The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  When he reached a group of tatterdemalions, seated in the shade of some baskets of charcoal, a broad-shouldered and stupid looking boy rose to meet him. His face was streaked with red and his neck was scratched; he bore the traces of a recent fight. He walked along beside Tchelkache, and said under his breath:

  “The custom-house officers can’t find two boxes of goods. They are looking for them. You understand, Grichka?”

  “What of it?” asked Tchelkache, measuring him calmly with his eyes.

  “What of it? They are looking, that’s all.”

  “Have they inquired for me to help them in their search?”

  Tchelkache gazed at the warehouses with a meaning smile.

  “Go to the devil!”

  The other turned on his heel.

  “Hey! Wait!—Who has fixed you up in that fashion? Your face is all bruised—Have you seen Michka around here?”

  “I haven’t seen him for a long time!” cried the other, rejoining the ‘longshoremen.

  Tchelkache continued on his way, greeted in a friendly manner by all. But he, usually so ready with merry word or biting jest, was evidently out of sorts today, and answered all questions briefly.

  Behind a bale of merchandise appeared a custom-house officer, standing in his dark-green, dusty uniform with military erectness. He barred Tchelkache’s way, placing himself before him in an offensive attitude, his left hand on his sword, and reached out his right hand to take Tchelkache by the collar.

  “Stop, where are you going?”

  Tchelkache fell back a step, looked at the officer and smiled drily.

  The red, cunning and good-natured face of the custom-house officer was making an effort to appear terrible; with the result that swollen and purple, with wrinkling eyebrows and bulging eyes, it only succeeded in being funny.

  “You’ve been warned before: don’t you dare to come upon the wharf, or I’ll break every rib in your body!” fiercely exclaimed the officer.

  “How do you do, Semenitch! I haven’t seen you for a long time,” quietly replied Tchelkache, extending his hand.

  “I could get along without ever seeing you! Go about your business!”

  However, Semenitch shook the hand that was extended to him.

  “You’re just the one I want to see,” pursued Tchelkache, without loosening the hold of his hooked fingers on Semenitch’s hand, and shaking it familiarly. “Have you seen Michka?”

  “What Michka? I don’t know any Michka! Get along with you, friend, or the inspector’ll see you; he—”

  “The red-haired fellow who used to work with me on board the ‘Kostroma,’” continued Tchelkache, unmoved.

  “Who stole with you would be nearer the truth! Your Michka has been sent to the hospital: his leg was crushed under a bar of iron. Go on, friend, take my advice or else I shall have to beat you.”

  “Ah!—And you were saying: I don’t know Michka! You see that you do know him. What’s put you out, Semenitch?”

  “Enough, Grichka, say no more and off with you—”

  The officer was getting angry and, darting apprehensive glances on either side, tried to free his hand from the firm grasp of Tchelkache. The last named looked at him calmly from under his heavy eyebrows, while a slight smile curved his lips, and without releasing his hold of the officer’s hand, continued talking.

  “Don’t hurry me. When I’m through talking to you I’ll go. Tell me how you’re getting on. Are your wife and children well?”

  Accompanying his words with a terrible glance, and showing his teeth in a mocking grin, he added:

  “I’m always intending to make you a visit, but I never have the time: I’m always drunk—”

  “That’ll do, that’ll do, drop that—Stop joking, bony devil! If you don’t, comrade, I—Or do you really intend to rob houses and streets?”

  “Why? There’s enough here for both of us. My God, yes!—Semenitch! You’ve stolen two boxes of goods again?—Look out, Semenitch, be careful! Or you’ll be caught one of these days!”

  Semenitch trembled with anger at the impudence of Tchelkache; he spat upon the ground in a vain effort to speak. Tchelkache let go his hand and turned back quietly and deliberately at the entrance to the wharf. The officer, swearing like a trooper, followed him.

  Tchelkache had recovered his spirits; he whistled softly between his teeth, and, thrusting his hands in his trousers’ pockets, walked slowly, like a man who has nothing to do, throwing to the right and left scathing remarks and jests. He received replies in kind.

  “Happy Grichka, what good care the authorities take of him!” cried someone in a group of ‘longshoremen who had eaten their dinner and were lying, stretched out on the ground.

  “I have no shoes; Semenitch is afraid that I may hurt my feet,” replied Tchelkache.

  They reached the gate. Two soldiers searched Tchelkache and pushed him gently aside.

  “Don’t let him come back again!” cried Semenitch, who had remained inside.

  Tchelkache crossed the road and seated himself on a stepping-block in front of the inn door. From the wharf emerged an interminable stream of loaded wagons. From the opposite direction arrived empty wagons at full speed, the drivers jolting up and down on the seats. The quay emitted a rumbling as of thunder; accompanied by an acrid dust. The ground seemed to shake.

  Accustomed to this mad turmoil, stimulated by his scene with Semenitch, Tchelkache felt at peace with all the world. The future promised him substantial gain without great outlay of energy or skill on his part. He was sure that neither the one nor the other would fail him; screwing up his eyes, he thought of the next day’s merry-making when, his work accomplished, he should have a roll of bills in his pocket. Then his thoughts reverted to his friend Michka, who would have been of so much use to him that night, if he had not broken his leg. Tchelkache swore inwardly at the thought that for want of Michka he might perhaps fail in his enterprise. What was the night going to be?—He questioned the sky and inspected the street.

  Six steps away, was a boy squatting in the road near the sidewalk, his back against a post; he was dressed in blue blouse and trousers, tan shoes, and a russet cap. Near him lay a little bag and a scythe, without a handle, wrapped in hay carefully bound with string. The boy was broad shouldered and fairhaired with a sun-burned and tanned face; his eyes were large and blue and gazed at Tchelkache confidingly and pleasantly.

  Tchelkache showed his teeth, stuck out his tongue, and, making a horrible grimace, stared at him persistently.

  The boy, surprised, winked, then suddenly burst out laughing and cried:

  “O! how funny he is!”

  Almost without rising from the ground, he rolled heavily along toward Tchelkache, dragging his bag in the dust and striking the stones with his scythe.

  “Eh! say, friend, you’ve been on a good spree!” said he to Tchelkache, pulling his trousers.

  “Just so, little one, just so!” frankly replied Tchelkache. This robust and artless lad pleased him from the first.

  “Have you come from the hay-harvest?”

  “Yes. I’ve mowed a verst and earned a kopek! Business is bad! There are so many hands! The starving folks have come—have spoiled the prices. They used to give sixty kopeks at Koubagne. As much as that! And formerly, they say, three, four, even five rubles.”

  “Formerly!—Formerly, they gave three rubles just for the sight of a real Russian. Ten years ago, I made a business of that. I would go to a village, and I would say: ‘I am a Russian!’ At the words, everyone came flocking to look at me, feel of me, marvel at me—and I had three rubles in my pocket! In addition, they gave me food and drink and invited me to stay as long as I liked.”

  The boy’s mouth had gradually opened wider and wider, as he listened to Tchelkache, and his round face expressed surprised admiration; then, comprehending that he was being rid
iculed by this ragged man, be brought his jaws together suddenly and burst, out laughing. Tchelkache kept a serious face, concealing a smile under his moustache.

  “What a funny fellow!… You said that as though it was true, and I believed you. But, truly, formerly, yonder.…”

  “And what did I say? I said that formerly, yonder…”

  “Get along with you!” said the boy, accompanying his words with a gesture. “Are you a shoemaker? or a tailor? Say?”

  “I?” asked Tchelkache; then after a moment’s reflection, he added:

  “I’m a fisherman.”

  “A fisherman? Really! What do you catch, fish?”

  “Why should I catch fish? Around here the fishermen catch other things besides that. Very often drowned men, old anchors, sunken boats—everything, in fact! There are lines for that…”

  “Invent, keep on inventing! Perhaps you’re one of those fishermen who sing about themselves:

  “We are those who throw our nets Upon dry banks, Upon barns and stables!”

  “Have you ever seen any of that kind?” asked Tchelkache, looking ironically at him, and thinking that this honest boy must be very stupid.

  “No, I’ve never seen any; but I’ve heard them spoken of.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Why not? They are fearless and free.”

  “Do you feel the need of freedom? Do you like freedom?”

  “How could I help liking it? One is his own master, goes where he likes, and does what he pleases. If he succeeds in supporting himself and has no weight dragging at his neck, what more can he ask? He can have as good a time as he likes provided he doesn’t forget God.”

  Tchelkache spat contemptuously and interrupted the boy’s questions by turning his back to him.

  “Look at me, for instance,” said the other, with sudden animation. “When my father died, he left little. My mother was old, the land worn out, what could I do? One must live. But how? I don’t know. A well-to-do family would take me in as a son-in-law, to be sure! If the daughter only received her share! But no! The devil of a father-in-law never wants to divide the property. So then, I must toil for him…a long time…years. Do you see how it stands? While if I could put by a hundred and fifty rubles, I should feel independent and be able to talk to the old man. ‘Will you give Marfa her share?’ No! ‘All right! She’s not the only girl in the village, thank God.’ And so I’d be perfectly free, my own master. Yes!” The lad sighed. “As it is, there’s nothing for it but to go into a family. I’ve thought that if I were to go to Koubagne, I’d easily make two hundred rubles. Then I should have a chance for myself. But no, nothing has come my way, I’ve failed in everything! So now it’s necessary to enter a family, be a slave, because I can’t get along with what I have—impossible! Ehe!…”

  The lad detested the idea of becoming the husband of some rich girl who would remain at home. His face grew dull and sad. He moved restlessly about on the ground; this roused Tchelkache from the reflections in which his speech had plunged him.

  Tchelkache felt that he had no more desire to talk, but he nevertheless asked:

  “Where are you going, now?”

  “Where am I going? Home, of course!”

  “Why of course?… Perhaps you’d like to go to Turkey.”

  “To Turkey?” drawled the boy. “Do Christians go there? What do you mean by that?”

  “What an imbecile you are!” sighed Tchelkache, and he again turned his back on his interlocutor, thinking this time that he would not vouchsafe him another word. This robust peasant awakened something obscure within him.

  A confused feeling was gradually growing up, a kind of vexation was stirring the depths of his being and preventing him from concentrating his thoughts upon what he had to do that night.

  The lad whom he had just insulted muttered something under his breath and looked askance at him. His cheeks were comically puffed out, his lips pursed up, and he half closed his eyes in a laughable manner. Evidently he had not expected that his conversation with this moustached person would end so quickly and in a manner so humiliating for him.

  Tchelkache paid no more attention to him. Sitting on the block, he whistled absent-mindedly and beat time with his bare and dirty heel.

  The boy longed to be revenged.

  “Hey! Fisherman! Are you often drunk?” he began; but at the same instant the fisherman turned quickly around and asked:

  “Listen, youngster! Do you want to work with me tonight? Eh? Answer quick.”

  “Work at what?” questioned the boy, distrustfully.

  “At what I shall tell you… We’ll go fishing. You shall row…”

  “If that’s it…why not? All right! I know how to work… Only suppose anything happens to me with you; you’re not reassuring, with your mysterious airs…”

  Tchelkache felt a burning sensation in his breast and said with concentrated rage:

  “Don’t talk about what yon can’t understand, or else, I’ll hit yon on the head so hard that your ideas will soon clear up.”

  He jumped up, pulling his moustache with his left hand and doubling his right fist all furrowed with knotted veins and hard as iron; his eyes flashed.

  The lad was afraid. He glanced quickly around him and, blinking timidly, also jumped up on his feet. They measured each other with their eyes in silence.

  “Well?” sternly demanded Tchelkache.

  He was boiling over with rage at being insulted by this young boy, whom he had despised even when talking with him, and whom he now began to hate on account of his pure blue eyes, his healthy and sun-burned face and his short, strong arms; because he had, somewhere yonder, a village and a home in that village; because it had been proposed to him to enter as son-in-law in a well-to-do family, and, above all, because this being, who was only a child in comparison with himself, should presume to like liberty, of which he did not know the worth and which was useless to him. It is always disagreeable to see a person whom we consider our inferior like, or dislike, the same things that we do and to be compelled to admit that in that respect they are our equals.

  The lad gazed at Tchelkache and felt that he had found his master.

  “Why…” said he; “I consent. I’m willing. It’s work that I’m looking for. It’s all the same to me whether I work with you or someone else. I only said that because you don’t seem like a man that works…you are far too ragged. However, I know very well that that may happen to anyone. Have I never seen a drunkard? Eh! How many I’ve seen, and much worse than you!”

  “Good! Then you consent?” asked Tchelkache, somewhat mollified.

  “I, why yes, with pleasure. Name your price.”

  “My price depends upon the work. It’s according to what we do and take. You may perhaps receive five rubles. Do you understand?”

  But now that it was a question of money, the peasant wanted a clear understanding and exacted perfect frankness on the part of his master. He again became distrustful and suspicious.

  “That’s scarcely to my mind, friend. I must have those five rubles in my hand how.”

  Tchelkache humored him.

  “Enough said, wait a little. Let us go to the tavern.”

  They walked side by side along the street; Tchelkache twisting his moustache with the important air of an employer, the lad submissively, but at the same time filled with distrust and fear.

  “What’s your name?” asked Tchelkache.

  “Gavrilo,” replied the lad.

  When they had entered the dirty and smoky ale-house Tchelkache went up to the bar and ordered, in the familiar tone of a regular customer, a bottle of brandy, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea, and, after enumerating the order, said briefly: “to be charged!” To which the boy responded by a silent nod. At this, Gavrilo was filled with great respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, w
as so well known and treated with so much confidence.

  “There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant, I will be back directly.”

  He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and a musty odor. In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian.

  Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.

  Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled, half drunk, writhing, restless…

  Gavrilo was afraid to remain alone. He longed for his master’s return. The divers noises of the ale-house blended in one single note: it seemed like the roaring of some enormous animal with a hundred voices, struggling blindly and furiously in this stone box and finding no issue. Gavrilo felt himself growing heavy and dull as though his body had absorbed intoxication; his head swam and he could not see, in spite of his desire to satisfy his curiosity.

  Tchelkache returned; he ate and drank while he talked. At the third glass Gavrilo was drunk. He grew lively; he wanted to say something nice to his host, who, worthy man that he was, was treating him so well, before he had availed himself of his services. But the words, which vaguely mounted to his throat, refused to leave his suddenly thick tongue.

  Tchelkache looked at him. He said, smiling sarcastically.

  “So you’re done for, already!…it isn’t possible! Just for five small glasses! How will you manage to work?”

  “Friend,” stammered Gavrilo, “don’t be afraid! I will serve you. Ah, how I’ll serve you! Let me embrace you, come?”

  “That’s right, that’s right!… One more glass?”

  Gavrilo drank. Everything swam before his eyes in unequal waves. That was unpleasant and gave him nausea. His face had a stupid expression. In his efforts to speak, he protruded his lips comically and roared. Tchelkache looked at him fixedly as though he was recalling something, then without turning aside his gaze twisted his moustache and smiled, but this time, moodily and viciously.