The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  The little man uttered a strange sound, and disappeared; the captain seated himself on the bunk, by the side of the schoolmaster, felt his forehead and his chest, and called him by name—

  “Philippe!”

  The sound echoed along the dirty walls of the doss-house, and died away.

  “Come, old chap! this is absurd!” said the captain, smoothing with his hand the disordered hair of the motionless schoolmaster. Then the captain listened to the hot gasping breath, noted the death-like, haggard face, sighed, and wrinkling his brows severely, glanced around. The lamp gave a sickly light; its flame flickered, and on the walls of the doss-house dark shadows danced silently.

  The captain sat watching them and stroking his beard.

  Tiapa came in with a bucket of water, placed it on the floor beside the schoolmaster’s head, and taking hold of his arm held it in his hand, as if to feel its weight.

  “The water is of no use!” said the captain in a hopeless voice.

  “It’s the priest he wants,” said the old rag-picker.

  “Nothing’s of any use,” replied the captain.

  They remained a few moments silent, watching the schoolmaster.

  “Come and have a drink, old boy!”

  “And what about him?”

  “Can you do anything for him?”

  Tiapa turned his back on the schoolmaster, and both returned to the yard, and rejoined the company.

  “Well, what’s going on?” asked “Scraps,” turning his shrewd face round to the captain.

  “Nothing out of the common. The man’s dying,” the captain replied abruptly.

  “Has he been knocked about?” asked “Scraps,” with curiosity.

  The captain did not answer, for at that moment he was drinking vodka.

  “It’s just as if he knew that we had something extra for his funeral feast,” said “Scraps,” lighting a cigarette.

  One of them laughed, and another sighed heavily, but on the whole the conversation of “Scraps” and the captain did not produce much impression on the company; at least there were no apparent signs of trouble, of interest, or of thought. All had looked upon the schoolmaster as a man rather out of the common, but now most of them were drunk, and the rest remained calm and outwardly detached from what was going forward. Only the deacon evinced signs of violent agitation; his lips moved, he rubbed his forehead, and wildly howled—

  “Peace be to the dead!…”

  “Stop it!” hissed “Scraps.” “What are you howling about?”

  “Smash his jaw!” said the captain.

  “You fool!” hissed Tiapa. “When a soul is passing, you should keep quiet, and not break the silence.”

  It was quiet enough; in the cloud-covered sky, which threatened rain, and on the earth, shrouded in the still silence of an autumn night. At intervals the silence was broken by the snoring of those who had fallen asleep; by the gurgle of vodka being poured from the bottle, or the noisy munching of food. The deacon was muttering something. The clouds hung so low that it almost seemed as if they would catch the roof of the old house, and overturn it on to the outcasts.

  “Ah! how one suffers when a dear friend is passing away!” stammered the captain, dropping his head on his chest.

  No one answered him.

  “He was the best among you all—the cleverest, the most honest. I am sorry for him.”

  “May—the—sa-i-nts—receive—him!… Sing, you one-eyed devil!” muttered the deacon, nudging his friend, who lay by his side half asleep.

  “Will you be quiet!” exclaimed “Scraps” in an angry whisper, jumping to his feet.

  “I’ll go and give him a knock over the head,” proposed Martianoff.

  “What! are you not asleep?” exclaimed Aristide Fomitch in an extraordinarily gentle voice. “Have you heard? Our schoolmaster is”—

  Martianoff turned over heavily on his side, stood up, and glanced at the streams of light which issued from the door and windows of the doss-house, shrugged his shoulders, and without a word came and sat down by the side of the captain.

  “Let’s have another drop,” suggested Kouvalda.

  They groped for the glasses, and drank.

  “I shall go and see,” said Tiapa. “He may want something.”

  “Nothing but a coffin!” hiccoughed the captain.

  “Don’t talk about it!” implored “Scraps” in a dull voice.

  After Tiapa, “The Meteor” got up. The deacon wanted to rise as well; but he fell down again, cursing loudly.

  When Tiapa had gone, the captain slapped Martianoff’s shoulder, and began to talk in a low voice.

  “That’s how the matter stands, Martianoff; you ought to feel it more than the rest. You were—but it’s better to drop it. Are you sorry for Philippe?”

  “No!” answered the former gaoler, after a short silence. “I don’t feel anything of that sort. I have lost the habit of it; I am so disgusted with life. I’m quite in earnest when I say I shall kill someone.”

  “Yes?” replied the captain indifferently. “Well, what then?… let’s have another drop!”

  “We are of no account; we can drink, that’s all we can do,” muttered Simtzoff, who had just woke in a happy frame of mind. “Who’s there, mates? Pour out a glass for the old man!”

  The vodka was poured out and handed to him.

  After drinking it he dropped down again, falling with his head on someone’s body.

  A silence, as dark and as miserable as the autumn night, continued for a few moments longer. Then someone spoke in a whisper.

  “What is it?” the others asked aloud.

  “I say that after all he was a good sort of fellow; he had a clever head on his shoulders, and so quiet and gentle!”

  “Yes; and when he got hold of money he never grudged spending it amongst his friends.”

  Once more silence fell on the company.

  “He is going!”

  Tiapa’s cry rang out over the captain’s head.

  Aristide Fomitch rose, making an effort to walk, firmly, and went towards the doss-house.

  “What are you going for?” said Tiapa, stopping him. “Don’t you know that you are drunk, and that it’s not the right thing?”

  The captain paused and reflected.

  “And is anything right on this earth? Go to the devil!” And he pushed Tiapa aside.

  On the walls of the doss-house the shadows were still flickering and dancing, as if struggling silently with one another.

  On a bunk, stretched out at full length, lay the schoolmaster, with the death-rattle in his throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare breast heaved painfully, and froth oozed from the corners of his mouth. His face wore a strained expression, as if he were trying to say something important and difficult; and the failure to say it caused him inexpressible suffering.

  The captain placed himself opposite, with his hands behind his back, and watched the dying man for a moment in silence. At last he spoke, knitting his brows as if in pain.

  “Philippe, speak to me! Throw a word of comfort to your friend. You know I love you; all the others are brute beasts. You are the only one I look upon as a man, although you are a drunkard. What a one you were to drink vodka, Philippe! That was what caused your ruin. You ought to have kept yourself in hand and listened to me. Was I not always telling you so?”

  The mysterious all-destructive force, called Death, as if insulted by the presence of this drunken man, during its supreme and solemn struggle with life, decided to finish its impassive work, and the schoolmaster, after sighing deeply, groaned, shuddered, stretched himself out, and died.

  The captain swayed backwards and forwards, and continued his speech. “What’s the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some vodka? It’s better not to drink, Philippe! restrain yourself. Well, drink if you
like! To speak candidly, what is the use of restraining oneself? What’s the use of it, Philippe?”

  And he took the body by the leg and pulled it towards him.

  “Ah! you are already asleep, Philippe! Well, sleep on. Good-night. To-morrow I’ll explain it all to you, and I hope I shall convince you that it’s no use denying oneself anything. So now, go to sleep, if you are not dead.”

  He went out, leaving dead silence behind him; and approaching his mates exclaimed—

  “He’s asleep or dead, I don’t know which. I’m a—little—drunk.”

  Tiapa stooped lower still, and crossed himself. Martianoff threw himself down on the ground without saying a word. “The Meteor” began sobbing in a soft, silly way, like a woman who has been ill-treated. “Scraps” wriggled about on the ground, saying in a low, angry, frightened voice—

  “Devil take you all! A set of plagues! Dead?… what of that? Why should I be bothered with it? When my time comes I shall have to die too! just as he has done; I’m no worse than the rest!”

  “That’s right! that’s it!” exclaimed the captain, dropping himself down heavily on the earth. “When the time comes, we shall all die, just like the rest! Ha! ha! It doesn’t much matter how we live; but die we shall, like the rest. For that’s the goal of life, trust my word for it! Man lives that he may die. And he dies, and this being so, isn’t it all the same what he dies of, or how he dies, or how he lived? Am I not right, Martianoff? Let’s have another drink, and yet another, and another, as long as there is life in us.”

  Rain began to fall. Thick, heavy darkness enshrouded the figures of the outcasts, as they lay on the ground in all the ugliness of sleep or of drunkenness. The streak of light issuing from the doss-house grew paler, flickered, and finally disappeared. Either the wind had blown the lamp out, or the oil was exhausted. The drops of rain falling on the iron roof of the doss-house pattered down softly and timidly. The solemn sound of a bell came at intervals from the town above, telling that the watchers in the church were on duty.

  The metallic sound wafted from the steeple melted into the soft darkness, and slowly died away; but before the gloom had smothered the last trembling note, another stroke was heard, and yet another, whilst through the silence of the night spread and echoed the sad booming sigh of the bell.

  The following morning Tiapa was the first to awake.

  Turning over on his back, he looked at the sky; for this was the only position in which his distorted neck would allow him to look upwards.

  It was a monotonously grey morning. A cold, damp gloom, hiding the sun, and concealing the blue depths of the sky, shed sadness over the earth.

  Tiapa crossed himself, and leaning on his elbow looked round to see if there was no vodka left. The bottle was near, but it proved to be—empty. Crawling over his companions, Tiapa began inspecting the mugs. He found one nearly full, and swallowed the contents, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and then shook the captain by the shoulder.

  “Get up! Can’t you hear?”

  The captain lifted his head, and looked at Tiapa with dim, bloodshot eyes.

  “We must give notice to the police! so get up.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked the captain in an angry, drowsy voice.

  “Why, he’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Why, the learned man.”

  “Philippe? Ah, yes, so he is!”

  “And you had already forgotten!” hissed Tiapa reproachfully.

  The captain rose to his feet, yawned loudly, and stretched himself till his bones cracked.

  “Well, go and give notice.”

  “No, I shan’t go. I’m not fond of those gentry!” said Tiapa gloomily.

  “Well, go and wake the deacon, and I’ll go and see what can be done.”

  “Yes, that’s better. Get up, deacon!”

  The captain entered the doss-house, and stood at the foot of the bunk where lay the schoolmaster, stretched out at full length; his left hand lay on his breast, his right was thrown backwards, as if ready to strike. The idea crossed the captain’s mind that if the schoolmaster were to get up now, he would be as tall as “Tarass and a half.” Then he sat down on the bunk at the feet of his dead friend, and recalling to his mind the fact that they had lived together for three long years, he sighed.

  Tiapa entered, holding his head like a goat ready to butt. He placed himself on the opposite side of the schoolmaster, watching for a time his sunk, serene, and calm face; then hissed out—

  “Sure enough he is dead; it won’t be long before I go also.”

  “It’s time you did,” said the captain gloomily.

  “That’s so!” agreed Tiapa. “And you also—you ought to die; it would be better than living on as you are doing.”

  “It might be worse. What do you know about it?”

  “It can’t be any worse. When one dies, one has to deal with God; whilst here, one has to deal with men. And men, you know what they are.”

  “That’s all right, only stop your grumbling!” said Kouvalda angrily.

  And in the half light of early dawn an impressive silence reigned once more throughout the doss-house.

  They sat thus for a long time quietly, at the feet of their dead companion, occasionally glancing at him, but plunged both of them in deep thought. At length Tiapa inquired—

  “Are you going to bury him?”

  “I? No, let the police bury him.”

  “Ah! now it’s you who ought to do it! You took the share of the money due to him for writing the petition for Vaviloff. If you haven’t enough I’ll make it up.”

  “Yes, I have his money, but I am not going to bury him.”

  “That doesn’t seem right. It’s like robbing a dead man. I shall tell everyone that you mean to stick to his money!”

  “You are an old fool!” said Kouvalda disdainfully.

  “I’m not such a fool as all that, but it doesn’t seem right or friendly.”

  “Very well! just leave me alone.”

  “How much money was there?”

  “A twenty-five rouble note,” said Kouvalda carelessly.

  “Come now! you might give me five out of that.”

  “What a rogue you are, old man!” scowled the captain, looking blankly into Tiapa’s face.

  “Why so? Come now, shell out!”

  “Go to the devil! I’ll erect a monument to him with the money,”

  “What will be the use of that to him?”

  “I’ll buy a mill-stone and an anchor; I’ll put the stone on the tomb, and I will fasten the anchor to the stone with a chain. That will make it heavy enough.”

  “What’s that for? Why do you talk such nonsense?”

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  “Never mind! I shall tell of you,” threatened Tiapa once more.

  Aristide Fomitch looked vaguely at him and was silent. And once more there reigned in the doss-house that solemn and mysterious hush, which always seems to accompany the presence of death.

  “Hark! They are coming,” said Tiapa.

  And he rose and went out at the door.

  Almost at the same moment there appeared the police officer, the doctor, and the magistrate. All three in turn went up to the body, and after glancing at it moved away, looking meanwhile at Kouvalda askance and with suspicion.

  He sat, taking no notice of them, until the police officer asked, nodding towards the schoolmaster’s body—

  “What did he die of?”

  “Ask him yourself. I should say from being unaccustomed”—

  “What do you mean?” asked the magistrate.

  “I say that, according to my idea, he died from being unaccustomed to the complaint from which he was suffering.”

  “H’m! Yes. Had he been ill long?”

  �
�It would be better to bring him over here; one can’t see anything in there,” suggested the doctor in a bored voice. “There may be some marks on him.”

  “Go and call someone to carry him out!” the police officer ordered Kouvalda.

  “Call them in yourself. I don’t mind his staying here,” retorted the captain coolly.

  “Be off with you,” shouted the police officer savagely.

  “Easy there!” threw back Kouvalda, not stirring from his place, speaking with cool insolence and showing his teeth.

  “Damn you!” roared the police officer, his face suffused with blood from suppressed rage. “You shall remember this!”—

  “Good-day to you, honourable gentlemen!” said the oily, insinuating voice of Petounnikoff, as he appeared in the doorway. Scrutinising rapidly the faces of the bystanders, he suddenly stopped, shuddered, drew back a step, and taking off his cap, crossed himself devoutly. Then a vicious smile of triumph spread over his countenance, and looking hard at the captain, he asked in a respectful tone, “What is the matter here? No one has been killed, I hope.”

  “It looks like it,” answered the magistrate.

  Petounnikoff sighed deeply, crossed himself again, and in a grieved tone said—

  “Merciful heavens! That’s what I always feared! Whenever I came here, I used to look in, and then draw back with fear. Then when I was at home, such terrible things came into my mind. God preserve us all from such things! How often I used to wish to refuse shelter any longer to this gentleman here, the head of this band; but I was always afraid. You see, they were such a bad lot, that it seemed better to give in to them, lest something worse should happen.” He made a deprecating movement with one hand, and gathering up his beard with the other, sighed once more.

  “They are a dangerous set, and this gentleman here is a sort of chief of the gang—quite like a brigand chief.”

  “Well, we shall take him in hand!” said the police officer in a meaning tone, looking at the captain with a vindictive expression. “I also know him well.”