by Maxim Gorky
“You’re sitting here—and I tell you, you’d better sit quiet. And not poke your nose into what’s not your business. You’ve been hired to row, and you’d better row. But if you can’t keep your tongue from wagging, it will be a bad lookout for you. D’ye see?”
For a minute the boat quivered and stopped. The oars rested in the water, setting it foaming, and Gavrilo moved uneasily on his seat.
“Row!”
A sharp oath rang out in the air. Gavrilo swung the oars. The boat moved with rapid, irregular jerks, noisily cutting the water.
“Steady!”
Chelkash got up from the stern, still holding the oars in his hands, and peering with his cold eyes into the pale and twitching face of Gavrilo. Crouching forward Chelkash was like a cat on the point of springing. There was the sound of angry gnashing of teeth.
“Who’s calling?” rang out a surly shout from the sea.
“Now, you devil, row! quietly with the oars! I’ll kill you, you cur. Come, row! One, two! There! you only make a sound! I’ll cut your throat!” hissed Chelkash.
“Mother of God—Holy Virgin—” muttered Gavrilo, shaking and numb with terror and exertion.
The boat turned smoothly and went back toward the harbor, where the lights gathered more closely into a group of many colors and the straight stems of masts could be seen.
“Hi! Who’s shouting?” floated across again. The voice was farther off this time. Chelkash grew calm again.
“It’s yourself, friend, that’s shouting!” he said in the direction of the shouts, and then he turned to Gavrilo, who was muttering a prayer.
“Well, mate, you’re in luck! If those devils had overtaken us, it would have been all over with you. D’you see? I’d have you over in a trice—to the fishes!”
Now, when Chelkash was speaking quietly and even good-humoredly, Gavrilo, still shaking with terror, besought him!
“Listen, forgive me! For Christ’s sake, I beg you, let me go! Put me on shore somewhere! Aie-aie-aie! I’m done for entirely! Come, think of God, let me go! What am I to you? I can’t do it! I’ve never been used to such things. It’s the first time. Lord! Why, I shall be lost! How did you get round me, mate? eh? It’s a shame of you! Why, you’re ruining a man’s life! Such doings.”
“What doings?” Chelkash asked grimly. “Eh? Well, what doings?”
He was amused by the youth’s terror, and he enjoyed it and the sense that he, Chelkash, was a terrible person.
“Shady doings, mate. Let me go, for God’s sake! What am I to you? eh? Good—dear—!”
“Hold your tongue, do! If you weren’t wanted, I shouldn’t have taken you. Do you understand? So, shut up!”
“Lord!” Gavrilo sighed, sobbing.
“Come, come! you’d better mind!” Chelkash cut him short.
But Gavrilo by now could not restrain himself, and quietly sobbing, he wept, sniffed, and writhed in his seat, yet rowed vigorously, desperately. The boat shot on like an arrow. Again dark hulks of ships rose up on their way and the boat was again lost among them, winding like a wolf in the narrow lanes of water between them.
“Here, you listen! If anyone asks you anything,—hold your tongue, if you want to get off alive! Do you see?”
“Oh—oh!” Gavrilo sighed hopelessly in answer to the grim advice, and bitterly he added: “I’m a lost man!”
“Don’t howl!” Chelkash whispered impressively.
This whisper deprived Gavrilo of all power of grasping anything and transformed him into a senseless automaton, wholly absorbed in a chill presentiment of calamity.
Mechanically he lowered the oars into the water, threw himself back, drew them out and dropped them in again, all the while staring blankly at his plaited shoes. The waves splashed against the vessels with a sort of menace, a sort of warning in their drowsy sound that terrified him. The dock was reached. From its granite wall came the sound of men’s voices, the splash of water, singing, and shrill whistles.
“Stop!” whispered Chelkash. “Give over rowing! Push along with your hands on the wall! Quietly, you devil!”
Gavrilo, clutching at the slippery stone, pushed the boat alongside the wall. The boat moved without a sound, sliding alongside the green, shiny stone.
“Stop! Give me the oars! Give them here. Where’s your passport? In the bag? Give me the bag! Come, give it here quickly! That, my dear fellow, is so you shouldn’t run off. You won’t run away now. Without oars you might have got off somehow, but without a passport you’ll be afraid to. Wait here! But mind—if you squeak—to the bottom of the sea you go!”
And, all at once, clinging on to something with his hands, Chelkash rose in the air and vanished onto the wall.
Gavrilo shuddered. It had all happened so quickly. He felt as though the cursed weight and horror that had crushed him in the presence of this thin thief with his mustaches was loosened and rolling off him. Now to run! And breathing freely, he looked round him. On his left rose a black hulk, without masts, a sort of huge coffin, mute, untenanted, and desolate.
Every splash of the water on its sides awakened a hollow, resonant echo within it, like a heavy sigh.
On the right the damp stone wall of the quay trailed its length, winding like a heavy, chill serpent. Behind him, too, could be seen black blurs of some sort, while in front, in the opening between the wall and the side of that coffin, he could see the sea, a silent waste, with the storm-clouds crawling above it. Everything was cold, black, malignant. Gavrilo felt panic-stricken. This terror was worse than the terror inspired in him by Chelkash; it penetrated into Gavrilo’s bosom with icy keenness, huddled him into a cowering mass, and kept him nailed to his seat in the boat.
All around was silent. Not a sound but the sighs of the sea, and it seemed as though this silence would instantly be rent by something fearful, furiously loud, something that would shake the sea to its depths, tear apart these heavy flocks of clouds on the sky, and scatter all these black ships. The clouds were crawling over the sky as dismally as before; more of them still rose up out of the sea, and, gazing at the sky, one might believe that it, too, was a sea, but a sea in agitation, and grown petrified in its agitation, laid over that other sea beneath, that was so drowsy, serene, and smooth. The clouds were like waves, flinging themselves with curly gray crests down upon the earth and into the abysses of space, from which they were torn again by the wind, and tossed back upon the rising billows of cloud, that were not yet hidden under the greenish foam of their furious agitation.
Gavrilo felt crushed by this gloomy stillness and beauty, and felt that he longed to see his master come back quickly. And how was it that he lingered there so long? The time passed slowly, more slowly than those clouds crawled over the sky. And the stillness grew more malignant as time went on. From the wall of the quay came the sound of splashing, rustling, and something like whispering. It seemed to Gavrilo that he would die that moment.
“Hi! Asleep? Hold it! Carefully!” sounded the hollow voice of Chelkash.
From the wall something cubical and heavy was let down. Gavrilo took it into the boat. Something else like it followed. Then across the wall stretched Chelkash’s long figure, the oars appeared from somewhere, Gavrilo’s bag dropped at his feet, and Chelkash, breathing heavily, settled himself in the stern.
Gavrilo gazed at him with a glad and timid smile.
“Tired?”
“Bound to be that, calf! Come now, row your best! Put your back into it! You’ve earned good wages, mate. Half the job’s done. Now we’ve only to slip under the devils’ noses, and then you can take your money and go off to your Mashka. You’ve got a Mashka, I suppose, eh, kiddy?”
“N—no!” Gavrilo strained himself to the utmost, working his chest like a pair of bellows, and his arms like steel springs. The water gurgled under the boat, and the blue streak behind the stern was broader now. Gavrilo was soaked t
hrough with sweat at once, but he still rowed on with all his might.
After living through such terror twice that night, he dreaded now having to go through it a third time, and longed for one thing only—to make an end quickly of this accursed task, to get on to land, and to run away from this man, before he really did kill him, or get him into prison. He resolved not to speak to him about anything, not to contradict him, to do all he told him, and, if he should succeed in getting successfully quit of him, to pay for a thanksgiving service to be said tomorrow to Nikolai the Wonder-worker. A passionate prayer was ready to burst out from his bosom. But he restrained himself, puffed like a steamer, and was silent, glancing from under his brows at Chelkash.
The latter, with his lean, long figure bent forward like a bird about to take flight, stared into the darkness ahead of the boat with his hawk eyes, and turning his rapacious, hooked nose from side to side, gripped with one hand the rudder handle, while with the other he twirled his mustache, that was continually quivering with smiles. Chelkash was pleased with his success, with himself, and with this youth, who had been so frightened of him and had been turned into his slave. He had a vision of unstinted dissipation tomorrow, while now he enjoyed the sense of his strength, which had enslaved this young, fresh lad. He watched how he was toiling, and felt sorry for him, wanted to encourage him.
“Eh!” he said softly, with a grin. “Were you awfully scared? eh?”
“Oh, no!” sighed Gavrilo, and he cleared his throat.
“But now you needn’t work so at the oars. Ease off! There’s only one place now to pass. Rest a bit.”
Gavrilo obediently paused, rubbed the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, and dropped the oars again into the water.
“Now, row more slowly, so that the water shouldn’t bubble. We’ve only the gates to pass. Softly, softly. For they’re serious people here, mate. They might take a pop at one in a minute. They’d give you such a bump on your forehead, you wouldn’t have time to call out.”
The boat now crept along over the water almost without a sound. Only from the oars dripped blue drops of water, and when they trickled into the sea, a blue patch of light was kindled for a minute where they fell. The night had become still warmer and more silent. The sky was no longer like a sea in turmoil, the clouds were spread out and covered it with a smooth, heavy canopy that hung low over the water and did not stir. And the sea was still more calm and black, and stronger than ever was the warm salt smell from it.
“Ah, if only it would rain!” whispered Chelkash. “We could get through then, behind a curtain as it were.”
On the right and the left of the boat, like houses rising out of the black water, stood barges, black, motionless, and gloomy. On one of them moved a light; some one was walking up and down with a lantern. The sea stroked their sides with a hollow sound of supplication, and they responded with an echo, cold and resonant, as though unwilling to yield anything.
“The coastguards!” Chelkash whispered hardly above a breath.
From the moment when he had bidden him row more slowly, Gavrilo had again been overcome by that intense agony of expectation. He craned forward into the darkness, and he felt as though he were growing bigger; his bones and sinews were strained with a dull ache, his head, filled with a single idea, ached, the skin on his back twitched, and his legs seemed pricked with sharp, chill little pins and needles. His eyes ached from the strain of gazing into the darkness, whence he expected every instant something would spring up and shout to them: “Stop, thieves!”
Now when Chelkash whispered: “The coastguards!” Gavrilo shuddered, and one intense, burning idea passed through him, and thrilled his overstrained nerves; he longed to cry out, to call men to his aid. He opened his mouth, and half rose from his seat, squared his chest, drew in a full draught of breath—and opened his mouth—but suddenly, struck down by a terror that smote him like a whip, he shut his eyes and rolled forward off his seat.
Far away on the horizon, ahead of the boat, there rose up out of the black water of the sea a huge fiery blue sword; it rose up, cleaving the darkness of night, its blade glided through the clouds in the sky, and lay, a broad blue streak on the bosom of the sea. It lay there, and in the streak of its light there sprang up out of the darkness ships unseen till then, black and mute, shrouded in the thick night mist.
It seemed as though they had lain long at the bottom of the sea, dragged down by the mighty hands of the tempest; and now behold they had been drawn up by the power and at the will of this blue fiery sword, born of the sea—had been drawn up to gaze upon the sky and all that was above the water. Their rigging wrapped about the masts and looked like clinging seaweeds, that had risen from the depths with these black giants caught in their snares. And it rose upward again from the sea, this strange blue sword,—rose, cleft the night again, and again fell down in another direction. And again, where it lay, there rose up out of the dark the outlines of vessels, unseen before.
Chelkash’s boat stopped and rocked on the water, as though in uncertainty. Gavrilo lay at the bottom, his face hidden in his hands, until Chelkash poked him with an oar and whispered furiously, but softly:
“Fool, it’s the customs cruiser. That’s the electric light! Get up, blockhead! Why, they’ll turn the light on us in a minute! You’ll be the ruin of yourself and me! Come!”
And at last, when a blow from the sharp end of the oar struck Gavrilo’s head more violently, he jumped up, still afraid to open his eyes, sat down on the seat, and, fumbling for the oars, rowed the boat on.
“Quietly! I’ll kill you! Didn’t I tell you? There, quietly! Ah, you fool, damn you! What are you frightened of? Eh, pig face? A lantern and a reflector, that’s all it is. Softly with the oars! Mawkish devil! They turn the reflector this way and that way, and light up the sea, so as to see if there are folks like you and me afloat.
“To catch smugglers, they do it. They won’t get us, they’ve sailed too far off. Don’t be frightened, lad, they won’t catch us. Now we—” Chelkash looked triumphantly round. “It’s over, we’ve rowed out of reach! Foo—o! Come, you’re in luck.”
Gavrilo sat mute; he rowed, and breathing hard, looked askance where that fiery sword still rose and sank. He was utterly unable to believe Chelkash that it was only a lantern and a reflector. The cold, blue brilliance, that cut through the darkness and made the sea gleam with silver light, had something about it inexplicable, portentous, and Gavrilo now sank into a sort of hypnotized, miserable terror. Some vague presentiment weighed aching on his breast. He rowed automatically, with pale face, huddled up as though expecting a blow from above, and there was no thought, no desire in him now, he was empty and soulless. The emotions of that night had swallowed up at last all that was human in him.
But Chelkash was triumphant again; complete success! all anxiety at an end! His nerves, accustomed to strain, relaxed, returned to the normal. His mustaches twitched voluptuously, and there was an eager light in his eyes. He felt splendid, whistled through his teeth, drew in deep breaths of the damp sea air, looked about him in the darkness, and laughed good-naturedly when his eyes rested on Gavrilo.
The wind blew up and waked the sea into a sudden play of fine ripples. The clouds had become, as it were, finer and more transparent, but the sky was still covered with them.
The wind, though still light, blew freely over the sea, yet the clouds were motionless and seemed plunged in some gray, dreary dream.
“Come, mate, pull yourself together! it’s high time! Why, what a fellow you are; as though all the breath had been knocked out of your skin, and only a bag of bones was left! My dear fellow! It’s all over now! Hey!”
It was pleasant to Gavrilo to hear a human voice, even though Chelkash it was that spoke.
“I hear,” he said softly.
“Come, then, milksop. Come, you sit at the rudder and I’ll take the oars, you must be tired!”
Mechanically Gavrilo changed places. When Chelkash, as he changed places with him, glanced into his face, and noticed that he was staggering on his shaking legs, he felt still sorrier for the lad. He clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come, come, don’t be scared! You’ve earned a good sum for it. I’ll pay you richly, mate. Would you like twenty-five roubles, eh?”
“I—don’t want anything. Only to be on shore.”
Chelkash waved his hand, spat, and fell to rowing, flinging the oars far back with his long arms.
The sea had waked up. It frolicked in little waves, bringing them forth, decking them with a fringe of foam, flinging them on one another, and breaking them up into tiny eddies. The foam, melting, hissed and sighed, and everything was filled with the musical plash and cadence. The darkness seemed more alive.
“Come, tell me,” began Chelkash, “you’ll go home to the village, and you’ll marry and begin digging the earth and sowing corn, your wife will bear you children, food won’t be too plentiful, and so you’ll grind away all your life. Well? Is there such sweetness in that?”
“Sweetness!” Gavrilo answered, timid and trembling, “what, indeed?”
The wind tore a rent in the clouds and through the gap peeped blue bits of sky, with one or two stars. Reflected in the frolicking sea, these stars danced on the waves, vanishing and shining out again.
“More to the right!” said Chelkash. “Soon we shall be there. Well, well! It’s over. A haul that’s worth it! See here. One night, and I’ve made five hundred roubles! Eh? What do you say to that?”
“Five hundred?” Gavrilo, drawled, incredulously, but he was seared at once, and quickly asked, prodding the bundle in the boat with his foot. “Why, what sort of thing may this be?”
“That’s silk. A costly thing. All that, if one sold it for its value, would fetch a thousand. But I sell cheap. Is that smart business?”
“I sa—ay?” Gavrilo drawled dubiously. “If only I’d all that!” be sighed, recalling all at once the village, his poor little bit of land, his poverty, his mother, and all that was so far away and so near his heart; for the sake of which he bad gone to seek work, for the sake of which he had suffered such agonies that night. A flood of memories came back to him of his village, running down the steep slope to the river and losing itself in a whole forest of birch trees, willows, and mountain-ashes. These memories breathed something warm into him and cheered him up. “Ah, it would be grand!” he sighed mournfully.