by Maxim Gorky
Turning around, Lubov noticed the captain of the “Yermak,” Yefim, coming along the garden path. He had respectfully removed his cap and bowed to her. There was a hopelessly guilty expression on his face and he seemed abashed. Yakov Tarasovich recognized him and, instantly grown alarmed, he cried:
“Where are you coming from? What has happened?”
“I—I have come to you!” said Yefim, stopping short at the table, with a low bow.
“Well, I see, you’ve come to me. What’s the matter? Where’s the steamer?”
“The steamer is there!” Yefim thrust his hand somewhere into the air and heavily shifted from one foot to the other.
“Where is it, devil? Speak coherently—what has happened?” cried the old man, enraged.
“So—a misfortune, Yakov.”
“Have you been wrecked?”
“No, God saved us.”
“Burned up? Well, speak more quickly.”
Yefim drew air into his chest and said slowly:
“Barge No. 9 was sunk—smashed up. One man’s back was broken, and one is altogether missing, so that he must have drowned. About five more were injured, but not so very badly, though some were disabled.”
“So-o!” drawled out Mayakin, measuring the captain with an ill-omened look.
“Well, Yefimushka, I’ll strip your skin off.”
“It wasn’t I who did it!” said Yefim, quickly.
“Not you?” cried the old man, shaking with rage. “Who then?”
“The master himself.”
“Foma? And you. Where were you?”
“I was lying in the hatchway.”
“Ah! You were lying.”
“I was bound there.”
“Wha-at?” screamed the old man in a shrill voice.
“Allow me to tell you everything as it happened. He was drunk and he shouted: “‘Get away! I’ll take command myself!’ I said ‘I can’t! I am the captain.’ ‘Bind him!’ said he. And when they had bound me, they lowered me into the hatchway, with the sailors. And as the master was drunk, he wanted to have some fun. A fleet of boats was coming toward us. Six empty barges towed by ‘Cheruigorez.’ So Foma Ignatyich blocked their way. They whistled. More than once. I must tell the truth—they whistled!”
“Well?”
“Well, and they couldn’t manage it—the two barges in front crashed into us. And as they struck the side of our ninth, we were smashed to pieces. And the two barges were also smashed. But we fared much worse.”
Mayakin rose from the chair and burst into jarring, angry laughter. And Yefim sighed, and, outstretching his hands, said: “He has a very violent character. When he is sober he is silent most of the time, and walks around thoughtfully, but when he wets his springs with wine—then he breaks loose. Then he is not master of himself and of his business—but their wild enemy—you must excuse me! And I want to leave, Yakov Tarasovich! I am not used to being without a master, I cannot live without a master!”
“Keep quiet!” said Mayakin, sternly. “Where’s Foma?”
“There; at the same place. Immediately after the accident, he came to himself and at once sent for workmen. They’ll lift the barge. They may have started by this time.”
“Is he there alone?” asked Mayakin, lowering his head.
“Not quite,” replied Yefim, softly, glancing stealthily at Lubov.
“Really?”
“There’s a lady with him. A dark one.”
“So.”
“It looks as though the woman is out of her wits,” said Yefim, with a sigh. “She’s forever singing. She sings very well. It’s very captivating.”
“I am not asking you about her!” cried Mayakin, angrily. The wrinkles of his face were painfully quivering, and it seemed to Lubov that her father was about to weep.
“Calm yourself, papa!” she entreated caressingly. “Maybe the loss isn’t so great.”
“Not great?” cried Yakov Tarasovich in a ringing voice. “What do you understand, you fool? Is it only that the barge was smashed? Eh, you! A man is lost! That’s what it is! And he is essential to me! I need him, dull devils that you are!” The old man shook his head angrily and with brisk steps walked off along the garden path leading toward the house.
And Foma was at this time about four hundred versts away from his godfather, in a village hut, on the shore of the Volga. He had just awakened from sleep, and lying on the floor, on a bed of fresh hay, in the middle of the hut, he gazed gloomily out of the window at the sky, which was covered with gray, scattered clouds.
The wind was tearing them asunder and driving them somewhere; heavy and weary, one overtaking another, they were passing across the sky in an enormous flock. Now forming a solid mass, now breaking into fragments, now falling low over the earth, in silent confusion, now again rising upward, one swallowed by another.
Without moving his head, which was heavy from intoxication, Foma looked
long at the clouds and finally began to feel as though silent clouds
were also passing through his breast,—passing, breathing a damp
coldness upon his heart and oppressing him. There was something impotent
in the motion of the clouds across the sky. And he felt the same within
him. Without thinking, he pictured to himself all he had gone through
during the past months. It seemed to him as though he had fallen into a
turbid, boiling stream, and now he had been seized by dark waves, that
resembled these clouds in the sky; had been seized and carried away
somewhere, even as the clouds were carried by the wind. In the darkness
and the tumult which surrounded him, he saw as though through a mist
that certain other people were hastening together with him—today not
those of yesterday, new ones each day, yet all looking alike—equally
pitiful and repulsive. Intoxicated, noisy, greedy, they flew about
him as in a whirlwind, caroused at his expense, abused him, fought,
screamed, and even wept more than once. And he beat them. He remembered
that one day he had struck somebody on the face, torn someone’s coat off
and thrown it into the water and that some one had kissed his hands with
wet, cold lips as disgusting as frogs. Had kissed and wept, imploring
him not to kill. Certain faces flashed through his memory, certain
sounds and words rang in it. A woman in a yellow silk waist, unfastened
at the breast, had sung in a loud, sobbing voice:
“And so let us live while we can
And then—e’en grass may cease to grow.”
All these people, like himself, grown wild and beastlike, were seized by the same dark wave and carried away like rubbish. All these people, like himself, must have been afraid to look forward to see whither this powerful, wild wave was carrying them. And drowning their fear in wine, they were rushing forward down the current struggling, shouting, doing something absurd, playing the fool, clamouring, clamouring, without ever being cheerful. He was doing the same, whirling in their midst. And now it seemed to him, that he was doing all this for fear of himself, in order to pass the sooner this strip of life, or in order not to think of what would be afterward.
Amid the burning turmoil of carouses, in the crowd of people, seized by debauchery, perplexed by violent passions, half-crazy in their longing to forget themselves—only Sasha was calm and contained. She never drank to intoxication, always addressed people in a firm, authoritative voice, and all her movements were equally confident, as though this stream had not taken possession of her, but she was herself mastering its violent course. She seemed to Foma the cleverest person of all those that surrounded him, and the most eager for noise and carouse; she held them all in her
sway, forever inventing something new and speaking in one and the same manner to everybody; for the driver, the lackey and the sailor she had the same tone and the same words as for her friends and for Foma. She was younger and prettier than Pelageya, but her caresses were silent, cold. Foma imagined that deep in her heart she was concealing from everybody something terrible, that she would never love anyone, never reveal herself entire. This secrecy in the woman attracted him toward her with a feeling of timorous curiosity, of a great, strained interest in her calm, cold soul, which seemed even as dark as her eyes.
Somehow Foma said to her one day:
“But what piles of money you and I have squandered!”
She glanced at him, and asked:
“And why should we save it?”
“Indeed, why?” thought Foma, astonished by the fact that she reasoned so simply.
“Who are you?” he asked her at another occasion.
“Why, have you forgotten my name?”
“Well, the idea!”
“What do you wish to know then?”
“I am asking you about your origin.”
“Ah! I am a native of the province of Yaroslavl. I’m from Ooglich. I was a harpist. Well, shall I taste sweeter to you, now that you know who I am?”
“Do I know it?” asked Foma, laughing.
“Isn’t that enough for you? I shall tell you nothing more about it. What for? We all come from the same place, both people and beasts. And what is there that I can tell you about myself? And what for? All this talk is nonsense. Let’s rather think a little as to how we shall pass the day.”
On that day they took a trip on a steamer, with an orchestra of music, drank champagne, and every one of them got terribly drunk. Sasha sang a peculiar, wonderfully sad song, and Foma, moved by her singing, wept like a child. Then he danced with her the “Russian dance,” and finally, perspiring and fatigued, threw himself overboard in his clothes and was nearly drowned.
Now, recalling all this and a great deal more, he felt ashamed of himself and dissatisfied with Sasha. He looked at her well-shaped figure, heard her even breathing and felt that he did not love this woman, and that she was unnecessary to him. Certain gray, oppressive thoughts were slowly springing up in his heavy, aching head. It seemed to him as though everything he had lived through during this time was twisted within him into a heavy and moist ball, and that now this ball was rolling about in his breast, unwinding itself slowly, and the thin gray cords were binding him.
“What is going on in me?” he thought. “I’ve begun to carouse. Why? I don’t know how to live. I don’t understand myself. Who am I?”
He was astonished by this question, and he paused over it, attempting to make it clear to himself—why he was unable to live as firmly and confidently as other people do. He was now still more tortured by conscience. More uneasy at this thought, he tossed about on the hay and irritated, pushed Sasha with his elbow.
“Be careful!” said she, although nearly asleep.
“It’s all right. You’re not such a lady of quality!” muttered Foma.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
She turned her back to him, and said lazily, with a lazy yawn:
“I dreamed that I became a harpist again. It seemed to me that I was singing a solo, and opposite me stood a big, dirty dog, snarling and waiting for me to finish the song. And I was afraid of the dog. And I knew that it would devour me, as soon as I stopped singing. So I kept singing, singing. And suddenly it seemed my voice failed me. Horrible! And the dog is gnashing his teeth. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! What does it mean?”
“Stop your idle talk!” Foma interrupted her sternly. “You better tell me what you know about me.”
“I know, for instance, that you are awake now,” she answered, without turning to him.
“Awake? That’s true. I’ve awakened,” said Foma, thoughtfully and, throwing his arm behind his head, went on: “That’s why I am asking you. What sort of man do you think I am?”
“A man with a drunken headache,” answered Sasha, yawning.
“Aleksandra!” exclaimed Foma, beseechingly, “don’t talk nonsense! Tell me conscientiously, what do you think of me?”
“I don’t think anything!” she said drily. “Why are you bothering me with nonsense?”
“Is this nonsense?” said Foma, sadly. “Eh, you devils! This is the principal thing. The most essential thing to me.”
He heaved a deep sigh and became silent. After a minute’s silence, Sasha began to speak in her usual, indifferent voice:
“Tell him who he is, and why he is such as he is? Did you ever see! Is it proper to ask such questions of our kind of women? And on what ground should I think about each and every man? I have not even time to think about myself, and, perhaps, I don’t feel like doing it at all.”
Foma laughed drily and said:
“I wish I were like this—and had no desires for anything.”
Then the woman raised her head from the pillow, looked into Foma’s face and lay down again, saying:
“You are musing too much. Look out—no good will come of it to you. I cannot tell you anything about yourself. It is impossible to say anything true about a man. Who can understand him? Man does not know himself. Well, here, I’ll tell you—you are better than others. But what of it?”
“And in what way am I better?” asked Foma, thoughtfully.
“So! When one sings a good song—you weep. When one does some mean thing—you beat him. With women you are simple, you are not impudent to them. You are peaceable. And you can also be daring, sometimes.”
Yet all this did not satisfy Foma.
“You’re not telling me the right thing!” said he, softly. “Well, I don’t know what you want. But see here, what are we going to do after they have raised the barge?”
“What can we do?” asked Foma.
“Shall we go to Nizhni or to Kazan?”
“What for?”
“To carouse.”
“I don’t want to carouse any more.”
“What else are you going to do?”
“What? Nothing.”
And both were silent for a long time, without looking at each other.
“You have a disagreeable character,” said Sasha, “a wearisome character.”
“But nevertheless I won’t get drunk any more!” said Foma, firmly and confidently.
“You are lying!” retorted Sasha, calmly.
“You’ll see! What do you think—is it good to lead such a life as this?”
“I’ll see.”
“No, just tell me—is it good?”
“But what is better?”
Foma looked at her askance and, irritated, said:
“What repulsive words you speak.”
“Well, here again I haven’t pleased him!” said Sasha, laughing.
“What a fine crowd!” said Foma, painfully wrinkling his face. “They’re like trees. They also live, but how? No one understands. They are crawling somewhere. And can give no account either to themselves or to others. When the cockroach crawls, he knows whither and wherefore he wants to go? And you? Whither are you going?”
“Hold on!” Sasha interrupted him, and asked him calmly: “What have you to do with me? You may take from me all that you want, but don’t you creep into my soul!”
“Into your so-o-ul!” Foma drawled out, with contempt. “Into what soul? He, he!”
She began to pace the room, gathering together the clothes that were scattered everywhere. Foma watched her and was displeased because she did not get angry at him for his words about her soul. Her face looked calm and indifferent, as usual, but he wished to see her angry or offended; he wished for something human from the woman.
“The soul!” he exclaimed, persisting in his aim. “
Can one who has a soul live as you live? A soul has fire burning in it, there is a sense of shame in it.”
By this time she was sitting on a bench, putting on her stockings, but at his words she raised her head and sternly fixed her eyes upon his face.
“What are you staring at?” asked Foma.
“Why do you speak that way?” said she, without lifting her eyes from him.
“Because I must.”
“Look out—must you really?”
There was something threatening in her question. Foma felt intimidated and said, this time without provocation in his voice:
“How could I help speaking?”
“Oh, you!” sighed Sasha and resumed dressing herself
“And what about me?”
“Merely so. You seem as though you were born of two fathers. Do you know what I have observed among people?”
“Well?”
“If a man cannot answer for himself, it means that he is afraid of himself, that his price is a grosh!”
“Do you refer to me?” asked Foma, after a pause.
“To you, too.”
She threw a pink morning gown over her shoulders and, standing in the centre of the room, stretched out her hand toward Foma, who lay at her feet, and said to him in a low, dull voice:
“You have no right to speak about my soul. You have nothing to do with it! And therefore hold your tongue! I may speak! If I please, I could tell something to all of you. Eh, how I could tell it! Only,—who will dare to listen to me, if I should speak at the top of my voice? And I have some words about you,—they’re like hammers! And I could knock you all on your heads so that you would lose your wits. And although you are all rascals—you cannot be cured by words. You should be burned in the fire—just as frying-pans are burned out on the first Monday of Lent.”