The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “Where are you going?”—inquired Gríshka insinuatingly.

  “That’s my business.”

  “Whe-ere?” and his eyes lighted up with an evil glare. “Say!”

  “Don’t yell—I’m not afraid of you.…”

  “Have you got your eye on somebody else? Say?”

  “Let me go!”

  “Let you go where?”—bellowed Gríshka.

  He had already grasped her by the hair, pushing the kerchief off her head. Beatings exasperated her, but anger afforded her immense delight, stirring up her whole soul, and, instead of extinguishing his jealousy by a couple of words, she proceeded still further to enrage him, smiling up into his face with strange, extremely significant smiles. He flew into a fury, and beat her, beat her mercilessly.

  But at night when, all broken, and crushed, she lay groaning beside him in bed, he stared askance at her, and sighed heavily. He felt ill at ease, his conscience tortured him, he understood that there was no foundation for his jealousy, and that he had beaten her without cause.

  “Come, that will do…” he said abashed.—“Am I to blame, if I have that sort of character? And you’re nice, too.… Instead of persuading me—you spur me on. Why did you find it necessary to do it?”

  She held her peace, but she knew why, knew that now, all beaten and wronged as she was, she might expect his caresses, the passionate and tender caresses of reconciliation. For this she was ready to pay every day with pain in her bruised sides.—And she was already weeping, with the mere joy of anticipation, even before her husband succeeded in touching her.

  “Come, enough of that, Mótrya! Come, my darling, won’t you? Have done, forgive me, do!”—He smoothed her hair, kissed her, and gnashed his teeth with the bitterness which filled his whole being.

  Their windows were open, but the main wall of the neighboring house hid the sky, and in their room, as always, it was dark, and stifling and close.

  “Ekh, life! Thou art a magnificent hard-labor prison!”—whispered Gríshka, unable to express what he so painfully felt.—“It comes from this hole, Mótrya. What are we? Something as though we were buried in the earth before our death.…”

  “Let’s move into another lodging,”—suggested Matréna, through sweet tears, understanding his words literally.

  “E-ekh! No you don’t, aunty! If you betake yourself to a garret, you’ll still be in a hole…it isn’t the lodging that’s the hole…but life—that’s the hole!”

  Matréna reflected, and began again:

  “God willing, we may reform ourselves…we shall get used to one another.”

  “Yes, we’ll reform.… You often say that.… But it doesn’t look like reform with us.… The rows get more frequent all the time,—understand?”

  That was unqualifiedly true. The intervals between their fights kept growing shorter and shorter, and here, at last, every Saturday, Gríshka began from early in the morning to screw himself up into a hostile mood against his wife.

  “This evening I’m going to cut work, and go to meet Lýsy in the dram-shop.… I shall get drunk.…” he announced.

  Matréna, puckering up her eyes strangely, made no reply.

  “You won’t speak? Well then, just go on holding your tongue—it’ll be better for your health,—” he said warningly.

  In the course of the day, with irritation which increased in proportion as the evening drew near,—he reminded her several times of his intention to get drunk, was conscious that it pained her to hear this, and perceiving that she maintained a persistent silence, with a firm gleam in her eyes, preparing for the struggle, he strode about the room and raged all the more furiously.

  In the evening, the herald of their unhappiness, Sénka Tchízhik, proclaimed the “brattle.”7

  When he had finished beating his wife, Gríshka vanished, sometimes for the whole night, sometimes he did not even put in an appearance on Sunday. She, covered with bruises, greeted him morosely, with taciturnity, but was filled with concealed compassion for him, all tattered, and often battered also, in filth, with his eyes suffused with blood.

  She knew that he must get over his fit of intoxication, and she had already supplied herself with half a bottle of vódka. He, also, knew this.

  “Give me a little glass.…” he entreated hoarsely, drank off two or three glasses, and sat down to his work. The day passed with him in gnawings of conscience; often he could not endure their sting, flung aside his work, and swore terrible oaths, as he rushed about the room, or threw himself on the bed. Mótrya gave him time to simmer down, and then they made peace.

  Formerly, this reconciliation had had much that was subtle and sweet about it, but, in the course of time, all this evaporated, and they made peace almost for the sole reason that it was not convenient to remain silent for the five whole days before Sunday.

  “You feel sleepy,” said Matréna, with a sigh.

  “I do,”—assented Gríshka, and spat aside, with the air of a man to whom it is a matter of utter indifference whether he feels sleepy or not.—“And you’re going to scamper off and leave me.…” he completed the picture of the future, looking searchingly into her eyes. For some time past, she had taken to dropping them, which she had never been in the habit of doing previously, and Gríshka, taking note of this, frowned portentously, and softly gritted his teeth. But, privily from her husband, she was still frequenting the fortune-tellers and sorceresses, bringing back from them spells, in the form of roots and embers. And when all this was of no avail, she had a prayer-service celebrated to the holy great-martyr Vonifánty, who aids drunkards, and as she knelt throughout the prayer-service, she wept burning tears, noiselessly moving her quivering lips.

  And more and more frequently did she feel toward her husband a savage, cold hatred, which aroused black thoughts within her, and she had ever less and less of pity for this man who, three years before, had so enriched her life with his merry laughter, his caresses, his affectionate speeches.

  Thus these people, in reality, not at all a bad sort of people, lived on, day after day—lived on, fatally anticipating something which should finally smash to atoms their torturingly-foolish life.

  * * * *

  One Monday morning, when the Orlóff pair had just begun to drink their tea, the impressive form of a policeman made its appearance on the threshold of the door which led into their cheerless abode. Orlóff sprang from his seat and, with a glance of reproachful alarm at his wife, as he endeavored to reconstruct in his fuddled head the events of the last few days, he stared silently and fixedly at the visitor, with troubled eyes, filled with the most horrible expectation.

  “Here, this is the place,—” the policeman invited someone in.

  “It’s as dark as the pool under the mill-wheel, devil take merchant Petúnnikoff,—” rang out a young, cheerful voice. Then the policeman stood aside, and into the Orlóffs’ room there stepped briskly a student, in a white duck coat, cap in hand, with close-cut hair, a large, sun-burned forehead, and merry brown eyes, which sparkled laughingly from beneath his spectacles.

  “Good morning!—” he exclaimed in a bass voice which had not yet grown hoarse.—“I have the honor to introduce myself—the sanitary officer! I have come to investigate how you live…and to smell your air…your air is thoroughly foul!”

  Orlóff breathed freely and cordially, and smiled cheerily. He took an instantaneous liking to this noisy student: the fellow’s face was so healthy, rosy, kindly, covered on cheeks and chin with golden-brown down. It smiled incessantly, with a peculiar, fresh and clear smile, which seemed to render the Orlóffs’ cellar brighter and more cheerful.

  “Well then, Mr. and Mrs. Occupant!”—said the student without a pause,—“you must empty your slop-bucket more frequently, that unsavory smell comes from it. I would advise you, aunty, to wash it out very often, and also to sprinkle unslaked lime in the corners, to pu
rify the air…and lime is also good as a remedy for dampness. And why have you so bored an aspect, uncle?”—he addressed himself to Orlóff, and immediately seizing him by the hand, he began to feel his pulse.

  The student’s audacity stunned the Orlóffs. Matréna smiled abstractedly, surveying him in silence. Grigóry also smiled, as he admired his vivacious face, with its golden-brown down.

  “How are your little bellies feeling?—” inquired the student. “Tell me, without ceremony…it’s a matter of health, and if there’s anything out of order, we’ll furnish you with some acid medicines, which will remove all trouble at once.”

  “We’re all right…we’re in good health,—“Grigóry finally imparted the information, with a laugh.—“But if I don’t look just as I should…it’s only on the outside…for, to tell the truth, I haven’t quite got over my drunk.”

  “Exactly so, I discern with my nose that you, my good man, almost got drunk yesterday—just a mere trifle, you know.…”

  He said this so humorously, and made such a grimace, to accompany it, that Orlóff fairly split with loud and confidential laughter. Matréna laughed also, covering her mouth with her apron. The student himself laughed the most loudly and merrily of all, and he also stopped sooner than the rest. And when the folds of skin around his chubby mouth, evoked by the laughter, had smoothed themselves out,—his simple, frank face became still more simple, somehow.

  “It’s the proper thing for a working man to drink, if he does it moderately, but just at present, it would be better to refrain from liquor altogether. Have you heard how some sickness or other is going about among the people?”

  And now, with a serious aspect, he began to explain in intelligible language to the Orlóffs, about the cholera, and about the means of fighting it. As he talked, he walked about the room, now feeling of the wall with his hand, now casting a glance behind the door, into the corner, where hung the wash-basin, and where stood a wash-trough8 filled with slops, and he even bent down and smelled under the stove, to see what the odor was like. His voice broke, every now and then, from bass notes into tenor notes, and the simple words of his remarks seemed to fix themselves firmly, one after another, in the minds of his hearers, without any effort on their part. His bright eyes sparkled, and he seemed thoroughly permeated with the ardor of his youthful passion for his work, which he executed so simply and so vigorously.

  Grigóry watched his operations with a smile of curiosity. Matréna sniffed from time to time; the policeman had disappeared.

  “So you are to attend to the lime to-day, Mr. and Mrs. Occupant. There’s a building going up alongside you, so the masons will give you all you need for about five kopéks. And as for you, good man, if you can’t be moderate in your drinking, you must let it alone altogether.… We-ell, good-by for the time being.… I’ll look in on you again.”

  And he vanished as swiftly as he had appeared, leaving as mementos of his laughing eyes abashed and satisfied smiles on the countenances of the Orlóff couple.

  They remained silent for a minute, staring at each other, and as yet unable to formulate the impression left by this unexpected invasion of conscious energy into their dark, automatic life.

  “A-aï!—” drawled Grigóry, shaking his head.—“So there’s…a chemist! It is said that they are poisoning folks! But would a man with a face like that occupy himself with that sort of thing? And then again, his voice! And all the rest.… No, his manner was perfectly frank, and immediately—‘here now,—here I am!’—Lime…is that injurious? Citric acid…what’s that? Simply acid, and nothing more! But the chief point is—cleanliness everywhere, in the air, and on the floor, and in the slop-bucket.… Is it possible to poison a man by such means? Akh, the devils! Poisoners, say they.… That hard-working young fellow, hey? Fie! A workingman ought always to drink in moderation, he says…do you hear, Mótrya? So come now, pour me out a little glass…there’s liquor on hand, isn’t there?”

  She very willingly poured him out half a cup of vódka from the bottle, which she produced from some place known only to herself.

  “That was really a nice fellow…he had such a way of making one like him,—” she said, smiling at the remembrance of the student.—“But other fellows, the rest of them—who knows anything about them? Perhaps, they actually are engaged.…”

  “But engaged for what, and again, by whom?—” exclaimed Grigóry.

  “To exterminate the people.… They say there are so many poor folks, that an order has been issued—to poison the superfluous ones,”—Matréna communicated her information.

  “Who says that?”

  “Everybody says so.… The painters’ cook said so, and a great many other folks.…”

  “Well, they’re fools! Would that be profitable? Just consider: they are curing them! How is a body to understand that? They bury them! And isn’t that a loss? For a coffin is needed, and a grave, and other things of that sort.… Everything is charged to the government treasury.… Stuff and nonsense! If they wanted to make a clearing-out and to reduce the number of people, they would have taken and sent them off to Siberia—there’s plenty of room for them all there! Or to some uninhabited islands.… And after they had exiled them, they would have ordered them to work there. Work and pay your taxes…understand? There’s a clearing-out for you, and a very profitable one, to boot.… Because an uninhabited island will yield no revenue, if it isn’t settled with people. And revenue is the first thing to the public treasury, so it’s not to its interest to destroy folks, and to bury them at its expense.… Understand? And then, again, that student…he’s an impudent creature, that’s a fact, but he had more to say about the riot; but kill people off…no-o, you couldn’t hire him to do that for any amount of pennies! Couldn’t you see at a glance, that he wouldn’t be capable of such a thing? His phiz wasn’t of that calibre.…”

  All day long they talked about the student, and about everything he had told them. They recalled the sound of his laugh, his face, discovered that one button was missing from his white coat, and came near quarrelling over the question: ‘on which side of the breast?’ Matréna obstinately maintained that it was on the right side, her husband said—on the left, and twice cursed her stoutly, but remembering in season, that his wife had not turned the bottle bottom upward when she poured the vódka into the cup, he yielded the point to her. Then they decided that on the morrow, they would set to work to introduce cleanliness into their quarters, and again inspired by a breath of something fresh, they resumed their discussion of the student.

  “Yes, what a go-ahead fellow he was, really now!”—said Grigóry rapturously.—“He came in, just exactly as though he’d known us for ten years.… He sniffed about everywhere, explained everything…and that was all! He didn’t shout or make a row, although he’s one of the authorities, also, of course.… Akh, deuce take him! Do you understand, Matréna, they’re looking after us there, my dear. That’s evident at once.… They want to keep us sound, and nothing more, nor less .… That’s all nonsense about killing us off…old wives’ tales.… ‘How does your belly act?’ says he.… And if they wanted to kill us off, what the devil should he have wanted to know about the action of my belly for? And how cleverly he explained all about those…what’s their name? those devils that crawl about in the bowels, you know?”

  “Something after the fashion of cock and bull stories,” laughed Matréna,—“I believe he only said that for the sake of frightening us, and making folks more particular to keep clean.…”

  “Well, who knows, perhaps there’s some truth in that for worms breed from dampness.… Akh, you devil! What did he call those little bugs? It isn’t a cock and bull story at all, but…why, I remember what it is!… I’ve got the word on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t understand.…”

  And when they lay down to sleep, they were still talking about the event of the day, with the same ingenuous enthusiasm with which children communicate
to one another their first experiences and the impressions which have surprised them. Then they fell asleep, in the midst of their discussion.

  Early in the morning they were awakened. By their bedside stood the fat cook of the painters, and her face, which was always red, now, contrary to her wont, was gray and drawn.

  “Why are you pampering yourselves?” she said hastily, making a rather peculiar noise with her thick, red lips.—“We’ve got the cholera in the court-yard.… The Lord has visited us!”—and she suddenly burst out crying.

  “Akh, you’re…lying, aren’t you?” cried Grigóry.

  “And I never carried out the slop-bucket last night,” said Matréna guiltily.

  “My dear folks, I’m going to get my wages. I’m going away.… I’ll go, and go…to the country,” said the cook.

  “Who’s got it?” inquired Grigóry, getting out of bed.

  “The accordeon-player! He’s got it.… He drank water out of the fountain last evening, do you hear, and he was seized in the night.… And it took him right in the belly, my good people, as though he’d swallowed rat-poison.…”

  “The accordeon-player.…” muttered Grigóry. He could not believe that any disease could overcome the accordeon-player. Such a jolly, dashing young fellow, and he had walked through the court like a peacock, as usual, only last night.—“I’ll go and take a look,”—Orlóff decided, with an incredulous laugh.

  Both women shrieked in affright:

  “Grísha, why, it’s catching!”

  “What are you thinking of, my good man, where axe you going?”

  Grigóry uttered a violent oath, thrust his legs into his trousers, and dishevelled as he was, with shirt-collar unbuttoned, went toward the door. His wife clutched him by the shoulder, from behind, he felt her hands tremble, and suddenly flew into a rage, for some reason or other.

  “I’ll hit you in the snout! Get away!”—he roared, and went out, after striking his wife in the breast.

  The court-yard was dark and deserted, and Grigóry, as he proceeded toward the accordeon-player’s door, was simultaneously conscious of a chill of terror, and of a keen satisfaction at the fact that he, alone, out of all the denizens of the house, was going to the sick accordeon-player. This satisfaction was still further augmented when he perceived that the tailors were watching him from the second-story windows. He even began to whistle, wagging his head about with a dashing air. But a little disenchantment awaited him at the door of the accordeon-player’s little den, in the shape of Sénka Tchízhik.