasted
fool?' . . . Well, what am I to do with her?"

"But why did you have her come here?"
I asked.

"Why? You're a queer egg! Because I
felt sorry for her. Anybody'd feel sorry for
a person he saw sinking in the mud. But as
for tying myself up and all that — not on your
life! I'll never agree to a thing like that.
What kind of a family man am I? If that was
the thing I found to hold on to, I'd have got

37&

married long ago. What chances I've had!
With a dowery and everything. But how can
I do such a thing if it's beyond my power?
She cries all the time, and that, of course, is
too bad. But what am I to do? I just can't."

He shook his head in confirmation of his
mournful "I just can't," got up off the bench
and, rumpling his beard with both hands,
began pacing the floor of the bakery with
lowered head, spitting out his disgust from
time to time.

"Maxim!" he said, and there Avas supplica-
tion and embarrassment in his tone. "Maybe
you'll go and tell her how things stand, eh?
That's a good boy."

"What shall I tell her?"

"Tell her the whole truth. Say I can't do
it; it's just not in me. Or else say — say I've
got some bad disease."

"But that's not true," I laughed.

"No, but it's a good excuse, isn't it? Damn
it all, what a mess! What in the world would
I ever do with a wife? "

He threw up his hands in a gesture of such
blank despair that it was clear he could do
nothing with a wife. And though the way he

377

put the story was comical, its dramatic side
made me wonder what would happen to the
girl. He kept walking up and down and talk-
ing as if to himself:

"And I don't like her any more — not the
least bit. She keeps pulling at me, sucking
me down like a bog. Thinks she's found her-
self a husband. Humph. She's not very clever,
but she's sly."

It was no doubt the vagabond instinct as-
serting itself, the irrepressible love of freedom
that seemed to be under threat.

"But I'm not to be caught with such bait!
I'm a big fish, I am, " he boasted. "I'll show
her; and... and... why shouldn't I?" He
stopped in the middle of the room and fell to
thinking, a smile playing over his lips. As I
watched his face, suddenly very animated,
I tried to guess what he had decided to do.

"Maxim! Let's hit it for the Kuban!"

This Avas unexpected. I had been fostering
certain literary-educational plans which cen-
tred in him. I hoped to teach him to read
and write and to pass on to him all the knowl-
edge I had so far accumulated. He had prom-
ised to remain here for the summer, a thing

878 ^

which would have facilitated my task, and
now. . .?

"You're talking nonsense, " I said, put out.

"Then what am I to do?" he ejaculated.

I tried to tell him Capitolina's intentions
were not as serious as he seemed to think, and
that he must wait and see what would happen.

As it turned out, we had not long to wait.

We were sitting on the floor in front of the
oven, our backs to the window. It was nearly
midnight, an hour and a half or so since Ko-
novalov had come back. AH of a sudden there
was a sound of shattering glass and a fair-
sized cobble-stone came rolling across the
floor. We both jumped up in fright and ran
to the window.

"Missed!" someone whined. "A bad aim.
0-0-0, if only. ..."

"C'mon, " roared a deep bass voice. "G'mon,
I'll see to him later."

Through the broken window came hyster-
ical drunken laughter, the laughter of de-
speration, so thin and high that it set one's
teeth on edge.

"It's her," said Konovalov miserably.

I could see nothing but two legs dangling

379

down into the window excavation. There they
hung, sAvinging, the heels striking against
the brick wall as if seeking a foothold.

"C'mon, " muttered the man.

"Let go! Stop pulling me! Let me have my
say! Good-bye, Sasha! Good-bye — " and what
followed would not bear printing.

I moved closer to the window so that I
could see Capitolina. She was bending down
holding on to the pavement, trying to see in-
side the bakery, and her loosened hair had
fallen over her breast and shoulders. Her white
shawl had slipped off her head and the neck
of her dress was ripped open. Capitolina was
drunk. She swayed from side to side, hiccuping,
swearing, shrieking hysterically, trembling, her
clothes torn, her face flushed and wet with
tears.

A tall man was bending over her.

"C'mon!" he kept shouting, one hand on
her shoulder, the other on the w^all of the
house.

"Sasha! You've been my ruin, remember
that! God damn you, you red-headed devil!
I wish to God you'd never been born. I count-
ed on you, and you spit in my face. All right,

380

we 41 settle accounts yet! Hiding from me,
are you? Ashamed of yourself, you pig-faced
monster! Sasha. . . lovey. ..."

"Гт not hiding from anybody, " said Kono-
valov in a husky voice as he kneeled on the
bench in front of the window. "I'm not hiding.
And you shouldn't say such things. I wanted
to help you. I thought good would come of
what I did, but you've spoiled everything."

"Sasha! Could you kill me?"

"Why did you get drunk? Who knows what
tomorrow may bring?"

"Sasha! Sasha! Drown me!"

"Drop it! C'mon!" said the man's voice.

"You rotter! Why did you have to pretend
to be decent?"

"\Vhat's the row about? Who are these
people?"

The night Avatchman's whistle intercepted
the talk, drowned it out, then broke off.

"Why did I ever trust you, you devil?"
sobbed the girl at the windoAv.

Suddenly her legs flew out, then they were
quickly drawn up and disappeared in the dark-
ness. Blurred voices and the sounds of a strug-
gle could be heard.

•381

"I don't want to go to the police-station!
Sa-a-a-sha!" cried the girl desperately.

Неал^у steps rang out on the pavement.

Whistles, muted grunts and cries.

"Sa-a-a-sha! Sasha . . . dearie." •

It was as if someone were being brutally
tortured. All of this receded into the night,
grew faint, fainter, and at last vanished like
a bad dream.

Konovalov and I were so stunned by what
had happened that we went on staring into
the darkness, unable to rid ourselves of the
cries, sobs, oaths, groans, and the shouts of
the police. As I recalled certain of the sounds,
I could not make myself believe all this had
really happened — too swiftly had this brief but
intense drama been enacted.

"The end, " said Konovalov tersely and simp-
ly as he listened once more into the silence
of the dark night which gazed with such calm
severity through the window.

"The things she said to me!" he went on
after a pause, still kneeling on the bench with
his arms on the window-sill. "So she's been
caught by the police. Drunk. And with that
sot. It didn't take her long to make up her

382 •

mind. " He gave a deep sigh, got off the bench,
sat on a sack of flour, took his head in his hands
and rocked from side to side.

"Tell me this, Maxim: what happened?"
he said under his breath. "And what am I to
do about it?"

I told him. I said that first of all a person
ought to know what he wanted and ought to see
what a step would lead to before he took it.
He had not known and had not seen, and so
he was to blame for what had happened. I
was furious with him. That drunken "C'mon"
and the cries and groans of Capitolina still
rang in my ears, and I showed my friend no
mercy.

He heard me out with lowered head. When
I had finished, he looked up, and I saw that
he was shocked and frightened.

"How do you like that!" he ejaculated.
"Wliat'U happen next? How must I act?
What am I to do with her?"

There was such child-like frankness and
perplexed helplessness in his admission of
guilt that I instantly felt sorry for him and
regretted having spoken so harshly.

"Why did I ever bring her here? " he asked

383

repentantly. "Damn it all! What must she
think of me now? I'll go to the police-sta-
tion and try to get her out. I'll see her and . . .
do what I can. I'll tell her . . . something or
other. Shall I go?"

I said I didn't think anything would come
of their seeing each other. What could he
tell her? Besides, she was drunk and probably
sleeping by then.

But he was set on going.

"I'll go, all right. After all, I do want to
help her. Those people there don't give a
damn for her. I'll go. You tend to things here.
I'll be right back."

He pulled on his cap and went out, for-
getting to put on the worn-out shoes that were
his pride.

I did my work and Avent to sleep, and when
I woke up in the morning and glanced, as
usual, into the corner where Konovalov slept,
he was not there.

It was evening when he put in an appear-
ance— sullen, unkempt, with deep lines in
his forehead and a shadow darkening his
blue eyes. Without looking at me, he went
over to the bins, inspected what I had

384

done, and lay down on the floor without a
word.

"Did you see her?" I asked.

'That's what I went for, isn't it?"

"Well, what happened?"

"Nothing. "

Clearly he did not wish to talk. I did not
pry him with questions, sure that the mood
would pass. All the next day his conversation
was limited to the brief words required by
our work: he went about with his eyes on the
ground and his glance shadowed as it had been
when he came back. Some light inside him
seemed to have gone oat. He worked slow^-
ly and half-heartedly, weighed down by his
thoughts. That night, w^hen w^e had put the
last batch of bread into the oven and were
afraid to lie doAvn for fear it would burn, he
said to me:

"Read something from *Stenka'."

I began to read the description of Stenka's
torture and execution, since this w^as the pas-
sage that roused his emotions more than any
other. He lay stretched out on his back on the
floor, gazing without blinking at the soot-
covered ceiling arches.

25—327 385

"So that's how they did away with a man, "
said Konovalov slowly. "But even so it was
easier to live then. Freer. At least there w^as
something to do with your energy. Nowadays
everything's quiet and peaceful — very peace-
ful if you look at it from the outside. Books
and learning and all that. But a man lives
without anyone to stand by him and no one
to look after him. It's forbidden to do wTong,
but it's impossible not to. And so there's
order outside, but a fine mix-up inside. And
nobody can understand anybody else. "

"How are things with you and Capitolina?"
I asked.

"What? " he replied, shaking himself. "With
Capa? All off, " and he gave a resolute wave
of his hand.

"So you cut the strings?"

"Not me. She did it herself."

"How?"

"Very simply. Stuck to her point and
wouldn't have it any other w^ay. So we're right
back to where w^e w^ere. Only she didn't use
to drink, and now she does. You take out the
bread, I'm going to sleep."

The bakery grew quiet. The lamp smoked,

386

from time to time there was a crackling sound
in the flue, and the crust of the baked loaves
standing on the shelves crackled, too. The
night watchmen stood talking outside our
window, and another sound drifted in from
time to time — perhaps it was the creaking
of our sign, perhaps it Avas someone groaning.

I took out the bread and lay down, but I
could not go to sleep, just lay there listening
to the night sounds with half-closed eyes.
Suddenly I saw Konovalov get up without
a sound, go over to the shelf, take Kostoma-
rov's book, open it, and hold it to his eyes.
I could clearly see his thoughtful face, I
watched him move his finger down the printed
lines, shake his head, turn the page, study
it closely, and then glance at me. There Avas
something strange, something very intense
and searching in his drawn face; for a long
time he looked at me, and I had never seen
him wear such a look before.

Unable to restrain my curiosity, I asked
him what he was doing.

"I thought you were asleep," he apolog-
ized. Then he came over, book in hand, sat
down beside me, and said haltingly, "Look,

25* 387

this is what I wanted to ask you, Isn4 there
some book that gives rules of living? That
teaches you how to act? What I'd like to
know is — what's wrong to do and w^hat's. ..
what's right. It makes me sick, the things
I do. They start out good, but they end up
bad. Take this business with Capa." He drew
a deep breath and then said imploringly,
"Please try to find such a book and read it
to me."

He paused.

"Maxim."

"What?"

"The things Capitolina said to me!"

"What of it? Forget it."

"Of course it don't make any difference now.
But tell me, had she a right to?"

That was a ticklish question, but after a
moment's consideration I said she had.

"I think so, too. She did have a right to,"
said Konovalov gloomily, and became silent.

He tossed about on the bast mat on the floor;
several times he got up, lit a cigarette, sat
down at the window, then lay on the floor again.

At last I fell asleep, and when I woke up
he was gone. He came back in the evening.

388

It was as though he луеге covered with a thick
layer of dust, and there was a frozen expres-
sion in his hazy eyes. Tossing his cap on the
shelf, he heaved a sigh and sat down next
to me.

"\\Ъеге have you been?"

"To see Capa."

"Well? "

"It's all over, pal. Just as I said."

"There's nothing to be done with people
like her," I said in an attempt to cheer him,
adding a few words about the force of habit
and whatever else seemed to fit the situation.
Konovalov sat staring at the floor and said
not a word until 1 finished.

"Oh no, you're Avrong. That's not the root
of the matter. It's just that I'm like a disease.
I wasn't meant to live in this world. I give
off poison. As soon as anybody comes close
to me, he gets poisoned. There's nothing I
can bring anybody but grief. When you stop
to think of it, who have I ever brought hap-
piness? Not a soul. And I've known lots of
people in my life. There's something rotten
about me."

"Nonsense. "

389

"It's the truth," ho said with a nod of con-
viction.

I tried to prove he was wrong, but what-
ever I said only convinced him more firmly
that he was not fit to live in this world.

A quick and radical change took place in
him. He became languid, abstracted, taciturn,
unsociable; he lost interest in books and no
longer worked with his former zeal.

In leisure hours he would lie on the floor
and gaze steadily up at the vaulted ceiling.
I [is cheeks grew sunken and his eyes lost their
clear and child-like shine.

"What's the matter, Sasha?'' I asked.

"A bout's beginning, " he explained. "Soon
I'll start guzzling vodka. My insides smart
as if they'd been seared. The time's come.
If it hadn't been for what's happened I might
have held out longer. Well, so that's that.
But how do you explain it — here I thought
I was doing a person good, and it turns out
just the opposite. We need rules on how to
act, pal. Would it really be so hard to make
them, those rules, so that all people would
act the same and understand each other? How
can people be expected to live with such a big

390

space separating them from one another?
Haven't they the brains to кполу they've got
to bring order into life, and see that every-
body knows what's what? God!"

He was so absorbed in thoughts about the
necessity of bringing order into life that he
paid no attention to what I said. I noticed
that he avoided me. One day, on hearing me
expound my ideas on the remaking of life
for the hundredth time, he flared up.

"Shut up. I've heard all that before. It
isn't life that's to blame, but people. People
are the main thing, understand? And that's
all there is to it. According to what you say,
people ought to stay just as they are until
things are changed. Oh no, first change people,
show them how to act; then everything will
be clear and they Avon't get in each other's
way. That's what we've got to do for people.
Teach them to get in the right lane."

When I objected, he lost his temper or
became glum.

"Oh, leave me alone," he would say.

Once he went away in the evening and did
not come back to work that night or the next
day. Instead, the boss came and said anxiously:

JP/

"Sasha's on a bout. He's sitting in *The
Wall/ We'll have to find another baker."

"Maybe he'll come out of it?"

"Not a chance, I know him. "

I went to "The Wall, " a pub artfully wedged
into the stone wall that gave it its name.
Its distinguishing characteristic was that it
boasted not a single window, the light falling
through an opening in the roof. As a matter
of fact it was nothing but a square hole in
the ground covered by shingles. It smelled of
earth, makhorka, and vodka, and was always
crowded with the suspicious-looking charac-
ters \vho were its steady customers. For days
on end they would lounge there, Avaiting for
some workman to go on a spree so that they
could drink the shirt off his back.

Konovalov was sitting at a big table in the
middle of the pub surrounded by six gentle-
men in rags and tatters and with faces that
might have belonged to characters from one
of Hoffmann's tales. They were listening to
him with fawning attention as they drank
beer and vodka and ate something that looked
like limips of clay.

"Drink, mates, drink as much as you like.

392

I've got money and clothes. Enough to last
us three days. We'll drink it all away and —
to hell! I don't Avant to work here any more,
and I don't want to live here any more either. "

"A rotten town, " put in someone who looked
like John Falstaff.

"Work?" queried another, gazing at the
ceiling and adding in a tone of wonder, "Is
that what a man was born for?"

And they all began to gabble at once, prov-
ing to Konovalov that he had a perfect right
to drink, and that he \vas even obliged to
drink, since it was with them he w^as drinking.

"Ho, Maxim, full of steam," he jingled
on catching sight of me. "Come, you book-
worm, you hypocrite — have a swig. I've jumped
the rails for good, pal. To hell! I w^ant
to get soaked to the roots of my hair. I'll
stop when there's nothing left but hair. Come
on, join in."

He was not yet completely drunk. His blue
eyes flashed with excitement and the hand-
some beard coveiinghis chest like a silken fan
quivered from the nervous trembling of his
lower jaw. The collar of his shirt was open,
tiny drops of sweat glistened on his white

393

brow, and the hand with which he held out
a glass of beer to me was shaking.

"Drop it, Sasha, let's get out of here," I said,
putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Drop it?" he laughed. "If you had said
that ten years ago, I might have dropped
it. But not ПОЛУ. What else am I to do? I'm
aware of everything, every single thing, the
least little movement, but I don't understand
a thing and I don't know what I ought to do.
I'm aware of everything, I tell you, and so
I drink, because there's nothings else' for me
to do. Here, have a drink!"

His companions eyed me with obvious dis-
pleasure, all twelve eyes measuring me hos-
tilely from head to foot.

The poor creatures were afraid I would
take Konovalov away and deprive them of
a treat they had been waiting for.

"This is my pal, mates, a learned fellow,
God damn him. Maxim, could you read about
Stenka here? What books there are, brothers!
Or about Pila. How about it, Maxim? Blood and
tears, brothers. That Pila — he was me, wasn't
he, Maxim? And so was Sysoika. Honest to
God. There's your explanation for you!"

394

He looked at me with wide-open eyes charged
with fear, and his 1олуег jaw trembled queerly.
His companions reluctantly made a place for
me at the table. I sat doAvn next to Konovalov
just as he picked up a glass filled Avith beer
and vodka, half and half.

His one idea seemed to be to extinguish
himself with this mixture as quickly as pos-
sible. When he had swallowed it, he took
up a piece of what looked like clay but really
was boiled meat, stared at it a moment, then
tossed it against the wall of the pub.

His companions let out a low growl, like
a pack of hungry w^olves.

"I'm a lost soul. Why did my mother ever
bring me into the world? Nobody knows.
Dark. Crowded. Farewell, Maxim, if you
don't want to have a drink with me. I'm not
going back to the bakery. The boss ow^es me
some money. Collect and bring it here. I'll
drink it. Or no, take it and buy yourself books.
Will you? Don't want to? Don't have to. Or may-
be you will? You're a pig if you don't. Get
away from me. Get away, I tell you!"

As he got drunk his eyes took on a hostile
glitter.

^9Г)

His companions were quite ready to throw
me out by the scruff of the neck, so I left be-
fore they had a chance.

Three hours later I was back in "The Wall. "
Konovalov's companions had increased by
two. All of them were drunk — he less than
the others. He was singing, his elboлvs on the
table, his eyes fixed on the sky glimpsed
through the hole in the ceiling. The drunkards
had assumed various poses as they listened
to him, and some of them were hiccuping.

Konovalov had a baritone voice and took
his high notes in a falsetto, as do all work-
men Avhen they sing. With deep feeling he poured
out his mournful roulades, cheek in hand, eyes
half closed, Adam's apple protruding. Eight
blank inebriate physiognomies were turned
to him, and the only sounds that came from
them Avere occasional mutterings or hiccups.
Konovalov's voice sobbed, moaned, vibrated
tenderly. It was enough to break one's heart
to hear that fine fellow singing so mourn-
fully.

The stifling odours, the drunken sweaty
faces, the two smoking oil lamps, the dirty
soot-blackened walls, the earthen floor, the

396

gloomy shadows — all of this was unwhole-
some and depressing. It was as if a gruesome
feast were being held by men buried alive
in some catacomb, and as if one of them
луеге singing for the last time before he died,
saying fareAvell to the sky. My friend's song
was filled with hopeless sorrow, calm despair,
and inconsolable longing.

"Maxim here? Want to be my batman?"
he interrupted his singing to say, holding
out his hand to me. "I've got everything
ready, pal. Collected a band — here are my
men — and we'll find some more. Oh, yes we
will. That won't be hard. And we'll invite
Pila and Sysoika; feed them with meat and
porridge every day, won't Ave? Is it a go?
Bring some books with you. You'll read to
us about Stenka and others. Oh, pal, I'm
sick of it all! Sick-of— it— all! "

He brought his fist down hard on the
table. The bottles and glasses clattered and
his companions, instantly sitting up, filled
the pub with a dreadful clamour.

"Drink, fellows!" shouted Konovalov.
"Drink away your troubles! Swill it down!"

I went out and stood in the entrance listen-

397

ing to Konovalov's drunken raving, and
when he began to sing again 1 went back
to the bakery, pursued by the sounds of
the drunken song, which groaned and sobbed
for long in the silence of the night.

Two days later Konovalov disappeared.

One has to be born into cultivated society
to be able to live in it all one's life without
longing to escape from the oppressive con-
ventions sanctioned by the small insidious
lies that have become habitual; from the
unw^holesome conceit, sectarianism, hypoc-
risy of that society; in a word, from a van-
ity of vanities that dulls the senses and
corrupts the mind. I was born and reared
outside of it, and thanks to this favourable
circumstance I am unable to take big doses of
civilization without feeling the necessity of
breaking out of its bounds from time to time
and finding relief from its over-complexity
and unwholesome refinement.

Village life is almost as sad and insuf-
ferable as life among the intelligentsia. The
best thing to do at such times is to go among
the city slums, where, in spite of the dirt.

398

life is very simple and sincere. Or to strike
out down the roads and across the fields of
your native land — an adventure that is greatly
refreshing and demands no resources but a
pair of sturdy legs.

Five years ago I set out on such an adven-
ture, and my wanderings over holy Russ
brought me at last to Feodosiya. At that
time the construction of the breakwater had
just begun, and I turned my steps in that
direction in the hope of earning a little
money.

I wished first to contemplate the building
site as one might a picture, and so I climbed
a hill and gazed down on the mighty sea
stretching as far as the eye reached, and on
the minute creatures that were harness-
ing it.

It w^as a vast picture of human labour
that I beheld. The whole rocky shore was
dug up, pitted, covered with piles of stone
and brush, with barrows, logs, iron bars,
pile-drivers, mechanical appliances, and in
and out of all this scurried the workmen.
One of the hills had been blown up with
dynamite, and now the men were chopping

399

it up with picks to clear the way for a rail-
way line. Cement w^as being mixed in huge
containers and moulded into six-foot blocks
that were lowered into the sea to form a
bulwark against the titanic force of the tide.
The people looked as small as maggots
against the background of the brown hill, and
like maggots they wriggled in the scorching
heat of this southern sun, among the heaps
of crushed rock and piles of timber seen
dimly through clouds of stone-dust. The chaos
about them and the white-hot sky above them
suggested that they were digging themselves
into the hill, seeking shelter in its bov/els
from the heat of the sun and the desolation all
around.

The oppressive air Avas filled with the hum
and throb of work: the ring of picks against
stone, the squeaking of barrows-wheels, the
dull thud of falling pile-drivers, the wail
of the workers' song "Dubinushka, " the
chip-chop of the hatchets barking the logs,
and the many-toned cries of the drab human
forms animating the scene.

In one place workmen were grunting loud-
ly as they tried to push away a great piece of

400

rock; ill aiiolher ihey were lifting an enor-
mous log, shouting in unison:

"One, two— heave ! "

The gashed hillside gave back a blurred
echo of their cries.

Along the broken segments of a board
walk moved a slow procession of men bent
double over barrows loaded with stones,
while from the opposite direction came a
procession with empty barrows, moving even
more slowly, that they might stretch one mo-
ment's rest out to two. A motley crowd stood
about the pile-driver, and from their midst
came a tenor voice singing:

Ekh, mates, it's hellish hot,
Ekh, mates, it's a hellish lot!
0-i-i-ij du-u-binushka,
One, two, and heave!

A low roar came from the men pulling on
the rope, the metal cylinder slid quickly
to the top of the shaft, then fell with a dull
thud, sending a shudder through the pile-
driver.

Little grey people were swarming all over
the ground between the hill and the sea,

20-327 401

filling the air with dust, cries, and the soiit-
ish smell of sweat. Among them moved
their bosses in white duck coats with brass
buttons that flashed in the sunlight like cold
yellow eyes.

The sea stretched calmly to the misty ho-
rizon and its transparent waves broke quiet-
ly on the seething shore. As it sparkled in
the sunlight it seemed to be smiling the
condescending smile of a Gulliver who knows
that with a single movement he can destroy
the fruits of the labour of these Lilliputs
if he so desires.

There it lay, glittering blindingly — vast
and strong and kindly, sending forth a cool-
ing breath to refresh the exhausted people
labouring to curb the freedom of its waves,
which were now lapping the mutilated shore
so meekly. It seemed to feel sorry for these
people. In the course of the centuries it had
learned that those who labour are not the
ones who harbour evil designs against it;
they are mere slaves, assigned the role of
battling лvith the elements, and in this bat-
tle the elements are sure to wreak vengeance
upon them. They do nothing but labour,

402

they are tor ever building something, their
sweat and blood is the cement of all struc-
tures on our earth; yet they themselves get
nothing for this, even though all their
strength is poured into the eternal aspiration
to build something, an aspiration which has
wrought miracles on earth, but has not giv-
en men roofs over their heads or enough
food for their bodies. These men themselves
are one of the elements, and that is why the
sea looks kindly rather than лvrathfully upon
their unprofitable labour. Those little grey
maggots boring into the hillside were as the
drops of water which the sea hurls against
the cold implacable cliffs in its eternal as-
piration to enlarge its bounds. It is they
which are the first to perish from the impact.
The sum of these drops is something akin to
the sea, is in no way different from it — just
as powerful, just as given to destruction
when touched by the breath of the storm.
In ancient times the sea had knowledge of
the slaves who built the pyramids in the
desert, and of the slaves of Xerxes, that
ridiculous ruler who gave the sea three hun-
dred lashes as punishment for washing away

26* 403

his toy-like bridges. Slaves have been the
same at all times, they have always been
subordinate, they have always been ill fed,
they have always done great and miraculous
tasks, sometimes deifying those who drove
them to work, more often cursing them, oc-
casionally rising iit revolt against their
rulers.

. . . Quietly the waves ran up on the shore
where all these people were building a stone
barrier against their constant movement, and
as they ran they sang a tender song about
the past, about all they had seen, century
after century, on the shores of this land.

Among the workmen were lean bronzed
figures in red turbans or fezzes, in short blue
jackets, and in short baggy trousers drawn
in tight at the knee. These, as I learned
later, were Turks from Anatolia. Their gut-
tural speech mingled with the slow long-
drawn speech of Russians from Vyatka, with
the terse, quick phrases of Volga-men and
the soft inflexions of Ukrainians.

There was famine in Russia, and the famine
had driven people here from almost all the
affected regions. In their effort to be with

404

their own countrymen they formed little
groups, but the cosmopolitan tramps with
their independent bearing and peculiarities
of dress and speech were easily distinguished
from those who still had roots in native soil,
who had not forgotten the land and had
only left it for a while, under stress of hun-
ger. Tramps were to be found in every group
—mingling as easily with men from Vyatka
as with Ukrainians, and everyAvhere making
themselves at home. But most of them had
gathered round the pile-driver, since it was
easier to work there than with picks or bar-
row^s.

When I came up to them the workmen were
standing with the rope hanging loose in
their hands, waiting for the foreman to free
the pulley from some hemp which was "jam
ming" it. He fussed about in the little
w^ooden tow^er, calling down from time to time:

"Give it a jerk."

And they w^uld jerk the rope half-heart-
edly.

"Stop! Jerk it again. Stop! Try again!"

The soloist — an unshaven youth with a
pock-marked face and soldierly bearing —

405

squared his shoulders, glanced off to one
side, cleared his throat, and began:

The driver pounds her into the ground , . .

The lines which followed could not have
been passed by the most lenient of censors.
They had evidently been made up on the
spur of the moment by the singer himself
and called forth a loud guffaw, to which
their author responded by twisting his mous-
tache in the manner of a performer who is
used to applause.

"Nothing else to do?" shouted down the
foreman furiously. "Braying like the asses
you are ! "

"You'll burst a blood vessel, Mitrich!"
replied one of the workmen.

The voice was familiar and I seemed to
have seen that tall broad-shouldered frame,
that oval face and those blue eyes somcAvhere
before. Could it be Konovalov? But Kono-
valov had not had the scar that cleaved this
chap's forehead from his left temple to the
bridge of his nose. And Konovalov 's hair
had been lighter and less curly. And Kono-
valov had had a handsome beard, while
this young man had a clean-shaven chin and

406 i

a long moustache with trailing ends such
as Ukrainians wear. But even so there was
something strikingly familiar about him. I
decided to ask him where I should go to apply
for a job, but I waited until the pile was
driven in.

"A-a-umph! A-a-a-umph!" grunted the
workmen as they squatted, pulling hard on
the rope, then leaped into the air as if
taking wing. The pile-driver squeaked and
shook; hairy brown arms stretched up to the
ropes over the heads of the people, biceps
stood out in great knots, yet the forty-pood
iron hammer kept falling shorter and shorter
of maximum height and its blows on the
pile grew weaker and weaker. Anyone watch-
ing the scene might have thought these
men were idol-worshippers, who, in ecstasy
and despair, were lifting their arms and bow-
ing before their silent god. The air was
filled with hot vapours that rose from their
dirty sweaty faces with dishevelled hair
plastered to wet foreheads, from their brow^i
necks and twitching shoulders, from their
bodies that were only half clad in rags of
every description, And these bodies merged

407

to form a solid mass of muscles that writhed in
the humid air throbbing with the heat of
the south, saturated with the smell of sw^eat.

"Time's up!" someone shouted in a hoarse
rough voice.

The w^orkmen's hands relaxed and the
ropes fell limply about the pile-driver. The
men slumped down on to the ground, wip-
ing the sweat from their faces, taking deep
breaths of air, easing their backs, feeliлg
their shoulders and filling the air with a low
mutter like the growl of an angry beast.

"Friend, " said I to the man in question.

He turned to me sloAvly, let his eyes slide
over my face, then narrowed them and gazed
at me fixedly.

"Konovalov!"

"Wait. " He tipped back my head as if
about to lay hands on my throat, then sud-
denly a joyful smile lighted his face.

"Maxim! Think of that now! Old pal!
So you've cut the traces, too, have you?
Joined us tramps? Good for you. When did
you do it? \\Tiere have you come from? You
and I'll roam all over the earth together.
That was до life for us, that other life. Noth-

i08

irig but misery and a lot of trouble. A sure
way to rot to death. I've been on the road
ever since I left you. The places I've seen!
The air I've breathed! But look at you, the
way you've got yourself up. I'd never have
known you. Clothes of a soldier, face of a
student. Well, how do you like living like
this, from place to place? Don't think I've
forgotten about Stenka — or Taras or Pila — -
I remember them all."

He poked me in the side with his finger,
clapped me on the shoulder лvith a broad
palm. Unable to get a Avord in edgewise, I
just stood and smiled and looked into his
kindly face, noAv radiant with the joy of
this reunion. I, too, was glad to see him,
extremely glad. I was reminded of how I had
made my start in life, and the start was un-
questionably better than what followed.

In the end I managed to ask my old friend
how he had come by the scar on his forehead
and the light curls on his head.

"Oh, those? This is hoAv. Two of my pals
and I thought we'd cross the Rumanian
border — wanted to see what things were like
in Rumania. We set out from Kagula — a

i09

place in Bessarabia at the very border. We're
making our way — at night, of course — very
quietly, and all of a sudden 'Halt!' The cus-
toms guards. We'd run straight into them.
We took to our heels, and one of those sol-
dier-boys caught me on the head. Not much
of a tap, it wasn't, but it kept me in hospi-
tal for a month. And just think, the soldier
turned out to be from my own town! One
of our boys from Murom! He was put in
hospital, too, soon after that — a smuggler
knifed him in the belly. When we were feel-
ing better we put two and two together.
*Am I the one smashed your cap for you?*
that soldier asks me. *Must've been you,
once you admit it,' I says. *You're right,
must've been me,' he says, *but don't hold
it against me. That's my job. We thought
you were hauling contraband. See, I got it,
too — they slit my belly open for me. Can't
be helped. Life's nothing to sneeze at.' He
and I became great friends — a fine fellow he
was; Yashka Mazin. As for the curls — the
curls came from typhoid. I had typhoid.
They put me in jail in Kishinev for trying
to slip across the border, and there I caught

410

a fine case of typhoid. It kept me on my back
so long I thought I'd never get up. And
I probably never would have if one of the
nurses hadn't taken such good care of me.
It's a miracle how I ever pulled through.
She watched over me as if I was a baby. I
don't know why. I meant nothing to her.
'Drop it, Maria Petrovna, ' I'd say. 'I'm
ashamed to have you making such a fuss
over me.' But she'd just laugh at me. She
had a kind heart. Sometimes she'd read me
something for the salvation of my soul.
'Couldn't you find something — something dif-
ferent to read?' I asked her once. So she
brought a book about an English sailor who
got shipwrecked on a desert island and set
up housekeeping there. There's an interesting
book for you! I was mad on that book; wanted
like hell to join him on that island. What a
life! The island, the sea, the sky, and you
all by yourself, with everything you need,
free as a bird! He found a savage to live with
him. I'd have drowned the savage, what the
hell would I need him for? I'd have got on
fine all by myself. Did you ever read that
book? "

411

"But tell me how you got out of jail. ''

"They let me out. Held a trial, found me
innocent and let me out. Very simple. But
look, Гт not going to work any more today,
what the hell! Tve got enough blisters on
my hands. And I've got three rubles, and
I'll get another forty kopeks for this morn-
ing. Not bad, eh? So you come and spend
the day with us — we don't live in the bar-
racks but on a hill not far from here. Found
a hole very suitable to live in. Another fel-
low and I share it, but he's sick— got the
fever. Wait here while I run to the foreman,
it won't take me a minute."

He got up quickly and walked aAvay just
as the workmen picked up the ropes of the
pile-driver to start work again. I Avent on
sitting there watching the noisy movement
all about me and the calm blue-green sea.

The tall form of Konovalov darted in and
out among the people, the barrows, the
piles of stone and logs. On he went, swing-
ing his arms, clad in a blue cotton shirt
that was too short and tight for him, in coarse
linen trousers and heavy boots. Now and
again he would look back and sign to mo

412

with his hands. I found him different, very
strong and lively and filled with calm con-
fidence in himself. Work was in full swing
all about him: logs were being split and
stones crushed; the barrows creaked dreari-
ly, clouds of dust rose into the air, something
crashed to earth, people grunted, shouted,
swore, and sang in moaning tones.

The handsome form of my friend retreating
with such a firm step stood out in sharp
contrast to this turmoil of sound and move-
ment and suggested an answer to the enigma
of Konovalov.

Two hours later he and I were lying in
the "hole very suitable to live in." And
very suitable it was. At some former time
rock had been hewn from the hillside, leav-
ing a large square cave in which four people
could live comfortably. But it was very
low, and a big boulder hung down over the
entrance, so that the only Avay to get in was
to crawl in on one's stomach. It was seven
feet deep, but there was no need to go inside,
and indeed it would have been dangerous
to do so, for the boulder might have crashed
down and buried us alive. For fear of this

413

we disposed ourselves in the following way'
we thrust our legs and bodies into the hole,
which was very cool, and kept our heads outside,
so that if the boulder should fall it would
crush our skulls.

The ailing tramp had crawled out into
the sun and was lying close enough for us
to hear his teeth chatter whenever he was
seized by a chill. He was a long lanky Ukrai-
nian from Poltava, as he told me dreamily.

He rolled on the ground in his efforts to
v/rap himself up in a grey garment made
mostly of holes; he swore very picturesquely
when his efforts proved in vain, but did not
abandon either his efforts or his swearing.
He had little black eyes that were alw^ays
narrowed as if he were constantly scrutinizing
something.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the
backs of our heads. Konovalov took my army
coat and made a sort of tent by stretching
it over some sticks that he stuck in the
ground. From the distance came the sound of
the work going on in the bay, but we could
not see it. On the shore to our right stood
lumpish white houses constituting a town;

414

to our left and in front of us was the sea
receding far, far into the distance where
wondrously delicate colours, soothing the eye
and the spirit by the elusive beauty of their
shades, merged in the soft half-tones of a
fantastic mirage.

As Konovalov watched them, a blissful
smile stole over his face, and he said to me:

"When the sun goes down we'll make
a fire and get tea; we have some bread and
meat. Want some water-melon?"

He rolled a water-melon out of a hole with
his foot, took a knife out of his pocket and
said, as he cut up the melon:

"Every time I find myself by the sea I won-
der why so few people settle here. They'd
be the better for it because the sea's so — so
gentle. It makes you think good thoughts.
Well, tell me what you've been doing the
last few years."

I began to tell him. In the distance the sea
had already become tinged with crimson
and gold, and pink and mauve clouds rose
to meet the sun. It was as if mountains with
snow-capped peaks flushed by the rays of
the setting sun were emerging out of the sea.

415

'*Тоо bad уоиЧе been living in towns,
Maxim, " said Konovalov very definitely
when I had given my account. "What draws
you to them? A stuffy life. No air, no space,
nothing a man needs. People? There are peo-
ple everywhere. Books? Enough of reading
books ! Is that what you were born for? Books
are the bunk. Buy yourself one if you must,
put it in your sack, and set out. Want to
go to Tashkent лvith me? Or to Samarkand,
or some other place? We'll stay there a while
and then head for the Amur. I've decided to
go everywhere — that's the only thing to do.
Then you'll always see something new. And
won't waste your time thinking. Just walk
ahead with the wind in your face blowing
all sorts of dirt out of your soul. Free and
light-hearted. No one to boss you. If you're
hungry, call a halt and do a fifty-kopek job,
or if there's no job, beg a crust of bread —
you'll always get it. At least you'll see
something of the world. Some of its beauty.
Want to join me?"

The sun slipped down over the horizon.
The clouds grew darker, as did the sea, and
the air became cool. Here and there a star

416

came out, the hum of work ceased in the bay,
but from time to time we heard the sound of
voices, soft as a sigh. And the wind wafted
to our ears the melancholy murmur of the
waves washing the beach.

Quickly the darkness deepened and the
form of the Ukrainian, which had been very
distinct five minutes earlier, was now only
a vague mass.

"Wliat about a fire? " he said with a cough.
"I'll make it."

Konovalov produced a heap of shavings
and set a match to them. Thin tongues of
flame began to lick the yellow resinous wood.
A ribbon of smoke wound up into the night
air, which was cool and damp from the sea.
It grew more and more quiet, as if life were
withdrawing from us, its sounds fading in the
darkness. The clouds dispersed, the stars
shone brightly in the dark blue sky, and on
the velvety surface of the sea appeared the
lights of fishing boats and the reflection of
the stars. The fire in front of us blossomed
forth like a huge red-and- yellow flower.
When Konovalov had hung the tea-kettle
over it, he clasped his knees in his hands

27—327 4t7

and gazed contemplatively into the flames.
The Ukrainian crawled nearer, like a huge
lizard.

"People build towns and houses, they
huddle together in crowds, foul the land,
suffocate, get in each other's way. A hell
of a life! This is the only life — the one we're
leading. "

"H'm-m, " said the Ukrainian with a shake
of his head. "If you threw in a sheepskin
and a warm house for the winter, then you
might say we live like lords." He narrowed
one eye on Konovalov and gave a little laugh.

"Y-e-s, " admitted Konovalov, "winter's
a deuce of a time. Towns really are needed
in the winter, no denying that. But even
so there's no excuse for having big towns.
Why live in herds when it's hard enough
for even two or three people to get along
together? That's what I mean. When you
come to think of it, there's really no place
fit for a man to live in — not the town
or the steppe or anywhere else. But it's
better not to think about such things —
can't do anything about it, just spoil your
humour. "

418

I had been under the impression that Ko-
novalov's vagabond life had changed him,
that the air of freedom he had been breathing
for the last few years had enabled him to
shed those barnacles of misery that had clung
to his heart; but from the tone in which he
said this I realized he was still the man I had
known, the man "searching for something
to hang on to." His powerful body, unfor-
tunately born with too tender a heart in it,
was still being destroyed by the corrosion of
bewilderment, the poison of pondering life.
There are many such "contemplative" people
in Russia, and they are always more unhappy
than anybody else, because the burden of
their thoughts is made heavier by the ignor-
ance of their minds. I gazed with compas-
sion at my friend and he, as if in confirma-
tion of my conclusion, exclaimed unhappily:

"I often think about how we lived together,
you and me, Maxim, and about — about ev-
erything that happened then. How many
places Tve been to since, and how many
things Tve seen! And yet there's no place on
this earth where I fit in. I just can't find a
place for myself."

27* 419

"That's what you get for being born with
a neck no yoke will fit, " said the Ukrainian
unfeelingly as he took the boiling kettle off
the fire.

"Tell me why I can't settle down? " returned
Konovalov. "Why is it that most people live
normal enough, tend to business, have wives
and children and all the* rest, and are always
anxious to do something or other? And I
can't. I just can't. Why can't I?"

"The way you whine!" exclaimed the
Ukrainian in surprise. "As if Avhining ever
made things easier!"

"You're right, " said Konovalov cheerlessly.

"I'm sparing of words, but I always know

what to say, " said the Stoic with a sense

of his own worth as he went on fighting the

fever.

He coughed, shifted his position, and spat
furiously into the fire. Everything around
us was blotted out, hidden by thick curtains
of darkness. The sky, too, was dark, for the
moon had not yet risen. yVe sensed the sea
rather than saw it, so intense was the dark-
ness. It was as if a black fog had settled
down over the earth. The fire w^ent out.

420

I

"Let's turn in, " suggested the Ukrainian.

We crawled into the "hole, " keeping our
heads outside. We did not speak. Konova-
lov lay without stirring, as if he were under
a spell. The Ukrainian tossed from side to
side and his teeth chattered. For a long time
I kept my eyes fixed on the glow of the dying
fire; at first the coals were large and bright,
then they grew smaller and became coated
with ash, which finally extinguished them.
Soon there was nothing left of the fire but
its warm breath. I watched it and thought:

"Each of us is like that. But oh! to burn
brightly for the moment!"

Three days later I took my leave of Kono-
valov. I went on to the Kuban; he did not
wish to join me. We parted certain we would
meet again.

But we never did.

1897

»<€■>»»

VANKA MAZIN

He had an elongated skull, somewhat sunk-
en on either side; large flapping ears; a
sallow and apathetic face with sprouts of
red whiskers on cheek-bones and sharp chin;
immobile colourless eyes that protruded in
a melancholy manner; a long nose; a pendu-
lous lower lip; a large mouth that always
hung half-open; a scrawny neck, all knotted
and corded; sagging shoulders; a hollow chest;
a stomach that stuck out like that of a preg-
nant w^oman; a left arm noticeably shorter
than the right; legs curved out like the two
halves of a wheel. All this was crowned by
a faded cap with a broken peak and a black
patch in the middle; being too big for the
head, it was kept from slipping down over

422

the eyes by being hooked on to the left ear
and held by tufts of thick yellow hair which
had become so matted and glued together by
dirt that it was like felt. A Russian blouse
all patched and mended flapped about this
incongruous frame in a particularly unap-
petizing way; the trousers were too big for
the skinny legs, the leg-wrappings ragged,
the lapti disreputable. This, then, is an exact
portrait of Vanka Mazin, carpenter from
Vyatka, whom Nature seemed to have creat-
ed with the express purpose of presenting
mankind with an embodiment of preposterous
form, and of affording amusement to all who
beheld it.

The latter purpose Vanka Mazin served
with distinction. Whenever his fellows-work-
men caught sight of him, they would nod in
his direction and exclaim jubilantly:
"Here comes the devil's coach!"
I have never seen the devil's coach, but
whenever I watched Mazin approach it seemed
to me he had no gristle in his body, and
that was what made him walk so queerly:
before putting down a foot, he would waggle
it to right and left as if feelins^ for a more

423

level spot to make the going easier; his arms
hung limply on either side of his stooped,
unstrung trunk; his head fought a losing
battle Avith a cap that kept slipping doAvn
over his eyes; his nose sniffed and snorted;
the tool-box hanging on his back came rid-
ing round under his arm. Despite all these
distractions, Mazin's melancholy eyes re-
mained fixed on some point in the distance
as if they lived a life apart from that of his
disorganized body.

He had the comic habit of humming a
tune to himself — a tune without words and ap-
parently w^ithout beginning or end. And as he
came along, humming and sniffing, he really
did suggest a squeaky old coach that had lost
all its nuts and bolts in the course of long years
of service.

They called him "Old Slipshod," and
"The Mosquito, " and anything else that
came into their heads. One epithet fitted him
as well as another, and none of them seemed
to offend him, for he would reply to any
name.

"What d'ye want?" he would say in his
wheezy, listless voice.

42'}

According to his passport he was forty-
seven years old, but even the young lads
called him Vanka; almost never was he ad-
dressed by his last name. He did not mind
this any more than he minded the nicknames
he was given, for he was profoundly indif-
ferent to the opinion of his comrades. He
loved solitude and was able to be alone in
the midst of a crowd. \\Tien his fellow-work-
ers went to the tavern for tea on Sundays
and holidays, he would join them if he were
asked, but he remained as taciturn and mel-
ancholy as ever as he sat over his tea or
his bottle of vodka. And yet it would be a
mistake to call him unsociable. He more
nearly resembled a person deeply cogitating
some insoluble problem; a person mentally
unbalanced. When first he joined this group
of carpenters, his habit of staring with eyes
that seemed to see through walls and people
led Grandad Ossip, master carpenter and the
Nestor of the guild, to make the folloAving
observation:

"There's something Avrong with that Vyat-
ka fellow. He seems to be touched. His eyes
don't shine. Dead eyes. There's something

425

wrong with him. Either life's been too much
for him, or he's got something on his con-
science. In a word: a bad conscience. Smudged,
so to speak. A man's eyes go dead from
a thing like that; the smudge on his soul
falls on his eyes. If a man's got roving eyes,
that's bad, too. That means his soul's uneasy
— he's got something on his mind or his
conscience. And dead eyes are no good. If
a man's clean and upright, his eyes are straight
—they look straight at everything with a
shine and a sparkle. In other words, watch
that Vyatka fellow. He's unknown to us
as yet."

And so all the members of the guild began
to watch the behaviour of the man with the
dead eyes, and the first thing they noticed
was that he was a very bad workman. He
knew his trade, but the axe, the saw and
the plane did not obey his skinny arms and
hands. It was as if the metal had absorbed
the man's apathy and did not have the same
proud strength that rang out when worked
by other hands. Sometimes Mazin would
stop in the middle of a job and gaze at his tool
in silence, evidently reflecting on something.

42^

'*IIey, you fly-catcher! Falling asleep?"
the foreman would shout at him.

Without a word Mazin would resume his
work.

"He's not the hurrying kind," the others
would laugh sarcastically.

"Why should I hurry?" asked Vanka Ma-
zin seriously, looking at his comrades in
expectation of an answer. They only laughed
and made fun of him, but his indifference
made him invulnerable to their jibes and
coarse sallies.

They did not like him. He was the only
man from Vyatka among these Nizhny Nov-
gorod carpenters. He was a poor companion
— dull, lazy, a bad mixer. But while they
made fun of him, they kept their teasing with-
in bounds, for they knew that, broken
bone that he was, his strength was to be
reckoned with. And this is how they found
that out.

One day six workmen were carrying a heavy
beam. Mazin was holding one end of it.

"Keep in step!" the ones in front shouted
to him. But Mazin's bow legs could not keep
in step, and so the beam "bumped. "

427

"Walk even, you bandy-legged bastard!"

He puffed and grunted in the effort to
adjust his step to that of his comrades, but
the beam only "bumped" the more.

"You damned kangaroo!" bawled hefty
Yakov Laptev, a man known for his strength.
And with that he struck Mazin on the back-
side with a heavy pole. Mazin let out a grunt,
but went on without a word. When they had
put down the beam, he went back to where
Yakov was working and halted in front of
him.

"What did you hit me for?" he asked
calmly.

"Get along!" shouted Yakov.

"Are you a boss, that you think you can
go hitting people? " asked Mazin.

"Get along, I tell you. Td step on you,
you louse, if I thought you was worth it. "

"What for?" asked Mazin.

"Give him one in the jaw, Yakov. He's
asking for it, " said somebody. Yakov took
the advice, swung his arm, and — found him-
self stretched out on the ground by a pre-
cise blow administered by Mazin.

The men were dumbstruck. People always

m

feel respect for strength, in whatever form
it is manifested. Yakov had enjoyed the
reputation of being the Hercules among
them and he did not intend to yield it to
this Vyatka fellow without a struggle. He
got up off the ground and rolled up his
sleeves.

"Gome on, Гт going to break a few ribs
for you, " he warned Mazin.

"Well—" said Mazin dubiously.

"Stand off, fellows, don't interfere!" or-
dered Grandad Ossip. "Hands off! Let them
fight it out. Fair enough. Go to it, men,
but up and above board. No tricks. God
bless you! Bang! Ouch!"

Mazin got that "bang" in his left side,
but Yakov was gathering himself up off
the ground again and staring at his oppo-
nent with redoubled fury. Mazin stood wait-
ing for him, breathing heavily and rubbing
his injured side with his left hand. Yakov
rushed at him frenziedly; Mazin calmly swung
his long right arm and knocked him down by
striking him on the head with a blow from
above. To a bystander it looked as if he
were driving nails into Yakov 's head. Seven

429

times Yakov measured his length on the
ground, and the last time he did not bother to
get up — just lay there cursing Mazin.

"You damned little runt! What d'ye have
to hit me on the head for? АгепЧ there no
other places on my body, you lopsided
scarecrow? A scarecrow, that's what you
are — can't even fight like a human being."

The other men had to admit that Mazin
was strong, but they said he did not know
how to fight. Mazin delivered a speech to
his vanquished foe.

"Now you know what it means to pick a
fight!" he said, shaking his fist over his
head. "This is what it means! And you'd
have got it worse if I hadn't took pity on
you. Next time don't be in such a hurry.
As for your head — a little cold water and
it'll be all right. Won't hurt too much. Go and
wet it. " And he turned on his heel and walked
away, humming as usual his endless tune.

"A devil if there ever was one, " concluded
the carpenters, astounded by what had hap-
pened. Yakov was so big, broad-shouldered
and jolly, while that other chap really was a
runt.

430

"See that?'' said Grandad Ossip. "A good
lesson that Vyatka fellow's taught us. He's
got a heart, that man. The Lord's been hard
on him, no doubt about that, but what he
said to Yakov was right. Don't be too free
with your fists; don't pick a fight. We're
all God's creatures. Why jump at each other
without good reason? And he did right: gave
Yakov the beating he deserved and then says
to him: *Go and put some cold water on your
head.' Very sensible. So there's your Vyatka
fellow for you! And mal*k my word — that's
not the last lesson he'll teach us!"

"We ought to throAv him out, " said the
men.

"He's not our kind, that's true," said
Grandad Ossip thoughtfully. "What do you
suppose makes him like that? But throw him
out? Not yet. Wait a bit. Maybe he'll
change — maybe he'll come to fit in."

"He don't do us any good, " said the others.

"He's lazy and he don't know how to
work, no doubt about that. But after alJ,
he's got to eat and drink and pay his taxes
like the rest of us. Right? And he's a peas-
ant; how can we throw him out? If wt5 throw

431

him out and others throw him out, hoAv^s
he to earn his food and drink?"

Since no further objections were made, Van-
ka Mazin was not thrown out. At first they
waited for him to adjust himself to them,
then they adjusted themselves to him, and
while they looked upon him as the Avorst
of them all, both as man and workman, and
while they still made fun of him, sometimes
very cruelly, they never again raised the
question of throv/ing him out. They got used
to his slow but thorough work, for which he
got two rubles a week and free meals.

He was the black sheep in a very small
human flock. Every human flock must have
its black sheep whose shortcomings throw in
relief the virtues of the white; otherwise the
virtues would be ill-perceived — might even
pass unnoticed.

One day the workmen were extending the
scaffolding to the top story of the four-story
house they were building for a rich merchant
named Smurov.

At the dinner hour the contractor himself
appeared on the scene. Zakhar Ivanovich
Kolobov was a fat man with a red face and

432

a big red beard combed painstakingly. His
sharp grey eyes took in everything at a glance;
he instantly saw how many workmen were
on the job and that Vanka Mazin was taking
a long time to carry a plank up the scaf-
folding.

"Hey, you bedbug!" he shouted irately.
''Crawl faster! Ugh, you confounded idiot!"
Seeing that their boss was in a bad hu-
mour, the carpenters redoubled their efforts,
but this, of course, made no difference, be-
cause the contractor swore not because there
was any cause for swearing, but because he
enjoyed it.

"Didn't I tell you, you blockheads, not
to take new planks for the scaffolding, not
to saw up new wood? Use up the old stuff!"

"The old ones are pretty well worn, Zakhar
Ivanovich," said Yakov Laptev obsequi-
ously.

"\Vbat do you know about it, snout-face ? "
roared Kolobov.

For half an hour he put the fear of God
into their hearts, and when at last they went
to have their dinner, he gingerly climbed the
scaffoldine:.

28—327 433

"Old bark-beliy," muttered Grandad Ossip.

"The bloated bastard," added Yakov.

The other workmen added their comments,
but Mazin said nothing as he languidly
gathered up his tools.

"Come along, " said Grandad to the men
who were standing round him. "What 're
you waiting for? For him to come down and
bark at us again?"

By this time Kolobov had reached the
third story of the scaffolding луЬеге he stood
testing the planks with his foot and the
uprights with his hand. The squeaking
of his boots could be heard when he tried
the planks. The carpenters shot sidelong
glances at him and then moved off in a
group to have their dinner.

At that moment there was a creaking
sound — the creak of a nail being pulled out
of a board — and the sound of a plank split-
ting. Ossip turned round.

"Mates!" he cried, giving an odd little
jump.

Simultaneously with his cry came the
sound of wood cracking and splintering, the
crash of falling boards, and a wild shout:

434

"Help!**

The carpenters froze in their tracks. The
scaffolding was falling. The uprights slowly,
deliberately drew away from the wall as if
pushing themselves away. Boards, laths and
bricks fell to the ground in a cloud of dust,
and out of the confusion came the frantic cries
of Kolobov:

"Help! He-e-elp!"

The timber splintered and crashed while
the carpenters stood where they were and
gazed blankly at the disruption of their work.
In spite of the urgings of Grandad Ossip
they were afraid to go near.

"I told you, mates, to put some nails in
those boards. You didn't listen to me and
you've been the cause of a man's ruin. He's
done for. Good God, what are you standing
and gaping at? Do something, you bastards!
Go and pull him out. Go, I tell you!"

"What's all the excitement about?"
said Yakov glumly. "It's not our fault.
He's the one said not to touch the new-
boards."

"There weren't enough nails. Tie didn't
give us enough, " said somebody else.

28* 435

"Are we to blame for that?" grumbled
another.

"And are we to let him get killed for that?
Killed, I tell you!"

Grandad Ossip, his face red with excite-
ment, rushed about pushing and pulling
the men with shaking hands.

And the scaffolding teetered away from
the wall, one section after another. Boards
and bricks came hurtling off the planks,
a tub fell and rolled over the ground, lime
was spilled, sending up clouds of white dust.
No longer were the cries of Kolobov to be
heard.

"I'll go and have a look," said Mazin,
gazing thoughtfully into the clouds of dust.
And he went.

"Don't go! You'll get killed!" they
shouted after him.

"Leave him alone! Go ahead, Vanka; go
ahead, friend; go in the name of the Lord."

But he went without any urging. He walked
as slowly as ever, rocking from side to side
on liis bow legs.

By this time a large noisy crowd had gath-
ered, in the midst of which two police-

436

men made a great deal of commotion doing
nothing. The clouds of lime subsided, re-
vealing the stark remains of the scaffolding.
Boards and laths were sticking out every-
where, some of them still swinging as if mak-
ing up their minds Avhether to fall or not.

One board sticking out of a window swayed
harder than the others because Kolobov
was lying on the end of it. There he hung
in mid-air, clinging to the board with hands
and feet, his head and stomach pressed flat
against it. The other end was supported by
the window frame and held fast by a pile
of lumber that had fallen on it. But it might
snap in two, or the strength of the man hang-
ing on to it might give out, and in either
case he would plunge dow^n on to the bris-
tling Avreckage below from a height of three
stories. At present he lay Avithout stirring
or making a sound, as if he had grown fast
to the board.

There was a brief hush when the crowd
caught sight of him, and then with redoubled
force people gave vent to emotions running-
from horror to curiosity. After that they offered
advice.

4,37

"Hold out a tarpaulin and let him jump
down into it. "

"What if he's unconscious?"

"Go inside the house and pull the board
through the windoAv. "

"It'd break."

"Put a pole under it. "

"Where would yoa get a pole that long?"

"Look! Look!"

Mazin was standing at the window with a
rope in his hands, and he must have been
saying something, for his lips were moving.
A hush fell over the crowd.

"Zakhar Ivanovich! Hear me? I'm going
to throw you a rope, and you slip the loop
round the end of the board. Hear me?
Catch it. "

One end of the rope flew into the air and
fell on the body of Kolobov. Slowly, barely
perceptibly, he moved. The board swayed.
A groan was heard.

"Don't be afraid, Ivanovich! Say a prayer
and do as you're told. The Lord wouldn't
let you die without repenting, " shouted
Grandad Ossip from below. Others in the
crowd added encouragements, and after pro-

m

traded efforts the contractor slipped the
loop over the end of the board.

"Now lie still, " said Mazin, and disap-
peared. Л minute later the rope was drawn
tight and the end of the board began to rise
slowly.

"Good for you, Vanka!" shouted Grandad
Ossip when he had guessed Mazin's inten-
tion. "Go and help him, you lumps! Good
for Mazin! Go and help him, mates!"

Several men rushed into the house, and
soon the end was raised so high that the
board sloped gently down into the window.
At that point Mazin appeared again.

"Now slide down on your belly, Zakhar
Ivanovich. Easy-like. The board '11 hold,
it's a good thick one. Come on, like a crab."

And although the danger was not yet over,
for the board might still snap, the crowd
began to laugh. Kolobov, covered with dust,
his mouth wide-open, his face livid, his eyes
frenzied, was crawling down the board on his
stomach, and the sight could hardly have been
called tragic.

As he cautiously slid his hands down the
board, he would hunch his ponderous body

i39

into a -ball one minute and stretch it out
flat the next. His feet kept slipping off and
dangling in the air; sometimes the board
would sway. Whenever this happened, he
froze on the spot, clung to the board for all
he was worth and bleated plaintively. This
made the people laugh all the harder, and
the closer he got to the window, the louder
the laughter grew.

'I'll bet he's got splinters in his belly,"
sang out a red-headed house-painter.

"He'll eat with an appetite today, " said
another.

"He never lacks appetite — he's always
eating into us, " joked Yakov, who seemed
happy about something.

By this time Kolobov had reached the
window and crawled through it. Presently
he appeared before the crowd ragged, dirty
and sweaty supported by two workmen. He was
hardly able to drag one foot after the other.
They put him in a cab and drove off. The
crowd began to disperse, but a few people
surrounded Mazin and asked him how he had
ever hit on the idea of rescuing the boss. Mazin
just stood there with the rope in his hands.

440

'*I doirt know," he said. "The board was
the main thing. Time for me to go and have
my dinner. "

"But you might have got killed. What made
you do it?"

"I didn't get killed. Looks like our fel-
lows have gone off already."

"There he is. Mazin! We've been search-
ing for you everywhere. Couldn't make out
where you'd got to, and it turns out you're
here! " bubbled Grandad Ossip who appeared
at this moment. "Come along and have din-
ner. The Lord was with you this time, Mazin.
That was the Lord's doings, because look
at that board — a flimsy thing. But He wasn't
willing, the Lord wasn't, to have a man
die before he'd repented. You played your
part, of course, and the rope too — but don't
let it go to your head. "

Mazin walked on beside the sage, snuffl-
ing and paying little attention to his effu-
sions.

"You didn't get hurt, did you?"

"No. Just a little knock on the leg."

"Does it hurt? "

"Not much. It'll pass."

441

"Rub it with some vodka."

"I'd rather drink the vodka," said Mazin
after a pause, "if I had it. "

"You'll have it," promised Grandad Ossip
joyously.

When the workmen had finished their meal
and drunk their vodka, they sat waiting for
the contractor to come and give orders regard-
ing the scaffolding.

"He'll come soon, I guess," said Yakov
glumly, gazing at the ceiling.

"He'll come for sure. He'll come to rag
us — say we did it on purpose to get rid of
him, " declared young Afonia with a resigned
chuckle.

"Why shouldn't he rag us?" asked Grandad
Ossip. "It's his right, for we're partly to
blame. To be sure the planks were old, but
we've got eyes and hands, haven't we? And
so he has a right to rag us."

They argued with the old man, but they
could not deny that although the boards
were old, the uprights pieced together, and
the supply of nails insufficient, they them-
selves had been careless, and that being so,
Kolobov had a right to be angry with them.

442

"What's the sense in all this talk?" said
Yakov impatiently. "As if it mattered wheth-
er he had a right or not. He always barks,
right or no right. "

There was no denying this, but in the pres-
ent instance the men were to be disap-
pointed.

Zakhar I vanovich appeared before the work-
men looking very pompous and important,
and before he had even set foot inside the
door they could see he had no intention of
making a row\

"Where's Vanka?" he asked.

There were three V^ankas among the work-
men. Two of them got up off the benches
they were sitting on and looked inquiringly
at the contractor.

"Where's the other one?" said Kolobov
with a frown.

"The Vyatka one? He's lying on a bunk
taking a snooze. Vanka! Hey, Vanka! The
boss is calling you!"

Mazin grunted, yawned, got up and shuffled
over to the contractor. Kolobov took such
a deep breath that his belly shook and his
cheeks billowed out.

H3

"Well, Mazin, " he began slowly, "I'm
about to make a speech for your benefit. It
turns out you're the smartest of all these
chimpanzees, and maybe I would have met
my death if it hadn't been for you, because
w^hat do w^e have here? Do you call them
humans? Blocks of wood, that's what they
are — solid wood without a grain of sense.
Well, and so it turns out I'm beholden to
you for saving my life, see? And I want to
thank you from the bottom of my heart. "

As Kolobov swept the room with a glance
full of reproach, he read expectant curios-
ity on all the faces.

"What 're your eyes popping out of your
heads for? Are you thinking you'll help
drink up the reward I'm going to give Vanka?
The first fellow that takes a drink on him
gets fined a ruble! Put that in your pipe and
smoke it! And don't you go giving anything
away, Vanka! They're smart, they are-
licking their chops over your money al-
ready, the bastards. They see a fellow's not
very bright and so they think they can drink
the pants off him. Go and pay your taxes
Avith this money, Vanka, or do anything

Hi

else you like with it, but don't let them
have a smell of it. "

"WTiat money?" asked Mazin.

'Just a minute. Here. And many thanks
to you."

The contractor thrust a three-ruble note into
Mazin 's hand and gazed at him in an attitude
of magnanimous expectation. But Mazin just
stood staring at the note in his hand.

"You mean this is for me? " he asked
slowly.

"You funny fish! Of course it's for you!"

"tPm. In other words, this is for — for climb-
ing up with that rope and — in a word — "

"Exactly, you blockhead!" laughed Ko-
lobov, amused by Mazin 's dullness and
lack of spirit.

"Do you think I did that for a three-spot? "
asked Vanka Mazin as he stood there with
hanging head, still staring at the note in
his hand and evading the contractor's
eyes.

"Why, is it too little for you?" grunted
Kolobov dryly, and he put his hand back
into the pocket of his trousers. Mazin glanced
up at him from under his brows, then slowly

445

lifted his head and took a deep breath. His
mouth twitched and he made the face be
always made when the meat in the soup was
more than usually tainted or the cabbage
too rotten.

"So you think I did it for a three-spot,
do you? Here, take it back. You're a stupid
man, Zakhar Ivanovich. Think of that — made
me a present of a three-spot! I climbed up
there to save your immortal soul, and not for
no three-spot. To keep you from ending your
life without repenting. And you hand me a
bank-note! Watch out I don't smash your nose
in for this reward of yours! Get out of the
way! Get out! I can't bear the sight of you!"

He began this speech in his usual slow and
ponderous manner, but he raised his voice
to a snarl toward the end. The carpenters
stared at himAvide-eyed, Grandad Ossip smiled,
Kolobov grcAv pale at the unexpected turn
things had taken.

"What's that? You'll smash my nose in?
You're telling me to get out? /V/e?" he gasped,
choking with indignation. "And you, you
old devil! What are you laughing at?"

"Get out, Zakhar Ivanovich! Watch out.

446

don't fool with me," warned Mazin. "Give
me my pay, I'm leaving!"

"Good for you!" said Grandad Ossip in a
loud voice.

The contractor was completely disarmed.
The eyes of all the workmen were on him;
they looked at him coldly and hostilely,
and he sensed that the awe he inspired as
their boss had vanished into thin air. Yet he
could not leave. Something held him back. So
he just stood there in front of them w^th a
crooked smile on his face and kept repeating:

"Very clever of you, I must say. Humph.
Well, come on, say something else."

"I would," said Ivan, "only I don't know
how. But I know how to plant my fist in your
mug! Get out of here! Take that blot off my
eyes ! "

"Good for you!" ejaculated Grandad Ossip.

"So that's how it is, you bastards? Very
well. Г1] show you! I'll give it to you!"

But he knew he was incapable of shoAving
them or giving thorn anything, and so he
turned and went out.

"Good for you, Ivan! You did right!"
Grandad Ossip kept shouting as he pranced

447

eiboiit Mazin. "Good for you! And so simple!
A bank-note? Oh, no, it's not always that the
bank-note comes out on top! And he was so
sure it would! Good for you, Ivan! You showed
him, all right!"

And all the workmen realized that prepos-
terous Vanka Mazin had showed the boss a
thing or two and done it exceedingly well.
And they stared at him as at some sort of
a monstrosity — with curiosity tempered by
fear. Perhaps he had kept a shot to be fired at
them? But he had already relapsed into the
foolish figure of Vanka Mazin as they knew
him, as indifferent, as dull and spineless as
ever.

That evening Mazin and Grandad Ossip,
both of whom had been dismissed by the con-
tractor, were sitting in a tavern and drinking
tea. As Mazin silently munched his Avhite
bread. Grandad Ossip expatiated on the sig-
nificance of what Vanka had done.

"That three-spot was a stab in the heart
to you. You climbed up there at the risk of
your life, and what for? Because you pitied
him. After all, he's a human being like the
rest of us, and we've all of us got souls. And

448

then he ups and hands you that three-spot.
How could he do such a thing? What's it
worth, that money? You put your heart and
soul into what you did, and for him it meant
nothing but a three-spot. That's an insult."

With difficulty Vanka Mazin swallowed the
bread stuffed into both his cheeks and took
up a glass of tea as he slowly delivered him-
self of the following words:

"Too bad I didn't let him have it easy-like.
Maybe just pull him around by the hair a
little. But I felt sorry for him. I could see
he Avas just a fool; what can you expect of such
as him? "

He dismissed him with a wave of the hand
and noisily sucked the tea up out of his saucer,
smacking his lips appetizingly at every swal-
low.

1897

29—327

<€ •Э»

MISCHIEF-MAKER

An irate editor ran nervously about the large
light room that was the outer office of the
local newspaper, clutching the latest issue in
his hands, swearing and expostulating under
his breath. He was a small man, and his sharp,
thin face was adorned лшЬЪ a little beard and
gold-rimmed spectacles. He stamped his little
feet and kept running in circles beside the
long table in the middle of the room piled
high with crumpled newspapers, proofs, and
manuscripts.

The publisher — tall, corpulent, fair-haired
and middle-aged — ^was leaning on the table
with one hand and rubbing his forehead with
the other; his light eyes followed the editor,
and a derisive smile played on his fat white

450

face. The maker-up, a sallow, angular individ-
ual with a hollow chest, dressed in a dirty
brown frock-coat which was far too long for
him, w^as standing timidly against the wall.
He would raise his eyebrows and fasten his
eyes on the ceiling, as though thinking or
remembering something, and a minute later
he would sniff disappointedly and drop his
head in dejection. People with worried and
discontented looks on their faces came in
and went out again, brushing past the messen-
ger-boy standing in the door-way.

From time to time the editor's irascible
voice rose to a treble, and every time it did,
the publisher's face puckered and the maker-up
winced.

"I'll prosecute the scoundrel in court. Has
the proof-reader come? Damn it all, I'm
asking you — has he come? Tell all the type-
setters to come, too. Have you told them?
Good Lord, think what will happen! All
the newspapers will pick this up. A disgrace!
It will be shouted all over the country. The
scoundrel shall be made to pay for this!"

He raised his hands with the newspaper in
them, then stopped abruptly, as though he

29* 451

wished to wrap his head in the sheet to pro-
tect it from impending disgrace.

"First find him, " advised the publisher
with a wry smile.

"Don't worry, I will!" the editor said with
flashing eyes and started off again at a trot,
pressing the newspaper to his breast and pluck-
ing at it fiercely. "ГП find him, and give it to
him! What's the matter with that proof-reader?
Ah, come in, gentlemen, come in. You humble
captains of leaden hosts; come in, come in. "

The type-setters filed into the room. They
knew what was up, and each expected to be
accused of being the guilty party. Their faces,
smudged and powdered with lead-dust, w^re
wooden expressions of imperturbability. The
editor stopped in front of them and clasped his
hands behind his back. He was shorter than
they and had to raise his eyes to look into
their faces. He threw his head back so quick-
ly that his spectacles suddenly jumped up on
to his forehead; thinking they would fall, he
raised a hand to catch them, but they dropped
safely back on to the bridge of his nose.

"Devil take you! " he muttered, grinding his
teeth.

452

Smiles appeared on the smudged faces of the
type-setters. Someone gave a suppressed laugh.

"I haven't invited you here to display
your teeth!" said the editor going white. "I
think you've discredited the paper enough.
If there's an honest man amonf»;' you, if there's
one Avho knoAvs what a newspaper is and Avhat
the press is, he'll say who did this. Here.
In the leading article." The editor feverishly
unfolded the newspaper.

"What happened?" came a voice which ex-
pressed nothing hut simple curiosity.

"Ah! So you don't know? Well, here it is!
Look — *Our factory legislation has alwaj^s
been a subject of heated discussion in the press,
that is, a subject on which reams of stupid
stuff-and-nonsense have been scribbled.' Well?
Are you satisfied? Will the one who added
this 'scribbling' kindly step up? 'Scribbled'
mind you! How witty! Well, who's respon-
sible for this *stupid stuff-and-nonsense'?"

"Whose article is it? Yours? Well, then
you're responsil)le for Avhat's in it," said
the same calm voice again.

This was insolence, and everybody sup-
posed that the culprit had been found. There

453

was movement in the room; the publisher
edged closer to the group, the editor got
up on his toes to see the speaker's face. The
type-setters drew apart. Л stocky fellow in a
blue blouse stood before the editor. He had
a pock-marked face and tufts of hair curled
upwards over his left temple. His hands were
thrust deep into his trouser-pockets, his grey
eyes were fixed indifferently on the editor
and a faint smile could be glimpsed through
the blond whiskers that curled about his lips.
Everyone was looking at him — the publisher
with a severe frown, the editor in anger and
amazement, the maker-up with a restrained
smile. The faces of the type-setters portrayed
fear, curiosity, and ill-concealed pleasure.

"So it's you, is it?" the editor asked at
last, pointing his finger at the pock-marked
type-setter and pressing his lips together men-
acingly.

"It's me," the pock-marked man replied
with a particularly vexing grin.

"Ah! Enchanted. And may I ask you why
you did it?"

"I didn't say I did it, " said the type-setter
with a glance at his comrades.

454

"It must have been him, Mitry Pavlovich, "
the maker-up volunteered.

"Well, if it must have been, I suppose it
was, " the type-setter agreed good-naturedly,
dismissing the matter лvith a wave of his
hand.

^Everybody fell silent again. No one had
expected so simple a confession. The editor's
anger was entirely supplanted by amazement.
The space round the pock-marked man wid-
ened, the maker-up quickly drew back to the
table and the type-setters edged away.

"Did you do it deliberately, with premed-
itation?" the publisher asked, looking wide-
eyed at the culprit.

"Be kind enough to answer!" shouted the
editor, waving his crumpled newspaper.

"Don4 shout. Гт not to be scared so easily.
Shouting won't get you anywhere with me."
An impudent devil-may-care glitter flashed
in the eyes of the type-setter. "You're right, "
he continued, shifting from one foot to the
other and turning to the publisher, "I stuck
in the words deliberately. "

"D'you hear?" the editor said to the gather-
ing.

455

"Whatever made you do it, you idiot? " the
publisher exclaimed in sudden fury. "Do you
realize the harm you've done me?"

"No harm at all. The retail sales will prob-
ably rise. As for the editor— well, I s'pose
this isn't exactly to his liking."

The editor was speechless with indignatioii;
he stood staring with flashing eyes ^at this
calm and vengeful workman and could find
no words to express his feelings.

"It'll go hard with you for this," the pub-
lisher threatened, but suddenly he softened and
slapped his knee.

As a matter of fact, he was pleased with the
incident and with the worker's impudent re-
plies: the editor had always treated him haugh-
tily, never hiding his sense of intellectual
superiority, and here he лvas now, this proud
and self-assured man, trampled in the dust,
and— by whom?

"We'll get even with you for that insolence
of yours, " he added.

"I didn't expect you to let me off easy,"
the type-setter said.

The tone and the words produced another
sensation. The type-setters exchanged glances,

m

the maker-up shrank and raised his eye-brows,
the editor stepped back to the table and leaned
on it. More flustered and humiliated than irate,
he stared intently at his opponent.

"What's your name?" the publisher asked,
taking a note-book out of his pocket.

"Nikolka Gvozdev, " the maker-up an-
nounced hurriedly.

"Keep your mouth shut, Judas; nobody
asked you anything, " said the type-setter,
throwing the maker-up a nasty look. "I have
a tongue of my own; 141 speak for myself.
My name is Nikolai Semyonovich Gvozdev.
The address—"

"We'll find you somehow," the publisher
cut him short. "And now get the hell out of
here. All of you. "

Stamping noisily, the type-setters took
themselves off. Gvozdev was about to follow
them.

"Hold on — just a minute," the editor said
softly but distinctly, holding out his hand to
Gvozdev.

Gvozdev turned, shrugged his shoulders, fin-
gered his little beard, stared cballengingly
at the editor.

457

"I want to ask you something, " began the
editor. He tried to be calm, but could not
manage it: his voice kept rising to a scream.
"You confessed — that in causing this scandal —
you meant to do me harm, didn't you? Wliat
is it, revenge? I want to know why. Do you
understand? Can you tell me?"

Gvozdev shrugged his shoulders, pulled
down the corners of his mouth, and dropped
his eyes. The publisher tapped his foot impa-
tiently, the maker-up stretched his neck, the
editor bit his lip and twisted his fingers nerv-
ously. They all waited.

"I suppose I may as well tell you, " Gvozdev
began after a minute's silence, "but since
Гт an uneducated man, it may not be very
clear. Well, if it isn't, you'll just have to
excuse me. Here's the whole thing. You
write all sorts of articles, keep advising
everybody to love his fellows and so on. I'm
no good at telling you this in detail, I don't
know enough. You know for yourself what
you preach every day. Well, I read those ar-
ticles of yours. You write about us, the work-
ers, and I read what you write. But it's dis-
gusting, because it's all rubbish. Just a lot

458

of shameless words, Mi try Pavlovich. 'Don't
rob/ you say, and what goes on in your
print-shop? Last week Kiryakov worked three
and a half days, earned three rubles and eighty
kopeks and then fell ill. His wife comes
to the office for the money, and the manag-
er tells her she won't get it, that she's the
one must pay — pay a ruble twenty in fines.
That's what you call 'don't rob'! Why don't
you write about that? Or about how the man-
ager keeps growling at us and beats the print-
er's boys for every little thing? You don't
wiite about such things because you don't
want to show yourself up. You write that
people have a hard time living in this world.
But the only reason you Avrite all this stuff
is because you don't know how to do anything
else. That's all. . . . And that's why you
make fine speeches about the Turkish atroc-
ities and don't see the atrocities being com-
mitted under your own nose. Aren't they rub-
bish, those articles of yours? For a long time
I've been wanting to put a few true words
into your articles just to shame you. Don't
think you got all you deserve this time."
Gvozdev blew his chest out proudly, raised

459

his head high, and stared straight at the edi-
tor. The editor gripped the table, threw back
his head, turned red, then white, smiled con-
temptuously, embarrassedly, painfully. His
eyes blinked rapidly.

"Is he a socialist?" the publisher asked the
editor in a low voice in which fear mingled
with curiosity. The latter only cocked his
head and smiled.

The maker-up withdrew to the window
behind a tub of philodendron, which threAv
a shadow design upon the floor. From behind
the tub he squinted at everyone with his
little mouse-like eyes. There was a kind of
impatient expectation in them, and a joyous
glitter.

The publisher stared at the editor, who,
conscious of the stare, raised his head. There
was an uneasy light in his eyes and his face
was twitching as he called after Gvozdev,
now making his way to the door.

"Just a minute — hold on! You've insulted
me. But you aren't right. I hope you know
it. I'm grateful for the straightforwardness
with which you spoke your mind, biit I re-
peat. ..."

460

He wanted to speak ironically, but instead
of irony there was something sickly and
feigned in his words, and he paused, trying to
rally for an attack that would be worthy of
him and of his accuser, to whom in his wild-
est dreams he could not have conceded the
right to judge him, the editor.

"It's only natural." Gvozdev shook his
head. "People who talk a lot seem to be al-
ways right. " From where he stood, he glanced
about with an expression which clearly spoke
of his impatience to leave.

"Just a minute," the editor said, raising
his voice and his arm. "You brought an accu-
sation against me, and prior to that you pun-
ished me arbitrarily for my alleged guilt.
I have a right to defend myself, and I ask you
to listen. "

"Don't worry about me. Defend yourself
before the publisher if it's necessary. What's
the use of talking to me? Tve done you harm,
so haul me off to the police. But why try to
defend yourself?" He turned abruptly, and
went off with his hands folded behind his back.

He had heavy boots with large heels, and
stamped loudly as he walked; his footsteps

461

resounded hollowly in the large, barn-like
office.

"Well, there's a bag of tricks for you!"
exclaimed the publisher луЬеп the door
slammed behind Gvozdev.

"Vasily Ivanovich, I had nothing to do
with this business, " pleaded the maker-up,
spreading his hands supplicatingly and ap-
proaching the publisher with little cautious
steps. "I make up the type set and have no
way of knowing what the one on duty slips me.
Гт on my feet here all night, and my wife
is ill at home, and the children aren't looked
after — three of them. For thirty rubles a
month I give my life's blood, so to speak. As
for Fyodor Pavlovich, when he was taking on
Gvozdev, I warned him: Fyodor Pavlovich,
I said, I've known Nikolka since he was a
boy, and I must tell you he's a mischief-
maker and a thief, there's no good in him.
He's been up before the justice of the peace,
I said — even served a term in prison. "

"What was he in prison for? " the publisher
asked without looking up.

"For pigeons — that is, for breaking locks.
One night he broke the locks of seven pigeon-

462

houses — set the whole chase free! I myself
lost a couple of grays, a tumbler with a whistle,
and a pouter. Very valuable birds."

"Did he steal them?" the publisher inquired
with curiosity.

"No, he doesn't do that. He was tried for
theft once, but acquitted. Just a mischief-
maker. He let the birds loose for fun; mocked
us, pigeon-fanciers. He's been beaten for it
more than once. He was taken to hospital
after one beating, but as soon as he got well
he planted goblins in the stove of my son's
godmother.

"Goblins?" the publisher asked in surprise.

"What nonsense!" The editor shrugged,
knit his brow, bit his lips and sank into
thought.

"It's the truth, only I didn't say it right,"
the maker-up explained awkwardly. "You see,
he's a stove-setter, this Nikolka, a jack-of-
all-trades. He's tried lithography and en-
graving and been a plumber, too. Well, about
this godmother — she has connections with
the clergy and a house of her own. She hired
him to reset her stove. He reset it very well,
but in the wall he planted a bottle of quick-

463

silver with needles and things in it. This
makes a sound when the stove is lighted— a
queer sound, like a groan or a sigh, and people
say there are goblins in the house. The heat
makes the quicksilver in the bottle expand
and the needles scratch the glass, as though
someone was grinding his teeth. The needles
make one sound, the tacks another, and you
get a kind of hellish concert. My boy's god-
mother even intended selling the house, but
no one wanted it — who would have it with
the goblins? She held three prayer-services
with holy water. Nothing helped. The woman
was in a terrible fix: here she was with a
daughter to marry off, a hundred head of
poultry, two cows, a fine house, and — gob-
lins! Worried herself sick, she did. It was
sad to see her. And the same Nikolka saved her,
one might say. Give me fifty rubles, says he,
and I'll put an end to the goblins. She gave
him twenty-five to begin with, but when she
found out about the bottle she refused to
give him the rest and made an awful fuss.
Wanted to take him to court, but was ad-
vised against it. And he has lots of other tricks
to his credit. "

464

"I'll feel the effects of one of these tricks
tomorrow, " the editor exclaimed excitedly
and began to dash about the room again. "Oh,
my God! How low of him!"

"There, there, " the publisher said soothing-
ly, "print a correction, explain bow it all
happened. ... A queer fellow, damn it all!
Put goblins in a stove! Humph! We'll teach
him a lesson, of course, but the scoundrel is
clever, and one gets to feel a sort of — some-
thing— for him." The publisher snapped his
fingers and looked up at the ceiling.

"So you find it amusing, do you?" cried
the editor.

"Well, and what of it? Isn't the whole thing
funny? He's clever, damn him!" retorted the
publisher. "What charges do you intend to
bring against him?"

The editor ran over to the publisher.
"None. I can't, Vasily Ivanovich, because
that inventor of goblins is right. The devil
only knows w^hat goes on in your print-shop,
d'you hear? And I'm made a fool of all because
of you. He's right a thousand times."

"And that insertion— is that right, too?"
the publisher asked bitingly, pursing his lips.

30—327 465

"Yes, that, too. After all, we're a liberal
newspaper. "

"And we have a circulation of two thou-
sand, including complimentary and exchange
copies, " the publisher stated dryly, "while
our competitor sells around nine thousand."

"Well?!"

"That's all."

The editor waved his hand hopelessly, and
again began pacing the floor.

"A fine fix, " he murmured, shrugging his
shoulders. "Everything goes against me. All the
dogs pile on one, and he can't bite back. This
damned worker's the last straw. Oh, my God! "

"Stop fretting, old fellow, " Vasily Ivano-
vich advised suddenly with a good-natured
grin, as though he were exhausted by the
noise and excitement. "Things like this hap-
pen from time to time, but they blow over.
You'll redeem your reputation. The whole
business is more comic than tragic."

He held his plump hand out amicably to
the editor and was about to go into the inner
office when the door opened suddenly and
Gvozdev appeared. He was in a cap and
smiled politely.

466

"I came to tell you, mister editor, that if
you intend to take me to court, say so now.
I mean to go away, and I don't want to be
brought back. "

"Get out!" howled the editor almost sob-
bing with rage and rushing to the other end
of the room.

"Then it's quits." And Gvozdev straightened
his cap, turned serenely, and vanished.

"Wliat a rogue!" the publisher breathed
in admiration, as he turned with a grin on his
face and began unhurriedly to put on his
top-coat.

Two or three days later Gvozdev was walk-
ing sedately on the "Hill." He was wearing
a blue blouse with a belt round it, loose
trousers and brightly polished boots. A white
cap was set at an angle on the back of his head
and he carried a knotty stick in his hand.

The "Hill" \vas an easy slope down to the
river. There had once been a thick grove on
the slope, but now most of it was cleared.
Here and there powerful gnarled oaks and
elms, battered by thunder-storms, lifted
twisted boughs into the sky. Tender shoots
curled at their roots, vines clung to their

30* 467

trunks. The feet of endless promenaders had
made tortuous paths that led down to the sunlit
river. Horizontally crossing the "Hill" was a
wide walk — an abandoned post-road — and it
was chiefly along this that the people strolled
in two files moving in opposite directions.

Gvozdev loved to join the people walking
up and down here, to feel that he was one of
them — that he could breathe just as freely as
they did of this air saturated with the smell of
the leaves, that^he could stroll just as leisure-
ly as they, that he was a part of something
big, and that he Avas the equal of all these others .

This day he was slightly drunk, his resolute
pitted face looked good-natured and sociable.
Fair locks of hair curled upwards over his
left temple, handsomely setting off his ear
and covering his cap-band, imparting to him
the look of a swaggering workingman who is
pleased with himself, is ready this very mo-
ment to sing, dance, or fight, and not averse
to tossing down a drink or two. Nature seemed
to have given him these locks with their
peculiar curl as a recommendation to the
world at large: here he is, Nikolai Gvozdev,
a man of spirit who knows his own price.

468

He looked about him approvingly, jostled
the walkers amicably, suffered their pushes
without complaint, apologized politely when
he stepped on ladies' trains, swallowed dust
as everyone else did, and on the whole felt
on top of the Avorld.

The sun, seen through the foliage, was
setting in the meadows across the river. The
sky was purple, warm, beckoning one to where
its edge touched the deep' green of the pas-
tures. Fanciful shadows spread at the feet of the
promenaders, but the people stepped on them
without heeding their beauty.

Gvozdev had a cigarette hanging from the
left corner of his mouth. He let wisps of smoke
out of the other as he sized up the people,
conscious of an urgent desire to chat with
someone over a mug of beer in the restaurant
at the bottom of the "Hill." There were no
acquaintances in sight, and there was no suit-
able occasion to make new ones. In spite of
the holiday and the bright spring weather,
the public was sullen for some reason, and
while he had peered several times into the
faces of passers-by with a good-natured smile
and an expression of readiness to strike up

469

a conversation, no one responded to his over-
tures. In the mass of heads his eyes suddenly
singled out the familiar head of the editor,
as flat and smooth as if it had been planed.
Gvozdev smiled as he remembered how he
had told the man off. Occasionally the edi-
tor's flat grey hat vanished behind other hats,
and this worried Gvozdev; he raised himself
on his toes, found it, and smiled again.

He walked along with one eye on the editor,
recalling the time when he, Gvozdev, had been
Nikolka, the fitter's son, and the editor had
been Mitka, son of the deacon. They had
another play-fellow, Mishka, whom they had
nicknamed Sugarbowl. Then there was Vaska
Zhukov, son of a government employee who
lived in the last house in the street. It was a
good house — old, overgrown with moss, and
with a lot of out-houses about it. Vaska 's
father kept a marvellous chase of pigeons.
Their yard, with all the rubbish Vaska \s
close-fisted father kept there — broken-down
carriages, barrels, chests — was an ideal place
to play hide-and-seek in. Now Vaska was
district physician, and railway warehouses
had been built on the site of the old house.

470

It had stood in Zadriy Mokry Street on the
outskirts of the town; the boys in that street
had li^ed together in peace, but had been at
constant war with the youngsters of other
streets. They laid waste orchards and vege-
table patches, played knucklebones and ball
and other games, and attended the parish
school. That had been some twenty years
before.

Now everything was different. Nikolka's
companions, who had been just as mischievous
and dirty as he himself, had moved away and
grown up to be important people. But Nikolka,
the fitter's son, had never got out of Zadny
Mokry Street. On leaving the parish school
they had gone to the gymnasium. He had not.
\Vbat if he should go up to the editor now and
speak to him? Just say hello and start talk-
ing? He'd begin by apologizing for what he'd
done and then they'd chat about — about any-
thing— about life in general, perhaps.

The editor's hat kept bobbing up, as though
luring him on, and Gvozdev made his deci-
sion. The editor was walking all by himself in
a space free of promenaders. He was strolling
along on his thin legs clad in light trousers,

471

his head turniDg from side to side, his short-
sighted eyes squinting at the public. Gvozdev
drew level and looked him in the face affa-
bly, waiting for a fitting moment to greet
him and wondering how he would respond.

"Good day, Mi try Pavlovich!"
The editor turned, lifted his hat with one
hand, adjusted his spectacles with the other^
recognized Gvozdev, and frowned.

This did not dishearten Nikolai Gvozdev.
On the contrary, he leaned pleasantly to-
wards the editor and engulfed him in fmnes
of vodka as he said:

"Taking a walk?"

The editor stopped for a second, his lips
and nostrils quivering fastidiously.

"What do you want?" he asked dryly.

"Nothing. It's just such a nice day today. And
I wanted to talk to you about that incident."

"I don't wish to talk to you, " the editor
declared, quickening his steps.

Gvozdev followed him.

"Don't wish to? I can understand that. I
embarrassed you, and you hold a grudge
against me, of course."

"You are— you are drunk," the editor

^72

snapped, "and if you don't leave me alone,
I shall call the police."

Gvozdev laughed softly.

"What for?"

The editor glared at him with the despond-
ent look of a man who finds himself in an
annoying situation and does not know hoAv to
get out of it. People луеге throwing them curi-
ous glances. The editor looked about helplessly.

Gvozdev noticed this.

"Let's turn off," he said, and without
waiting for a reply he pressed the editor off
the wide road on to a narrow path leading
doлvn through the shrubbery to the foot of
the hill.

The editor did not resist — perhaps he had
no time to, or perhaps he thought he could
rid himself more quickly and simply of his in-
terlocutor if he were left alone w4th him. Slow-
ly and cautiously he made his way down the
hill, leaning heavily on his stick, conscious
of Gvozdev 's breath on the back of his neck.

"There's a fallen tree here somewhere; we'll
sit on it. Don't be cross with me for what I've
done, Mitry Pavlovich. I apologize. I was
angry. Our anger is so strong sometimes that

473

even wine can't quench it. At times like that
one's apt to do mischief: give a passer-by a
poke in the side or something else. I'm not
sorry — Avhat's done is done, but maybe I
overdid it, went a bit too far."

Perhaps this frank confession touched the
editor; perhaps Gvozdev's person aroused his
curiosity, or perhaps he simply realized he
could not easily rid himself of the man. At
any rate, he said:

"What did you want to speak to me about? "

"Oh, lot's of things. There's a rankling
bitterness in my soul. Let's sit down."

"I haven't time."

"I know, the newspaper. It'll rob you of
half your life and ruin your health. Don't
think I don't understand. The publisher?
He's invested money in the newspaper, but
you've invested your life's blood. You've
ruined your eyes already. Here, sit down. "

Beside the path lay a large tree trunk — the
decaying remains of what had once been a
powerful oak. The branches of a walnut-tree
bent over it, forming a green canopy; the skj^
glanced through the twigs, coloured by the
sunset, and the spicy smell of fresh foliage

474

filled the air. Gvozdev sat down, turned to
the editor who was still standing and looking
about indecisively, and began to speak:

"I had a few drops to drink today. It's a dull
life, Mitry Pavlovich! Tve lost touch with my
fellow-workers; somehow they and I see things
differently. When I caught sight of you
today, I suddenly remembered you and I had
been good friends once."

The swift changes in the editor's expression
were so funny that Gvozdev could not help
laughing.

"Good friends? When?"

"Oh, a long time ago, Mitry Pavlovich. We
used to live on Zadny Mokry Street then,
remember? One house away from each other.
And Mishka Sugarbowl — now he's Mikhail
Yefimovich Khrulev, Court Investigator — he
lived across the street with his strict father.
D'you remember Yefimovich? Many was the
time he pulled us round by the hair. Come,
sit down."

The editor nodded and sat down next to
Gvozdev. He was rubbing his forehead and
looking at him with the strained look of a man
trying to remember something long forgotten.

475

Gvozdev was carried away by reminiscences.

'That was the life! Why can't a man stay
a child all his life? Grows up— what for?
Then grows down — into the grave. Has all
sorts of troubles — gets bitter and like a beast.
How idiotic it all is — a man lives on and on,
and in the end there's nothing left that matters
much. But in those days we didn't have such
dark thoughts. We lived as carefree as the
birds. Fluttered over fences after the fruits
of other people's labour. D'you remember,
I popped you on the nose with a cucumber
once while we were thieving in Petrovna's
vegetable patch. You raised a cry, and I
ran away. You and your mother came and
complained, and father whipped the hide off
me. And Mishka — Mikhail Yefimovich — "

The editor smiled in spite of himself. He had
wanted to preserve a serious mien in the
presence of this man, but there was something
touching in these memories of bright sunny
childhood days, and for the time being he de-
tected nothing in Gvozdev 's tone that threat-
ened his self-respect. Besides, their surround-
ings were very pleasant. Somewhere up above
feet were shufflinof over the sand of the foot-

476

path, faint voices reached them, sometimes
laughter; the wind gave little sighs, and all
these little sounds were drowned in the melan-
choly rustle of the leaves. When the rustle
subsided, there were moments of absolute si-
lence, as though everything were listening
intently to Gvozdev's disordered reminis-
cences of their boyhood.

"Remember Varka, house-painter Kolo-
koltsov's daughter? She's married to Shaposh-
nikov, the printer. What a lady! Гт afraid
to go near her. In those days she was a sickly
little girl. Remember how she got lost once,
and all the youngsters from our street looked
for her in the fields and ravines? Found her
in the military camp, and brought her home
across the fields. What a fuss there was — a
regular hullabaloo! Kolokolstov treated us to
honey-cakes, and Varka said to her mother:
*rve been at the officer lady's, and she wants
me to be her daughter.' Ha-ha! Daughter! Nice
little girl she was."

From the river came sounds like the
sighs of someone who was grieving. A ship
was passing, noisily churning up the water
with its paddle-wheels. The sky was rosy-

477

hued and the dusk thickened about Gvozdev
and the editor. As the spring night advanced
slowly, the quiet became complete, and, as if
adjusting himself to it, Gvozdev lowered his
voice. The editor listened without interrupting
as he called up pictures of long ago. All these
things had really happened.

"It turns out we were really feathered in the
same nest, Mitry Pavlovich, but our flight was
different. It makes me feel bad to think that
my old play-fellows and I are so different
just because I didn't have a chance to go on
studying. Does that really make a man?
They say it's his soul that counts and the
place he holds in the hearts of his fellow-men.
But — you're my fellow-man. And what am
I to you? Nothing at all, isn't that true?"

The editor, engrossed in his own thoughts,
apparently had not caught the question,

"Yes, it is, " he replied gravely and ab-
stractedly, but on hearing Gvozdev laugh he
caught himself and said, "Pardon? What did
you say was true?"

"It's true that I'm just nothing at all to
you. It's all the same to you whether I exist
or not. You don't give a hang for my soul.

47S

I live alone in the world, and all the people
who know me are sick to death of me. Because
I have a nasty streak in me and I like to play
all sorts of tricks. But I, too, have feelings
and a brain. I resent my condition. Why am
I any worse than you? It's only my job — "

"Yes, all this is very sad, " the editor said,
wrinkling his forehead. After a pause he con-
tinued in a soothing voice, "But you see, we
have to look at it from another point of
view — "

"Mitry Pavlovich! What's a point of view?
People mustn't consider each other from a
point of view. It must be straight from the
heart. What's a point of view? I speak about
the unfairness of life. D'you think it's possi-
ble to reject me from any point of view? But
life has rejected me. I haven't elbow-space
in it. Wliy? Because I'm uneducated? But if
you, the educated ones, wouldn't keep look-
ing at things from points of view, then you
ought to think about me and to lift me up
to your level, instead of letting me rot here
in ignorance and bitterness. Or maybe you
oughtn't — from some point of view?"

Gvozdev looked at his companion in tri-

479

umph. He felt he was in good form, and was
pouring out all the philosophy he had thought
up during long years of hard work and dis-
ordered living. The editor was confounded by
the onslaught of his companion; he tried to de-
termine what sort of person he had before him,
and how he ought to reply to him. Meanwhile
Gvozdev, very pleased with himself, continued:

"You are clever, you'll give me a hundred
answers, and all of them w411 be — no, you
oughtn't. But I say that you ought. Why? Be-
cause you and I, we're both people from
the same street and the same class. You don't
belong to the gentry, the ruling class. It's
all clear as daylight when we deal with them.
They say: *go to hell!' — and we go. Because
they were born aristocrats. You've become
an aristocrat because you learned grammar and
such-like, but you're our kind, I can demand
that you show me my place in life. I'm city-
bred, and Khrulev is, too, and you're just
the deacon's son. "

"But wait," put in the editor. "I don't
deny your rights — "

Gvozdev, however, was not at all interested
in what the editor denied or admitted; he had

480

to speak his mind, and he felt at this moment
that he could say everything that had ever
troubled him.

"No, you wait, " he said in a low mysterious
voice, his eyes sparkling with excitement as
he drew closer to the editor. "Do you think it's
easy for me to work for my former play-fellows
whose noses I used to smash? Was it easy for
me to take a forty-kopek tip from Gospodin
Khrulev, the Court Investigator, when I put
a new toilet in his house last year? We're
the same kind, and his name used to be Mishka
Sugarbowl. His teeth are just as bad today as
they were when he was little. "

The editor was looking at him sideways
pensively, silently turning over in his mind
what to say to him. Something good, truth-
ful, sincere. But at the moment he found noth-
ing suitable in his head or his heart. It had
been a long time since idealistic expatiating
on various "problems" had roused in him
anything but a feeling of weariness and bore-
dom. He had wanted a rest today, had inten-
tionally avoided acquaintances — and here was
this man with his speeches. There was a bit
of truth in them, of course, as there was in

31—327 481

everything people said. They were curious
speeches, and would serve as an interesting
subject for a feuilleton. ...

"You haven't said anything new, you
know, " he began. "The injustice of human
relations has long been a matter of discussion.
But it is novel to hear these things said by
a man of your type. You express your thoughts
somewhat faultily and one-sidedly, but — "
"That point of view of yours again! " grinned
Gvozdev. "Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen! You
were given brains, but not hearts. Tell me
something to lift this load off my own heart!"
He dropped his head and waited for an
answer.

The editor looked at him and frowned; he
wanted badly to get away. Gvozdev 's intox-
ication was making itself felt. He looked
at the white cap which had slid to the back
of the man's head, at his pitted cheeks and his
rakish locks; he measured his powerful frame
with his eye, and decided that here was a
typical worker, and that if —
"Well?" asked Gvozdev.
"What can I say to you? Frankly speaking,
I don't quite see what you're after."

482

I

"That's it. You сапЧ tell me anything/*
said Gvozdev with a little laugh.

The editor sighed with relief, presuming
that the conversation had come to an end and
Gvozdev would not pester him any more. Sud-
denly he had a dreadful thought: What if he
should strike him? The man was so incensed!

He recalled the expression on Gvozdev 's
face during the scene at the editorial office,
and threw him a sidelong glance.

It had grown dark. The silence was broken
by a song floating up from the river — a chorus
of voices, the tenors distinctly audible. Beetles
buzzed in the air with a metallic sound.
Stars pecked through the foliage. Occasionally
a branch overhead would quiver, causing
the leaves to flutter gently.

"It's getting damp," said the editor cauti-
ously.

Gvozdev started and turned to him.

"What did you say?"

"I said it's getting damp, and that's bad
for the health."

"Oh!"

There was a pause. A shout came from
the river:

l| 31

483

"Неу-у! There on the barge!"

"Гш afraid I must go. Good-bye."

"Let's have a couple of beers together,"
Gvozdev said impetuously, adding with a
grin, "Do me the honour!"

"Sorry, but it's too late. I must be getting
back. "

Gvozdev got up and looked sullenly at the
editor, who got up, too, and held out his hand.

"So you don't want to drink beer with me,
eh? Well, to hell with you!" cried Gvozdev
pulling his cap over his eyes. "What an aris-
tocrat! Five kopeks a dozen! All right, I'll
drink by myself. "

The editor bravely turned his back on his
companion and went up the footpath, pulling
his head into his shoulders in an odd way, as
though he feared striking it against something.
Gvozdev went down the hill with big strides.

From the river came a strained voice:

"You on the barge there! Hey, you bas-
tards! Send the b-o-a-t!"

And a soft echo spread among the trees:

"The b-o-a-t!"

1897

I

»€€о >>

THE ORLOVS

Almost every Saturday evening before vespers,
in a crowded little courtyard cluttered with
rubbish and hedged in by wooden outhouses
sagging with age, could be heard a лvoman's
frantic cries coming from two basement win-
dows in a filthy old house belonging to mer-
chant Petunnikov.

"Stop! Stop, you drunken devil!" the wom-
an would shout in a contralto voice.

"Let me out!" would come the reply in a
man's tenor.

"I won't, you beast!"

"You won't, won't you? We'll see!"

"Not if you kill me!"

"You won't, won't you, you heathen!"

"God, he's killing me! God!"

**I say you will!"

485

At the first cry Senka Chizhik, house-painter
Suchkov^s apprentice who spent all his days
mixing paints in one of the sheds in the court-
yard, would dash out with shining eyes, black as
a mouse's, and shout at the top of his voice:

"The Orlovs are having a fight! Whoop-ee! "

Always ready for a thrill, Senka would
rush over to the Orlovs' windows and throw
himself face down on the ground, his tousled
head hanging over the edge of the area, his
eyes popping out of a rouguish face streaked
with red and yellow paint as he stared into
the dark hole which exuded a smell of mould,
cobbler's wax, and fusty leather.

At the bottom of this hole two people were
struggling, grunting and cursing with the
effort.

"You'll kill me, " gasped the Avoman.

"Never fear, " her husband consoled her
with concentrated venom.

Heavy, dull blows against something soft
could be heard, then squeals, groans, and the
strained breathing of someone lifting a great
weight.

"Ooh, what a smack he gave her with that
last!" said Senka, demonstrating what was

^86

J ,'

going on in the cellar to the little group that
gathered round him and which usually consist-
ed of a couple of tailors, the court-house cou-
rier named Levchenko, an accordionist named
Kislyakov, and a few other lovers of free
entertainment. They would ply him with ques-
tions and tug impatiently at his legs and
his paint-soaked trousers.

"Well? ''

"Now he's straddling her back and banging
her nose against the floor," reported Senka,
shivering ecstatically from the sensations he
was experiencing.

The others, too, would bend down to the
window, burning to see all the gruesome
details with their own eyes. And although
they had long Ьеел familiar with the tactics
Grigory Orlov employed in warring with his
wife, they could not help marvelling.

"Ooh, the fiend, has he broken it? "

"It's all bloody; spurting like a fountain. "

"Merciful heavens!" the women would ex-
claim. "The heartless brute! "

The observations of the men were more
objective.

**He's sure to kill her," they said,

487

"He'll stick a knife into her, mark my word/*
announced the accordionist prophetically. "He'll
get sick of her tunes one of these days and
put an end to them. "

"All over!" whispered Senka as he jumped
up and dashed to a new observation post in
a far corner, knowing that Orlov would come
out any moment now.

The people quickly dispersed to escape the
eye of the raging cobbler. It was dangerous to
encounter him, and besides, they had lost
all interest, now that the fight was over.

Ordinarily there Avould not be a soul in
the courtyard but Senka when Orlov put in
an appearance. Breathing hard, his shirt
torn, his hair on end, his agitated face
scratched and sweaty, he Would sweep the yard
with bloodshot eyes, lock his hands behind
his back, and saunter over to an old sledge
lying upside down beside one of the out-
houses. Sometimes he ллюиИ whistle defiantly
and glance from side to side as if about to
challenge all the occupants of Petunnikov's
house to a fight. Then he would sit down on
the sledge runners, wipe the sweat and blood
off his face on his shirt slepyp and fel^^ into

m

n

a weary attitude, staring dully at the dirty
wall of the house, at the gashes where the
plaster had crumbled off and at the streaks
of multi-coloured paint — Suchkov's house-
painters were in the habit of wiping their brushes
on this corner of the house when they came
home from work.

Orlov was in his late twenties. The fine
features of his sensitive face were ornamented
by a little dark moustache which cast a deep
shadow over his full red lips. Thick eyebrows
nearly met above his large cartilaginous nose.
From under these eyebrows peered black eyes
that were always burning with unrest. A
muscular, energetic man of middle size, some-
what stooped from his work, he would
sit on the sledge for a long time in a sort of
daze, staring at the streaked wall and draw-
ing the air deep down into his broad brown
chest.

The sun went down, but the air in the
-courtyard remained as oppressive as ever. It
smelt of paint, of tar and sour cabbage and
putrefaction. From all the windows on both
floors of the house came sounds of singing and
quarrelling. Now and again a sodden face

489

would be thrust through a window, stare at
Orlov a moment, and A^anish with a little
laugh.

When the house-painters came home from
work, they would shoot sidelong glances at
Orlov in passing, wink at each other and fill
the yard with their lively Kostroma dialect
as they made ready to go, some to the bath-
house, others to the pab. The tailors — a lean,
bow-legged, half-clad lot — would crawl down
into the yard from their quarters on the sec-
ond floor and begin teasing the painters for
pronouncing their words as if they were spit-
ting out dried peas. And there w^uld be noise
and banter and gay bursts of laughter. But
Orlov would sit there in silence without
looking at anyone. And no one approached
him or dared to make jokes at his expense,
for they all knew he was ferocious at such
moments.

There he would sit, consumed by a dull
fury that bore down upon his chest and con-
strained his breath. His nostrils quivered and
his lips were curled back to reveal two rows of
big strong yellow teeth. Something dark
and formless Avas welling up inside of him;

490

red spots swam before his eyes; black misery
and a longing for vodka sucked at his vitals.
He knew that a drink would bring relief, but
it was not dark yet, and in such a ragged and
disreputable state he was ashamed to walk
down streets Avhere he, Grigory Orlov, was
known to everybody.

He did not wish to become a target for
general laughter, but he could not make him-
self go home to wash and change his clothes.
The wife he had beaten was lying there on the
floor, and she was in every way repulsive to
him just then.

She was lying there moaning, knowing that
she was in the right; that she was his innocent
victim. He, too, knew it. He knew that she
was in the right and he in the wrong, but this
only made him hate her the more, because
deep doAvn in his soul seethed a dark fury
that was stronger than his knowledge of right
and wrong. All his feelings were hazy and
oppressive, and he could not help succumb-
ing to the oppressiveness of them without
being able to comprehend them, but knowing
that a pint of vodka was the only thing that
could bring him relief.

491

Неге came Kislyakov, the accordionist. He
was wearing a red silk shirt and a velveteen
vest and his wide trousers were tucked into
the tops of natty boots. He carried his accord-
ion in a green cloth bag under one arm,
his black moustache was twisted into a line
•as straight as an arrow, his cap was tipped
jauntily over one ear, and his face radiated
geniality. Orlov loved him for his gaiety, his
playing, and his sanguine disposition, and he
envied him his carefree existence.

Congratulations on winning the fight,

Grigory,
And winning a black eye as well,

Orlov was not angered by this raillery;
he had heard him say the same thing at least
fifty times before and knew the accordionist
meant no harm by it; he was just having his
little joke.

"Fought another Plevna? " asked Kislyakov,
lingering for a moment in front of the cobbler.
"Feeling posh— with a head like a squash?
Come on, let's go the way of all flesh — let's
have a little drink, you and me. "

"In a little while," said Orlov without
looking up.

492

"ГЦ wait for you there — and suffer in
silence."

Orlov would not be long in following hira.
And when he was gone, a small plump woman
would climb out of the basement, holding on
to the walls for support. Her head was tightly
bound up in a shawl, out of the folds of which
peeped one eye and a bit of cheek and forehead.
She tottered across the courtyard and sat
down on the sledge where her husband had
been sitting. No one was surprised to see
Matrona — they w^ere used to her appearing
when her husband was gone and they кпелу
she would sit there until Grigory, drunk and
repentant, came home from the pub. She
sat in the courtyard because it was stuffy
in the cellar, and because she would have
to help her drunken husband down the stairs.
The stairs were steep and dilapidated; once
Grigory had fallen down them and sprained
his wriat. He had been unable to work for two
weeks and she had had to pawn their few
possessions to buy food.

Ever since then Matrona had waited up
for him.

One of her neighbours would sometimes join

493

her there. Usually it would be the retired
non-commissioned officer Levchenko, a staid
and sensible Ukrainian with a drooping mous-
tache, shaved head, and purple nose.

"Been fighting again? " he луоиИ ask with
a yawn as he sat down beside her.

"What's it to you?" Matrona would snap
back.

"Nothing whatever, " the Ukrainian would
reply, and there would be a long pause.

Something deep down in the woman's chest
made a rasping sound when she breathed.

"What are you two always fighting about?
What is it stands between you? " Levchenko
would begin after sober reflection.

"That's our business."

"Don't doubt it," Levchenko would agree,
nodding.

"Then what are you butting in for?"

"What a woman! There's no saying a word
to her! You and Grigory are a match, I wall
say that. What you need is a good spanking
twice a day— once in the morning, once iu
the evening. That would take the starch out
of you!"

And he w^uld get up in a huff and go aw^ay,

494

which was just what she wanted. For some
time rumours had been circulating in the court-
yard that the Ukrainian had not made over-
tures to her in vain. This incensed her against
him and against anyone else who did not
mind his OAvn business. The Ukrainian would
march off to the other side of the yard Avith
a smart military step, notwithstanding his
forty years.

Suddenly Senka would appear out of no-
where.

'*She's a mouthful of red pepper, that Orlov
woman," he would whisper in Levchenko's
ear, nodding to where Matrona was sitting.

"Г11 teach you \vhat red pepper is!" threat-
ened Levchenko, but he smiled to himself.
He was fond of the nimble Senka and listened
eagerly to whatever he had to say, for Senka
knew all the secrets of the courtyard.

'There's no fooling with her," went on
Senka, ignoring the threat. "The painter Maxim
tried it, and did she mess up his mug for
him! I saw it myself. She pounded it like a
drum!"

Lively and impressionable, half child and
half man though only twelve years old, Senka

495

absorbed the fillh that Siifrounded liim with
the ease of a sponge absorbing water. One
fine line already extended the length of his
forehead, showing that Senka Avas given to
pondering things.

Now it was dark in the courtyard. Above it
gleamed a little square of dark blue sky all
a-glitter wath stars. Seen from above, the yard
was like a deep pit lined by tall buildings,
and in one corner of this pit sat a little woman
recovering from the beating she had been given
and waiting for her drunken husband to come
home.

The Orlovs had been married for almost
four years. A child had been born to them,
but it died when only eighteen months
old. Both of them grieved over the loss, but
soon took comfort in the hope of having
another.

The basement room they lived in was long
and dark, and it had a vaulted ceiling. Beside
the door, facing the windows, was a big
Russian stove. A narrow passage between the
stove and the wall led into a square opening
lighted by two windows giving on to the court-
yard. The light fell into the cellar in oblique

496

and murky shafts, the room was damp and musty
and seemed to be cut off from everything else.
Life went on up above, but the only signs of it
here were the dull nondescript sounds that
fell, along with the dust, in colourless flakes
down into this hole occupied by the Orlovs.
By the wall next to the stove stood a big
wooden bed hung Avith cotton curtains — pink
flowers in a yellow field. The cobbler and
his wife had breakfast and dinner at a table
opposite the bed, and they worked in the
space between the bed and the far wall where
the two shafts of light fell.

Cockroaches crawled lackadaisically up and
down the walls, feasting on the kneaded
crumbs of black bread with which pictures cut
out of magazines were pasted to the plaster.
Languid flies filled the air with a monotonous
drone and the fly-spotted pictures formed dark
splashes against the dirty-grey background of
the walls.

The Orlovs' day began as follows: at six
in the morning Matrona woke up, washed
herself and heated a battle-scarred samovar
covered with pewter patches; while waiting
for the samovar to boil she would tidy up the

32—327 497

room and go to the shop, then wake up her
husband; by the time he got up and washed
himself the samovar would be humming away
on the table, and they would sit down to a
breakfast of tea and white bread — one pound
for the two of them.

Grigory was a good cobbler and always
had plenty of work. At breakfast he Avould
enumerate the tasks of the day. He himself
did whatever required the skill of a master,
leaving to Matrona secondary tasks such
as waxing thread, pasting in inner soles and
nailing on new heel-taps. At breakfast they
also discussed what they would have for din-
ner. In the winter, when they ate more, this
was an interesting topic for discussion; in
summer they economized by only lighting the
stove on Sundays, and not even every Sun-
day, and so the main article of their diet was
cold soup made of kvass, to which they added
onions, salt fish, and sometimes meat cooked
on one of the neighbour's stoves. Breakfast
over, they sat down to work — Grigory on an
overturned pickle- tub with a split side and
some padded leather on top; his wife on a
low stool beside him.

498

At first they worked in silence— what was
there to talk about? They might exchange a
few words about their work, but again they
would relapse into a silence lasting for half
an hour or more. Tap-tap went the hammer,
swish-swish went the thread as it was drawn
through the leather. Occasionally Grigory
would give a yawn that invariably ended up
in a roar or a groan. Matron a would sigh.
Grigory might sing. His voice had a metallic
edge to it, but he sang well. Now the words
of the song flocked together in a quick and
plaintive recitative that came in rushing out
of Grigory 's throat as if afraid something
might remain unsaid; now they strung them-
selves out in mournful measures accented by
ejaculations of "Ekh!" and floated, loud and
doleful, through the window into the court-
yard. Matrona would add her mellow contralto
to her husband's tenor. The faces of both
of them would become sad and pensive; and
Grigory 's dark eyes would grow dim. The
music seemed to stupefy Matrona, who rocked
back and forth in a sort of trance, ecstatically
breaking off in the middle of a note, then join-
ing in again. Neither of them was conscious of

32* 499

the other as they sang, as they tried to pour into
another's words all the dullness and emptiness
of their own benighted lives, as they sought
to express in those words the half-formed
thoughts and feelings born in their own souls.
At times Grigory would improvise:

Ah, this l-i-i-fe of mine! Ekh, this thrice-
cursed life of mine. . . .
Ah, the m-i-isery! Ekh, the accursed misery!
The m-i-isery accursed!

Matrona disapproved of these improvisa-
tions.

"Stop howling. You sound like a dog before
somebody dies."

This always made him indignant.

"Bah, you scarecrow! As if you could under-
stand anything, you blubbering snout-face! "

"Stopped howling and started barking. "

"Shut your mouth and mind your own busi-
ness. Who am I? Your ^prentice, that you
should start telling me what to do?"

And Matrona, seeing that the veins in his
neck were swelling and an ugly light had come
into his eyes, would indeed shut her mouth
and keep it shut for a long time, intentionally

500

ignoring the questions of her husband, whose
anger always died down as quickly as it
flared up.

She avoided his eyes that were seeking
reconciliation and w^aiting for her smile, and
she was filled with a tremulous fear that this
toying with his feelings Avould rouse him to
furv. But at the same time she found satisfac-
tion in being angry with him and seeing his
efforts to make peace. At least she w^as living,
feeling, thinking!

Both of them were young and healthy, and
they loved each other and were proud of each
other. Grigory was so strong, so ardent, so
handsome, and Matrona was fair and plump,
with a sparkle in her grey eyes — a buxom
Avench, as the people in the courtyard said.
They loved each other, but they were bored by
life, they had no other interests and no пелу
impressions to bring them relief from each other
and satisfy the normal human longing to think
and feel — in a word, to live. What they
needed was some purpose in life, even though
it were nothing but the hoarding of money,
coin by coin.

But they did not have this.

501

Always together, they became used to each
other and to each other's every word and
gesture. Day after day went by Avithout bring-
ing them any diversion. On holidays they would
sometimes visit friends who were as impover-
ished spiritually as they themselves, and some-
times friends would visit them to sing and drink
and, as likely as not, to fight. And then again
the uneventful days would drag by like the
links of an invisible chain, each with its
burden of work and boredom and senseless
irritation with each other.

At times Grigory would say:

"Life, the bitch! What do I want with it?
Work and mope. Mope and work." After a
brief pause he would lift his eyes to the ceil-
ing and go on, the shadow of a smile playing
over his lips: "By the will of God my mother
brought me into this world — can't say any-
thing against that. Then I learned my trade,
but what was that for? Aren't there enough
cobblers in the world? Very well, I'm a cobbler.
What good does it do me? Just sit here in
this hole and peg away. And then I'll die.
They say the cholera's raging. Let it. Once
there was a cobbler named Grigory Orlov and

502

he died of the cholera. Does that make sense?
Who cares whether I lived and made boots
and died or not?"

Matrona made no comment, sensing some-
thing awesome in her husband's words. Some-
times she would ask him not to say such
things for they were against God, who knew
only too well what to do with people's lives.
Or again, when she Avas out of sorts, she would
declare sarcastically:

"If you'd stop drinking you'd find more joy
in life and such thoughts wouldn't come into
your head. Instead of complaining, other peo-
ple save up money to buy their own workshops
and live as good as gentlefolk."

"Your words sound tinny and prove you're
a ninny. Shake your brains and ask yourself
how I can give up drinking when it's the only
joy I've got in life. Other people! A lot you
know about other people! Was I like this
before I got married? If the truth's to be told,
it's you that sucks me dry and takes all the
joy out of life. Ugh, you toad!"

Matrona was offended, but she could not
deny the truth of her husbands words: he
was gay and affectionate when he was drunk;

503

those "other people" really were just the prod-
uct of her imagination; and Grigory had in-
deed been a merry fellow, very kind-hearted
and amusing, before they were married.

"I wonder why. Can it really be that I'm
a burden to him?" she asked herself.

She winced at the thought and felt sorry
for them both. Going over to him, she looked
lovingly into his eyes and nestled against
his breast.

"Now she'll start licking me with her^
tongue, the cow, " said Grigory glumly and
made as if to push her away, but she only
pressed closer, sure he would not repulse her.

x\t that, fires were kindled in his eyes, he
threw down his work and took his wife on
his knee, kissing her over and over again,
drawing in deep breaths and murmuring to
her softly, as if afraid someone might hear.

"Ekh, Matrona, it's a vile life we live, you
and me. We snap at each other like wild beasts.
And why? Because that's my fate — every man
is born under a star, and that star's his
fate. "

But this explanation did not satisfy him
and he drew his wife closer and fell to thinking.

504

For a long time they would sit thus, in the
foul air of their dingy basement. She would
sigh and say nothing, but sometimes, in such
blissful moments, she w^uld remember the
undeserved insults and injuries received at
his hands, and then she would weep softly
and complain. Touched by her gentle re-
proaches, he would caress her more fervently
and she would grow more tearful. In the end
this Avould annoy him.

"Stop your slobbering! Maybe it hurts me
a thousand times worse than it does you when
I beat you, d'you hear? So shut your mouth.
Give a woman an inch and she'll take a mile.
Drop this talk. What's there to say to a man
who's sick to death of living?"

At other times he would soften under the
flow of her quiet tears and impassioned re-
proaches, and then he would make a dismal,
laboured effort to explain things.

"What's to be done with a man like me?
I'm always hurting you, I know that. But I
also know you're the only one I've got. True,
sometimes I forget it. Sometimes I just can't
bear to set eyes on you, Matrona — think of
that! As if I'd ate too much of you. And then

505

such a madness creeps into my heart that I'd
like to tear you to pieces, and myself as well.
And the more right you are, the harder I want
to hit you. "

She may not have understood him, but she
was comforted by his gentle and contrite tone.

"God willing, we'll get over it — we'll get
used to each other, " she would say, not realiz-
ing that they had long since got used to each
other and worn each other out.

"If only a child was born to us, things w^uld
be different," she would sigh. "We'd have
something to amuse us and to take care
of."

"Well, then, why don't you have a child?"

"I can't carry it — not the way you beat me.
You always go hard at me in the belly and the
side. If only you wouldn't use your feet. . . ."

"H'm, " murmured Grigory, taken aback.
"As if a man could think where and how to hit
at such moments. I'm not a fiend. I don't do it
just for fun. It's the misery drives me to it."

"Where does it come from — that misery of
yours? " asked Matrona unhappily.

"It's my fate, Matrona," philosophized Gri-
gory. "My fate and my nature. Look at me

506

— am I worse than another? That Ukrainian,
for instance? Yet the misery never gets him.
And he's all alone — no wife or anybody. Tddie
if I didn't have you. But he don't seem to
mind. Just sits there smoking his pipe and
smiling, content he has a pipe to smoke, the
old devil. But Гт not like that. I лvas born
with this restlessness in my heart. It's my
nature. I'm like a steel spring — one touch and
it starts quivering. Take this, for instance:
I go out for a w^alk and see this, that, and
the other, and here am I without a thing to
my name. And it makes me mad. The Ukrai-
nian— he don't mind, he can do without any-
thing. He makes me mad too, damn his whisk-
ers, because he can do without anything,
but as for me — there's not a thing I don't
want! But I just go on sitting here in this
hole, pegging away without a thing to call
my own. Or take you — you're my wife, but
what of it? You're just a woman like any
other, with a full set of a woman's wares. And
I know all there is to know about you, even
how you'll sneeze tomorrow, because I've
heard you sneeze at least a thousand times.
So what's there to get excited about? Not a

507

damn thing. And so I go off to the pub be-
cause at least it's cheery there."

"What made you get married?" asked Mat-
rona.

Grigory gave a little laugh.

"The devil only kno\vs, " he said, "To tell
you the truth, I never ought to have. I ought
to have been a tramp. Maybe I'd have gone
hungry, but at least I'd have been free to
go wherever I pleased. I could have wandered
to the ends of the earth. "

"You can go noAv, and let me go free, too, "
said Matrona, who was on the verge of tears.

"You? Where do you want to go?" asked
Grigory grimly.

"That's my business."

"Tell me where!" and his eyes flashed
menacingly.

"Don't shout. You can't scare me."

"So you've set your eyes on somebody else,
have you? Out with it!"

"Let me go!"

"Go where?" roared Grigory.

He snatched her by the hair, knocking off
her kerchief. His violence roused her fury,
and her fury brought enormous satisfaction,

508

stirring her to the depths of her soul, so that,
instead of saying the word that would dis-
pel his fears, she fanned the flames, looking
him straight in the eye and smiling signifi-
cantly. He lost control and beat her — beat
her mercilessly.

And at night, as she lay moaning beside
him in bed, terribly bruised and broken, he
glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and
sighed profoundly. He felt wretched. His con-
science troubled him, for he knew he had no
cause for jealousy and had beaten her for no
reason at all.

"Come, come, that's enough," he said un-
easily. "I suppose I'm to blame. But you're
a fine one, too. Why didn't you say some-
thing instead of egging me on? Why did you
have to do that?"

She did not answer. She кпелу why. She
knew that now, bruised and bleeding as she
was, she would have his caresses — the tender,
passionate caresses of reconciliation. And for
this she was willing to suffer the pain of a
broken body every day of her life. And she
wept from the very anticipation of delight,
before her husband had so much as touched her.

5(Ю

"Come, come, Matrona, come my little
pigeon, don't cry, forgive me, lovey, " and he
stroked her hair and kissed her and clenched
his teeth against a bitterness that filled his
whole being.

Their windows were open, but a view of the
sky was cut off by a brick wall; as always, their
room was dark and stuffy and oppressive.

"Ekh, what a life! A dog's life!" whispered
Grigory, unable to express all the pain he
felt. "It's because of this hole we live in,
Matrona. As if we was buried in the earth
before our time. "

"Let's move to a new place," said Matrona
through her tears, taking his words literally.

"It's not that. Even if we moved into an
attic we'd still be living in a hole, because
it's not this cellar that's the hole — it's life
itself. "

Matrona considered a moment.

"God willing, things will get better with
us, " she repeated.

"Things will get better — you're always say-
ing that. But they seem to be getting worse
instead of better. We fight more and more
often. "

510

i\

And that was true. The intervals between
their quarrels had been growing shorter, until
now Grigory woke up every Saturday morning
with a feeling of enmity towards his wife
ripe within him.

"Tonight I'm going to Baldy's pub to get
soaked to the gills, " he would announce.

Matrona would narrow her eyes and say not
a word.

"Nothing to say? That's right. You'll
keep your mouth shut if you know what's
good for you."

In the course of the day he reminded her of
his intention several times, his venom increas-
ing with the approach of evening; he sensed
that it hurt her to hear him, and he was in-
furiated by the obstinate silence that greeted
his announcements, and by the cold gleam
in her eye that said she was ready to resist
him.

And true enough, in the evening Senka
Chizhik, herald of their misfortune, would
announce the fight.

When he had beaten his wife, Grigory would
vanish, often for the night, sometimes for the
whole of Sunday as well. On his return Matro-

511

па, all covered with bruises, would greet him
coldly, silently, but filled with secret pity for
this man who came back to her, ragged and
dirty, with bloodshot eyes, as badly beaten, per-
haps, as she herself.

Knowing he would have a hang-over, she
would have ready a pint bottle to make it
easier. He kne\v this.

"Give me something, " he would say, and
when he had gulped doAvn two or three glass-
fuls, would sit down to work.

All day long he would suffer pangs of con-
science; often they were so insufferable that
he would toss aside his work and break out
into fearful oaths, rushing about the room
or throwing himself down on the bed. Matrona
would give him time to get over it, and then
they would make their peace.

In the early days of their marriage these
moments of reconciliation held much that was
sweet and poignant, but gradually they grew
more matter-of-fact, and at last the couple
made their peace merely because it was incon-
venient not to speak to each other for the
five days that separated them from the next
Saturday.

512

"You'll drink yourself to death," sighed
Matrona.

"I will, " confirmed Grigory, and spat into
the corner with the air of a man to whom it
makes not the slightest difference whether he
drinks himself to death or not. "And you'll
leave me, " was the detail he added to the
picture of the future, giving her a probing look
as he said it.

She dropped her eyes, a thing she would
not have done earlier, and Grigory, seeing
this, drew his broAvs together and set his
teeth. Without telling her husband, she would
go to fortune-tellers and sorceresses, bringing
home with her charmed roots or bits of coal.
When this proved ineffective, she had a pray-
er said to the great martyr Saint Boniface,
who interceded on behalf of drunkards, and
all the while the prayer was being read she
knelt and wept profusely, silently working her
quivering lips.

More and more often she was possessed by
a cold and furious hatred for her husband
which gave birth to morbid thoughts, and
gradually her heart hardened against this
man whose gay laughter and tender words had

1

33—327 513

filled her life with brightness three years
before.

In this way these two people, neither of
them bad at heart, w^ent on living day by
day, waiting for something to happen that
would end the torment of their preposterous
way of life.

One Monday morning when the Orlovs were
having breakfast, the imposing figure of a
policeman appeared in the door-way of their
dismal dwelling. Orlov jumped up and made
a heroic effort to revive the events of the past
few days in liis sodden memory as he fixed his
dull eyes, shadowed by the most dreary ex- ,
pectations, on the visitor.

"This way, this way, '' called the police-
man to somebody outside.

"It's dark as a dungeon here, devil take
that merchant Petuniiikov! " came a young
and cheerful voice, and the next moment a
student in Avhite university uniform entered
the basement. He was holding his cap in his
hand, his hair was close-cropped, he had a
high, sunburnt forehead and brown eyes that
flashed jovially behind his glasses.

514

"Good morning," he said in a deep voice.
"Allow me to introduce myself — the sanitary
inspector. I've come to see how you're get-
ting on. To snilf the air you breathe— very
bad air indeed."

Orlov smiled and gave a sigh of relief. He
took to this student at once — his face, wath
the reddish down on cheeks and chin was so
pink, wholesome and kindly. And he smiled
in such an exceptional and genial way that
the Orlovs' basement room seemed to groAv
brighter and more cheerful because of it.

"And now, my good people, " he went on
without stopping, "see that you throw out
the garbage more often, because it's the gar-
bage that gives off that bad-tasting smell.
And I'd advise you to wash the pail more
often, housewife. And why should you be
wearing such a long face, my man? " At
this he took Orlov 's hand and felt his pulse.

The student's breezy manner abashed the
Orlovs. Matrona smiled confusedly and watched
him without speaking. Grigory's smile was
distrustful.

"And how are your tummies? " asked the
student. "Don't be bashful— we all have

33* 515

tummies — and if they're giving you any
trouble we'll supply you with various bitters
that will put an end to it. "

"We're all right. Can't complain," replied
Grigory with a little laugh. "If you find me
not quite up to the mark, that's because —
well, to tell you the truth, I've got a little
hang-over. "

"True enough, my nose was telling me you'd
had a wee bit to drink last night — just the
tiniest drop, of course."

He said this in such a comical way and
pulled such an absurd face that Grigory burst
out laughing. Matrona laughed, too, cover-
ing her mouth with her apron. The student
laughed loudest and hardest of all, but he was
the first to stop. And when the wrinkles of
laughter about his puffy lips and eyes were
smoothed out, his candid face seemed more
candid than ever.

"It's right that a workingman should have
his drink — if he knows when to stop. But
times are such at present that it would be
better to do without it. Have you heard
about the disease that is going the rounds?"

And he told them, very gravely and in

516

simple terms, about the cholera and the
means of fighting it. As he spoke he walked
about the room, feeling the walls, glancing
into the corner where the wash-basin and the
slop-bucket stood, stooping down and sniff-
ing at the stove-grate to find out what the
smell coming from it could be. In his enthu-
siasm his bass voice kept breaking into tenor
notes; the simple words he used ranged them-
selves firmly in the memory of his listeners,
one after another, of their own accord, without
any effort on their part. His eyes shone and
his whole being was charged with enthusiasm
for the cause he was serving.

A smile of curiosity played over Grigory's
face as he watched him. Matrona kept clicking
her tongue; the policeman disappeared.

"So start cleaning up this very day. A
house is being built down the street and the ma-
sons will gladly let you have all the lime you
want for five kopeks. And do stop drinking,
my man. And now — good-bye for the present.
I'll drop in again soon."

He vanished as suddenly as he had come,
and the memory of his laughing eyes was
registered in the pleased smiles on the faces

517

ol the Oriovs. They were confused by this
intrusion of purposeful energy into their be-
nighted lives.

"H'm-m, " drawled Grigory, shaking his head.
"So that's your chemist for you. And they
say they poison people. As if a chap with a
mug like that would do such a thing! Not
on your life! He came here open and above
board, much as to say: here I am, just as you
see me! Lime — did you ever hear of that
being harmful? And citric acid— what's that?
Just plain acid, I guess. But the most impor-
tant thing is to keep clean— clean floor,
clean air, clean slop-bucket. Poison people
indeed! A Jolly fellow, eh? Says it's right a
workingman should have his drink if he knows
when to stop— hear that, Matrona? So what
about pouring me out a glass? Is there any? "

She gladly poured him out half a glass
from a bottle she had got somewhere or other.

"He really was nice. You couldn't help
liking him," she said, smiling as she recalled
the student's face. "As for the others — who
knows? Maybe they really are hired — "

"Hired for what? And who hire? them?"
broke in Grigory.

at я

"Hired to kill off the people. They say
there's an awful lot of poor folks and the
order's been given to get rid of the extra
ones," said Matrona.

"Who says so?"

"Everybody. The house-painter's cook and
lots of others."

"And fools they are to say it. WTio would
gain by such a thing? Think for yourself:
caring for the sick — that costs something,
don't it? And then burying them — a coffin
and a grave and all the rest. And it all
comes out of the treasury. Nonsense. If they
really wanted to get rid of people they'd
send them to Siberia — plenty of space for
everybody out there. Or to a desert island.
And make them work. That would be getting
rid of them, and very profitable besides.
And there's nothing like profit for the treas-
ury, so it's not going to go killing people off
and burying them at its own expense. That
student, now — he's a trouble-maker, anybody
can see that, but what he is up to is uprisings.
As for killing people off — you couldn't get him
to do it for love or money. Can't you tell
by just looking at him he wouldn't do

.5/9

such a thing? He's not got that kind of
mug. "

All that day they talked about the student
and what he had told them. They recalled his
face and the way he laughed, and they dis-
coлюred that a button had been missing from
his coat, and they nearly quarrelled about
which side it had been missing from. Matrona
insisted it was the right side, her husband
said it was the left and cursed her roundly
twice on this account, but on remembering
that she had not emptied the bottle when
pouring out his drink, he gave in to her.
They resolved to set about scouring the room
the next day, and then, exhilarated by an
experience that had been like a breath of
fresh air to them, began talking about the stu-
dent again.

"Ekh, the son of a gun!" said Grigory ec-
statically. "Acted as if he'd known us for
ten years! Pokes his nose in everywhere,
gives us a lecture, and — out he goes. No
shouts, no noise, even if he is one of your
higher-ups. Damn it all, Matrona, can't you
see he really does care? You could tell that
from the very start. They want to keep our

MO

bodies and souls together, and not — not — that's
all nonsense about poisoning people. Old
wives' tales. 'How are your tummies?' he
asks. If they wanted to poison us, what the
hell would they care about how our tummies
were? And how slick he explained about
those — W'hat do you call them? — those thing-
umajigs that crawl around in your insides?"

'Tolyw^gs, or something like that, " laughed
Matrona. "Rut that was said just to scare us,
to make us clean up."

"Who knows? Maybe it was all true. After
all, dampness does breed worms. Damn it
all, what did he call those bugs? Polywogs?
No, not that — the word's on the tip of my
tongue but I can't spit it out."

Even after they were in bed they went on
talking Avith the naive excitement of chil-
dren confiding their first striking impres-
sions. And they w^ere still talking when they
dropped off to sleep.

They were awakened early the next morn-
ing by the house-painters' fat cook. She was
standing beside their bed and her face, usu-
ally round and red, was drawn and grey.

"Time to be up and about, " she said hur-

521

riedly, flapping her thick lips in an odd way.
"The cholera's come to our house. A visita-
tion of the Lord, " and she burst into tears.

"Are you crazy?" cried Grigory.

"And I forgot to empty the slop-bucket
last night," said Matrona guiltily.

"As for me, dears, I'm quitting my job.
I'll go away. Away to the country," said the
cook.

"Who's got it? " asked Grigory as he jumped
out of bed.

"The accordionist. It caught him in the
night. Right in the belly — convulsions, like
from arsenic poisoning."

"The accordionist?" muttered Grigory. He
could not believe it. Such a jolly, jaunty
fellow. Yesterday he had crossed the court-
yard with his usual peacock swagger. "Г11 go
andseehim, "said Orlov with a dubious laugh.

Both of the women cried out in fright.

"Don't, Grigory, it's catching!"

"God Almighty, don't think of it!"

Grigory sw^re, thrust his feet into his
shoes, and made for the door without combing
his hair or buttoning the collar of his shirt.
His wife caught him by the shoulder. He felt

522

the trembling of her hand, and this, for some
reason, threw him into a passion.

"I'll smash your face for you! Get awayl "
he roared, pushing her in the chest.

The courtyard was quiet and empty. As he
made his луау to the accordionist's door he
was seized by a chill of fear, and at the same
time he enjoyed the satisfaction of feeling
that he alone, of all the people in their
house, had the courage to go and see the sick
man. This satisfaction was enhanced bj^ the
sight of the tailors watching him from their
second-story window. He began to whistle
and gave a defiant toss of his head. But on
reaching the door he met a slight disappoint-
ment in the person of Senka Chizhik.

Senka had opened the door a crack and
stuck his sharp nose through it; as usual,
he was so completely absorbed in his obser-
vations that he turned round only when
Grigory tweaked his ear.

"It's twisted him all up. Uncle Grigory,"
he whispered, turning up a smudged face that
had grown more pinched than ever under the
stress of his latest impressions. "He looks
Цк(^ a dried mushroom."

52Я

A whiff of foul air came from the room.
Grigory stood there listening to Senka without
replying, trying to get a peep at the sick
man through the crack in the door.

''Should I give him a drink of water, Uncle
Grigory?" asked Senka.

Grigory glanced do^\^n into the boy's face;
it was twitching all over with nervous agita-
tion, and Grigory himself was agitated.

"Fetch some water, " he ordered, and then
boldly threw open the door and stood in the
door-way, involuntarily straining backwards.

He caught a hazy vision of Kislyakov. The
accordionist, dressed in his best clothes, w^as
sprawling with his chest on the table, grip-
ping it tightly with both hands while his
feet, in patent-leather boots, moved aimless-
ly over the wet floor.

"Who is it? " he asked hoarsely and apathet-
icallv.

Grigory squared his shoulders and went over
to him, stepping gingerly over the floor and
trying to speak brightly, even jokingly.

"It's me, Dmitri Pavlovich. WTiat's this,
took more than you could hold last night?"
He stared hard at Kislyakov, overcome by

524

fear and curiosity, and had difficulty in rec-
ognizing him.

The accordionist's face was drawn, his
cheek-bones stuck out in two sharp angles,
his eyes, sunken and with greenish spots
round them, liad a curiously dull and fixed
stare, the skin on his cheeks was the colour
of a corpse on a hot summer day. Frightening
and death-like was his face, and only the
faint movement of his jaws proved that he
was still alive. For a long time he kept that
dull stare fixed on Grigory, and this filled
the cobbler wuth horror. For some reason he
plucked at the seams of his trousers as he
stood there, some three paces алуау from the
sick man, and he felt as if someone had
seized him by the throat with a cold and
clammy hand and was slowly strangling him.
He wanted to rush out of that room, once so
bright and cosy, now strangely cold and filled
with the smell of decay.

"Well — " he began, preparing his retreat.
A shadow passed over the accordionist's grey
face. He opened lips that were edged with
black foam and said in a soundless voice:

"I'm— dying."

525

These two words, pronounced witb inex-
pressible apathy, struck Grigory in the head
and chest like two dull blows. He grimaced
foolishly and turned to the door, but at that
moment Senka rushed in, breathless and all
in a sweat, with a pail of water.

"Here — from the Spiridonov's well — they
didn't w^ant to give it to me, the sons of
bitches. "

He put the pail on the floor, dashed into
a corner, came back and handed a glass to
Grigory, chattering all the while.

"'So you folks have caught the cholera?'
he says to me. 4Vhat if we have?' says I.
'We've caught it, and you will, too — it's
sure to go the rounds now, like that time in
the settlement,' 1 says. Smack! and he
gives me a crack on the bean."

Grigory dipped up a glassful of water and
drained it in one draught. His ears were
ringing Avith those lifeless Avords:

"I'm — dying."

But Senka kept bustling about, never so
much in his element.

"Water, " murmured the accordionist, mov-
ing towards them along with the table.

526

Seuka leaped up and held a glass of water
to his discoloured lips. As if in a dream Gri~
gory, who was leaning against the wall near
the door, heard the sick man sip the water
noisily; then he heard Senka suggest that
they undress him and put him to bed; and
then came the voice of the house-painters'
cook. Her broad face, wearing a look of fear
and compassion, Avas pressed against the
window-pane and she said in a tearful
voice:

"Give him some rum with eoot in it — t\vo
spoonfuls of soot to a glassful of rum."

Another person in the courtyard suggested
wood-oil mixed with pickle brine and Impe-
rial vodka. Suddenly the light of some re-
membrance pierced the dense and oppressive
gloom that had settled down on Grigory. He
rubbed his forehead vigorously, as if to inten-
sify the light, then he turned abruptly and
ran out of the room, across the courtyard,
and down the street.

"God Almighty, the cobbler's got it! He's
run to the hospital," wailed the cook in ex-
planation of Orlov's sudden departure.

Matrona, who лvas standing next to her,

527

turned pale, opened wide her eyes and began
to shake all over.

"That's a lie," she murmured hoarsely,
scarcely moving her lips. "That accursed dis-
ease couldn't get Grigory. He wouldn't let it. "

But the cook, stilJ wailing, ran off, and
five minutes later a little crowd of neighbours
and passers-by had gathered in the street in
front of merchant Petunnikov's house. The
same feelings were expressed on all the faces:
excitement, alternating with hopeless de-
spair, malice, forced bravado. With a flash of
bare heels Senka would dash out into the
courtyard and back again to keep the crowd
informed of the accordionist's state.

The people crushed together, filling the
smelly air of the street with the hum of their
voices, above лvhich could sometimes be heard
vicious and meaningless oaths.

"Look! Orlov!"

Orlov was riding up to the gate on the shafts
of a w^aggon driven by a glum-looking man
dressed all in white.

"Out of the way!" shouted the driver in a
deep voice, turning his horse straight into
the crowd.

528

The sight of the waggon and the shouts
of the driver cast a damp over the animation
of the crowd. Everyone instantly quieted
down and many of the people hurried away.

In the wake of the waggon came the stu-
dent with whom the Orlovs were acquainted.
His cap had slipped to the back of his head,
sweat was streaming off his brow, and he
was wearing a long robe of blinding whiteness
with a large round hole with brown edges
burnt into the front of it.

"Well, Where's the sick man?" he asked in
a loud voice, casting sidelong glances at the
people gathered in the corner next to the
gate. Their response was hostile.

"Look at the new cook! "someone called out.

"Just wait and see what he'll treat you to!*'
muttered someone else.^

"He Tl give you soup that'll make you puke,"
said the wiseacre to be found in any crowd.

This elicited a cheerless burst of laughter
tinged by fear and distrust.

"Look, they're not afraid. How do you
explain that?" was the insinuating question
put by a man with a strained look on his
face and a glance full of resentment.

34—327 529

People sobered and their talk ЬесаШб
hushed.

"They're carrying him out.''

"Orlov, the bastard."

"And he's not afraid?"

"Him, the dirty drunk?"

"Easy, easy, Orlov. Lift his feet higher.
That's it. All right, you can drive off, Pyotr, "
said the student. "I'll be along soon. Well,
Orlov, I'll have to ask you to help me clean
up this contagion. Incidentally you'll learn
how to do it — it may come in handy. Have
you any objections? "

"No, " said Orlov, feeling very proud as he
glanced round.

"I can help, too, " put in Senka.
* He had accompanied the dread waggon to
the gate and returned just in time to offer
his services. The student turned his spec-
tacles on him.

"And who might you be? "

"One of the house-painters. Their 'pren-
tice," explained Senka.

"Aren't you afraid of the cholera?"

"Me, afraid?" said Senka in amazement.
**Not me! I'm not afraid of nothing!"

530

i

^^Th'at so? Good. Well, then—'* and the
student sat down on a barrel lying on the
ground and rocked back and forth as he ex-
plained to Grigory and Senka how important
it was to keep themselves clean.

Matrona came up with an anxious smile on
her face. Behind her came the cook, wiping
her eyes on her greasy apron. In a little while
they were joined by a few other people, who
approached as stealthily as a cat creeps up
on a sparrow. In the end there were about
ten people pressing about the student, and
this inspired him. He stood in the centre of
them, gesticulating vigorously as he launched
on a lecture that one minute brought smiles
to the faces of his listeners, the next an ex-
pression of rapt attention, undisguised dis-
trust, or jeering scepticism.

"The most important means of combating
all disease is cleanliness — cleanliness of the
body and of the air you breathe," he told
them.

"God Almighty!" groaned the house-paint-
ers' cook. "The only thing that's sure to
spare you an untimely death is praying to
the holy martyr Saint Barbara."

34» 531

^'Lots of people live clean and breathe
clean, and they die anyway, " declared one
of the listeners.

Orlov stood next to his wife watching the
student and turning something over in his
mind. He felt a little tug at his sleeve.

"Uncle Grigory," whispered Senka, his
eyes glowing like coals. "Looks like Kislya-
kov's going to die and he hasn't got no rela-
tives. Who'll get his accordion?"

"Shut up, you little rascal, " said Orlov,
waving him off.

Senka walked away and stood peering
through the window of the accordionist's
room, searching for something with his eyes.

"Lime, tar . . . " enumerated the student in
a loud voice.

In the evening of that turbulent day Ma-
trona said to her husband as they were hav-
ing supper:

"Where did you go with that student today? "

Grigory looked at her absently without
answering.

He had gone off with the student after fu-
migating the accordionist's room, and had

532

come back at three in a thoughtful and taci-
turn mood. Throwing himself on the bed, he
had Iain there until supper-time without
uttering a single word, although his wife had
tried more than once to make him speak.
He did not even swear at her, and the strange-
ness and unnaturalness of this made her
uneasy.

With the instinct of a woman whose whole
life was centred in her husband, she suspect-
ed him of having been caught up by some
infatuation, and fear of this fanned her cu-
riosity. What could be troubling him?

"Maybe you're not feeling well, Grigory?"

He gulped down the last mouthful of tea
in his saucer, wiped his moustache on the back
of his hand and unhurriedly pushed his empty
glass across the table to his wife.

"I went to the barracks with the student, "
he said with a frown.

"To the cholera barracks?'' exclaimed Ma-
trona; and then, in an awed whisper: "Are
there many people there?"

"Fifly-three, counting our accordionist.
Some are getting better— they're up already.
Yellow and skinny."

633

"People who've had the cholera? I don't
believe it. They probably took in a few others
just for appearances — to make it look as if
they Avas able to cure them."

"You're a fool, " said Grigory curtly, anger
flashing in his eyes. "All of you here are
thick-heads. Stupid and ignorant, that's what
you are. It's enough to kill a man, living
with such blockheads. You just can't get a
thing into those heads of yours." He snatched
up his refilled glass and grew silent again.

"And where did you get to know so much? "
asked Matrona caustically, heaving a sigh, i

He said nothing — unapproachably severe I
and thoughtful. The cooling samovar sang a
wheezy little tune. Through the window drift-
ed smells of paint, carbolic acid, and the
disturbed garbage pit; the dusk, the smells,
and the wheeze of the samovar all merged
into one, and the black stove-opening glowered
at the man and his wife as if it meant to
gobble them up at the first opportunity. The
couple crunched at their lumps of sugar, rat- I
tied their dishes, swallowed their tea. Ma-
trona sighed frequently, Grigory drummed on
the table with his fingers.

534

¥

"You never saw anything so clean!" he
burst out unexpectedly. "Every single one
of the people who work there is dressed in
white. The sick ones get baths every minute.
And wine, at two-and-a-half a bottle. And
the food they eat? One whiff's enough to
fill your belly. As for the way they're looked
after — a mother's care. H'm. Where's the
sense? A man lives for years and years without
anybody caring enough even to spit on him,
let alone drop in and ask how he is and how^
life's treating him. But the minute he takes
it into his head to die they won't let him.
Why, they half kill themselves to keep him
alive. Barracks, and wine at two-and-a-half
a bottle. Can't they see there's no sense in
it? They put out a hell of a lot of money for
wine and barracks; couldn't they spend the
same money on making life easier for him
when he's well — a little bit every year?"

His wife made no effort to understand what
he said; it was enough for her that he was
saying something new, and the conclusion
she correctly drew was: whatever was seeth-
ing in Grigory's soul boded ill for her.
She wanted to know just how it would af-

535

feet her, and to know it as soon as possible.
And this desire was franght with fear and
hope and a certain hostility towards her
husband.

"They probably know^ what they're doing-
better than you do," she said, pursing her
lips, when he had finished.

Grigory shrugged his shoulders, threw her
a sidelong glance, and after a moment's
pause went on with even more asperity in
his tone:

"That's their business, whether they do or
they don't. But if I'm the one to die vathout
having had a decent taste of life, then I'm
the one to say what's what. And here's what
I say: I've had my fill of this sort of life,
and I don't intend to sit and wait for the
cholera to come and tie me up in knots. I
can't. Pyotr Ivanovich says: throw yourself
straight at it — you against fate, fate against
you, and see who wins. An open fight and no
mercy shown. In other words — I'm to go and
луогк at the barracks, and that's that. Under-
stand? Put my head in the lion's jaws — if it
bites it off, ril just jerk my legs. Twenty
гиЬ]е^э a month and maybe a bonus besides.

586

i

It may cost me my life? Right, but I'll croak
sooner if I stay here."

Grigory brought his fist down so hard on
the table that the dishes jumped up.

At the beginning of his speech Matrona had
listened wdth an anxious and inquiring look
on her face; as he finished she narrowed her
eyes disapprovingly.

"Was it the student Avho advised you to do
this?" she asked with restraint.

"I've got a mind of my own; I can think
for myself, " said Orlov evasively.

"Well, and what did he advise you to do
with me?" went on Matrona.

"With you?" The question caught him
unawares; he had not yet had time to consider
his wife. He could leave her at home. Other
men left their Avives at home, but it would
be dangerous to leave Matrona. You had to
keep an eye on her. Struck by that reali-
zation, he scowled and said, "You'll go on
living here. I'll bring you my wages."

"I sec, " said his wife serenely, and then
she gave that meaningful woman's smile
that is sure to produce a stab of jealousy ia
a man's heart.

537

Grigory, who was highly sensitive, instantly
felt it. But his pride w^ould not let him show
his feelings to his Avife.

"Woof-woof, quack, quack — that's all you
can say. " He Avaited for her reply.

But she only smiled that tantalizing smile
again and said nothing.

"We, how's it to be?" snapped Grigory.

"What's that?" asked Matrona, who was
calmly wiping the glasses.

"You snake! None of your airs, or I'll let
you have it!"' fumed Grigory. "Maybe it's
to my death I'm going."

"It's not me that's sending you. Don't go. "

"You'd be only too glad to send me. I know
you, " he cried sardonically.

Again she said nothing. This infuriated
him, but he restrained his usual outburst —
restrained it because of a most cunning idea,
or so he considered it, that had just flashed
through his mind.

"I know you'd be only too glad to see me
caught in some shambles, but you just wait!"
he gloated. "I know a trick or two myself.
I'll show you!"

He jumped up, snatched his cap off the win-

538

dow-sill and went out, leaving his wife re-
gretting her tactics, resenting his threats, and
full of apprehension for the future.

"0 Lord, 0 Holy Virgin, Queen of Heaven,"
she breathed.

For a long time she went on sitting at the
table trying to guess what Grigory was up
to. In front of her were washed dishes; the
setting sun cast a rosy spot of light on the
white wall opposite their window; the wall
refracted it into their basement and it was
caught on the edge of the glass sugar-bowl
standing in front of Matrona. This meagre
brightness caught her attention, and she sat
staring at it with wrinkled brow until her
eyes ached. Then she put away the dishes and
went to bed.

It was dark when Grigory came back. By
the sound of his step on the stairs she could
tell he was in a good humour. He made his way
to the bed, cursing the darkness in the room,
and sat down beside her.

"Guess Avhat, " he said with a little laugh.

"Wliat? "

"You're going to work there with me. "

"Where?" she asked in a trembling voice.

539.

"In the same barracks where ГЛ be, *' he
announced triumphantly.

She threw her arms about his neck, squeezed
him hard and kissed him on the lips.
This was so unexpected that he pushed her
away.

She's making believe, he thought. She
don't want to work there at all, the minx.
She's just making believe — thinks her hus-
band's a damn fool, the little hussy.

"What 're you doing that for?" he demand-
ed suspiciously, feeling a sudden urge to throw
her on the floor.

"Just because, " she answered glibly.

"None of your tricks! I know you!"

"Ruslan, my gallant knight!"

"Drop it! I'll show you!"

"Grigory, my love ! "

"Listen, do you mean it?"

When his spirits had been somewhat sub-
dued by her caresses, he turned to her anxi-
ously and said:

"Aren't you scared?"

"What of? We'll be together, won't we?"
she answered simply.

It Avas pleasant to hear her say that.

540

''That*s nice of you/* he exclaimed, and
pinched her so hard that she let out a squeal.

On the Orlovs' first day at the barracks,
a great many new patients were brought in,
and the two tiros, used as they were to the
slow and even tenor of their lives, felt lost
and terrified in the midst of this seething
activity. They were confused at their own
clumsiness, their difficulty to understand
what they were told to do, and at the ghastly
impressions they received. They did their
best, but only succeeded in getting in other
people's way. On several occasions Grigory
felt that he deserved being shouted at or given
a severe reprimand for his incompetence,
but to his great surprise nobody shouted at
him.

When one of the doctors — a tall man with
a black moustache, an aquiline nose and a
big wart over his right eyebrow — told Gri-
gory to help one of the patients into the
bath, Grigory seized the sick man under the
arms with such a will that he let out a cry
and grimaced with pain.

"You mustn't break him to bits, friend;

541

he^s to be put in the bath all of a piece, *^
said the doctor gravely.

Grigory was ashamed. The patient, a tall
lanky fellow, forced a smile and said:

"He's new at it; he hasn't learned yet."

As soon as the Orlovs arrived at the bar-
racks an old doctor with a pointed grey beard
and large glistening eyes gave them a talk
on how to treat the patients, how to hold
them when carrying them from one place to
another, and what to do in various circum-
stances. In conclusion he asked Grigory and
Matrona if they had had baths and gave
them each a white apron. The doctor had a
soft voice and spoke quickly; the Orlovs
liked him immensely. People in white kept
rushing past, orders were given and caught
on the fly, patients moaned and groaned,
water splashed and flowed, and all these
sounds were borne on air so densely saturated
with unpleasant odours that every word
spoken by a doctor, every gioan emitted by a
patient, seemed to have its own stinging
odour.

At first Grigory could perceive nothing
but chaos here. He was sure he would never

542

be able to fit in — that be would suffocate and
fall ill. But in a few hours he became infected
by the energy diffused everywhere; he grew
alert, eager to find a means of being useful,
for he sensed that he would feel better and
calmer if he joined in the bustle.

"Bichloride of mercury!'' called out a
doctor.

"Hot water!" ordered a thin student with
red and swollen eyelids.

"Hey, you — Avhat's your name? Orlov? Rub
this fellow's legs. This way. That's right,
that's right. Easier, you don't w^ant to take
the skin off, " said another student, long-
haired and pock-marked, as he showed Grigory
how to massage.

"They've brought another patient," some-
body announced.

"Carry him in, Orlov. "

And Grigory — dazed, sweating, with bleary
eyes and foggy mind — did his best. At times
he was so overwhelmed by his impressions
that he lost a sense of his own existence.
Green spots around glazed eyes in earth-col-
oured faces, limbs that seemed to have been
whittled down by disease, sticky smelly skin,

543

the horrible convulsions .of bodies scarcely
alive — all these things caused him pangs in
the heart and sickness in the stomach.

Once or twice he caught fleeting glimpses
of his wife in the corridor of the barracks.
She had grown thinner, her face was grey and
wore a distracted look.

"How are things? " he once asked.

She gave him a wan smile and went on with-
out a word.

Grigory was struck by a thought that was
unnatural to him: maybe he had been wrong
to drag his woman into this accursed place;
she might catch something. And so the next
time he saw her he called out sternly:

"See that you wash your hands often! Take
good care of yourself!"

"And if I don't?" she flung back, baring
her small white teeth in a grin.

That made him angry. A fine place to joke
in, the little fool! What a low lot they were,
women! But Matrona caught the flash of his
eye, and before he had time to retort she had
disappeared in the women's ward.

A few minutes later he was carrying a po-
liceman of his acquaintance to the morgue. \

544

The policeman swayed quietly on the stretch-
er, his eyes fixed in a glassy stare on the
hot bright sky. Grigory gazed at him in dull
horror; only three days before he had met him
on his beat and had even sworn at him (he
had a little score to settle with this partic-
ular policeman). And now here he lay, this
man who had been so robust and pugnacious —
dead, hideous, distorted by convulsions.

Grigory felt that there was something wrong
in this: why should a person be born into this
world only to be carried off in a single day
by such a loathsome disease? He glanced
down at the policeman and felt sorry for him.

And then all of a sudden the left hand of
the corpse stirred and straightened, and the
left side of his twisted mouth that had been
hanging half-open, fell shut.

"Stop! Pronin — " gasped Grigory as he put
his end of the stretcher down, " — he's alive."

The man at the other end turned round and
stared steadily at the dead man for a mo-
ment.

"What're you lying for?" he said tartly.
"He just straightened his arm for the coffin,
don4 you know that? Come along."

35—327 545

"But he moved, *' insisted Grigory, shaking
with terror.

"Come along, you queer egg. Can't you un
derstand what you're told? He straightened
his arm for the coffin, I say, so of course he
moved. Your ignorance '11 get you in trouble
one of these days. Alive! A fine thing to say
about a dead corpse! Want to start trouble?
See you don't say a word to nobody about
their moving. They all do it. The news'd
spread all over town, the flea'd get turned
into an elephant, and then there 'd be hell
to pay. Burying people alive! Folks 'd come
swarming here and knock the lights out of
us. Gut of you, too. Here, dump him off on
the left."

The man's unruffled voice and unhurried
gait had a passifying influence on Grigory.

"Don't lose heart, you'll get used to it.
Not a bad place, this. Good food, good treat-
ment, and all the rest. We'll all be corpses
some day, nothing surer. And in the mean-
time, keep a stiff upper lip — that's the main
thing. Do you drink? "
"Yes," said Grigory.
"Good. I've got a bottle hid in a hole over

546

there — what if we go over and take a
swig? "

So over they went to the hole behind the
barracks and took a swig, and then Pronin
poured a few drops of peppermint on a lump
of sugar and handed it to Grigory, say-
ing:

"Eat this to take the smell away. They're
very strict about vodka here — say it's bad
for you. "

"Have you got used to this place? " asked
Grigory.

"Me? I've been here from the very first.
All the people I've seen kick the bucket!
It*s not exactly a restful sort of life, but it's
not bad. The Lord's Avork. Like in battle.
Ever heard about war nurses and medics?
I saw a lot of them in the Turkish campaign.
At Ardagan and Kars. Those people are
braver than us soldiers. We go into battle with
guns in our hands, with bullets and with bay-
onets. But they go walking about in a hail
of bullets like they w^as taking a stroll in the
garden. They drag us or the Turks off the
field to the hospital and all the Avhile the bul-
lets go whizz! bing! bang! Sometimes a medic

35* 547

gets hit in the back of the head— ping! —
and it's all over. "

Grigory felt better after this talk and a good
stiff drink of vodka.

"No dropping the reins once you've picked
them up, " he said to himself as he rubbed the
legs of one of the patients. Behind him
someone was moaning and calling plaintively:

"Water. Oh-h-h, please, somebody. . » . "

"Ouch! Hotter! It helps, d-d-doctor. Hon-
est to G-g-god. Do let them add some more
b-b-boiling water!"

"Give him some wdne, " called out Doctor
Vaschenko.

As Grigory swung into the work he saw that
things were not really as horrible and repul-
sive as they had seemed at first, and what he
had taken for chaos was the proper function-
ing of a great and intelligent force. Yet he
shuddered and glanced furtively out of the
window into the courtyard every time he re-
membered the policeman. He believed him
to be dead, but his belief was vacillating.
What if the policeman should suddenly jump
up and let out a cry? And he recalled having
heard someone say that the victims of

548

cholera had once leaped up out of their coffins
and run алуау.

His thoughts frequently turned to his
wife. How was she taking it? Sometimes he
had a fleeting impulse to steal a moment
from his work to go and have a look at Ma-
trona. But he was ashamed of such impulses
and would mentally say to her:

"Go ahead and wear yourself out, fatty.
You'll get thin here, all right. And that'll
nip your fine plans in the bud. "

He always suspected his wife of harbouring
intentions humiliating to him as her hus-
band. When his suspicions led him to take
an objective view of the matter, he was forced
to admit she had just cause for habouring
such intentions. It was a puny little life she
lived. All sorts of ideas could creep into one's
head from such a life. This objective ap-
proach was enough to transform his suspicions
into conviction, at least for the time being.
Now he would ask himself why he had ever
climbed out of his basement into this boiling
cauldron? And he was at a loss to find an an-
swer. But his cogitating went on somewhere
deep down inside of him, and the strained

549

attention with which he followed the activi-
ties of the doctors served, as it were, as a
barrier preventing his thoughts from inter-
fering with his job. Never before had he seen
people work as selflessly as they did here,
and he thought, as he looked at the weary
faces of the doctors and students, that here
were people who really did earn the money
they got.

When his work was over at the end of the
day, the exhausted Grigory went into the
courtyard of the barracks and lay down un-
der the window of the chemist shop. His
head throbbed, he had a gnawing pain in
his stomach, and his feet ached. Without a
thought or desire, he stretched out on the
grass and lay gazing up at some fleecy clouds
richly tinged by the setting sun, and soon he
was fast asleep.

He dreamt that he and his wife were being
entertained by one of the doctors in an enor-
mous room whose walls were lined with straight-
backed chairs. On these chairs were sitting
all the patients from the barracks. The doctor
and Matrona were doing a staid Russian dance
in the middle of the floor and he himself was

550

I

playing the accordion and laughing because
the doctor's long legs did not bend and he
looked for all the world like a crane in a
bog as he followed Matrona round the room
with pompous ceremony. And all of the pa-
tients, too, were rocking with laughter.

Suddenly the policeman appeared in the
door-way.

"Aha!" he cried menacingly. "So you
thought I had died, did you, Grigory? Threw
me in the morgue, and here you are playing
the accordion! Well, come along Avith me.
Get up'"

Grigory sat up quickly, trembling all over
and in a cold sweat. Doctor Vaschenko was
squatting across from him.

"What kind of an attendant are you, my
friend, if you sleep on the ground, and even
on your stomach?" he said reproachfully. "If
you chill your stomach you'll find yourself
laid up, and before you know it you may be
dead. That won't do, my man. You've been
given a bed inside the barracks, haven't
they told you? You're sweating and you've
caught a chill. Come along, I'll give you some-
thing to take. "

551

"I was feeling sort of tired, " murmured Gri-
gory.

"All the worse. You've got to take care of
yourself. There's danger about, and we need
you, man. "

Grigory followed the doctor down the cor-
ridor in silence; as silently he gulped down
some medicine out of one glass, then out of
another, made a face and spat.

"Now go and get some sleep, " said the doc-
tor, and went striding off on his long thin
legs.

Grigory watched him go, and then suddenly,
with a broad grin, ran after him.

"Thanks, doctor."

"What for?" he asked.

"For your trouble. You can be sure Г11 do
my very best for you. I appreciate your going
to such pains for me . . . and . . . and need-
ing me and all that. Thanks a lot. "

The doctor stared in astonishment at this
barracks attendant whose face was radiant
with some new joy, and presently his own
face broke into a smile.

"You're a queer fellow," he said. "But
that's all right, in fact it's very nice, very

552

sincere. Go ahead and do your best — not for
me, but for the patients. We've got to save
people from this disease — snatch them out
of its claws, so to speak. We will do our best
to get the better of it, won't we? But first
go and get some sleep."

A minute later Grigory was in bed and drows-
ing off, pleasantly aware of something .warm
and soothing inside his stomach. He felt hap-
py, and he was proud to have exchanged
those few simple words with the doctor.

His last thought on falling asleep was that
it was too bad Matrona had not heard them.
He would tell her all about it the next day.
But she wouldn't believe him, the little
pepper-box.

He was awakened by his wife's voice the
next morning.

"Time to go and have your tea, Grigory, "
she said.

He raised his head and looked at her. She
smiled at him. Her hair was neatly combed
and she looked wonderfully clean and fresh
in her white outfit.

It was pleasant to see her looking like this,

553

but he was disturbed by the thought that this
was how she looked to other men in the bar-
racks, too.

"Whose tea am 1 to drink? I have my own
tea — why should I go anywhere for it? " he
said sullenly.

"Г11 go with you— we'll have tea together, "
she said, gazing at him with a soft look in
her eyes.

Grigory averted his own eyes and said he
would come.

When she went out he lay back again and
fell to thinking.

"What^s got into her? Inviting me to have
tea with her, and looking at me like that. .^ . .
She looks thinner. " He felt sorry for her and
wanted to do something to please her. Per-
haps he would buy some sweets for tea. But
he rejected this idea while he was getting
washed. No sense in spoiling a woman. She
could do without the sweets.

They had their tea in a tiny little room with
two windows that looked out on a field
steeped in the golden light of the rising sun.
Dew still sparkled on the grass near the win-
dows, and far away, in the rosy haze of

554

early morning, they could see the line of
trees marking the post-road. The sky was
clear and a breeze wafted the smell of moist
earth and grasses through the window.

The table stood against the wall between
the windows, and at the table sat three peo-
ple: Grigory, Matrona and a friend of Matro-
na's — a tall thin middle-aged woman with a
pock-marked face and kindly grey eyes. Her
name was Filitsata Yegorovna, she was un-
married, her father had been a Collegiate
Assessor, and she always boiled the water for
her tea in her own samovar because she could
not bear to drink water boiled in the hospi-
tal tank. All this she announced to Orlov
in a cracked voice, and then, having invited
him to sit down next to the window and fill
his lungs with "genuinely heavenly air, " she
went out.

"Did you get tired yesterday?" Grigory
asked his wife.

"Just awful," she replied vivaciously. "I
thought my feet would drop off and I Avas so
dizzy I couldn't understand a thing they said
to me. I was scared to death I'd flop right
over — hardly hold out till evening — kept

555

praying all the time. *HeIp me, Lord/ I
kept saying. "

"Are you afraid?"

"Гт afraid of the dead ones. Do you know — "
she leaned over and said in an awed whisper:
" — they move when they're dead, honest to
goodness they do. "

"I saw that myself, " said Grigory with a
deprecating little laugh. "Yesterday Nazarov,
the policeman, almost gave me a sock in the
jaw after he was dead. I was carrying him
to the morgue and all of a sudden he gives
a swing with his left — I hardly had time to
duck. How do you like that? " He had exag-
gerated a bit, but it came of itself, without
any intention on his part.

He enjoyed having tea in this bright clean
room with windows looking out on the bound-
less green fields and blue sky. And there
was something else he liked, but he was
not sure whether it was his wife or himself.
But most of all he wanted to show the best
side of his nature, to be the hero of the
day.

"Once I set to work in earnest, the ground 41
sizzle under my feet, you'll see. And I have

* 556

my reasons. For one thing, the people here —
they don't belong to this world."

And he told her about the talk he had had
with the doctor, again exaggerating without
noticing it, and this put him in an even bet-
ter humour.

"For another thing, the work itself. It's
a great work — something like war, for instance:
cholera on one side, patients on the other,
and who'll win? It's w^ork that takes brains,
and everything's got to be just so. After all,
what is the cholera. That's a thing you've
got to know, and then hit it for all you're
worth, right in the weak spot. Doctor Va-
schenko said to me: *And you're just the fel-
low w^e need for that, Orlov, ' he says. *Go
right after it,' he says, * drive it out of their
feet into their bellies, and there,' he says,
*ril catch it with something good and bitter.
And that'll be the end of it, and the patient'll
get well and be thankful to me and you all
his life, because who kept him from dying?
We did!'" and Grigory stuck out his chest
and looked at his wife with shining eyes.

She smiled back at him wistfully. He looked
very handsome at this moment, very much

557

like the Grigory she had known before, they
were married.

"We've got people like that in our \vard,
too — so kind-hearted and hard-working. There's
one doctor — a big fat woman in glasses.
Awfully nice people, without any airs, and
you can always understand what they say to
you. "

"So you don't mind? You're content?"
asked Grigory, whose exhilaration had some-
what abated.

"Me? Lord, you can judge for yourself: I
get twelve rubles, you get twenty, all togeth-
er thirty-two rubles a month and no expenses
at all. Look how much we'll be able to save
up by winter if the cholera keeps up. God
willing, we'll manage to crawl out of that
basement of ours. "

"H'm, that's something to think about,"
mused Grigory. After a little pause he struck
his wife on the back in an upsurge of hope
and exclaimed, "Ekh, Matrona, the sun '11
be shining on us, too, one of these days! Just
you keep your chin up!"

She was radiant.

"If only you don't — "

558

"Not a word about that! 'Choose your needle
by the leather, your boots by the weather/
If our life's different, it'll be different,
too."

"Ah, merciful heavens, if only it'd be like
that!"

''None of that now!"

"Grigory, love!"

They were filled with пелу feeling for each
other when they parted, and their hopes
made them gay and courageous and ready to
work their fingers to the bone.

Several times in the next three or four days
Grigory was complimented on his quickness
and efficiency, and at the same time he no-
ticed that Pronin and a few other attendants
were jealous of him and tried to do him lit-
tle injuries. He grew wary and developed a
dislike for the fat-faced Pronin with whom
he had been willing to make friends and have
"heart-to-heart" talks. It was very painful
to see the undisguised attempts of his com-
rades to spite him.

"The scoundrels," he said to himself, and
set his jaw, determined to lose no opportu-
nity of returning tit for tat. Involuntarily

559

his thoughts turned to his wife — he could
tell her everything without fear of her envy-
ing his success or pouring carbolic acid on his
boots as Pronin had done.

The succeeding days were just as busy and
exciting as the first had been, but Grigory
did not become so worn out, because with
every day he expended his strength more ra-
tionally. He learned to recognize the smells
of the different medicines, and when he had
made the acquaintance of ether he used to
take great whiffs of it on the sly, having dis-
covered that it gave almost as pleasurable re-
sults as a sizable glass of vodka. The doctors
and students got to like him more and more
for his quickness in grasping orders, his kind-
ness and loquacity, and his ability to enter-
tain the patients. The sum total of impres-
sions gained from this new way of life induced
in Grigory a mood that was curiously exalted.
He felt that he was a person of uncommon
parts. And within him was born a desire to
do something that would attract everyone's
attention to himself — something that would
astound everyone. This was no more or less
than the desire for self-assertion on the part

560

of a creature who had suddenly come to recog-
nize himself as a human being, but who,
still entertaining doubts of a fact so new to
him, sought a means of convincing himself
and others of its reality. Little by little his
desire for self-assertion became transformed
into a thirst to perform some great feat of
self-sacrifice.

Such a frame of mind led Grigory to take
unnecessary risks. One day, for instance, he
overstrained himself by carrying a heavy pa-
tient from his bed into the bath all alone,
without waiting for help. He undertook the
care of the dirtiest patients, was contemp-
tuous of the danger of contagion, and accept-
ed the dead with a simplicity that verged on
cynicism. But this was not enough for him.
He yearned to do something big, and this
yearning grew and grew, tormenting him and
driving him to a state of despondency. At
such times he poured out his heart to his wife,
for he had no one else to talk to.

One evening when their work was over and
they had had their supper, the couple went
for a walk in the fields. The barracks had
been built at some distance from town in a

36—327 561

long green valley bordered by a dark strip
of woods on one side and a line of city dwell-
ings on the other. To the north the field
stretched off into the distance, where its
green expanses merged with the dim blue
horizon; to the south it was cut off by a cliff
that followed the course of the river. Along
this cliff went the post-road with its line of
old and spreading trees set at even intervals.
The sun was setting, and above the dark green
foliage of the orchards flared the crosses of
the churches, throwing back the light in gold-
en rays; the windows of the houses on the
outskirts likewise reflected the red flames of
the sunset, music was being played somewhere,
a smell of resin came from a ravine thickly
overgrown with young firs and spruce, the
woods poured their heavy perfume into the
air, warm gusts of fragrant wind swept gently
towards the tOAvn. It was lovely in those
broad empty fields — so quiet, and so sweetly
sad.

Grigory and Matrona walked over the fields
in silence, glad to be drinking in this pure air
instead of the smells of the barracks.

"I wonder where that music's coming

562

from — the town or the camp? " Matrona
asked her husband, who ллаз plunged in
thought.

She did not like him to become thoughtful.
He seemed strange and far away at such
times, and they saw so little of each other
now that she treasured every moment.

"Music? " asked Grigory like one roused
from a dream. "To hell with it, that music!
You ought to hear the music playing in my
soul! That^s real music!"

"What are you saying? " asked Matrona,
glancing anxiously into her husband's face.

"I — I don't know. I only knoAv that my
heart's on fire. It's space I need — space, so
that I could let go with all my strength. Ekh,
there's just nothing that could get the better
of this strength in me! If, for instance, this
cholera was turned into a man, a giant — say
Ilya Muromets himself — wouldn't I give it
to him, just! A fight to the death! You're
strong, and so is Grigory Orlov, so come on,
let's see who'll win! I'd squeeze the life out
of him and then I'd lie down and die myself.
And they'd put a cross on my grave out in
the fields, saying: 4Iere lies Grigory Andrcy-

36* 563

evich Orlov, who freed Russia of the cholera/
Nothing more."

His face shone and his eyes flashed as he
spoke.

"My big strong man!" murmured Matrona,
pressing close to him.

"I'd throw myself against a hundred dag-
gers if I thought any good would come of it.
If it would make life any easier. Because Tve
had a glimpse of what people can be — doc-
tor Vaschenko, for instance, and that student
Khokhryakov. You'd never believe the way
they work! It's a marvel they're still alive.
And do you think they do it for money? No-
body'd work like that for money. That doc-
tor's got a nice little pile, and some more be-
sides, you can be sure of that. But when the
old doctor took sick last time, Vaschenko
worked four days without even taking off-time
to go home. Money don't count with them.
It's pity that counts. Pity for others, but no
pity for themselves. Who do they pity? Any-
body. Mishka Usov, for instance, and Mishka's
place is in jail, as everybody knows, because
Mishka's a thief and maybe worse. But they
did their best to help Mishka get better. And

564 y^

when he got out of bed they were so glad they
just laughed. And I want to have a taste of
that gladness — lots and lots of it — enough
to drown in. Because it hurts just to stand
there and watch while they're laughing with
gladness. It makes me ache and burn all
over. Ekh, damn it all!"

And Grigory grew thoughtful again.

Matrona said nothing, but her heart was
beating painfully. She was frightened by her
husband's vehemence. Behind his words she
distinctly perceived the intensity of his yearn-
ing, a yearning she did not understand be-
cause she did not try to. It was her husband
who was dear and essential to her, and not
some abstract hero.

They came to the edge of the ravine and sat
down side by side. The curly crowns of young
birches looked up at them. Blue mist clung
to the bottom of the ravine, and out of its
depths rose a smell of dampness, pine needles,
and last year's leaves. From time to time a
breeze blew, the boughs of the birches swayed,
and so did the little fir-trees. The whole
ravine was filled with a timid tremulous
murmur, as if someone whom the trees loved

565

dearly had fallen asleep in the shelter of their
branches, and they were whispering to each
other ever so softly, fearful of waking him up.
Lights flashed on in the town — bright flowers
against the dark background of the or-
chards. The Orlovs sat without speaking, he
drumming on his knee with his fingers, she
gazing up at him and sighing softly.

Suddenly she threw her arms about his
neck and put her head on his breast.

"Grigory, my darling, my love!" she whis-
pered. "How wonderful you are to me again,
my big strong man! It's as if we were living
like we did when we were just married. You
never say anything to hurt me any more, and
you talk to me all the time, telling me what's
in your heart, and you don't beat me. . . ."

"Is that what you're longing for? I can
give you a thumping if you want it, " he joked
tenderly, caught up in a wave of love and
pity for his wife.

He began to stroke her hair and found it
pleasant — so fatherly — as if she were a child.
And Matrona really was like a child, curled
up in a soft warm ball in his arms and nestl-
ing against his breast.

566

"Darling," she murmured.

He took a deep breath and words that were
new to him and to her came pouring out of
his mouth of their own accord.

"My little kitten. Say what you will, but
there's no friend like your husband. And you
keep looking round for someone else. If I
was hard on you sometimes, that was just
because of the misery. Living there in that
hole, never seeing the light, not knowing
w^hat people were really like. My eyes were
opened as soon as I got out of that hole, but
I was blind until then. Now I know that,
say what you will, your wife's your best
friend. Because, to tell you the truth, most
people are just vermin. All they Avant is to
give people boils. Pronin and Vasyukov, for
instance. But they can go to — sh, not a word,
Matronal We'll come round yet, just you
keep your chin up! We'll start to live decent
and sensible. Come, what's the matter, you
little simpleton?"

She was weeping tears of happiness and she
answered his question with kisses.

"Love," he Avhispered and kissed her in
turn.

567

And so both of them kissed each other's
tears away, and both tasted their salty fla-
vour. And for a long time Grigory went on
uttering words that were new to him.

It grew dark. The star-strewn sky gazed
down on the earth in solemn sadness, and
the fields were as quiet as the sky.

They had formed the habit of having break-
fast together. On the morning after their
talk in the fields, Grigory came to his wife's
room looking glum and self-conscious. Fe-
litsata was ill and so Matrona was alone. She
turned a radiant face to him, but it clouded
instantly.

"What's the matter? Aren't you well?"

"I'm all right," he ansAvered coldly, taking
his chair.

"Then what is it?"

"I couldn't sleep. Lay awake thinking.
The way w^e billed-and-cooed, you and me,
last night — regular softies. And now I'm
ashamed of myself. That won't do. You wom-
en are always thinking of ways of twisting
a man round your little finger. But don't
think you can do that to me! Nothing '11 come

568

of it. You can't trap me; I'll not fall for your
wiles, and don't you forget it!"

He said this with great emphasis, but with-
out looking at his wife. Matrona kept her eyes
on his face and her lips were oddly twisted.

"So you're sorry you and me were so close
last night, are you?" she murmured. "Sorry
you kissed me and loved me, is that it? If
you only- knew how it hurts to hear you say
such a thing! You'll break my heart with
your cruel words. What is it you w^ant? Are
you tired of me? Don't you love me any
more, or what? "

She looked at him suspiciously, and there
was bitterness and challenge in her tone.

"N-no, " said Grigory uncomfortably, "but
on the whole — you know what kind of a life
you and me lived. The very thought of it's
enough to turn your stomach. And now we've
climbed out of it — and — I'm scared. Every-
thing changed so sudden. It's as if I was a
different man, and you, too. What does it
mean? What will happen next? "

"Whatever God wills, Grigory, " said Ma-
trona gravely. "But don't you be sorry you
was so loving last night. "

569

"All right, drop it, " cut in Grigory, again
feeling self-conscious. I don't expect any-
thing to come of our life together. The old
life was none too rosy, but this new one don't
suit me either. Even if I don't drink, or beat
you, or swear. ..."

She gave a hysterical little laugh.

"You have no time to do any of those things
now, " she said.

"I could always find time to drink, "
smiled her husband. "But I don't want to—
that's the marvel! And on the whole — I
don't know whether it's because I'm ashamed
— or afraid — " he threw back his head and
fell to thinking.

"The Lord only knows what's the matter
with you, " said Matrona with a profound
sigh. "It's a good life we live here, even if
we do work hard. The doctors like you, you
don't let yourself do anything you shouldn't
— what else do you want? You're such a
restless creature ! "

"That's the truth, I am restless. All night
I kept thinking: Pyotr Ivanovich says all
people are equal, and aren't I just like any-
body else? But Doctor Vaschenko is better

570

\j

than me, and so is Pyotr Ivanovich and lots
of others. In other words, they're not my
equal and I'm not theirs and I know it. They
cured Mishka Usov and were glad of it and
I can't understand a thing like that. Why
be glad because a person's cured? The life
he leads is worse than cholera convulsions if
the truth be told. They know this, and still
they're glad. And I'd like to be glad like they
are, but I can't. Because — what's there to be
glad about, when you come right down to it? "

"But they feel sorry for people," objected
Matrona. "In our лvard, too, you ought to
see what goes on when a woman starts to get
better! And if she's poor, they give her mon-
ey and medicine and advice when they send
her home. It makes you want to cry, they're
so good. "

"Cry? It just makes me surprised, that's
all. " Grigory shrugged his shoulders, scratched
his head and gave his wife a puzzled
look.

In a sudden burst of eloquence she began to
prove to him that people ought to be pitied.
She leaned towards him, her soft eyes fixed
on his face, and talked about people and the

571

hardness of their lives, and he gazed back at
her and thought:

"She talks good! Where does she get the
words from? "

"And you pity them, too. Didn't you say
you'd squeeze the life out of the cholera if
you had the strength? And yet why should
you? Life's been better for you since the chol-
era came."

Grigory burst out laughing.

"That's the truth! It really has been bet-
ter. Ekh, damn it all! People dying and me
getting on better because of it! That's life
for you!"

Still laughing, he got up and went to work.
As he was walking doAvn the corridor he thought
what a pity it was no one else had heard
what Matrona said. "A pretty speech she
made. She may be a woman, but she under-
stands a thing or two." He was in a pleasant
frame of mind when he went into the men's
ward, from which came the moans and the
hoarse breathing of the patients.

Matrona felt that she was becoming more
and more important to her husband, and she
did everything in her power to make this so.

572

The busy energetic life she was leading
raised her in her own estimation. She was not
given to pondering and weighing things, but
whenever she recalled her life in the basement,
taken up entirely with looking after her hus-
band and their little household, she could not
help comparing it with the present, and
little by little the dismal memory of their
existence. in that hole faded out of her mind.
The authorities at the barracks came to love
her for her deftness and industry; everyone
was kind to her and treated her as a human
being, a thing she had never known before,
and this spurred her on to greater effort.

Once, during the night shift, the fat doc-
tor asked her about her former life, and Ma-
trona willingly^ and frankly told her every-
thing. Suddenly she broke off and gave a
little laugh.

"What are you laughing at? " asked the
doctor.

"Nothing special. But it was an awful way
to live — and — can you believe it? — I never
knew it. Not until this very minute. "

After that review of the past, Matrona de-
veloped a curious attitude toward her hus-

573

band. She loved him as much as ever, loved
him with the blind love of the female, but
now it seemed to her that Grigory owed her
something. Sometimes when she was talking
to him she adopted a protective tone, for his
restless tirades often moved her to pity. But
there were moments when she doubted that
she and her husband would ever live a quiet
peaceful life, although she believed that
Grigory would settle down and the misery
he suffered would abate.

They had been fated to find each other,
and the two of them, both young, strong, and
industrious, would have gone on living a
dreary half-famished existence devoted whol-
ly to the daily struggle for bread had they
not been spared this by what Grigory called
"the restlessness in his heart" which would
not let him reconcile himself to the daily
grind.

One gloomy September morning the Avaggon
came into the courtyard of the barracks, and
Pronin lifted out of it a little paint-stained
boy — livid, emaciated, scarcely drawing breath.

"Another one from the Petunnikov house on

574

Мокгу Street, " said the driver when he was
asked Avhere the patient came from.

"Senka ! " exclaimed Grigory unhappily. "Yon
poor little pup! Senka, do you know me?"

"Y-yes, " said Senka with difficulty, slowly
rolling up his eyes to see Orlov, who was hold-
ing the head of the stretcher and bending
over him.

"Such. a lively little cricket! How did this
ever happen to you?" asked Grigory. He was
strangely moved by the sight of this child in
the throes of disease, and his conflicting emo-
tions were reduced to one question as he stood
there shaking his head dolefully:

"Why should a child have to get it? "

Senka shivered and said nothing.

They put him to bed and began taking off
his rags, stained every colour of the rainbow.

"I'm cold," said Senka.

"We're going to give you a hot bath and
make you well," said Grigory.

"You can't make me well, "whispered Sen-
ka. "Uncle Grigory, bend down . . . your
ear. . . I stole the accordion ... it's in the
woodshed . . . three days ago I touched it for
the first time . . . after I had stolen it.

575

It's a marvel. I hid it ... and that's
when ... I got the belly-ache. See? Because I
sinned ... it's hanging on the wall under the
stairs ... I stacked some wood in front of it.
Give it back, Uncle Grigory. The accordionist
had a sister . . . she asked for it . . . give
it to her. " He uttered a groan and went off
into a fit of convulsions.

Everything possible was done to save him,
but life had been unable to take a firm hold
in Senka's undernourished body, and in the
evening Grigory carried him to the morgue.
He felt as if someone had done him a person-
al injury.

In the morgue Grigory tried to straighten
the child's limbs, but he could not. He went
away crushed, disheartened, carrying in his
mind a picture of the twisted body of this
little boy, once so lively.

He was robbed of strength by the realiza-
tion of his helplessness in the face of death.
How carefully he had tended Senka, how
frenziedly the doctors had worked over him
— and yet he had died. It filled him with re-
sentment. One of these days the disease would
seize Grigory, too, tie him into knots, and

576

\

that would be the end. He was frightened,
gripped by loneliness. If only he could talk
to some wise person about all J:his! More
than once he had tried to get into conversa-
tion with one of the students, but none of
them had time to philosophize. There was
nothing to do but go and talk to his wife.
And he went, sad and gloomy.

She was washing herself in a corner of the
room and the samovar was boiling on the
table, filling the room with its hissing and
steaming.

Grigory sat down without a word and
gazed at his wife's smooth shoulders. The
samovar gurgled, water splashed, Matrona
snorted, footsteps passed up and down in
the corridor and Grigory tried to guess by
the sound whose they were.

Suddenly it seemed to him that Matrona 's
shoulders w^ere as cold and clammy as Senka's
had been as he lay in convulsions. He shud
dered.

"Senka died, " he announced in a dull
voice.

"Senka! May the Lord receive his soul in
peace, " intoned Matrona reverently, and then

37—327 577

she began to spit and sputter — the soap had
got into her mouth.

"A pity, V sighed Grigory.

"He was a little devil."

"Well, he's dead now, and it's not for you
to say what he was or what he wasn't. And it's
a great pity he's dead. He was a quick one.
That accordion, now — er . . . h'm. A nimble
little fellow. Sometimes I used to look at
him and wonder if I oughtn't to take him on
as a sort of 'prentice. An orphan. We'd have
got used to him and he'd have been like a
son to us. You're a strong healthy woman, but
you don't have any children. Had one baby and
that's all. Too bad. If we had some little shav-
ers running round, life wouldn't be so empty.
This way, what are we working for? To feed
ourselves. And what's that for? To go on
working. And the crazy wheel goes round and
round. It'd be different if we had children."

He hung his head as he spoke, and his
tone was sad and complaining. Matrona, who
was standing in front of him, grew paler and
paler as she listened.

"I'm healthy, you're healthy, and still we
have no children," went on Grigory. "Why's

578

that? I keep thinking about it. It's this that
I drives me to drink. "

Щ "That's a lie," said Matrona in a loud
■ voice. "That's a lie! Don't dare say such
j a foul thing to me, hear? Don't dare! You
! drink just for the mischief of it — because
you can't control yourself. That's a lie!"
Grigory was stunned. He leaned back in
his chair to get a better look at his wife and
could not believe it was she. Never before
had he seen her in such a rage, never be-
fore had she looked at him with such wither-
ing scorn or spoken with such force.

"Well? " drawled Grigory tauntingly, grip-
ping the edge of his chair with both hands.
"Well? What else have you to say?"

"Lots! I w^uld never have said it if you
hadn't thrown this in my teeth. I don't
bear you any children? No, and I never will!
I can't! I'll never have a child!" The cry
was smothered in sobs.

"Don't shout," said her husband.
"And why w^n't I? Remember how often
you beat me? The number of times you
kicked me in the belly? Go ahead and count
Ihem! Remember how you slammed and pound-

37* 579

ed me? Do you know how much blood I
lost because of your floggings? My night-
dress would be soaked to the very top! That's
why I don't bear you any children, loving
husband! And ho\v dare you throw it in my
teeth now^? You ought to be ashamed to let
me see that mug of yours. You're a murder-
er, that's w^hat you are! You murdered
your own children, and now you blame me
for not having any! I've borne everything,
I've forgiven you everything, but I won't
forgive you those words as long as I live!
To my dying day I'll remember them! Don't
you really knoлv it's you who's to blame,
because of the beatings you gave me? Am I
any different from other women that I
shouldn't want children? How many nights
have I laid aw^ake praying God to save the child
in my womb from your blows, you murderer!
The sight of other people's children made me
choke with envy, and with pity for myself.
Holy Virgin, how I wanted a child! I used
to fondle that Senka on the sly . . . me . . .
a barren woman! Oh, merciful God!"

She gasped for breath. The words poured
out of her mouth incoherently. Her face grew

580

splotched, she trembled all over and clutched
at her breast, sobs rose in her throat. Gri-
gory, pale and distraught, stared wide-eyed
at this woman he had never seen before. And
he was afraid of her — afraid she would spring
at his throat and strangle him: that was the
threat in those wild eyes, flaming with ven-
geance. She was twice as strong as he was
now; he realized it, and was afraid. He could
not get up and strike her as he would certain-
ly have done had it not been for the transforma-
tion wTOUght in her by some mighty force.

"It's my soul you injured. Great is the sin
you committed against me! But I suffered
it all and said nothing — because I loved you.
But I won't let you throw this in my teeth!
That's more than I can bear. May you be
damned in hell for the words you spoke!"

"Hold your tongue!" muttered Grigory,
baring his teeth.

"Here, what's all this noise about? Have
you forgotten where you are? "

There was a film over Grigory 's eyes. He
could not make out who was standing in the
door-way, and with a fierce oath he pushed
the person aside and rushed out into the

581

fields. Matrona remained standing in the middle
of the room for a moment, and then staggered
to the bed as if blind, with outstretched
hands, and collapsed with a groan.

It grew dark. An inquisitive golden moon
peered through tattered clouds into the room.
But soon a fine rain, harbinger of the endless,
dismal rains of autumn, came pattering against
the walls and windows of the barracks.

The pendulum of the clock marked the pass-
ing of the seconds; drops of rain kept ham-
mering at the window-pane. The hours went
by one after another, the rain fell, and the
woman lay motionless on the bed, her in-
flamed eyes fixed on the ceiling, her teeth
clenched, her cheek-bones protruding. And still
the rain pattered on walls and windows.
It seemed to be muttering some wearisome!
monotony over and over, anxious to convince j
somebody of something, but, being of too;
sluggish a temperament to do this swiftly
and beautifully, it hoped to accomplish it
by reiterating a dull sermon in which there
was none of the sincerity of true belief.

The rain fell even when the dawn brought
a feeble brightness to the sky, portending a

582

gloomy day. Matrona could not go to sleep.
In the monotonous patter of the rain sounded
a frightening question:

"What will happen next?"

And the answer flashed forth in a vision of
her drunken husband. It was hard for her to
relinquish her dream of a peaceful life filled
with love. She had nurtured this dream, driv-
ing out of her mind all premonitions that it
was unattainable. Yet she knew very well
that if Grigory should take to drinking again
she could not go on living with him. She had
seen him different, she herself was different,
and the thought of her former life filled her
with ' revulsion and terror — feelings she had
not known before. But she was a woman, and
as such she blamed herself for this rupture
with her husband.

"How did it ever happen? Oh, God! As if
I had broke loose!"

It grew light. A dense fog hung o\er the
fields, concealing the sky.

"Matrona Orlova! Time to report for duty! "

She got up in obedience to the call, washed
herself hastily and went into the barracks,
feeling weak and ill. Her lassitude, her lack-

583

lustre eyes and cheerless face caused surprise
in the ward.

"Aren't you well?" one of the doctors
asked her.

"It's nothing."

"Don't hesitate to tell us. We can have
someone else take your place. "

Matrona was ashamed; she did not want
her fears and sufferings to be known to this
woman who, though kind, was nevertheless
a stranger. Drawing on the last stores of cour-
age in her anguished soul, she said Avith a
little laugh:

"It's nothing. Me and my man just had a
little tiff. It'll pass. It's not the first time."

"You poor thing, " sighed the doctor, who
knew what her life had been.

Matrona had an impulse to bury hor face
in this woman's bosom and give vent to her
feelings. But she merely pressed her lips
tightly together and put her hand to her
throat to press the sobs back into her chest.

When her work was over she went back to
her room and looked out of the window.
The waggon was coming over the fields to-
vrnrds the barracks — probably bringing anoth-

584

er patient. A fine rain was falling. There
was nothing else to be seen. Matrona turned
away with a sigh and sat down at the table.

"What will happen next? " was the question
that absorbed her.

For a long time she sat there in a sort of
daze, but every time a step was hoard out in
the corridor she would start, rise in her chair,
and turn to the door.

But when at last the door was opened and
Grigory came in she did not start and did
not get up, for it was as if the autumn clouds
had descended out of the sky and were press-
ing her down with all their might.

Grigory stopped in the door-way, threw
his wet cap on the floor and strode noisily
over to his wife. Water was dripping off his
clothes. His face was red, his eyes bleary,
his lips stretched in a broad and foolish grin.
Matrona could hear the water slopping in-
side his boots. He looked wretched, and she
had not expected this.

"A fine sight," she said.

He nodded his head foolishly.

"Want me to fall on my knees to you?"
he asked.

585

She did not answer.

"You don't, don't you? Just as you say.
All this time I've been trying to decide wheth-
er I've done you wrong or not. Looks as
if I have, and so I say: do you want me to
fall down on my knees to you?"

Still she did not answer. She could smell
the fiunes of vodka coming from him, and
bitterness filled her heart.

"Look here, none of your airs. You'd bet-
ter talk while I'm still peaceable," said Gri-
gory, raising his voice. "Are you going to
forgive me or not? "

"You're drunk, " said Matrona, drawing in
her breath. "Go and sleep it off."

"That's a lie, I'm not drunk, I'm just —
tired. I've been walking all this time and
thinking. Oh, all the things I've thought of!
You'd better watch out!"

He shook his finger at her and gave a
twisted smile.

"Why don't you say something?" he asked.

"I can't talk to you."

"You can't? Why not?"

Suddenly he flared up and his voice grew
firmer.

586

"You shouted at me here last night — bawled
at me, and — here I am asking you to forgive
me. You'd better think that over. "

His voice was sinister, his lips twitched
and his nostrils were dilated. Matrona knew
what that meant, and her mind resurrected
scenes from their former life: the basement,
the fights on Saturday night, all the violence
and inisery of their existence.

"I have thought it over, " she said crisply.
"I see the beast's come out in you again."

"The beast? What's that got to do with
it? I'm asking you to forgive me. Do you think
I need your forgiveness? I can get on very
well without it, but I've decided you're go-
ing to forgive me, see? "

"Go away, Grigory, " cried the woman
miserably, twisting away from him.

"Go away?" he said with an ugly laugh.
"So that you can be free to do what you want?
Oh, no. Where did you get that idea?"

He seized her by the shoulder, jerked her
to him and flourished a knife in her face — a
short thick rusty blade.

"Ekh, if you'd only kill me!" she said
with a profound sigh, and, shaking him

587

off, turned алуау again. He dropped back,
struck less by her words than by the tone
in which they were uttered. He had heard
her say this before, but never in such a way. A
moment before he would have struck her easily,
but now he could not and would not. He flung
the knife on the table, almost frightened by
her indifference.

"You she-devil! What do you want of me?"
he muttered viciously.

"There's nothing I want of you," gasped
Matrona. "Did you come here to kill me?
Well, go ahead!"

Grigory looked at her without speaking,
completely at a loss. He had come here deter-
mined to bring his wife into subjection. In
their clash of the preceding evening she had
proved the stronger; he was aware of this and
considered it an indignity. He knew very
definitely that he must — that he simply had
to make her submit to him again. A passion-
ate man, he had thought and suffered much
in the last twenty-four hours, but the obscu-
rity of his mind kept him from comprehending
the emotional chaos produced in him by his
wife's just accusation. He sensed that she was in

588

revolt, and so he had brought a knife to fright-
en her with. And he would have killed her
if she had shown more spirit in resisting him.
But there she stood, defenseless, broken by
misery, and yet — stronger than he was. That
was what stung him, and the sting had a so-
bering effect.

"Listen, " he said, "climb down off your
high horse. You know me — I really will jam
this thing between your ribs, and that'll
be the end. Amen. Very simple. "

He кпелу very well that this was not what
he ought to say, and so he stopped. Matrona
did not move a muscle where she stood with
her back to him. That same question was throb-
bing in her mind:

"What will happen next?"

"Matrona, " said Grigory softly, leaning to-
wards her over the table, "after all, is it my
fault if — if things aren't what they should be?"

He bowed his head and drew in a deep
breath.

"Life's rotten. Do you call this living?
There's the cholera patients, of course, but
what of it? Do they make things easier for
me? Some of them die, others get well, but

589

me — Pve got to go on living. How? This isn4
life, it's just one big convulsion. Is that fair?
I see how everything is, but it's hard for
me to explain why I can't go on living this
way any more. Look all the care and atten-
tion they get. And me? I'm well, but if my
soul's sick, does that make me worth less than
they are? Just think, I'm worse than the chol-
era patients. Tve got convulsions of the soul.
And you shout at me. Call me a brute, A
drunk. Ekh, woman's logic!"

He spoke quietly and reasonably, but she
scarcely heard him because she was sternly
going over the past in her mind.

"So you have nothing to say, " said Grigory,
feeling some strong new emotion welling up
inside of him. "Why don't you say something?
What is it you want of me?"

"There's nothing I want of you," ex-
claimed Matrona. "Can't you leave me alone?
What do you want?"

"What do I want? I want — I want — "

But here Grigory realized he could not
say what he wanted — could not say it in a way
that would make it instantly clear to him and
to her. He knew that a gulf had opened

590

between them, that no words could
span it.

And this threw him into a wild frenzy. He
swung his arm and brought his fist down
on the back of his wife's head, roaring like
a maniac.

"What are you up to, you bitch? What's
your game? Г 11 kill you!"

The blow knocked her head against the
table, but she jumped to her feet and shot her
husband a glance full of hate.

"Hit me again, " she said in a loud steady
voice.

"Shut your mouth!"

"Hit me again. Come on. "

"0-0-0-0, you she-devil!"

"This is the end, Grigory. I've had
enough. "

"Shut your mouth ! "

"I won't let you have your way with me
any more. "

He ground his teeth and took a step back-
wards, perhaps to take another swing at
her.

But at that moment the door opened and
in stepped Dr. Vaschenko.

591

"What do you call this? Where do you
think you are? What are you up to? "

He looked severe, and at the same time
shocked. Grigory was not disconcerted in the
least; he even made a little bow to him.

"Nothing special. Just a little fumigation
between man and wife" — and he laughed
hysterically in the doctor's face.

"Why didn't you report for work?" snapped
the doctor, irritated by his levity.

Grigory shrugged his shoulders.

"I couldn't. Had some business of my own
to attend to," he announced.

"And who made a row here last night? "

"We—"

"You? Splendid. You behave as if you were
at home — go off without permission, and — "

"We're not your slaves just because — "

"Silence! You've turned this room into a
pub, you beast! I'll show you where you are!"

An upsurge of mad defiance, a wild longing
to throw everything up and escape from the
tangle in which his soul was caught swept
over Grigory. He felt that the moment had
come when he would do something excep-
tional, and that this would instantly loose

592

the fetters binding his groping soul. A shud*
der passed over him and he had a cold sensa-
tion in the pit of his stomach as he turned to
the doctor and said, grinning like a Cheshire
cat:

"Don't shout, you'll burst a blood-vessel.
I know damn well where I am — in the slaugh-
ter-house ! "

"Wha^at? What did you say?" asked the
dumbstruck doctor, sw^aying towards him.

Grigory knew he had said something out-
rageous, but this aggravated instead of calm-
ing his passion.

"That's all right, you'll get over it. Matrona,
gather your belongings together. "

"Oh, no you don't, my fine fellow! Be so
good as to answer my question, " said the doc-
tor with ominous tranquillity. "For that, I'll — "

"Don't shout, and don't make a scene,"
interrupted Grigory, staring him brazenly
in the face. As he talked ho felt as if he were
advancing in jumps, and with every jump
his breath came easier. "You seem to think
the cholera gives you a right to order me
about. Nothing of the sort. As for this medicine
of yours — nobody needs it. Maybe I went too

38—327 593

far about the slaughter-house, but stop your
shouting just the same."

"What's this!" said the doctor quietly.
"I'll teach you a lesson. Hey! This way!"

People were already crowding into the cor-
ridor. Grigory narrowed his eyes and set his
teeth.

"I'm not lying and I'm not afraid. And if
you think you're going to teach me a lesson,
I'll tell you a few more things."

"You will? Go ahead. "

"I'll go into town and give them an ear-
ful: *Hey, fellows', I'll say, *d'ye know how
they treat the cholera there?'"

"What's that?" gasped the doctor.

"And then we'll give you a fumigation here
— with fireworks and 'luminations. "

"Damn it all, what nonsense are you talk-
ing?" The doctor's astonishment had given
way to exasperation with this fellow whom
he had known as a diligent and sensible work-
er, but who now, for some incredible reason,
was sticking his head in a noose.

"Wliat are you saying, you fool?"

Fool. The word re-echoed in all the recesses
of Grigory 's being; he knew the judgement

594

to be a fair one, but this only heightened his
sense of injury.

"WTiat am I saying? I know what. And
it's all the same to me," he said, his eyes
flashing. "Everything's always the same for
people like me, I can see that now. And there's
no reason why we should hide our feelings. Come
along, Matrona, get your belongings to-
gether.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Matrona
firmly.

The doctor stared at them round-eyed and
rubbed his forehead, completely nonplussed.
"You're either drunk or insane. Do you
realize what you're doing?"

Grigory did not retreat; he could not.
"What do you realize?" he jeered. "What
are you doing? Fumigation, ha, ha! Cure the
sick and let the healthy die from the rummy
lives they live. Matrona, I'll smash your face
if you don't come along this minute."
"I'm not going with you."
She was pale and unnaturally calm, and
there was cold determination in her eyes.
And in spite of his heroic swagger, Grigory
turned away and hung his head in silence.

38* 595

**Damn!^' said the doctor. "The devil him-
self couldn't make head or tail of this. Get
out of here, you! Get out, and be thankful
I let you off easy. I ought to have you arrest-
ed, you blockhead! Get out!"

Grigory glanced up at the doctor and hung
his head again. He would have felt better
if they had given him a beating or packed
him off to the police-station.

"I'm asking you for the last time — are you
coming? " Grigory said to his wife hoarsely.

"No, I'm not, " she replied, shrinking as
if in expectation of a blow.

Grigory waved an arm.

"Then you can all be damned. What the
hell do I need you for? "

"Gome, you idiot," began the doctor in a
tone meant to bring him to his senses.

"Shut up?" shouted Grigory. "Well, you
damned hussy, I'm going. Maybe we'll never
see each other again, and maybe we will — just
as I see fit. But if we do, you can be sure it'll
go hard with you!"

And he made for the door.

"Farewell, tragedian, " said the doctor sar-
castically as Grigory passed him.

596

Grigory halted and raised eyes smouldering
with misery.

"Leave me alone," he said quietly. "Don't
wind me up all over again. The spring went off
without hurting anybody this time. Let it
go at that. "

He picked up his cap off the floor, stuck it
on his head, hunched his shoulders, and went
out without so much as a glance at his wife.

The doctor watched her anxiously. Her face
was very white.

"What's the matter with him?" the doctor
said, nodding towards Grigory.

"I don't know."

"Where will he go now?"

"To get drunk, " said Matrona unhesitat-
ingly.

The doctor lifted his eyebrows and went out.

Matrona looked out of the window. A man's
form was hurrying through the dusk, through
the rain and the wind, striding down the road
leading into town. Alone, in the midst of
those wet grey fields. . . .

Matrona 's face grew even whiter. She walked
over to the icon corner and fell on her knees
before the holy images, bowing to the floor

597

again and again, gasping out the words of a
prayer in an impassioned stream, rubbing her
throat and her breast with trembling fingers.

One day I visited a trade school in the
town of X. My guide was a man of my
acquaintance who had helped to found the
school. As he led me through model class-
rooms, he said:

"As you see, we have something to be
proud of. Our young people are getting on
famously. And you'd be surprised what a fine
group of teachers we've enlisted. In the shoe-
making shop, for instance, the teacher is a simple
cobbler — a woman — a tempting little piece,
but of impeccable behaviour. But Avhat am
I telling you this for? As I was saying — a sim-
ple cobbler, but how she works! And what
a gifted teacher she is, and how she loves her
pupils! Quite extraordinary. You пел/ег saAV
such a busy little bee, and all for 12 rubles
a month and a room in the school. She even
supports two orphans on that sum. An ex-
ceptionally interesting personality. "

My friend was so lavish in his praise of
this cobbler that I became anxious to meet her.

598

This was easily arranged, and one day Mat-
rona Orlova told me the sad story of her life.
For some time after she left her husband he
gave her no peace; he came to see her in a drunk-
en state, made scenes, waited for her луЬеп-
ever she went out, and beat her mercilessly.
She endured it all.

When the barracks were closed, one of
the doctors offered to help to place her in this
school and to see that she was protected from
her husband. This was done, and Matrona en-
tered upon a life of peaceful labour. A nurse
of her acquaintance taught her to read and
write; she adopted two orphans from an asy-
lum— a boy and a girl — and threw herself
into her work, contented with her lot, but
recalling her past with fear and sorrow. Noth-
ing was too much for her to do for her pu-
pils, she took a broad view of the importance
of her w^rk, was very conscientious and won
the respect of those in charge of the school.
But she had a nasty dry cough, a malignant
flush burned in the hollows of her cheeks,
and sadness hovered in her grey eyes.

I made the acquaintance of Grigory, too.
I found him in the slums of the town and bo-

599

came his friend after two or three encounters.
He repeated the story his wife had told me,
and added, after brief reflection:

"So that's how it was, Maxim Sav^ateye-
vich — I got lifted up for a space and then
slapped down again. And so I never did the big
thing I dreamed of doing. But Tve still got
this hankering to do something big — to grind
the earth into powder or lead a band of thieves,
or do anything else to set me up above
others, so that I can look down on them and
spit on them. And I'd say to them: *Ekh, you
vermin! What are you living for? What sort
of lives do you live? You're nothing but a lot
of two-faced swindlers, that's what you are!'
And then I'd come hurtling down from the
heights, head over heels, and — bang! That'd
be the end. Ekh, how dull and stuffy life is!
When I got Matrona off my neck I says to
myself: *Clear sailing ahead now, Grigory!
The anchor's up!' But it didn't turn out that
way. Shallow water. I ran on to a reef and
I've been high and dry ever since. But I
don't mean to go to pot. Not I. I'll show peo-
ple what I can do yet. How? No one but the
devil knows that. . . . My wife? To hell with

600

her! What does a fellow like me want with
a wife? Or she with me, a man Avho feels a
pull in all four directions at once? I was born
with this unrest in my heart. It's my fate
to be a tramp. I've walked and I've rode
to all sorts of places. No comfort anywhere. . . .
Drink? Of course I drink. Vodka's good for
putting out fires, and it's a big fire that's
raging inside me! I'm sick of everything —
towns and villages and people of all sizes and
makes. Hell, couldn't anything better than
this have been thought of? Every man pitted
against his neighbour. I'd like nothing better
than to squeeze the lights out of all of them.
Ekh, life! An invention of the devil."

The heavy door of the pub in Avhich Gri-
gory and I were sitting kept swinging open,
squeaking each time. And the inside of the
pub was like a great jaw that was slowly
but surely devouring impecunious Russians,
one after another . . . those who were restless
. . . and those who were not.

1897

FOR WANT OF SOMETHING BETTER TO DO

The passenger train, like an enormous ser-
pent belching forth clouds of dense grey smoke,
was swallowed up in the boundless steppe,
in a yellow sea of corn. As the smoke dis-
solved in the torrid air, so did the irate burst
of noise that for a few moments violated the
impassive silence of that vast and empty
plain, in the middle of which stood a tiny
railway station whose loneliness evoked the
most mournful sentiments.

And when the noise of the train which,
if raucous, was at least alive, had died away
in the clear vault of the sky, the same oppres-
sive silence enveloped the station.

The steppe was golden yellow, the sky sap-
phire blue. And both of them were illimit-

602

able. In the centre of such vastness, the
little brown buildings of the station gave
the impression of being chance brush-strokes
spoiling the melancholy picture executed
painstakingly by an artist with no imagi-
nation.

Every day at twelve o'clock at noon and
at four o'clock in the afternoon trains came
out of the steppe and stood at the station
for exactly two minutes. These four min-
utes represented the main, and indeed the
only diversion at the station, for they alone
brought new impressions to the people employed
there.

In every train were all kinds of people in
all kinds of clothes. They were to be seeti
but for an instant: a fleeting picture of tired,
impatient, indifferent faces at carriage win-
dows— and then a bell, a whistle, and they
were noisily whisked away into the steppe, into
the distance, into the town, where life
seethed and bustled.

The station employees gazed at these faces
with curiosity, and when the train Avas gone
they told each other their impressions. All
around them stretched the silent steppe,

603

above them arched the impassive sky, and in
their hearts brooded envy of these people
who sped to unknown destinations every day,
leaving them imprisoned in the wilderness,
beyond the pale of life, so to speak.

Here they are standing on the platform,
watching the black ribbon of a departing train
disappear in the golden sea of corn. And so
absorbed are they in their impressions of
this momentary glimpse of life, that they are
silent.

Nearly everyone is here: the stationmas-
ter, a stout, genial, fair-haired man with the
untrimmed whiskers of a Cossack; his assist-
ant, a red-headed young fellow with a goatee;
Euka, the station guard, small and quick
and cunning; and one of the switchmen named
Gomozov, a quiet, stocky fellow with a thick
beard.

The wife of the stationmaster is sitting
on a bench beside the station door. She is
small and fat and suffers greatly from the heat.
A baby is sleeping in her lap, and the baby's
face is as round and red as its mother's.

The train goes down an incline and disap-
pears as if swallowed up by the earth.

604

The stationmaster turns to his wife.

"Is the samovar ready, Sonya?"

"Of course, " she replies in a soft and lan-
guid voice.

"Luka! Put things in shape here — sweep
the platform and the rails. Look at all the rub-
bish they've left behind."

"I know, Matvei Yegorovich. "

"Well, shall we have tea, Nikolai Petro-
vich? "

"As usual, " replies his assistant.

If it happens to have been the noon train
that has passed, Matvei Yegorovich says to
his wife:

"Is dinner ready, Sonya?"

Then he gives Luka instructions which are
always the same, and says to his assistant,
who boards with them:

"Well, shall we have dinner?"

"As usual, " his assistant replies, sensibly
enough.

And they leave the platform and go into
a room that has a great many plants and very
little furniture in it, a room that smells of
cooking and diapers and where the table talk
is always about what has passed them by.

605

"Did you notice that brunette in the yel-
low dress in the second-class carriage, Niko-
lai Petrovich? A tempting morsel, if you ask

me!"

"Not bad, but no taste in clothes, " says his
assistant.

His remarks are always brief and spoken
with assurance, for he prides himself on being
a man of education and experience. He finished
the gymnasium. He has a note-book with a black
binding in which he writes do\vn sayings by
eminent men which he finds in the books and
newspapers that happen to fall into his hands.
The stationmaster accepts his authority in
all matters outside their work, and listens
attentively to whatever he has to say. He
is especially impressed by the gems of wisdom
to be found in Nikolai Petrovich 's note-book
and goes into ecstasies over them in a simple-
hearted way. His assistant's observation on
the brunette's taste in clothes raises doubts
in his own mind.

"Why?" he asks. "Shouldn't brunettes wear
yellow? "

"I wasn't thinking of the colour, but of the
cut," explains *Nikolai Petrovich as he neat-

606

ly transfers some jam from the glass dish to
his own plate.

"Cut? That's another thing," agrees the
stationmaster.

His wife joins in the conversation, for this
is a subject close to her heart and accessible
to her mind. But since the intellects of these
people have been subjected to little refine-
ment, their talk drags on feebly and rarely
touches their emotions.

Through the windows can be seen the steppe,
which is under a spell of silence; and the
sky, magnificent in its detached serenity.

Scarcely an hour passes but a goods train
goes by. The crews of all these trains are
old acquaintances. The guards are somnolent
creatures who have had the spirit taken out
of them by endless trips through the steppe.
To be sure, they sometimes recount stories
of accidents on the way: at a certain place a
man was killed. Or they gossip about their
work: so-and-so was fined, somebody else
was transferred. These titbits are not discussed;
they are gobbled up as a glutton gobbles
up a rare and tasty dish.

Slowly the sun sinks to the rim of the steppe,

607

turning crimson as it draws near the earth.
A reddish glow is cast over everything, and
this gi\es rise to a vague longing — the lure
of the spaces beyond the wilderness. At last
the sun touches the horizon and drops list-
lessly into or behind it. For a long time after
that the bright tones of the sunset play soft
music in the sky, but it grows fainter and
fainter as a warm and soundless dusk sets in.
Stars come out, all a-tremble, as if frightened
by the dreariness of the scene.

The steppe seems to shrink in the dusk;
silently the shadows of night close in on the
station from all sides. And then comes night
itself, dark and gloomy.

Lights are lit at the station. Higher and
brighter than all others is the green signal
light, encompassed by darkness and si-
lence.

From time to time a bell clangs, giving
notice of an approaching train; the urgent
sound is borne out into the steppe, where
it is swallowed up.

Shortly after the clanging of the bell
a red light comes flashing out of the dark
waste, and the silence of the steppe is

608

shattered by the roar of a train making its
луау towards the lonely station wrapped in
darkness.

The lives of the lower classes of the little
society at the station were different from
those of the aristocracy. Luka, the station
guard, \vaged a constant struggle with his
desire to run off to his wife and brother who
lived in a village seven versts from the
station. He had a "household" there, as he
usually put it to Gomozov when asking
this staid and taciturn switchman to "do
duty" for him.

The word "household" invariably drew a
sigh from Gomozov.

"Very well, go ahead, " he would say. "A
household has got to be looked after, no doubt
about that."

But the other switchman — Afanasi Yagod-
ka, an old soldier with a round red face cov-
ered with grey stubble — Avas of a mock-
ing disposition, and he did not believe
Luka.

"A household!" he would scoff derisively.
"A wife, that makes more sense. And that wife

39—327 609

of yours — is she a widow? Or is her husband
a soldijer? "

"You Birdie-Brigadier!" Luka would snort
contemptuously.

He called Yagodka the Birdie-Brigadier
because the old soldier had a passion for birds.
His little house was hung inside and out with
cages and perches; and all day long, inside
the house and all around it, could be heard
the clamour of the birds. The quails Avhich the
soldier had taken captive kept up a monoto-
nous and uninterrupted "cheep-chirreep! ", the
starlings muttered long speeches, little birds
of all colours peeped, chirped and sang tireless-
ly, filling the soldier's lonely life with de-
light. He devoted all his leisure to them, and
while being solicitous of and devoted to the
birds, took not the slightest interest in his
fellows at the station. He called Luka a snake
and Gomozov a katsap, and accused them to
their faces of trailing the women, for which,
in his opinion, they deserved a good thrashing.

Generally Luka paid little attention to
what he said, but if the soldier went too far,
Luka would tear into him at length and with
vengeance:

610

'^You garrison rat, you half-chewed tur-
nip! What 're you good for, ygu drummer-
boy to the colonel's goat? All you've ever done
is feed frogs to the guns and stand guard
over the company's cabbages. Who are you
to be calling other people names? Go back
to your quails, you Birdie-Brigadier!"

After calmly listening to such a tirade,
Yagodka would go and complain to the station-
master, who would shout that he had more im-
portant matters to attend to and turn him out.
At which Yagodka would find Luka and
undertake to give Luka a tongue-lashing him-
self— calmly, without losing his temper, em-
ploying a vocabulary so weightily obscene
that Luka would run away with his fingers
in his ears.

If the soldier jeered Gomozov because of
his frivolity, the latter would sigh and make
uneasy efforts to defend himself.

"What's to be done? Looks as if it just сапЧ
be helped. It's the mischief, all right, but,
as they say, judge not lest ye be judged your-
selves. "

One day the soldier replied to this by say-
ing with a little laugh:

39* 611

"The same old recipe for all ills! * Judge
not,' *judge not.' Why, if people didn't
judge their fellows they wouldn't have any-
thing to talk about!"

There was one other woman at the station
besides the stationmaster's wife. This was
Arina, the cook. She was almost forty years
old and exceedingly ugly — dumpy in figure,
with long pendulous breasts, and always dirty
and unkempt. She waddled when she walked
and there was an intimidated look in the slits
of eyes that glinted in her pock-marked face.
There was something cowed and slave-like
in her ungainly form. Her thick lips were per-
manently pursed, as if she wanted to ask
forgiveness of everyone — as if she wanted
to fall on her knees before people, and was
afraid of crying. For eight months Gomozov
lived at the station without paying any par-
ticular attention to her. He would say "Hullo"
in passing, she would return the salutation,
they might exchange a few perfunctory words,
then each would continue on his way. But
one day Gomozov came into the station-
master's kitchen and asked Arina to make

612

him some shirts. She agreed to, and when
they were ready, she took them to him herself.

"Thanks, " said Gomozov. "Three shirts
at ten kopeks a piece — that'll be thirty
kopeks I owe you, won't it?"

"I guess so," said Arina.
Gomozov fell to thinking.

"What gubernia are you from? " he said at
last to this woman, w^hose eyes had been fixed
on his beard all this time.

"Ryazanskaya, " she said.

"Pretty far away. How did you ever come
here? "

"I don't know. I'm all alone. Haven't got
nobody. "

"That's enough to make a person go even
farther, " sighed Gomozov.

And both of them were silent again.

"Take me. I'm from Nizhny Novgorod.
Sergach Uyezd, " said Gomozov after a Avhile.
"I'm alone, too. Nobody at all. But once
upon a time I had a house and a wife and chil-
dren. Two of them. My wife died of the chol-
era, the kids of one thing or another. And me —
I wore myself out with grieving. Later on
I tried to start all over again but it was no

613

good. The works was run down and there was
no winding them up again. So off I went
— as far away as I could. I've been living like
this for more than two years. "

"It's bad when you've not got a place to
call your own, " said Arina softly.

"Very bad. Are you a widow?"

"No, I'm a maid."

"Go along with you!" said Gomozov, taking
no pains to disguise his incredulity.

"Honest to goodness, " insisted Arina.

"Why didn't you ever get married?"

"Who'd have me? I haven't got nothing.
A man'd want something. And then my face
is so ugly. "

"True, " drawled Gomozov, scrutinizing her
curiously as he stroked his beard. He asked
her what her pay was.

"Two and a half. "

"I see. So I owe you thirty kopeks, eh?
Look, come and get it tonight. About ten
o'clock, will you? I'll pay you and we'll
have a glass of tea together for want of
something better to do. We're lonely souls,
both of us. Do come."

"I will, " she said simply, and went out.

6H

\

She came back at exactly ten o'clock and
went away at dawn.

Gomozov did not invite her to come again
and did not give her her thirty kopeks. She
came back of her own accord. She came back,
bovine and submissive, and stood silently
in front of him. And he stared up at her from
where he was lying on the couch.

"Sit down, " he said after a while, moving
over.

When she was seated, he said, "Listen, keep
this dark. Don't let a soul get wind of it, hear^
Г 11 get into trouble if you do. I'm not young
any more, and neither are you, understand?"

She nodded.

As he was seeing her out he handed her some
clothes to mend for him.

"Don't let a soul get wind of it, " he admon-
ished her again.

And so, carefully hiding their relationship
from othv3rs, they Avent on living together.

At night Arina would steal to his room al-
most on all fours. He received her indulgent-
ly, \vith the air of a lord and master.

"What a mug you've got!" he would say
at times.

615

She would only smile back feebly and apol-
ogetically, and on leaving would take some
bundle of work to do for him.

They did not see each other often. But
sometimes when they met on the station grounds,
he would whisper:
"Drop in tonight. "

And she would come obediently and with
a look of such gravity on her pock-marked
face that one would have thought she was ful-
filling a duty whose solemn importance she
fully appreciated.

But on going home the old look of guilt and
apprehension would come back.

Occasionally she would linger in some se-
cluded corner or behind some door to gaze out
into the steppe. Night reigned out there, and
its grim silence filled her heart with terror.
One day, after seeing off the afternoon train,
the station officials sat down to tea in the shade
of some poplars growing outside the windows
of the stationmaster's rooms.

They often had tea there on hot days — it
introduced a certain variety into the monot-
ony of their lives.

On this particular day they were drinking

616

in silence, having said all there was to say
about the last train.

"Today's hotter than yesterday," said the
stationmaster, holding out his empty glass
to his wife with one hand and wiping the
sweat off his forehead with the other.

"It just seems hotter because you're bored
to death," said his wife as she took the glass.

"H'm, maybe you're right. Cards would
help. But there's only three of us."

His assistant shrugged his shoulders and
screwed up his eyes.

"Card games, according to Schopenhauer,
show the bankruptcy of the mind, " he pro-
nounced impressively.

"Very clever, " gurgled the stationmaster.
"Whatwas that? The bankruptcy of the mind—
h'm. Who was it said it? "

"Schopenhauer. A German philosopher. "

"A philosopher? H'm."

"Those philosophers — \vhat do they do?
Work at universities?" inquired Sonya.

"How shall I explain it? Being a philos-
opher is not a situation, but a natural en-
dowment, so to speak. Anyone can be a phi-
losopher— anyone who is born Avith a tenden-

617

су to think and to seek cause and effect in
all things. To be sure, philosophers are some-
times to be found in universities, but they
may be anywhere — even in the employment
of the railway."

"And do they make a lot of money — those
who are at the universities? "

"It all depends on their capabilities. "

"Ifonlyw^e had a fourth partner, we'd put in a
nice couple of hours, "sighed the stationmaster.

And the talk broke off again.

High in the blue sky sang the larks, from
branch to branch of the poplars hopped the
robins, whistling softly. From inside the
house came the crying of a baby.

"Is Arina in there?" asked the station-
master.

"Of course," replied his wife.

"There's something highly original about
that woman, have you noticed it, Nikolai
Petrovich? "

"'Originality is the mother of banality,'"
mused Nikolai Petrovich, looking very sage
and ponderous.

"What's that?" perked up the station-
master.

6ld

When the saying had been repeated in edi-
fying accents, the stationmaster half-closed
his eyes deliciously, while his wife remarked
in languorous tones:

"It's simply wonderful the way you remem-
ber what you read! As for me, I read some-
thing one day and forget it the next. Why,
just the other day I read something fright-
fully interesting and amusing in the Niva
but for the life of me I can't remember what
it was."

"All a matter of habit," explained Niko-
lai Petrovich tersely.

"That's even better than that — what's his
name? Schopenhauer, " said the stationmas-
ter with a smile. "In other words, everything
new grows old. "

"Or just the reverse, for, as one of the poets
has said: *Life in her wisdom is frugal, for
she always makes the new out of the old.'"

"Damn it all, where do you get them from?
They come pouring out of you like out of
a sieve!"

The stationmaster gave a delighted chuckle,
his wife smiled sweetly, and Nikolai Petrovich
made a vain effort to hide his satisfaction.

619

"Who was it said that about banality?"

"Baryatinsky, a poet. "

"And that other? "

"Also a poet. Fofanov. "

"Smart fellows, " said the stationmaster la
approbation of the poets, and he repeated
the quotation in a sing-song voice, a rapt
smile on his face.

The boredom of their lives played a sort of
game with them; it would release them from
its clutches for a moment, only to seize them
the tighter. Then they would grow silent again
and sit there puffing with the heat, which their
tea-drinking only intensified.

There was nothing but sun in the steppe.

"As I was saying about Arina, " resumed
the stationmaster. "She's a queer creature.
I can't help wondering at her. It's as if she'd
been struck down by something — never
laughs, never sings, hardly ever speaks. Like
a stump in the ground. But she's a first-class
worker. And the way she looks after Lelia—
nothing's too much to do for the baby."

He spoke in loAvered tones for fear Arina
might overhear him. He was well aware that
one must never pay servants compliments —

620

it spoils them. Sonya interrupted him and
gave a frown full of hidden meaning:

"Enough of such talk. There's lots of things
you don't know about her," she said.

Nikolai Petrovich began to sing softly,
beating time with his spoon on the table:

A slave to love,
I lack the strength
To flight with thee,
My blessed demon.

"What? What's that?" put in the station-
master. "Her? You must be fooling, both of
you!"

And he burst into loud laughter. His jowls
shook and drops of sAveat dripped off his
brow.

"It's not funny in the least," said Sonya.
"For one thing, she's in charge of the baby,
and for another — just look at this bread!
Burnt and sour. And why? "

"There's no doubt about it, the bread's
not what it should be. You'll have to scold
her for it. But good God, I never expected
this. Why, damn it all, she's nothing but
dough herself! And he! Who is he'> Luka? Won't

621

I tease him, the rascal! Or Yagodka— Old
Shave-Lip?"

"Gomozov, " said Nikolai Petrovich
tersely.

"Him? That quiet fellow? Come, you must
be making it up! "

The stationmaster was highly amused by
the situation. One minute he would laugh
till he cried, the next he would observe se-
riously that the lovers Avould have to be given
a severe reprimand, and then, as he imag-
ined the tender words exchanged between them,
he would go off into peals of laughter again.

In the end he began to probe for details.
At that Nikolai Petrovich pulled a stern face
and Sonya cut him short.

"The baboons! Just wait, Г11 have some
fun with them yet ! Very amusing, " said the
irrepressible stationmaster.

At that moment Luka put in an appearance.

"Telegraph's clicking," he announced.

"I'm coming. Signal Number 42."

Presently he and his assistant were making
their way to the station where Luka was ring-
ing the bell to signal the train. Nikolai
Petrovich telegraphed to the next station

622

for permission to despatch train No. 42
while the stationmaster paced the floor of
the office, smiling to himself and saying:

''You and me '11 play a trick on them, shall
we? For want of something better to do. At
least we'll have a laugh."

"That's permissible, " said Nikolai Petro-
vich as he operated the telegraph key.

Philosophers, as he knew, should be la-
conic.

Very soon after that an opportunity for
them to have their laugh presented itself.

One night Gomozov visited Arina in the
shed where, at his demand and with the
consent of her mistress, Arina had made a
bed for herself among all kinds of lumber.
It was cold and damp there, and the broken
chairs, discarded tubs, boards, and other rub-
bish took on fearsome forms in the dark. When
Arina was alone she was so terrified she
could not sleep and would lie in the straw with
wide-open eyes, mumbling prayers to herself.

Gomozov came, mauled her for a long time
without saying a word, grew tired, fell asleep.
But Arina woke him up almost immediately.

623

''Timofei Petrovich! Timofei Petrovich!"
she whispered in alarm.

"What?" replied Gomozov, only half-awake.

"They've locked us in."

"What's that?" he asked as he jumped up.

"They came to the door and padlocked it."

"You're crazy!" he whispered in fright and
anger, thrusting her away.

"See for yourself, " she said humbly.

He got up, went stumbling past the lumber
to the door and gave it a push.

"It's all that soldier's doings," he said
gloomily after a pause.

A burst of laughter came from the other
side of the door.

"Let me out! " called Gomozov.

"What's that?" came the soldier's voice.
"Let me out, I say. "

"In the morning, " said the soldier,
turning aw-ay.

"I've got to go on duty, damn it all!"
pleaded Gomozov wrathfully.

"I'll do duty for you. Stay right where you
are."

And the soldier went away.

"You dirty dog!" muttered the switchman

624

miserably. "Listen, you can't lock me
in like this. There's the stationmaster.
Wliat'll you tell him? He'll be sure to ask
where Gomozov is, and then what '11 you
say? "

"I'm afraid it's the stationmaster told him
to do it, " murmured Arina dismally.

"The stationmaster? " repeated Gomozov
in fright. "Why should he do such a thing?"
He grew thoughtful a moment, then shouted
at her, "You're lying!"

A profound sigh was her only ansAver.

"God, what '11 happen now? " said the sAvitch-
man, seating himself on a tub by the door.
"I'm disgraced. And it's all your fault, you
pig-faced monster ! "

And he shook his fist in the direction from
which came the sound of her breathing. She
said nothing.

They were enveloped in grey shadows —
shadows impregnated by the smell of mould
and sour cabbage and some other acrid smell
that tickled the nostrils. Thin ribbons of moon-
light slipped through cracks in the door. From
outside came the rumble of a goods train with-
drawing from the station.

40—327 625

"Why don4 you say something, you scare*
crow?" said Gomozov, angry and contemptu-
ous. "What am I to do now? You got me
into this fix, and now you have nothing to
say? Think of a way out, damn you! How am
I going to live down this disgrace? God! What
ever made me take up with such a creature ! "

"I'll ask them to forgive me," said Arina
softly.

"Well? "

"Maybe they will."

"What's that to me? All right, they'll
forgive you; what of it? Am I disgraced or
not? They'll have the laugh on me just the

same. "

In a few minutes he began to curse and rail at
her again. Time dragged on insufferably. At
last the woman said to him in a trembling voice:

"Forgive me, Timofei Petrovich. "

"Forgive you with an axe, that's what I'd
like to do, " he snarled.

And again there was silence, heavy and
oppressive, full of aching misery for the two
people imprisoned in the darkness.

"Lordy, if only it would get light!" moaned
Arina.

626

^^Hold your tongue! Г11 show you a light!**
threatened Gomozov, and hurled another
string of abuse at her. Then again the torture of
silence. Time seemed to drag even more cruel-
ly with the coming of dawn, as if each min-
ute loitered on purpose, finding entertainment
in the comic situation of these two people.

After a while Gomozov fell asleep and was
wakened up by the crowing of a rooster out-
side the shed.

"Hey, pig-face, are you asleep?" he whis-
pered.

"No, " replied Arina with a sigh.

"Why not?" he asked ironically. "Ughl"

"Timofei Petrovich!" wailed Arina. "Don't
be angry with me. Take pity on me. In the
name of Christ, take pity on me. I'm all alone,
without a soul in the world. You — you're
the only one I have. After all, we — "

"Stop howling! Don't make me laugh,"
interrupted Gomozov harshly, suppressing the
woman's hysterical whispers. "Hold your
tongue, once you've brought the wrath of
the Lord down on your head."

And so, without speaking, they went on
waiting for the passage of each successive min-

40* 627

tite. But the passage of the minutes brought
them nothing. At last rays of sunlight came
through the cracks in the door, stitching
through the darkness in shining threads. Steps
were heard outside. Someone came up to the
door, stood there a moment, and went away.

"Fiends!" roared Gomozov, spitting vici-
ously. Once more they waited in strained si-
lence.

"Dear Lord, have mercy ..." murmured
Arina.

Stealthy steps seemed to be heard. Suddenly
the lock clicked and the stern voice of the sta-
tionmaster was heard.

"Gomozov!" he cried, "take Arina 's arm
and lead her out! Lively, now!"

"Come here, you, " muttered Gomozov. Ari-
na went over and stood beside him with hang-
ing head.

The door was pened, and there stood the
stationmaster.

"Congratulations on your newly- wedded
state," he said, bowing to Arina. "Come,
strike up the band ! "

Gomozov stepped outside and was stopped
by a deafening burst of noise. Luka, Yagod-

628

ka and Nikolai Petrovich were standing at
the door. Luka was beating on the bottom
of a pail with his fist and shouting at the top
of his lungs in a strident tenor; the soldier
was blowing a tin horn; Nikolai Petrovich,
his cheeks distended, was waving one hand and
blowing through his lips as if on a trumpet:

"Pom! Pom! Pom-pom-pom!'*

The pail made a crashing sound, the horn
shrieked and wailed. The stationmaster bent
in two with laughter. His assistant, too, burst
out laughing at the sight of the dumbfounded
Gomozov whose face was ashen and whose
trembling lips were twisted into an embar-
rassed smile. Behind him stood Arina, her head
on her chest, as motionless as if turned to stone.

Luka made dreadful faces at Gomozov as he
sang:

Arina whispered in his ear
What any lover loves to hear.

The soldier went over to Gomozov and toot-
ed his horn in his very ear.

"Come along. Come on, take her arm!" cried
the stationmaster, choking with laugliter.

"Oh, oh! Stop il! I'll die!" shrieked Sonya

629.

who was sitting on the porch rocking with
laughter.

"'For a moment's bliss I shall suffer all,'"
sang Nikolai Petrovich.

"Hurrah for the newly-weds!" called out
the stationmaster as Gomozov took a step
forward. And all four of them shouted "Hur-
rah!" the soldier in a roaring bass.

Arina followed at the heels of Gomozov.
Now her head was raised, her mouth hung open
and her arms dangled limply at her sides.
Her dull eyes stared in front of her, but it
is doubtful that they saw anything.

"Make them kiss each other, husband!
Ha, ha, ha!"

"A kiss, newly-weds!" shouted Nikolai Pet-
rovich, at which the stationmaster 's legs
refused to support him and he sank Aveakly
against the trunk of a tree. The pail kept
clanging, the horn tooted and hooted, and
Luka did a little dance as he sang:

The cabbage soup Arina made
Is much too thick, I am afraidl

Nikolai Petrovich blew out his cheeks
again:

630

"Pom-pom-pom ! Toot-toot-toot ! Pom-pom !
Toot-toot!''

\\Ъеп Gomozov reached the door of the
barracks he disappeared. Arina was left
standing in the courtyard surrounded by
a group of wild people who shouted, laughed,
whistled in her ear, and leaped about her
in an orgy of merriment. There she stood in
their midst with immobile face — dirty, un-
kempt, pitiable, absurd.

"The bridegroom's gone off and left her
behind, " called the stationmaster to his
wife, pointing his finger at Arina and
doubling up with laughter.

Arina turned her head to him and then
walked past the barracks, out into the steppe.
Her departure was attended by shouts, laugh-
ter, hooting.

"Enough! Leave her alone!" called out
Sonya. "Give her a chance to come to. The
dinner's got to be cooked, don't forget."

Arina went out into the steppe; out beyond the
demarcation line to a field of shaggy corn.
She walked slowly, like one lost in thought.

"Wliat's that? \Vliat's that?" asked the
statioiiniflistcr of the participants in this

63t

little joke, who were now reminding each
other of choice details of the newly-weds'
behaviour. They were all roaring with laugh-
ter. And even here Nikolai Petrovich found
occasion to insert one of his gems of wisdom:

It is no crime to laugh
At what is laughable.

This he said to Sonya, adding as a cau-
tion, "But it is harmful to laugh too much. "

There was a great deal of laughter at the
station that day, but a very bad dinner, for
Arina did not come back to cook it and this
task devolved upon the stationmaster's wife.
But even a bad dinner could not cast a damp
over people's spirits. Gomozov did not come
out of the barracks until it was time for him
to go on duty. When he did come out he was
summoned to the stationmaster's office where
Nikolai Petrovich, to the vast amusement of
Matvei Yegorovich and Luka, cross-examined
him as to how he had "conquered " his beauty.

"The most extraordinary tale of man's
temptation and fall I've ever heard," said
Nikolai Petrovich to the stationmaster.

632

"And a very bad fall it was, " said the staid
Gomozov with a wry smile. He realized that
if he could give an account making Arina
look ridiculous, he himself would be spared
much of the laughter.

"At first she just kept winking at me, "
he said.

"Winking? Ho, ho, ho! Fancy that, Niko-
lai Petrovich; her winking! Simply smashing!"

"Just kept winking, that is, and I says to
myself, 'It's mischief you're up to, my girl!'
After that she says to me, 'If you want me
to, I'll make you some shirts.'"

"*But the important thing was not the
needle,'" observed Nikolai Petrovich, add-
ing to the stationmaster by way of expla-
nation, "That, you know, is from one of
Nekrasov's poems. Go on, Gomozov."

And Gomozov went on, at first with an
effort, but little by little gaining inspiration
from his lies, for he saw that they were serv-
ing him well.

Meanwhile she of whom he spoke was
lying in the steppe. She had walked far out
into the sea of corn, Avhere she had sunk
heavily down on to the ground and lay^ith-

633

out moving. When she could no longer
stand the heat of the sun on her back, she
turned over and covered her face with her
hands to cut off the sight of a sky that was
too clear, a sun that was too bright.

Soft was the rustle of the corn about this
woman, bowed down by shame; ceaseless
and solicitous the chirping of innumerable
grasshoppers. It Avas hot. She tried to pray,
but could not remember the words of a prayer.
Mocking faces danced before her eyes. Her
ears were full of the sounds of laughter, the
tooting of the horn, Luka's shrill voice. This, or
the heat, constricted her chest, and she un-
fastened her blouse and exposed her body
to the sun, hoping it would be easier to
breathe. The sun scorched her skin; something
hot seemed to be boring inside her breast;
her breath came in gasps.

"Lord, have mercy ..." she murmured
from time to time. .

But the only reply was the rustle of the
corn and the chirping of the grasshoppers.
Lifting her head above the waves of corn,
she saw their golden shimmer, saAv the black
water-tower thrusting into the air beyond

634

the station, saw the roofs of the station build-
ings. There was nothing else on the boundless
yellow plain covered by the blue vault oi
the sky, and it seemed to Arina that she was
alone in all the world, and that she was lying
in the very centre of it, and that no one would
ever come to relieve the burden of her lone-
liness ... no one . . . ever. . . .

Towards evening she heard cries.

"Arina! Arina, you cow!"

One of the voices belonged to Luka, the
other to the soldier. She had hoped to hear
a third voice, but he did not call her, and
because of this she shed copious tears that
ran swiftly down her pock-marked cheeks
on to her breast. And as she cried she rubbed
her bare breast against the dry луагт earth
to stop the burning sensation that had be-
come more and more tormenting. She cried,
and then she stopped crying, suppressing
her sobs as if afraid someone would hear her
and forbid her to cry.

When night came she got up and slowly
made her way back to the station.
- Wlien she reached the buildings she stood
leaning against the wall of the shed for a

035

long time gazing out over the steppe. A goods
train came and went, and she overheard the
soldier telling the story of her shame to the
conductors, who roared with laughter. Their
laughter was carried far out into the steppe,
where the marmots were peeping softly.

"Lord have mercy, " sighed the woman,
pressing her body against the wall. But her
sighs did not lighten the burden on her heart.

Towards morning she climbed up into the
attic of the station and hanged herself with
the clothes line.

The smell of the corpse led them to find
Arina two days later. At first they were fright-
ened; then they began to discuss who might
be held guilty for what had happened. Ni-
kolai Petrovich proved irrefutably that Go-
mozov was the guilty one. The stationmaster
gave the switchman a blow on the jaw and
warned him to keep his mouth shut.

Officials came and carried on an investi-
gation. It was discovered that Arina had
suffered from melancholia. Some railway work-
men were ordered to take the body out into
the steppe and bury it. This done, peace and
order once more reigned at the station»

€36

And oiice more its inhabitants went oil
living four minutes a day, pining away with
loneliness and boredom, with heat and idle-
ness, gazing enviously after the trains that
rushed past leaving them behind.

. . . And in the winter, Avhen blizzards
came screaming and shrieking out of the
steppe, pouring snow and fearsome sounds
upon the little station, life there was lone-
lier than ever.
•
1897

SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL

O'er the silver plain of ocean winds are
gathering the storm-clouds, and between the
clouds and ocean proudly wheels the Stormy
Petrel, like a streak of sable lightning.

Now his wing the wave caresses, now he
rises like an arrow, cleaving clouds and crying
fiercely, while the clouds detect a rapture
in the bird's courageous crying.

In that crying sounds a craving for the
tempest! Sounds the flaming of his passion,
of his anger, of his confidence in triumph.

The gulls are moaning in their terror —
moaning, darting o'er the waters, and would
gladly hide their horror in the inky depths
of ocean.

638

And the grebes are also moaning. Not for
them the nameless rapture of the struggle.
They are frightened by the crashing of the
thunder.

And the foolish penguins cower in the crev-
ices of rocks, while alone the Stormy Petrel
proudly wheels аЬол/е the ocean, o'er the
silver-frothing waters!

Ever lower, ever blacker, sink the storm-
clouds to the sea, and the singing waves are
mounting in their yearning towards the thun-
der.

Strikes the thunder. Now the waters fierce-
ly battle with the winds. And the winds in
fury seize them in unbreakable embrace,
hurling down the emerald masses to be shat-
tered on the cliffs.

Like a streak of sable lightning wheels and
cries the Stormy Petrel, piercing storm-
clouds like an arrow, cutting swiftly through
the waters.

He is coursing like a Demon, the black
Demon of the tempest, ever laughing, ever
sobbing — he is laughing at the storm-clouds,
he is sobbing with his rapture.

In the crashing of the thunder the wise

639

Demon hears a murmur of exhaustion. He is
certain that the clouds will not obliterate
the sun that the storm-clouds never, never,
will obliterate the sun.

The waters roar. . . . The thunder crashes ....

Livid lightning flares in storm-clouds o'er
the vast expanse of ocean, and the flaming
darts are captured and extinguished by the
waters, while the serpentine reflections writhe,
expiring, in the deep.

The storm! The storm will soon be: break-
ing!

Still the valiant Stormy Petrel^ proudly
wheels among the lightning, o'er the roaring,
raging ocean, and his cry resounds exultant,
like a prophecy of triumph —

Let it break in all its fury! ^

1901

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