by Maxim Gorky
“Well, I’m blest!” exclaims Sergei, in a delighted whisper. “So you told her straight to go into a convent?”
“Yes, I told her to go,” answers Mitia simply.
“And she told you you were a fool?” queried Sergei, raising his voice.
“Yes, she insulted me.”
“And she was right, my friend; yes, indeed, she was right! You deserve a proper hammering.” And Sergei, changing suddenly his tone, continued with severity and authority: “Have you any right to go against the law? But you did go against it! Things are arranged in a certain way, and it’s no use going against them! You mustn’t even discuss them. But what did you do? You got some maggot into your head. A convent, indeed! Silly fool! What did the girl want? Did she want your convent? What a set of muddle-headed fools there seems to be now! Just think what’s happened! You, you’re neither fish nor fowl, nor good red-herring. And the girl’s done for! She’s living with an old man! And you drove the old man into sin! How many laws have you broken? You clever head!”
“Law, Sergei, is in the soul. There is one law for everyone. Don’t do things that are against your soul, and you will do no evil on the earth,” answered Mitia, in a slow, conciliatory tone, and nodding his head.
“But you did do evil,” answered Sergei, energetically. “In the soul! A fine idea! There are many things in the soul. Certain things must be forbidden. The soul, the soul! You must first understand it, my friend, and then—”
“No, it’s not so, Sergei,” replied Mitia with warmth, and he seemed to be inspired. “The soul, my friend, is always as clear as dew. It’s true, its voice lies deep down within us, and is difficult to hear; but if we listen, we can never be mistaken. If we act according to what is in our soul, we shall always act according to the will of God. God is in the soul, and, therefore, the law must be in it. The soul was created by God, and breathed by God into man. We have only to learn to look into it—and we must look into it without sparing our own feelings.”
“You sleepy devils! Look ahead there!” The voice thundered from the forward part of the raft, and swept back down the river. In the strength of the sound one could recognize that the owner of the voice was healthy, energetic, and pleased with himself. A man with large and conscious vitality. He shouted, not because he had to give a necessary order to the steersmen, but because his soul was full of life and strength, and this life and strength wanted to find free expression, so it rushed forth in that thunderous and forceful sound.
“Listen to the old blackguard shouting,” continued Sergei with delight, looking ahead with a piercing glance, and smiling. “Look at them billing and cooing like a pair of doves! Don’t you ever envy them, Mitia?”
Mitia watched with indifference the working of the two forward oars, held by two figures who moved backward and forward, forming sometimes as they touched each other one compact and dark mass.
“So you say you don’t envy them?” repeated Sergei.
“What is it to me? It’s their sin, and they must answer for it,” replied Mitia quietly.
“Hm!” ironically interjected Sergei, while he filled his pipe.
Once more the small red patch of light glowed in the darkness; and the night grew thicker, and the gray clouds sank lower toward the swollen river.
“Where did you get hold of that fine stuff, or does it come to you naturally? But you don’t take after your father, my lad! Your father’s a fine old chap. Look at him! He’s fifty-two now, and see what a strapping wench he’s carrying on with! She’s as fine a woman as ever wore shoe-leather. And she loves him; it’s no use denying it! She loves him, my lad! One can’t help admiring him, he’s such a trump, your father—he’s the king of trumps! When he’s at work, it’s worth while watching him. And then, he’s rich! And then, look how he’s respected! And his head’s screwed on the right way. Yes. And you? You’re not a bit like either your father or your mother? What would your father have done, Mitia, do you think, if old Anfisa had lived? That would have been a good joke! I should have liked to have seen how she’s have settled him! She was the right sort of woman, your mother! a real plucky one, she was! They were well matched!”
Mitia remained silent, leaning on the pole, and staring at the water.
Sergei ceased talking. Forward on the raft was heard a woman’s shrill laugh, followed by the deeper laugh of a man. Their figures, blurred by the mist, were nearly invisible to Sergei, who, however, watched them curiously. The man appeared as a tall figure, standing with legs wide apart, holding a pole, and half turned toward a shorter woman’s figure, leaning on another pole, and standing a few paces away. She shook her forefinger at the man, and giggled provokingly.
Sergei turned away his head with a sigh, and after a few moment’s silence began to speak again.
“Confound it all, but how jolly they seem together; it’s good to see! Why can’t I have something like that? I, a waif and a stray! I’d never leave such a woman! I’d always have my arms round her, and there’d be no mistake about my loving the little devil! I’ve never had any luck with women! They don’t like ginger hair—women don’t. No. She’s a woman with fancies, she is! She’s a sly little devil! She wants to see life! Are you asleep, Mitia?”
“No,” answered Mitia quietly.
“Well, how are you going to live? To tell the truth, you’re as solitary as a post! That seems pretty hard! Where can you go? You can’t earn your living among strangers. You’re too absurd! What’s the use of a man who can’t stand up for himself? A man’s got to have teeth and claws in this world! They’ll all have a go at you. Can you stick up for yourself? How would you set about it? Damn it all; where the devil could you go?”
“I,” said Mitia, suddenly arousing herself; “I shall go away. I shall go in the autumn to the Caucasian Mountains, and that will be the end of it all. My God! If only I could get away from you all! Soulless, godless men! To get away from you, that’s my only hope! What do you live for? Where is your God? He’s nothing but a name! Do you live in Christ? You are wolves; that’s what you are! But over there live other men, whose souls live in Christ. Their hearts contain love, and they are athirst for the salvation of the world. But you—you are beasts, spewing out filth. But other men there are; I have seen them; they called me, and I must go to them. They gave me the book of Holy Writ, and they said: ‘Read, man of God, our beloved brother, read the word of truth!’ And I read, and my soul was renewed by the word of God. I shall go away. I shall leave all you ravening wolves. You are rending each other’s flesh! Accursed be ye!”
Mitia spoke in a passionate whisper, as if overpowered by the intensity of his contemplative rapture, his anger with the ravening wolves, and his desire to be with those other men, whose souls aspired toward the salvation of the world. Sergei was taken aback. He remained quiet for some time, open-mouthed, holding his pipe in his hand. After a few moments’ thought he glanced round, and said in a deep, rough voice: “Damn it all! Why you’re turned a bad ‘un all at once! Why did you read that book? It was very likely an evil one. Well, be off, be off! If not, there’ll be an end of you! Be off with you before you become a regular beast yourself! And who are these fellows in the Caucasus? Monks? Or what?”
But the fire of Mitia’s spirit died down as quickly as it had been kindled to a flame; he gasped with the exertion as he worked the pole, and muttered to himself below his breath.
Sergei waited some time for the answer which did not come. His simple, hardy nature was quelled by the grim and death-like stillness of the night. He wanted to recall the fullness of life, to wake the solitude with sound, to disturb and trouble the hidden meditative silence of the leaden mass of water, flowing slowly to the sea; and of the dull, threatening clouds hanging motionless in the air. At the other end of the raft there was life, and it called on him to live.
Forward, he could hear every now and then bursts of contented laughter, exclamations, sounds that
seemed to stand out against the silence of this night, laden with the breath of spring, and provoking such passionate life desires.
“Hold hard, Mitia! you’ll catch it again from the old man! Look out there!” said Sergei, who could not stand the silence any longer; and watching Mitia, who aimlessly moved his pole backward and forward in the water.
Mitia, wiping his moist brow, stood quietly leaning with his breast against the pole, and panting.
“There are few steamers tonight,” continued Sergei; “we’ve only passed one these many hours.” Seeing that Mitia had no intention of answering, Sergei replied quietly to himself: “It’s because its too early in the season. It’s only just beginning. We shall soon be at Kazan. The Volga pulls hard. She has a mighty strong back, that can carry all. Why are you standing still like that? Are you angry? Hi, there, Mitia!”
“What’s the matter?” Mitia cried in a vexed tone.
“Nothing, you strange fellow; but why can’t you talk? You are always thinking. Leave it alone! Thinking is bad for a man. A wise sort of fellow you are! You think and think, and all the time you can’t understand that you’re a fool at bottom. Ha! Ha!”
And Sergei, very well satisfied with his own superiority, cleared his throat, remained quiet for a moment, whistled a note, and then continued to develop his theme.
“Thinking? Is that an occupation for a working man? Look at your father; he doesn’t think much; he lives. He loves your wife, and they laugh at you together; you wise fool! That’s about it! Just listen to them! Blast them! I believe Marka’s already with child. Never fear, the child won’t feature you. He’ll be a fine, lusty lad, like Silan himself! But he’ll be your child! Ha! Ha! Ha! He’ll call you father! And you won’t be his father, but his brother; and his real father will be his grandfather! That’s a nice state of things! What a filthy family! But they’re a strapping pair! Isn’t that true, Mitia?”
“Sergei!” In a passionate, sobbing whisper. “In the name of Christ I entreat you don’t tear my soul to pieces, don’t brand me with fire. Leave me alone. Do be quiet! In the name of God and of Christ, I beg you not to speak to me! Don’t disturb me! Don’t drain my heart’s blood! I’ll throw myself in the river, and yours will be the sin, and a great sin it will be! I should lose my soul; don’t force me to it! For God’s sake, I entreat you!”
The silence of the night was troubled with shrill, unnatural sobbing; and Mitia fell on the deck of the raft, as if a blast from the overhanging clouds had struck him down.
“Come, come!” growled Sergei, anxiously watching his mate writhing on the deck, as if scorched with fire. “What a strange man! He ought to have told me if it was not—if it was not quite—”
“You’ve been torturing me all the way. Why? Am I your enemy?” Mitia sobbed again.
“You’re a strange lad! a rum un!” murmured Sergei, confused and offended. “How could I know? I couldn’t tell you’d take on like that!”
“Understand, then, that I want to forget! To forget for ever! My shame, my terrible torture. You’re a cruel lot! I shall go away, and stay away for ever! I can’t stand it any more!”
“Yes, be off with you!” cried Sergei across the raft, accentuating his exclamation with a loud and cynical curse. Then he seemed to shrink together, as if himself afraid of the terrible drama which was unfolding itself before him; drama, which he was now compelled to understand.…
“Hullo! There! I’m calling you! Are you deaf?” sounded up the river the voice of Silan. “What are you about there? What are you bawling about? Ahoy! Ahoy!”
It seemed as if Silan enjoyed shouting, and breaking the heavy silence of the river with his deep voice, full of strength and health. The cries succeeded each other, thrilling the warm, moist air, and seeming to crush down on Mitia’s feeble form. He rose, and once more pressed his body against the steering pole. Sergei shouted in reply to the master with all his strength, and cursed him at the same time under his breath.
The two voices broke through and filled the silence of the night. Then they seemed to meet in one deep note like the sound of a great horn. Once more rising to shrillness, they floated in the air, gradually sank away—and were lost.
Silence reigned once more.
Through the cleft clouds, on the dark water the yellow splashes of moonlight fell, and after glittering a moment disappeared, swept away in the moist gloom.
The raft continued on its way down stream amid silence and darkness.
CHAPTER II
Near one of the forward poles stood Silan Petroff in a red shirt, open at the neck, showing his powerful throat and hairy chest, hard as an anvil. A thatch of gray hair fell over his forehead, under which laughed great black, warm eyes. His sleeves, turned up to the elbow, showed the veins standing out on his arms as they held the pole. Silan was leaning slightly forward, and looking watchfully ahead. Marka stood a few paces from him, glancing with a satisfied smile at the strong form of her lover. They were both silent and busy with their several thoughts. He was peering into the distance, and she followed the movements of his virile, bearded face.
“That must be a fisherman’s fire,” said he, turning toward her.
“It’s all right; we’re keeping on our course, Ouch!” And he puffed out a full, hot breath, and gave a powerful shove with his pole.
“Don’t tire yourself Mashourka,” he continued, watching her, as with her pole she made a skilful movement.
She was round and plump, with black, bright eyes and ruddy cheeks; barefooted, dressed only in a damp petticoat, which clung to her body, and showed the outline of her figure. She turned her face to Silan and, smiling pleasantly, said: “You take too much care of me; I’m all right!”
“I kiss you, but I don’t take care of you,” answered Silan, moving his shoulders.
“That’s not good enough!” she replied, provokingly; and they both were silent, looking at each other with desiring eyes.
Under the rafts, the water gurgled musically. On the right bank, very far off, a cock crew. Swaying lightly under their feet, the raft floated on toward a point where the darkness dissolved into lighter tones, and the clouds took on themselves clearer shapes and less sombre hues.
“Silan Petrovitch, do you know what they were shouting about there? I know. I bet you I know. It was Mitia who was complaining about us to Sergei; and it was he who cried out with trouble, and Sergei was cursing us!”
Marka questioned anxiously Silan’s face, which, after her words, became grim and coldly stubborn.
“Well!” shortly.
“Well, that’s all!”
“If that’s all, there was nothing to say.”
“Don’t get angry.”
“Angry with you? I should like to be angry with you, but I can’t.”
“You love Marsha?” she whispered, coaxingly leaning toward him.
“You bet!” answered Silan, with emphasis, stretching out toward her his powerful arms. “Come now, don’t tease me!”
She twisted her body with the movements of a cat, and once more leaned toward him.
“We shall upset the steering again,” whispered he, kissing her face which burned under his lips.
“Shut up now! They can see us at the other end;” and motioning aft with her head, she struggled to free herself, but he held her more tightly still with one arm, and managed the pole with the other hand.
“They can see us? Let them see us. I spit on them all! I’m sinning, that’s true; I know it; and shall have to answer for it to God; but still you never were his wife; you were free; you belonged to yourself. He’s suffering, I know. And what about me? Is my position a pleasant one? It is true that you were not his wife; but all the same, with my position, how must I feel now? Is it not a dreadful sin before God? It is a sin! I know it all, and I’ve gone through everything! Because it’s a thing worth doing!
“We love on
ly once, and we may die any day. Oh! Marka! If I’d only waited a month before marrying you to Mitia, nothing of this would have happened. Directly after the death of Anfisa I would have sent my friends to propose for you, and all would have been right! Right before the law; without sin, without shame. That was my mistake, and this mistake will take away from me five or ten years of my life. Such a mistake as that makes an old man of one before one’s time.”
Silan Petroff spoke with decision, but quietly, while, an expression of inflexible determination flashed from his face, giving him the appearance of a man who was ready then and there to fight and struggle for the right to love.
“Well, it’s all right now; don’t trouble yourself any more. We have talked about it more than once already,” whispered Marka, freeing herself gently from his arms, and returning to her oar.
He began working his pole backward and forward, rapidly and energetically, as if he wished to get rid of the load that weighed on his breast, and cast a shadow over his fine face.
Day broke gradually.
The clouds, losing their density, crept slowly away on every side, as if reluctantly giving place to the sunlight. The surface of the river grew lighter, and took on it the cold gleam of polished steel.
“Not long ago he talked with me about it. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘is it not a deadly shame for you, and for me? Give her up!’ He meant you,” explained Silan, and smiled. “‘Give her up,’ he said; ‘return to the right path!’ ‘My dear son,’ I said, ‘go away if you want to save your skin! I shall tear you to pieces like a rotten rag! There will be nothing left of your great virtue! It’s a sorrow to me to think that I’m your father! You puny wretch!’ He trembled. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘am I in the wrong?’ You are,’ I said, ‘you whining cur, because you are in my way! You are,’ I said, ‘because you can’t stand up for yourself! You lifeless, rotten carrion! If only,’ I said, ‘you were strong, one could kill you; but even that isn’t possible! One pities you, poor, wretched creature!’ He only wept. Oh, Marka! This sort of thing makes one good for nothing. Any one else would—would get their heads out of this noose as soon as possible, but we are in it, and we shall perhaps tighten it round each other’s necks!”