The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “You shall have them all, never fear! I have caps on hand; you shall have shirts and trousers by this evening. Come now, set to work in the meantime; I know you, I know what sort of a fellow you are. I don’t mean to insult you—no one can insult Konováloff…because he never insults anyone. Is the boss a wild beast? I have worked myself, and I know how a radish makes the tears flow.… Well, stay here, my lads, and I’ll take myself off.…”

  We were left alone.

  Konováloff sat on the bench and gazed about him with a smile, but without saying a word. The bakery was located in a cellar, with a vaulted ceiling, and its three windows were below the level of the earth. There was not much light, and there was very little air, but, on the other hand, there was a great deal of dampness, dirt and flour dust. Along the walls stood long bins: one had dough on it, on another the dough had just been mixed with yeast, the third was empty. Upon each bin fell a dull streak of light from one of the windows. The huge oven took up nearly one third of the bakery; beside it, on the filthy floor, lay sacks of flour. In the oven long logs of wood were blazing hotly, and their flame, reflected on the gray wall of the bakery, surged and quivered, as though it were narrating some story without sounds. The odor of fermenting dough and of humidity filled the rank air.

  The vaulted, soot-begrimed ceiling oppressed one with its weight, and the combination of daylight and of the fire in the oven formed a sort of vague illumination which was very trying to the eyes. Through the windows, a dull roar poured in, and dust blew in from the street. Konováloff surveyed everything, sighed, and turning half-way round to me, inquired in a bored tone:

  “Have you been working here long?”

  I told him. Then we fell silent again, and inspected each other with furtive, sidelong glances.

  “What a jail!” he sighed.… “Shan’t we go out into the street, and sit at the gate?”

  We went out to the gate, and sat down on the bench.

  “We can breathe here, at least. I can’t get used to this pit all at once…no I can’t. Judge for yourself—I’ve just come from the sea.… I’ve been working at the fishing stations on the Caspian. And, all of a sudden, from that airy space—bang! into a hole!”

  He looked at me with a melancholy smile, and ceased speaking, staring intently at the people who passed by in carriages and on foot. In his clear blue eyes shone much melancholy over something or other.… Twilight descended; it was stifling, noisy, dusty in the street, and the houses cast shadows across the road. Konováloff sat with his back resting against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and his fingers straying through the silky strands of his beard. I gazed askance at his pallid, oval face, and thought: What sort of a man is this? But I could not make up my mind to enter into conversation with him, because he was my master, and also because he inspired me with a strange sort of respect for him.

  His brow was furrowed with three slender wrinkles, but sometimes they were smoothed out, and disappeared, and I very much wished to know what the man was thinking about.

  “Come along: it must be time to set the third batch of dough to rise. You mix the second, and, in the meantime, I’ll set it, and then we’ll knead out the loaves.”

  When he and I had “weighed out” and placed in the pans one mountain of dough, mixed another, and set the leavened dough for a third—we sat down to drink tea, and then Konováloff, putting his hand into the breast of his shirt, asked me:

  “Do you know how to read? Here then, read this,”—and he thrust into my hand a small smeared and crumpled sheet of paper.

  “Dear Sásha,”23 I read. “I salute and kiss you from afar. Things are going badly with me, and life is tiresome, I can hardly wait for the day when I shall elope with you, or shall live in your company; this accursed life has bored me to the last degree, although, at first, I liked it. You will understand that well, and I, also, had begun to understand it, when I became acquainted with you. Please write to me as soon as you can; I want very much to receive a little note from you. And meanwhile, farewell until we meet again, but not good-bye, you dear bearded friend of my soul. I will not write you any reproaches, although I’m angry with you, because you are a pig—you went away without taking leave of me. Nevertheless, you have never been anything but good to me: you were the first of that sort, and I shall never forget it. Can’t you make an effort, Sásha, to have me excluded? The girls told you that I would run away from you, if I were excluded; but that is all nonsense, and a downright lie: If you would only take pity on me, I would be like a dog to you, after my exclusion. It would be so easy for you to do that, you know, but it’s very difficult for me. When you were with me, I wept because I was forced to live like that, although I did not tell you so. Until we meet again. Your Kapitólina.”

  Konováloff took the letter from me, and began thoughtfully to turn it about between the fingers of one hand, while he twisted his beard with the other.

  “And do you know how to write?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you ink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write a letter to her, for Christ’s sake, won’t you? She must consider me a rascal, she must be thinking that I have forgotten her.… Write!”

  “Very well. This very minute, if you like.… Who is she?”

  “A woman of the town…? You can see for your-self—she writes about her exclusion. That means, that I am to promise the police that I will marry her, and then they will give her back her passport, and will take her little book away from her, and from that time forth, she will be free! Do you catch on?”

  Half an hour later a touching epistle to her was ready.

  “Come now, read it, and let’s see how it has turned out?” begged Konováloff impatiently.

  This is the way it had turned out:

  “Kápa! You must not think that I am a scoundrel, and that I have forgotten you. No, I have not forgotten you, but I have simply been on a spree, and have drunk up all my money. Now I have hired out in a place again, and to-morrow I shall get the boss to advance me some money, and I will send it to Philip, and he will have you excluded. There will be money enough for your journey. And meanwhile—farewell until we meet. Your Alexánder.”

  “Hm.…” said Konováloff, scratching his head,—“you ain’t much of a writer. You haven’t put any compassion into your letter, nor any tears. And then, again—I asked you to curse me with all sorts of words, and you haven’t written a bit of that..

  “But why should I?”

  “So that she may see that I feel ashamed in her presence, that I understand that I am to blame toward her. And what have you done! You’ve written it just exactly as though you were scattering peas! Now, you mix in some tears!”

  I was compelled to mix some tears into the letter, which I managed to do successfully. Konováloff was satisfied, and laying his hand on my shoulder, he said cordially:

  “There, that’s stunning! Thanks! Evidently, you’re a good lad…which means, that you and I are going to get along well together.”

  I had no doubt on that point, and asked him to tell me about Kapitólina.

  “Kapitólina? She’s a young girl—quite a child. She was the daughter of a merchant in Vyátka.… Well, and she went astray. The longer it lasted, the worse it got, and she went into one of those houses…you know? I came—and saw that she was still a mere child! Good Lord, I said to myself, is it possible? Well, so I made acquaintance with her. She began to cry. Says I: ‘Never mind, have patience! I’ll get you out of this—only wait!’ And I had everything ready, that is to say, the money and all…And, all of a sudden, I went on a spree, and found myself in Astrakhan. A certain man told her where I was, and she wrote me that letter, to Astrakhan.…”

  “Well, and what are you going to do about it,”—I asked him, “do you intend to marry her?”

  “Marry her,—how can I? If I have one of my drinking bouts, wha
t sort of a bridegroom would I be? No, this is what I mean to do. I’ll get her released—and then, she may go wherever she likes. She’ll find a place for herself…perhaps she’ll turn out a decent woman.”

  “She says she wants to live with you.…”

  “Oh, she’s only fooling. They’re all like that—all the women.… I know them very well indeed. I’ve had a lot of different sorts. One, even, was a merchant’s wife, and rich! I was a groom in a circus, and she cast her eyes on me. ‘Come,’ says she,—‘and be my coachman.’ About that time I had got sick of the circus, so I consented, and went. Well, and so.… She began to make up to me. They had a house, horses, servants—they lived like the nobility. Her husband was a short, fat man, after the style of our boss, but she was as thin and flexible as a cat, and fiery. When she used to embrace me, and kiss me on the lips—hot coals seemed to be sprinkled on my heart. And I’d get all of a tremble, and even feel frightened. She used to kiss me, and cry all the time; even her shoulders heaved. I would ask her: ‘What ails you, Vyérunka?’ And she would say: ‘You’re a child, Sásha; you don’t understand anything.’ She was stunning.… And she spoke the truth when she said I didn’t understand anything—I was pretty much of a fool, I know. What I do—I don’t understand. How I live—I don’t think!”

  He ceased speaking, and gazed at me with widely-opened eyes; in them shone something which was not exactly fright, nor yet exactly a query,—something troubled and meditative, which rendered his handsome face still more melancholy and more beautiful …

  “Well, and how did you end matters with the merchant’s wife?” I asked.

  “Well, you see, sadness descends upon me. Such sadness, I must tell you, brother, that at those times I simply can’t live. It’s as though I were the only man on all the earth, and there were no living thing anywhere except myself. And at such times, everything is repugnant to me—every earthly thing; and I become a burden to myself, and all people are a burden to me; if all of them were to fall dead, I wouldn’t give a sigh! It must be an ailment, with me. It made me take to drinking…before that, I did not drink. Well, so this sadness came upon me, and I said to her, to that merchant’s wife: ‘Véra Mikháilovna! Let me go, I can’t stand it any longer!’—’What,’ says she, ‘are you tired of me?’—And she laughed, you know, in such an ugly way.—‘No,’ says I, ‘I’m not tired of you, but I’m no match for myself.’ At first she didn’t understand me, and she even began to scream, and to rail.… Afterwards, she did understand. She dropped her head, and said:’Well, then, go!…’ and burst out crying. Her eyes were black, and she was all swarthy. Her hair was black, also, and curly. She was not of the merchant-class by birth, but the daughter of a state official.… Ye-es…I was sorry for her, but I was repulsive even to myself at that time. Why did I knuckle under to a woman?—anybody knows why.… Of course, she found life tiresome with such a husband. He was exactly like a sack of flour.… She cried for a long time—she had got used to me.… I used to pet her a lot: I used to take her in my arms, and rock her. She would fall asleep, and I would sit and gaze at her. People are very handsome in their sleep, they are so simple; they breathe and smile, and that’s all. And then again—when we lived at the villa in the country, she and I used to go driving together—she loved that with all her heart. We would come to some little nook in the forest, tie the horses, and cool ourselves off on the grass. She would order me to lie down, then she would put my head on her knees, and read me some little book or other. I would listen, and listen, until I fell asleep. She read nice stories, very nice stories. One of them I shall never forget—about dumb Gerásim,24 and his beloved dog. He, that dumb fellow, was a persecuted man, and no one loved him, except his dog. People laughed at him, and all that sort of thing, and he went straight to his dog.… It was a very pitiful story…yes! But the affair took place in the days of serfdom.… And his lady-mistress says to him: ‘Dumb man, go drown your dog, for he howls.’—Well, so the dumb man went.… He took a boat, and put the dog aboard it, and set out.… At this point, I used to feel the cold shivers run over me. Oh Lord! The sole joy on earth of a dumb man was being killed! What sort of behavior is that? Akh—they were wonderful tales! And really—there was this good thing about it! There are people for whom all the world consists of one thing—a dog, for example. And why a dog? Because there is no one else to love such a man, but the dog loves him. It is impossible for a man to live without some sort of love;—that’s why he is given a soul, that he may love.… She read me a great many stories. She was a splendid woman, and I’m sorry for her this minute.… If it hadn’t been for my planet,—I wouldn’t have left her until she wished it herself, or until her husband had found out about my performances with her. She was so caressing—first of all; that is to say, not exactly caressing, in the way of giving presents, but, so…caressing after the fashion of the heart. She would kiss me and she was just the same as any other woman…and then, such a sort of fit would come over her…so that it was downright astonishing what a good person she was. She would look straight into your soul, and talk to you like a nurse or a mother. At such times, I was just like a five-year-old boy with her. But nevertheless, I went away from her—because of that sadness! I pined for some other place.… ‘Good-bye,’ says I, ‘Véra Mikháilovna, forgive me.’—‘Good-bye, Sásha,’ says she. And the queer woman—she bared my arm to the elbow, and set her teeth into it, as though it had been meat! I came near yelling! So she almost bit out a whole piece…my arm ached for three weeks afterwards. And here, you see, the mark is there yet.…”

  Baring his arm, as muscular as that of a hero of epic song, white and red, he showed it to me, with an amiably melancholy smile. On the skin of the arm, near the elbow bend, a scar was plainly visible—two semicircles, which almost met at the tips. Konováloff looked at them, and shook his head, with a smile.

  “The queer woman!” he repeated; “she bit me by way of a keepsake.”

  I had heard stories in this spirit before. Every member of the “barefoot brigade” has, in his past, a “merchants wife,” or “a young lady of the nobility,” and in the case of nearly all tramps, this merchant’s wife and this well-born young lady turn out to be thoroughly fantastic figure, through countless repetitions, almost always combining the most contradictory physical and psychical features. If to-day she is blue-eyed, malicious and merry, you may expect to hear of her a week later as black-eyed, amiable and tearful. And the tramp generally talks about her in a sceptical tone, with a mass of details which are degrading to her. But the story narrated by Konováloff did not arouse in me the distrust created by tales I had heard in the past. It rang true, it contained details with which I was unfamiliar—those readings from books, that epithet of ‘boy,’ as applied to the mighty form of Konováloff.

  I pictured to myself the willowy woman, sleeping in his arms, with her head clinging close to his broad breast—it was a fine picture, and still further convinced me as to the truth of his story. And, in conclusion, his sad soft tone as he recalled the “merchant’s wife”—was a unique tone. The genuine tramp never speaks in that tone either about women or about anything else—he likes to show that there is nothing on earth which he dares not revile.

  “Why don’t you say something? Do you think I am lying?”—inquired Konováloff, and, for some reason, alarm rang out in his voice. He stretched himself out on the sacks of flour, holding a glass of tea in one hand, and with the other stroking his beard. His blue eyes gazed at me searchingly and inquiringly, and the wrinkles lay sharply across his brow.… “No, you’d better believe me.…What object have I in lying? Even supposing that the like of us tramps are great hands at telling yarns.… It can’t be done my friend:—if a man has never had anything good in life, surely he harms no one by making up with himself some tale or other, and telling it as a fact. He keeps on telling it, and comes to believe it himself, as though it had actually happened—he believes it, and—well, it is agreeable to him. Many folks live
by that. You can’t prevent it.… But I have told you the truth, as it happened, so I have told it to you.… Is there anything peculiar about that? A woman lives along, and gets bored, and the women are all good-for-nothing creatures.… Supposing I am a coachman, that makes no difference to a woman, because coachmen and gentlemen and officers are all men.… And all are pigs in her sight, all seek one and the same thing, and each one tries to take as much as he can, and to pay as little as possible. And the simple man is even better, more conscientious than the rest. And I’m very simple…the women all understand that very well about me…they see that I will not offend them—that is to say, I won’t…do…I won’t jeer at them. When a woman sins, there’s nothing she fears so much as a sneer, ridicule. They are more shame-faced than we are. We take our own, and, as like as not, go to the bazaar and tell about it, and begin to brag—‘see here, look how we have cheated one fool!’…But a woman has nowhere to go, no one will reckon her sin as a dashing deed. My good fellow, even the most abandoned of them have more shame than we have.”

  I listened to him and thought: Was it possible that this man was true to himself in making all these speeches which did not fit in with him at all?

  But he, thoughtfully riveting upon me his eyes, clear as those of a child, went on talking, and astounded me more and more by his remarks.

  It seemed to me that I was enveloped by something in the nature of a fog, a warm fog, which cleansed my heart, already, even at that time, greatly soiled with the mire of life.

  The wood in the oven had burned down, and the bright pile of coals cast a rosy glow on the wall of the bakery…it quivered …

  Through the window peeped a tiny speck of the blue sky with two stars in it. One of them—the large one—gleamed like an emerald, the other, not far from it, was barely visible.

  A week passed, and Konováloff and I had become friends. “You, also, are a simple lad! That’s good!”—he said to me, with a broad smile, as he slapped me on the shoulder with his huge hand.