The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  I excited her in vain, I said to myself. But already she could not restrain herself.

  “There is no God for the poor. When we were in Zeleniklin on the banks of the Amur, how we celebrated mass and prayed and wept for aid! But did He aid us? We suffered there for three years, and those who did not die from fever returned paupers. My father died there, my mother had her leg broken by a wheel and both my brothers were lost in Siberia.”

  Her face became like stone. Although her features were heavy, she had a serious beauty about her and her eyes were dark and her hair thick. All night up to early morning I spoke with her sitting on the edge of the wood behind the box of the railroad watchman. I saw that her heart was all burned out, that she was no longer capable of weeping, and only when she spoke of her childhood did she smile twice, involuntarily, and her eyes became softer.

  I thought to myself as she spoke, “She’s ready to kill. She will murder some one yet or she will become the loosest of the loose. There is no outlet for her.”

  “I do not see God, and I do not love people,” she said. “What kind of people are they if they cannot aid one another. Such people! Before the strong they are lambs and before the weak—wolves, but even the wolves live in packs but people live each one for himself and an enemy to his neighbor. I have seen and see much, and may they all go to ruin! To bear children and not to be able to bring them up! Is that right? I beat mine when they asked for bread; I beat them!”

  In the morning she arose to sell her body to the monks, and going away she said to me spitefully, “What is the matter with you? We slept near each other and you are stronger than I am, and yet you did not take advantage of the bargain.”

  I felt as if she had slapped my face.

  “You do wrong in insulting me,” I answered.

  She lowered her eyes and then said, “I feel like insulting every one, even those who are not guilty. You are young and you are worn out and your temples are gray. I know that you, too, suffer, but as for me, it is all the same, I pity no one. Good-by.”

  And she went away.

  CHAPTER XVI

  In the six years of my wandering I have seen many people made bad by sorrow. An unquenchable hatred for every one burned within them, and they were blind to everything but evil. They saw evil and bathed in it as in a hot bath, and they drank gall like a drunkard wine, and laughed and triumphed.

  “Ours is the right,” they cried. “Evil and unhappiness are everywhere; there is no place to escape.”

  They fell into mad despair and, inflamed by it, led depraved lives and soiled the earth in every way, as if to revenge themselves on her that she gave them birth. They crawled without strength on the paths of the earth, and remained slaves of their own weakness to the very day of their death. They elevated sorrow to godhood and bowed before it, and desired to see nothing but their own sores and hear nothing but the outcries of their own despair.

  They were to be pitied, for they were as though mad; but how repulsive to the soul they were, with their readiness to spit their gall into every face and pollute the sun itself with their spittle if they could.

  There were others, who were crushed by sorrow and frightened by it, who remained silent and tried to hide their small and slave-like lives, but who did not succeed and only served as clay in the hands of the strong, to plaster up the chinks in the walls of their own fortress.

  Many faces and expressions have become engraved on my mind. Bitter tears were shed before me, and more than once I was deafened by the terrible laughter of despair.

  I have tasted of all the poisons and drunk of a hundred rivers, and many times I myself wept the bitter tears of impotence. Life seemed to me a terrible delirium. It was a whirlwind of frightened words and warm rain of tears; it was a ceaseless cry of despair, an agonized convulsion of the whole earth suffering with an upward struggle, unattainable to my mind and to my heart.

  My soul groaned, “No; that is not the right.”

  The streams of sorrow flowed turbidly over the whole earth, and with unspeakable horror I saw that there was no room for God in this chaos which separated man from man. There was no room to manifest His strength, no spot to place His foot. Eaten up by the vipers of sorrow and fear, by malice and despair, by greed and shamelessness, all life was falling into ruin and man was being destroyed by discord and weakening isolation.

  I questioned: “Art Thou not truly, O Lord, but a dream of the soul of man, a hope created by despair in an hour of dark impotence?”

  I saw that each one had his own God, and that his God was neither more noble nor more beautiful than His worshipers. This revelation crushed me. It was not God that man sought, but the forgetfulness of sorrow. Misfortune torments man and drives him in all directions. He escapes from himself; he wishes to avoid action; he is afraid to work in harmony with life, and he seeks a quiet corner where he can hide himself.

  I did not find in man the holy feeling of seeking God nor a striving to rejoice in the Lord. I saw nothing but fear of life, a desire to overcome sorrow. My conscience cried out: “No; that is not the right!”

  It happened more than once that I met a man who seemed deep in serious thought and had a good, clean light in his eyes. If I met him once or twice, he was the same; but at the third or fourth meeting I would see that he was bad or drunk, and that he was no longer modest, but shameless, vulgar and blasphemed God, and I could not understand why the man was spoiled or what had broken him. All seemed blind to me, and to fall easily by the way-side.

  I seldom heard an exalted word. Too frequently men spoke strange words out of habit, not understanding the benefit nor the harm which was locked up in their thoughts. They gathered together the speeches of the pious monks or the prophecies of the hermits and the anchorites, and divided them among each other, like children playing with broken pieces of china. In fact, I did not see the man, but fragments of broken lives, dirty human dust, which swept over the earth and was blown by various winds onto the steps of churches.

  The people circled in vast numbers around the relics of the saints or the miracle-making ikons, or bathed in the holy streams, and sought only self-forgetfulness. The church processions were painful to me. Even as a child the miraculous ikons had lost their significance for me, and my life in the monastery had destroyed any vestige of respect that was left. At times I felt that man was a gigantic worm, crawling in the dust of the roads, and that men urged each other on by a force which I could not see, calling to each other, “Forward! Hurry!”

  And above them, forcing their heads to the ground, floated the ikon like a yellow bird, and it seemed to me that its weight was far too heavy for them.

  Those possessed fell in heaps in the dust and mud under the feet of the crowd, and they struggled like fish in the water, and their wild cries were heard. But the crowds passed over these palpitating bodies, stamped them and kicked them under foot, and cried out to the image of the Virgin, “Rejoice, Thou queen of heaven!”

  Their faces were distorted and wild with straining, damp with sweat and black with dirt; and this whole procession of man, singing a joyless song with weary voices and marching with hollow steps, insulted the earth and darkened the heavens.

  The beggars sat or reclined on the sides of the road, under the trees and stretched themselves out like two gay ribbons—the sick, the crippled, the wounded, the armless, the legless and the blind. Their worn bodies crept over the earth, their mutilated arms and legs trembled in the air and pushed themselves before people to excite their pity. The beggars moaned and wailed, their wounds burned in the sun, while they asked and begged a kopeck for themselves, in the name of God. Many of them were eyeless, while in others the eyes burned like coals and pain gnawed the flesh without respite, and they resembled some horrible growth.

  I saw man persecuted. The force which drove him into the dust and the dirt seemed hostile to me. Whither did it drive them? No; that is not the righ
t!

  Once I was in the exquisite city of Kiev, and I was struck by the beauty and the grandeur of this ancient nest of the Russians. There I had an interview with a monk who was supposed to be very wise. I said to him:

  “I cannot understand the laws upon which the life of a man is based.”

  “Who are you?” he asked me.

  “A peasant.”

  “Can you read and write?”

  “A little.”

  “Reading and writing is not for such as you,” he said sternly.

  I saw in truth that he was a seer.

  “Are you a Stundist?” he asked me.

  “No.

  “A-ha! Then you are a Dukhobor?”

  “Why?”

  “I gather it from your words.”

  His face was pink like flesh and his eyes were small.

  “If you seek God,” he said to me, “then it is for but one reason—to abase Him.” He threatened me with his finger. “I know your kind. You will not read the Credo a hundred times. Well, read it, and all your foolishness will vanish like smoke. I would send all you heretics to Abyssinia, to the Ethiopians in Africa. There you would perish alive from the heat.”

  “Were you ever in Abyssinia?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “And you didn’t perish?”

  The monk became enraged.

  Another time, near the Dneiper, I met a man. He sat on the banks opposite Lafra and he threw stones into the water. He was about fifty, bald, bearded, his face covered with wrinkles, and his head large. At that time I could tell by the eyes if a man was in earnest or not, and I walked up to him and sat down at his side. It was toward evening. The turbid Dneiper rolled its waters hurriedly. Behind it rose the mountains, gray with temples, where the proud golden heads of the churches shimmered in the sun, the crosses glistened and the windows sparkled like precious gems. It appeared that the earth opened its lap and showed her treasure to the sun in proud bounty.

  The man next to me said in a low voice, and sorrowfully:

  “They should cover Lafra with glass and drive all the monks away from it and permit no one to enter, for there is no man worthy to walk amid such beauty.”

  It was like a fairy tale told by some wise, great man, which came true there upon the banks of the river, where the waves of the Dneiper, rushing down from afar, splashed up against the Lafra with joy at the sight of it. But its surprised surging could not drown the quiet voice of man. With what force it commenced, with what strength it was built up! Like a faint dream, I remembered Prince Vladimir, and the Church fathers, Anthony and Theodosia, and all the Russian heroes; and I was filled with regret.

  The innumerable chimes on the other side of the bank rang out loudly and joyfully, but the sad thoughts about life fell more distinctly on my ears. We do not remember our birth. I came to seek the true faith, and now I found myself wondering, “Where is man?”

  I could not see man. I saw only Cossacks, peasants, officials, priests, merchants. I could find no one who was not tied up with some daily and ordinary affair. Each one served some one, each one was under some one’s orders. Above the official was another official, and so they rose, till they vanished from the eyes in an unattainable height. And there God was hidden!

  Night came on. The water in the river became bluer and the crosses on the churches lost their rays. The man still threw stones in the water, but I could no longer see the ripples which they made.

  “Three years ago,” he said, “we had a riot in Maikop on account of a pestilence among the cattle. The dragoons were called out to fight us, and peasants killed peasants. And all because of cattle. Many were killed. I thought to myself then: ‘What is this faith of the Russians, if we are ready to kill each other on account of a few oxen, when God said to us, “Thou shalt not kill.”’”

  The Lafra disappeared in the darkness, and like a vision reentered the mountain. The Cossack searched for stones in the sand around him, found them and threw them into the river, and the water splashed loudly.

  “Such is man,” the Cossack said, lowering his head. “The laws of God are like spiritual milk, but they come down to us skimmed. It is written, ‘With a pure heart you will see God.’ But how can your heart be pure if you do not live according to your own will? Without one’s freedom there is no true faith, but only a fictitious one.”

  He arose, shook himself and looked about him. He was a square-built fellow.

  “We are not free enough before God; that is what I think.”

  He took his cap and went away, and I remained alone, as if glued to the earth. I wished to grasp the meaning of the Cossack’s words, but I could not. Still, I felt that they were right.

  The warm southern night caressed me, and I thought to myself:

  “Is it possible that only in suffering is the human soul beautiful? Where is the pivot around which this human whirlwind moves? What is the meaning of this vanity?”

  In winter I always went south, where it was warmer; but if the snow and the cold caught me in the north, then I always entered a monastery. At first the monks did not receive me in a friendly way, but when I showed them how I worked they accepted me readily. They liked to see a man work well and not take any money.

  My feet rested, while my arms and my head worked. I remembered all that I saw during the summer, and I desired to draw out of it some clean food for my soul. I weighed, I extracted, I wanted to understand the reasons for things, and at times I became so confused that I could have wept.

  I felt overfed with the groans and the sorrows of the earth, and the boldness of my soul vanished and I became morose, silent, and an anger arose in me against everything.

  From time to time dark despair took hold of me, and for weeks I lived as if in a dream or blind. I desired nothing and saw nothing.

  I began to wonder if I should not stop this wandering and live as every one else, and stop puzzling over my riddles, and subject myself humbly to conditions of things which were not of my making.

  My days were as dark as the night, and I stood alone on the earth, like the moon in heaven, except that I gave no light. I could stand apart from myself and watch myself. I saw myself on the cross-ways, a healthy young fellow, who was a stranger to every one, and whom nothing pleased, and who believed in no one. Why did he live? Why was he apart from the world?

  My soul became chilled.

  CHAPTER XVII

  I also went to nunneries for a week or two, and in one of them, on the Volga, I hurt my foot with an ax one day while chopping wood. Mother Theoktista, a good little old woman, nursed me.

  The monastery was not large, but rich, and the sisters all had a prosperous and dignified appearance. They irritated me, with their sweetness and their honied smiles and their fat crops.

  Once, as I stood at vespers, I heard one of the women in the choir sing divinely. She was a tall young girl, with a flushed face, black eyes, stern looking, her lips red, and her voice was sure and full. She sang as if she were questioning something, and angry tears mingled with her voice.

  My foot became better and, as I was already able to work, I was preparing to leave the place. While I was shoveling the snow from the road one day I saw the girl coming. She walked quietly, but stiffly. In her right hand, which was pressed against her breast, she carried a rosary; her left hung by her side like a whip. Her lips were compressed, she frowned and her face was pale. I bowed to her, but she threw her head backward and looked at me as if I had done her harm at some time. Her manner enraged me. Moreover, I could not bear the sight of this young nun.

  “Well, my girl,” I said, “it is not easy to live.” She started and stopped.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “It is hard to master one’s self,” I said.

  “Oh, the devil!” she said suddenly in a low voice, but with great anger. And wi
th that her black figure disappeared quickly, like a cloud on a windy day.

  I cannot explain why I said that to her. At that time many such thoughts jumped into my head and flew out like sparks into any one’s eyes. It seemed to me that all people were liars and hypocrites.

  Three days later I saw her again on another road. She angered me still more. Why did she cover herself all in black? From what was she hiding? When she passed me I said to her:

  “Do you wish to escape from here?”

  The girl trembled, threw back her head and remained standing, straight as an arrow. I thought she would cry out, but she passed me, and then I heard her answer distinctly:

  “I will tell you to-night.”

  I was terrified, but I thought perhaps I had not heard correctly. Still, though she had spoken low, her words came as clearly to me as from a bell. At first they amused me; then I became confused, and later I calmed myself, thinking that perhaps the bold hussy was joking with me.

  When I had hurt my foot, they had brought me into the infirmary and I occupied a little room under the staircase, and that room I occupied all the time I stayed at the monastery. That night as I lay in my cot I thought it was time I stopped my wandering life, and that I ought to go to some city and there work in a bakery. I did not wish to think about the girl.

  Suddenly some one knocked very low. I jumped up, opened the door, and an old woman bowed and said:

  “Follow me, if you please.”

  I understood where, but I asked nothing and went, threatening her inwardly.

  “Is that the way it is, my dear? You will see how I will surprise your soul.”

  We crossed corridors and came to the place. The old woman opened a door and pushed me forward, whispering, “I will come to take you back.”

  A match flared up for a moment and in the darkness a familiar face lit up, and I heard her voice say:

  “Lock the door.”

  I locked it.

  I felt along the wall till I reached the stove, leaned up against it and asked: