by Maxim Gorky
When she emerged onto the porch, the sharp cold struck her in the eyes and chest, she gasped for breath and her legs went numb – walking across the middle of the square with his hands tied behind his back was Rybin, and striding alongside him were two village policemen, striking the ground rhythmically with their sticks, while by the porch of the volost-board building stood a crowd of people waiting in silence.
Stunned, the mother watched fixedly; Rybin was saying something, and she could hear his voice, but the words vanished without an echo in the dark, trembling emptiness of her heart.
She came to her senses and caught her breath; by the porch stood a peasant with a broad, light beard, whose blue eyes were gazing intently into her face. Coughing and rubbing her throat with hands weakened by fear, she asked him with some difficulty:
“Who ever’s that?”
“Just you look!” the peasant replied and turned away. Another peasant came up and stood next to them.
The village policemen stopped in front of the crowd, which was continuing to grow quickly, but silently, and then suddenly above it rose Rybin’s rich voice.
“Christians! Have you heard of those reliable documents in which the truth about our peasant life was written? Well, it’s for those documents I’m suffering, it was me that distributed them to the people!”
Rybin was surrounded more closely. His voice sounded calm and measured. This sobered the mother.
The blue-eyed peasant was nudged in the side by the other one as he asked quietly:
“D’you hear?” Without replying, the former raised his head and glanced again into the mother’s face. And the other peasant looked at her too. He was younger than the first, with a dark, wispy little beard and a thin face dotted with freckles. Then they both moved away to one side of the porch.
“They’re afraid!” the mother noted involuntarily.
Her attention was becoming keener. From the elevated position of the porch she could clearly see Mikhail Ivanovich’s battered black face, could discern the ardent lustre of his eyes; she wanted him to see her too and, standing on tiptoe, she stretched her neck out towards him.
People were looking at him glumly, with mistrust, and were silent. Only in the rearmost rows of the crowd was the suppressed sound of voices to be heard.
“Peasants!” said Rybin, his voice full and taut. “Do believe those documents: I may have to accept death for them now; they’ve beaten me and tortured me, they wanted to get out of me where I got them from, and they’re going to beat me some more, but I’m going to endure it all! Because it’s the truth in those documents, and that truth should be dearer to us than bread – there!”
“What’s he saying this for?” one of the peasants by the porch exclaimed quietly. The blue-eyed one slowly replied:
“It doesn’t matter now – you might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb…”
People were standing looking from under their brows, taciturn and gloomy, as though there were something invisible, but heavy, lying on top of them all.
The village constable appeared on the porch and, swaying, roared in a drunken voice:
“Who’s that talking?”
He suddenly rolled down from the porch, grabbed Rybin by the hair and, jerking his head forward then pushing it back, shouted:
“Is it you talking, you son of a bitch, is it you?”
The crowd lurched and began buzzing. The mother lowered her head in impotent anguish. And Rybin’s voice rang out again:
“There, look, good people…”
“Silence!” The constable struck him on the ear. Rybin staggered and shifted his shoulders.
“They tie your hands together and torment you as they like…”
“Village policemen! Bring him in! Disperse, you people!” Jumping about in front of Rybin like a dog on a chain in front of a piece of meat, the constable was punching him in the face, in the chest and in the stomach.
“Stop beating him!” shouted someone in the crowd.
“Why are you beating him?” another voice offered in support.
“Let’s go!” said the blue-eyed peasant with a nod of the head to the other one. And they both set off unhurriedly towards the volost-board building, followed by the mother’s kind gaze. She heaved a sigh of relief – the constable had run ponderously back up onto the porch and, from there, shaking his fist, was yelling frenziedly:
“Bring him here, I tell you…”
“Don’t!” a powerful voice rang out in the crowd, and the mother realized it was the peasant with the blue eyes that had spoken. “Don’t allow it, lads! They’ll take him in there and beat him to death. Then later on they’ll say it was us, and we killed him! Don’t allow it!”
“Peasants!” boomed Mikhaila’s voice. “Don’t you see your life, don’t you understand how they rob you, how they deceive you, how they drink your blood? You’re what holds everything together, you’re the number-one power on earth, but what rights do you have? To peg out from hunger, that’s your only right!…”
The peasants suddenly started shouting, each interrupting the other:
“It’s right, what he says!”
“Call the district superintendent of police! Where’s the district superintendent?…”
“The village constable’s galloped off to fetch him…”
“Drunk!…”
“It’s not our business to fetch the authorities here…”
The noise kept on growing, rising higher.
“Say we won’t let him be beaten…”
“Untie his hands…”
“See that no harm’s done!…”
“My hands are hurting!” said Rybin evenly and sonorously, drowning every other voice. “I won’t run away, men! I can’t hide from my justice, it lives within me…”
Several men walked steadily away from the crowd in different directions, talking in low voices among themselves and shaking their heads. But more and more excited people, badly and hurriedly dressed, came running. They seethed around Rybin like dark foam, and he stood like a chapel in a wood in their midst with his hands up above his head and, giving them a shake, he shouted into the crowd:
“Thank you, good people, thank you! We have to free one another’s hands ourselves – right! Who’s going to help us?”
He wiped his beard and then again raised a hand, which was covered in blood.
“There’s my blood: it’s flowing for justice!”
The mother stepped down from the porch, but from the ground she could not see Mikhaila, who was hemmed in by people, and she went back up onto the steps. It was hot inside her breast, and something vaguely joyful was atremble there.
“Peasants! Find those documents, read them and don’t believe the authorities or the priests when they say the people who are bringing the truth for us are atheists and rebels. The truth walks the earth in secret, it seeks a nest amongst the people; it’s like the knife and fire for the authorities: they can’t accept it, it’ll cut their throats, it’ll burn them up! For you the truth is a good friend; for the authorities it’s a sworn enemy. That’s why it hides!…”
Several exclamations broke out in the crowd once again.
“Listen, Christians!…”
“Oh, you’re done for, brother…”
“Who gave you away?”
“The priest!” said one of the village policemen.
Two of the peasants swore violently.
“Watch it, lads!” a cry of warning rang out.
XVI
Walking towards the crowd was the district superintendent of police, a tall, thickset man with a round face. His cap was tilted onto the side of his head, and one end of his moustache was twirled upwards while the other drooped down, giving a crooked look to a face disfigured by an obtuse, blank smile. He carried a sabre in his left hand, while waving his right hand in the air. His footsteps
could be heard, heavy and firm. The crowd was parting before him. Something sullen and dispirited appeared on their faces, the noise ceased, dropped, as though receding into the ground. The mother sensed the skin on her forehead trembling, and her eyes had become hot. Again she felt the urge to go into the crowd, but she leant forward and froze in a tense pose.
“What’s all this?” the superintendent asked, stopping opposite Rybin and looking him up and down. “Why aren’t his hands tied? Policemen! Tie them together!”
His voice was high and ringing, but colourless.
“They were tied, but the people untied them!” replied one of the village policemen.
“What? The people? Which people?”
The superintendent looked at the people standing in a semicircle in front of him. And in the same monotonous, white voice, neither raising it nor lowering it, he continued:
“Who’s that – the people?”
He swung out and poked the hilt of his sabre into the chest of the blue-eyed peasant.
“Is that you, Chumakov, the people? Well, who else? You, Mishin?”
And with his right hand he pulled on someone’s beard.
“Disperse, scum! Otherwise I’ll let you have it, I’ll show you!”
In his voice and on his face there was neither irritation, nor threat; he spoke calmly and hit people with customary, smooth movements of his long, strong arms. People were retreating before him, lowering their heads, turning their faces aside.
“Well? What’s the matter with you?” he addressed the village policemen. “Get tying!”
He uttered a cynical oath, looked at Rybin again and said to him loudly:
“Hands behind your back!”
“I don’t want my hands tied!” began Rybin. “I don’t intend to run away and I’m not fighting, so why tie me up?”
“What?” the superintendent asked, taking a step towards him.
“You’ve tormented the people enough, you brutes!” Rybin continued, raising his voice. “There’ll be a red day coming soon for you too…”
The policeman stood in front of him and looked him in the face, twitching his moustache. Then he took a step back and sang out in amazement in a whistling voice:
“You son of a bitch, you! What were those words?”
And he suddenly hit Rybin hard and fast in the face.
“You can’t kill the truth with your fist!” cried Rybin, advancing upon him. “And you have no right to beat me, you lousy dog!”
“I don’t dare? I?” The policeman emitted a long, drawn-out howl.
And again he swung an arm, aiming at Rybin’s head. Rybin ducked down, and the blow missed him, while the policeman staggered and barely stayed on his feet. Someone in the crowd gave a loud snort, and Mikhail’s irate cry rang out again:
“Don’t you dare hit me, I say, you devil!”
The policeman looked around: the people were sullenly and silently converging to form a tight, dark ring…
“Nikita!” the policeman called loudly, looking around. “Hey, Nikita!”
Out from the crowd moved a short, stocky peasant in a sheepskin jacket. He was looking at the ground with his big, shaggy head lowered.
“Nikita!” said the policeman unhurriedly, twirling his moustache. “Give him one in the ear, a good one!”
The peasant took a step forward, stopped opposite Rybin and raised his head. Rybin hit him point-blank in the face with hard, true words:
“There, people, look how the brutes choke you with your very own hand! Look and think!”
The peasant slowly raised a hand and hit him lazily on the head.
“Is that the way to do it, you son of a bitch?” the policeman screamed.
“Hey, Nikita!” came a low voice from the crowd. “Don’t forget about God!”
“Hit him, I tell you!” the policeman cried, pushing the peasant in the neck.
The peasant stepped to one side and, bending his head, said sullenly:
“Not any more…”
“What?”
The policeman’s face twitched, he began stamping his feet and, cursing, threw himself at Rybin. The blow made a dull thud, Mikhailo rocked and threw up an arm, but with a second blow the policeman toppled him to the ground and, jumping around and roaring, he began kicking Rybin in the chest, the sides and the head.
The crowd started to hum with animosity and began rocking as it moved upon the policeman; he noticed, leapt back and pulled his sabre from its scabbard.
“Rebelling, are you? Eh? Is that the way it is?…”
His voice quavered, screeched and seemed to break and grow hoarse. Together with his voice he suddenly lost his strength, drew his head into his shoulders, crouched and, turning his empty eyes in all directions, backed away, cautiously feeling for the ground behind him with his feet. Retreating, he shouted in a hoarse, alarmed voice:
“Very well! Take him – I’m leaving – come on then! Do you realize, you damned scum, that he’s a political criminal, going against the Tsar, stirring up revolts – do you realize that? And you want to defend him, eh? So you’re rebels? Aha-a!…”
Not stirring, not blinking, without strength or thought, the mother stood as though in a bad dream, crushed by fear and pity. Buzzing in her head like bumblebees were the offended, sullen and angry cries of the people, the voice of the superintendent was trembling, and there was the hiss of somebody whispering…
“If he’s committed an offence, then put him on trial!…”
“Have mercy on him, Your Honour…”
“How can you, really, without any law?…”
“How can it be? If everyone starts dishing out beatings like that, what’ll happen then?…”
The people broke into two groups – one, surrounding the superintendent, was shouting and trying to persuade him; the other, smaller in number, stayed around the beaten man, humming in a muffled, sullen way. Several people picked him up from the ground, and the village policemen again tried to tie his hands.
“Just you wait, you devils!” people shouted at them.
Mikhailo was wiping the dirt and blood from his face and beard and silently looking around. His gaze slid across the mother’s face, and she, with a start, stretched out towards him and unwittingly threw up an arm – he turned away. But a few minutes later his eyes came to rest upon her face again. It seemed to her that he stood up straight and raised his head, and his bloodied cheeks began to tremble…
“He’s recognized me – has he really recognized me?…”
And she started nodding her head to him, trembling with melancholy, eerie joy. But the next moment she saw that standing beside him and looking at her too was the blue-eyed peasant. His gaze momentarily awoke in her the consciousness of danger…
“What ever am I doing? I’ll be seized as well, won’t I!”
The peasant said something to Rybin; the latter gave a toss of the head and, in a quavering voice, but distinctly and cheerfully, he began:
“It’s all right! I’m not the only one on earth, and they won’t fish out the whole truth! Wherever I’ve been, there the memory of me will remain – there! Even if they’ve ravaged the nest and there are no more friends or comrades there…”
“He’s saying that for me!” the mother quickly realized.
“But there’ll come a day when the eagles will fly out to freedom, and the people will be liberated!”
Some woman brought a bucket of water and, groaning and wailing, started washing Rybin’s face. Her thin, plaintive voice got entangled in Mikhailo’s words and prevented the mother understanding them. A crowd of peasants came up with the superintendent in front of them, and someone shouted loudly:
“Hey, let’s have a cart for the prisoner! Whose turn is it?”
And then there rang out what was for the superintendent a new voice, offended, as i
t seemed:
“I can strike you, but no, you can’t strike me – you don’t dare, you blockhead!”
“Right! And who are you – God?” cried Rybin.
A discordant, soft explosion of exclamations drowned out his voice.
“Don’t argue, Uncle! This is the authorities!…”
“Don’t be angry, Your Honour! The man’s not himself…”
“Be quiet, you nutcase!”
“They’re going to take you to town now…”
“There’s more law there!”
The cries of the crowd sounded conciliatory, pleading, and they merged into a vague bustling, everything about which was hopeless and mournful. The village policemen took Rybin by the arms, led him onto the porch of the volost-board building and disappeared through the doors. The peasants slowly dispersed across the square, and the mother saw the blue-eyed one heading towards her, looking at her from under his brows. Her knees began trembling, and a sense of despondency started gnawing at her heart, making her feel nauseous.
“Don’t walk away!” she thought. “Don’t!”
And, holding on tight to the handrail, she waited.
Standing on the porch of the volost-board building, the superintendent was waving his arms around and saying in a reproachful voice, now white and soulless once more:
“You’re fools, you sons of bitches! You’re getting involved in a matter like this – a state matter – without understanding a thing! You swine! You should be thanking me, bowing down at my feet for my kindness! If I wish it, you’ll all go and do hard labour…”
A couple of dozen peasants stood with their hats off, listening. It was getting dark, and the storm clouds were sinking lower. The blue-eyed man came up to the porch and said with a sigh:
“That’s the way things are here…”
“Ye-es,” she responded quietly.
He gave her a frank look and asked:
“What is it you do?”
“Buy up lace from peasant women, linen too…”
The peasant slowly stroked his beard. Then, gazing in the direction of the volost-board building, in a low, dreary voice he said:
“You won’t find any of that here…”