by Maxim Gorky
“I will teach you to respect the clergy!”
I lost my desire to talk with him, but still, before the desire had entirety gone, I began to speak, and I forgot his presence. For the first time in my life I expressed my thoughts in words, and I was astonished at myself. Suddenly I heard the old man cry out:
“Keep still, wretched one!”
I felt as if I had suddenly come up against a wall while running. He stood over me, shaking his hands threateningly at me, and muttered:
“Do you know what you are saying, you crazy fool? Do you appreciate your blasphemies, wretched one? You lie, heretic! You did not come to do penance. You came as a messenger from the devil to tempt me!”
I saw that it was not wrath, but fear that played in his face. He trembled, and his beard and his hands, which were held out to me, were shaking. I, too, was frightened.
“What is your reverence saying?” I asked. “I believe in God.”
“You lie, you mad dog!”
He threatened me with the wrath and the vengeance of God, but he spoke in a low tone, and his whole body trembled so that his cassock flowed like green waves. He placed before my spirit a threatening, gruesome God, severe in countenance, wrathful in spirit, poor in mercy, and like the old God Jehovah in sternness. I said to the archbishop:
“Now you, yourself, have fallen into heresies. Is this then the Christian God? Where have you hidden Christ? Why do you place before man the stern Judge instead of the Friend and the Helper?” He clutched my hair and shook me to and fro, saying, haltingly:
“Who are you, crazy one? You should be brought to the police, to prison, to a monastery, to Siberia!”
I came to myself. It was clear to me that if man called in the police to protect his God, then neither he nor his God could have much strength, and much less beauty. I arose and said:
“Let me go.”
The old man fell back and spoke breathlessly.
“What are you going to do?”
“I will go away, I can learn nothing here. Your words are dead and you kill God with them.”
He began to speak about the police again; but it was all the same to me. The police could not do anything worse than what he had already done. “Angels serve for the glory of God, not the police,” I said; “but if your faith teaches you something else, then stick to your faith.”
His face became green, and he jumped at me. “Alexei,” he called, “throw him out!”
And Alexei threw me out on the street with great vigor.
It was evening. I had spent fully two hours talking with the old archbishop. The streets were in semi-darkness, and the picture was not joyful. Everywhere there were noisy crowds, talk and laughter. It was holiday time, the feast of the Three Wise Men. Weakly I walked along and looked into the faces of the people. They angered me and I felt like shouting out to them:
“Hey, you people, what are you so satisfied about? They are murdering your God. Take care!”
I walked along in my misery as one drunk, and did not know where I was going. I did not want to go to my inn, for there there was noise and drinking. I went out into the farthest suburb. Little houses stood there, whose yellow windows looked out upon the fields, and the winds played with the snow about them, and whistled and covered them up.
I wanted to drink—to get very drunk; but alone, without people. I was a stranger to all and was guilty before all. “I will cross this field,” I thought, “and see where it leads to.”
Suddenly a woman came out of a gate, dressed in a light dress and with a shawl as her only protection against the cold. She looked into my face and asked:
“What is your name?”
I understood that she was guessing her future husband.
“I will not tell you my name. I am an unhappy man.”
“Unhappy?” she asked, laughing. “Now, in the holiday season?”
I did not like her gaiety.
“Is there no inn here in the neighborhood?” I asked. “I would like to rest and warm myself a bit. It is cold.”
She looked at me searchingly and said in a friendly tone:
“There, farther on, you will find an inn. But if you wish, you can come to us and get a glass of tea.”
Indifferently and without thinking, I followed her. I came to the room. On the wall in the comer burned a little lamp, and under the holy images sat a stout old woman, chewing something. A samovar was on the table; everything seemed cozy and warm.
The woman asked me to sit down at the table. She was young, with red cheeks and a high bosom. The old woman looked at me from her corner and sniffed. She had a large, withered face, almost, it seemed, without eyes.
I was embarrassed. What was I doing here? Who were they? I asked the young woman:
“What do you do?”
“I make lace.”
True. On the wall were hung bunches of bobbins. Suddenly she laughed boldly and looked me straight in the face, and added:
“And then, I walk some.”
The old woman laughed coarsely: “What a shameless hussy you are, Tanka!”
Had the old woman not said that, I would not have understood Tatiana’s words. Now I knew what she meant, and became ill at ease. It was the first time in my life I had seen a loose girl, near-to, and naturally I did not think well of such women. Tatiana laughed.
“See, Petrovna, he blushes,” she said.
I became angry. “And so I have fallen in here—from penance right into sin,” I thought. I said to the girl:
“Does one boast of such an occupation?”
She answered boldly: “I boast of it.”
The old woman began to sniff again: “Oh, Tatiana, Tatiana!”
I did not know what to say or how to go away from them. No excuse came to me.
I sat there silent. The wind rattled on the windows, the samovar sang and Tatiana began to tempt me.
“Oh, it’s hot,” she said, and unbuttoned the collar of her waist.
She had a pretty face and her eyes attracted me in spite of her bold expression. The old woman put vodka on the table, a bottle of “ordinary,” and also some cherry brandy.
“That’s good,” I thought to myself. “I will drink some, pay and then go.”
“Why are you so miserable?” Tatiana asked suddenly.
I could not restrain myself and answered:
“My wife is dead.”
Then she asked very low: “When did she die?”
“Only five weeks ago.”
The girl buttoned her waist and became more reserved. It pleased me. I looked into her face and said to myself:
“Thank you.”
Though my heart was heavy, yet I was young and was used to women. I had two years of married life behind me. But the old woman said, gasping:
“Your wife is dead—that is nothing much. You are young and there are women enough. The streets are full of them.”
Here Tatiana said to her sternly:
“Go to bed, Petrovna. I will escort our guest and will lock up.”
When the old woman was gone, she asked me earnestly and in a friendly way:
“Have you relatives?”
“None.”
“And friends?”
“No friends.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I do not know.”
She became thoughtful, stood up and said:
“Listen. I see that you are in despair. I advise you, don’t go out alone. You followed me in here at my first word. You might have fallen in somewhere where you could not get out so easily. Better remain here over night. There is a bed here. Spend the night here, in heaven’s name. If you do not wish to do it for nothing, give something to Petrovna—as much as you wish; and if I am in your way, then say so frankly and I will go.”
&nbs
p; I liked her words and also her eyes. I could not suppress a feeling of joy and I said to’ myself, smiling:
“Oh, that archbishop!”
“What archbishop?” Tatiana asked, surprised.
I was confused and did not know what to say.
“That is just an expression of mine,” I answered. “That is, not really an expression; only very often there is an archbishop who appears in my dreams.”
“Well, good night,” she said.
“Not yet,” I answered quickly. “Don’t go away, I beg of you. Remain here a little longer, if it is no trouble to you.”
She took her place again and smiled.
“Very gladly. It is no trouble.”
She asked me if I would drink a glass of vodka or tea, and whether I wished to eat. Her sincere friendliness brought the tears to my eyes, and my heart became as happy as a bird on a spring morning when the sun rises.
“Excuse me for my plain words,” I said, “but I would like to know if it is true what you told me about yourself a little while ago? Or did you wish to joke with me?”
She frowned and answered: “Yes, I am one of them. Why do you ask?”
“It is the first time in my life that I have seen such a girl, and I am ashamed.”
“What are you ashamed of? I am not sitting naked.” And she laughed low and caressingly.
“Not on your account,” I answered. “I am ashamed on my own account—because of my stupidity.”
And I told her frankly my opinion of her class of girls. She listened quietly and attentively.
“There are various kinds among us,” she said. “There may be some who are even worse than you think. You believe people altogether too readily.”
I could not get the thought out of my head how such a girl could sell herself, and I asked her again: “Do you do it from necessity?”
“At first,” she answered, “I was deceived by a handsome young fellow. To spite him I got another one, and so I fell into the play. And now it happens many times that I do it for the sake of a piece of bread.”
She said it quite simply and there was no pity for herself in her words.
“Do you go to church?” I asked.
She started and became red all over. “The way to the church is forbidden to no one.”
I felt that I had offended her and added hurriedly:
“You misunderstood me. I know the gospels; I know of Mary Magdalene and of the sinner through whom the Pharisees tempted Christ. I only wished to ask you whether you were not angered against God for the life that you were leading; whether you did not doubt His goodness.”
She frowned again, remained thoughtful, and said, surprised:
“I do not know what God has to do with it.”
“How then?” I asked. “Is He not our Shepherd and our Father in whose mighty hand the destiny of man rests?”
And she answered: “I do no harm to people. What am I guilty of? And whom can it hurt that I lead an unclean life? Only myself.”
I felt that she wished to say something good and true, but I could not understand her.
“I alone am responsible for my sins,” she said, bowing to me and her whole face lighting up in a smile. “Besides, my sins do not appear so great. Perhaps what I am saying is not quite right, but I am speaking the truth. I go to church gladly. Our church has just been built, and it is so bright and sweet. And how our choir sings! Sometimes they touch the heart, so that I must weep. In the church the soul gets a rest from all worries.”
She remained silent for some time, and then added:
“Of course, there are other reasons. The men see you there.”
I was so astounded by what she said that she told me I had drops of sweat standing on my temples. I could not understand how all these things came together in her so simply and harmoniously.
“Did you love your wife very much?” she asked me.
“Yes, very much,” I answered, and her naïveté? pleased me more and more.
I began to tell her of my spiritual state, of my wrath against God, because he did not hold me back from sins and then unjustly punished me by the death of Olga. She became now pale and depressed, now red all over with eyes on fire, so that she excited me. For the first time in my life I let my thoughts sweep over the whole circle of human life as I saw it, and it appeared to me as something incoherent and wasteful, shameful in its evil and helplessness, its groaning and moaning and wailing.
“Where are the Godlike?” I asked. “People sit on each other’s backs, suck each other’s blood, and everywhere there is the brutal struggle for a piece of bread. Where is there room for the Godlike? Where is there room for goodness and love, strength and beauty? Although I am young, I was not born blind. Who is Christ, the God-child? Who has trampled the flowers which His pure heart has sown? Who has stolen the wisdom of His love?”
I told her of the archbishop and how he had threatened me with his black God and how he, to protect his God, wanted to call in the police to help him.
Tatiana laughed. I, too, found the archbishop quite laughable now. He looked to me like a green grasshopper who chirps and jumps about as if he were doing something, heaven knows how important, but when one examines more closely, then one sees that he himself does not believe in the truth of his work.
She laughed at my words. Then the brow of the good girl became clouded.
“I did not understand everything,” she said. “Still, some of the things you said were terrible. You think so boldly about God.”
“One cannot live without seeing God,” I said.
“True,” she answered. “But you seem to be having a hand-to-hand fight with Him. Is that allowed? That the life of man is difficult is true enough. I myself have thought at times, ‘Why should it be?’ But listen to what I am going to tell you. Right here in the neighborhood is a nunnery where a hermitess, a very wise old woman, lives. She speaks beautifully about God. You ought to visit her.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I will go to her. I am going everywhere—to all righteous people, to seek peace.”
“And I will go to sleep,” she said, giving me her hand. “You, too, go to bed.”
I pressed her hand, shook it warmly, and said to her from the fulness of my heart:
“I thank you; what you have given me I do not yet know how to value, still I feel that you are a good girl, and I thank you.”
“For heaven’s sake, what are you saying?” she asked. She became embarrassed and blushed all over. “I am so glad,” she went on, “that you feel better.”
I saw that she was truly pleased. What was I to her? And yet, she was happy for having made a stranger feel better.
I put out the lamp, lay down on the bed, and said to myself:
“I fell into a real holiday celebration quite unexpectedly.”
Though my heart was not much lighter, nevertheless I felt that something new and good was born within me. I saw Tatiana’s eyes, which now looked enticingly, now earnestly, but from which there spoke more of the human heart than of the woman, and I thought of her in pure joy. And to think so about any one—is it not to make holiday?
I decided that to-morrow I would buy her a gold ring with a blue stone, but later I forgot about it. Thirteen years have passed since that day, and when I think of the girl I always regret that I did not buy her the ring.
In the morning she knocked on the door.
“Time to get up.”
We met as old friends and sat down to drink tea together. She urged me to go to the hermitess and I promised to do so. Saying farewell to each other heartily, we went together as far as the gate.
CHAPTER VIII
I felt as alone in the city as in the wide steppes.
There were thirty-three versts to the monastery, and I immediately started on my way to it and on the next day I said early mass
there.
Around me were nuns, a whole black crowd, as if a mountain had fallen apart and its broken pieces were lying about in the church.
The monastery was rich. There were many sisters, all rather heavy, with fat, white, soft faces, as if made of dough. The priest said mass energetically, but a little too hurriedly. He had a good bass, was large and broad and seemed well fed.
The nuns in the choir were every one of them pretty, and sang wonderfully. The tapers wept their white tears and their flames trembled with pity for men.
“My soul struggles to reach Thy temple, Thy holy temple,” their young voices sang out humbly.
Out of habit I repeated the words of the litany, but my eyes wandered and I tried to pick out the hermitess. There was no reverence in my heart, and it hurt me to admit it, for I had not come here to play. My soul was empty and I tried to collect myself. Everything in me was confused and my thoughts wandered, one after the other. I saw a few emaciated faces, half-dead old women, who stared at the holy images and whose lips moved but made no sound.
After mass I walked around the church. The day was bright and the white snow reflected the glistening rays of the sun, while on the branches the tit-mice piped and sent the hoar-frost from the twigs. I walked to the churchyard wall and looked out into the distance. The monastery stood on the mountain, and before it Mother Earth was spread out, richly dressed in its silvery blue snow. The little villages on the horizon looked sad, the wood was cut through by streams, and the pathways wound in and out like ribbons which some one had lost. Over all, the sun sent its slanting winter rays and stillness, peace and beauty were everywhere.
A little later I stood in the cell of Mother Fevronia. I saw a little old woman with browless eyes, who wept constantly. On her face, with its myriad wrinkles, a good-natured, unchanging smile trembled. She spoke low, almost in a whisper, and in a singsong tone.
“Do not eat apples before the day of the Lord. Wait till the Lord in His love has made them ripe; until the seeds are black.”
“What does she mean by that?” I thought to myself.
“Respect your father and mother,” she continued. “I have no father or mother,” I said.