by Maxim Gorky
“’Ristíd Fómitch! Is it possible?”—he exclaimed, when the captain came opposite him.
“There’s no ‘is it possible’ about it! More than an arshín49 has been cut off. That’s on the front line, and as to the depth, I’ll find that out directly.…”
“The depth?… ten fathoms, twenty-eight inches!”
“So you’ve caught the idea, you shaven-face?”
“Certainly,’ Ristíd Fómitch! Well, what an eye you have—you can see three arshíns into the earth!” cried Vavíloff in ecstasy.
A few minutes later, they were sitting opposite each other in Vavíloff’s room, and the captain, as he annihilated beer in huge gulps, said to the tavern-keeper:
“So, all the walls of the factory stand on your land. Act without any mercy. The teacher will come, and we’ll draw up a petition in haste to the district judge. In order not to waste money on stamped paper, we’ll fix the value of the suit at the most modest figure, and we’ll ask to have the building tom down. This, you fool, is infringing on the boundaries of another man’s property…a very pleasant event for you! Tear away! And to tear down and remove such a huge thing is an expensive job. Effect a compromise! You just squeeze Judas! We’ll reckon up, in the most accurate manner, how much it will cost to tear it down—with the pressed brick, and the pit under the new foundation…we’ll reckon it all up! We’ll even take our time into account! And—please to hand over two tho-ou-sand rubles, pious Judas!”
“He won’t give it!”—said Vavíloff slowly, anxiously, winking his eyes, which were sparkling with greedy fire.
“You’re mistaken! He will give it! Stir up your brains—what can he do? Tear it down? But—see here, Egórka, don’t you lower your price! They’ll buy you—don’t sell yourself cheap! They’ll try to frighten you—don’t be afraid! Trust in us.…”
The captain’s eyes blazed with savage joy, and his face, crimson with excitement, twitched convulsively. He had kindled the tavern-keeper’s greed, and exhorting him to act as promptly as possible, he went away, triumphant and implacably-ferocious.
* * * *
In the evening, all the men with pasts learned of the captain’s discovery, and, as they hotly discussed the future actions of Petúnnikoff, they depicted, in vivid colors, his amazement and wrath on the day when the messenger of the court should hand him a copy of the complaint. The captain felt himself a hero. He was happy, and everyone around him was contented. The big throng of dark figures, clad in rags, lay in the courtyard, and buzzed, and exulted, being enlivened by the event. They all knew merchant Petúnnikoff, who had passed before them many a time. Scornfully screwing up his eyes, he bestowed upon them the same sort of attention that he did on any other sort of rubbish, strewn about the courtyard. He reeked with good living, which irritated them, and even his boots shone with scorn for them all. And now, one of them was about to deal this merchant a severe blow in his pocket and his self-conceit. Wasn’t that good?
Mischief, in the eyes of these people, had much that was attractive about it. It was the sole weapon which fitted their hand and their strength. Each one of them had long ago reared up within him a half-conscious, confused sentiment of keen hostility toward all people who were well-fed and were not clad in rags, and in each one of them this sentiment was in a different stage of its development. This it was, which evoked in all the men with pasts a burning interest in the war that Kuválda had declared against merchant Petúnnikoff.
For two weeks the night lodging-house lived in expectation of fresh occurrences, and during that whole period Petúnnikoff never once made his appearance at the new building. They found out that he was not in town, and that the copy of the petition had not yet been served on him. Kuválda battered away at the practice of the town court procedure. It is not probable that that merchant has been ever, or by anyone awaited with such strained impatience as that with which the vagrants awaited him.
“He cometh not, he cometh not, my da-ar-ling.…”
“Ekh, it means that he lo-o-oves me not!”—sang Deacon Tarás, thrusting out his cheek in humorously-afflicted fashion, as he gazed up the hill.
And lo! one day, toward evening, Petúnnikoff made his appearance. He arrived in a well-built little cart, with his son in the rôle of coachman—a rosy-cheeked young fellow, in a long, checked overcoat, and dark glasses. They tied their horse to the scaffolding;—the son took from his pocket a tape-measure in a case, gave the end to his father, and they began to measure off the land, both silent and anxious.
“Aha-a!” ejaculated the captain triumphantly.
All who were present in the lodging-house poured out to the gate, and looked on, audibly expressing their opinions as to what was taking place.
“That’s the result of being in the habit of stealing—a man steals even by mistake, without any desire to steal, at the risk of losing more than he steals.. condoled the captain, calling forth laughter and a series of similar remarks from his staff.
“Oï, young fellow!”—exclaimed Petúnnikoff, at last, irritated by the sneers,—” look out that I don’t drag you before the judge of the peace for your words!”
“Nothing will come of that without witnesses…your own son can’t testify on behalf of his father.…” said the captain warningly.
“Well, look out, all the same! You’re a gallant bandit-chief, but we’ll manage to get satisfaction from you, nevertheless!”
And Petúnnikoff made a menacing gesture with his finger.… His son, composed and absorbed in his calculations, paid no heed to this pack of shady individuals, who were maliciously amusing themselves at his father’s expense. He did not so much as once glance in their direction.
“The young spider has had good training,”—remarked The Gnawed Bone, who was minutely watching all the actions and movements of the younger Petúnnikoff.
After taking the measurements of everything that was required, Iván Andréevitch scowled, seated himself in silence in his cart, and drove off, but his son went, with firm tread, toward Vavíloff’s tavern, and disappeared inside it.
“Oho! He’s a resolute young thief…yes! Come now, what will happen next?” asked Kuválda.
“The next thing is, that Petúnnikoff junior will buy Egór Vavíloff.…” said The Gnawed Bone confidently, and he smacked his lips delicately, expressing complete satisfaction on his sharp face.
“You’re glad of that, are you?”—inquired Kuválda harshly.
“It pleases me to see how folks are deceived in their reckoning,” explained The Gnawed Bone with delight, screwing up his eyes and rubbing his hands.
The captain spat angrily, and made no reply. And all of them, as they stood at the gateway of the half-ruined house, maintained silence, and stared at the door of the tavern. An hour and more passed in this expectant silence. Then the door of the tavern opened, and Petúnnikoff emerged from it, as calm as when he had entered it. He halted for a minute, coughed, turned up his coat-collar, glanced at the men who were watching him, and went up the street toward the town.
The captain followed him with his eyes, and, turning to The Gnawed Bone, he grinned.
“I guess you were right, you son of a scorpion and a wood-louse.… You have a good nose for everything rascally…that you have.… It’s evident, from the ugly phiz of that young sharper alone, that he has got his own way.… How much did Egórka get out of them? He got something.… He’s a bird of the same feather as they. He took something, may I he thrice damned if he didn’t! I arranged things for him.’ Tis bitter for me to realize my stupidity. Yes, life is all against us, my brethren, scoundrels! And even when you spit in your neighbor’s eye, the spittle flies back into your own eyes.”
Comforting himself with this sentiment, the worthy captain inspected his staff. All were disenchanted, for all felt that what had taken place between Vavíloff and Petúnnikoff had not been what they had anticipated. And all were incensed
at this. The consciousness of inability to cause evil is more offensive to a man than the consciousness of the impossibility to do good, because it is so easy and simple to do evil.
“So,—what are we staying here for? There’s nothing more for us to expect…except the bargain-treat, which I’m going to get out of Egórka …” said the captain, staring at the tavern with a scowl.…” The end has come to our prosperous and peaceful life50 under the roof of Judas. Judas will trample us under foot.… Of which. I make announcement to the department of the unclad vagabonds entrusted to my care.…”
The End laughed gloomily.
“What are you laughing at, you jail-warden?”—inquired Kuválda.
“Where am I to go?”
“That’s a big question, my dear soul.… Your fate will answer it for you, don’t be uneasy,”—said the captain thoughtfully, as he went toward the lodging-house. The men with pasts moved slowly after him.
“We will await the critical moment,” said the captain, as he walked along among them.—“When they pitch us out of this, we’ll hunt up another den for ourselves. But, in the meanwhile, it doesn’t pay to spoil life with such thoughts.… At critical moments, a man becomes more energetic…and if life, with all its combinations, would make the critical moment more frequent, if a man were forced every second to tremble for the safety of his sound pate…by God, life would be more lively, and people would be more interesting!”
“That is to say, they would gnaw at one another’s throats with more fury,”—explained The Gnawed Bone, with a smile.
“Well, and what if they did?”—angrily exclaimed the captain, who was not fond of having his ideas explained.
“Why, nothing…that’s good. When people want to get anywhere more quickly, they lash the horses with the whip, and exasperate machines with fire.”
“Well, that’s it! Let everything gallop to the devil far away! It would please me if the earth were suddenly to blaze up, and bum to ashes, or explode into fragments…on condition that I was the last to perish, and might look on at the others first.…”
“That’s savage!” grinned The Gnawed Bone.
“What of it? I’m a man who has seen better days…isn’t that so? I’m an outcast—which means, that I’m free from all beaten paths and fetters.… It means, that I don’t care a fig for anything! By the manner of my life, I’m bound to fling aside everything old…all manners and modes of relations to folks who exist well-fed, and finely dressed, and who despise me because I’ve fallen behind them in the matter of enough food and of costume…and I’m bound to breed within me something new—understand? The sort of thing, you know, which will make the lords of life, after the pattern of Judas Petúnnikoff, who pass me, feel a cold chill in their livers at the sight of my imposing form!”
“What a brave tongue you’ve got!”—laughed The Gnawed Bone.
“Ekh, you…paltry creature.…” Kuválda eyed him over disdainfully. “What do you understand? What do you know? Do you know how to think? But I have thought…and I’ve read books, in which you wouldn’t be able to understand a single word.”
“I should think so! I couldn’t sup cabbage-soup with a bast-slipper.… But though you have read books and thought, and I haven’t done either, we’ve come out pretty close together.…”
“Go to the devil!”—shouted Kuválda.
His conversations with The Gnawed Bone always wound up in this manner. On the whole, without the teacher—and he was aware of this himself—his speeches only spoiled the air, and were dispersed on it without bringing him either appreciation or attention; but he could not refrain from talking. And now, after swearing at his interlocutor, he felt himself alone among his own people. But he wanted to talk, and therefore he turned to Símtzoff with the question:
“Well, and you, Alexéi Maxímovitch—where shall you lay your gray head?”
The old man smiled good-naturedly, rubbed his nose with his hand, and said:
“I don’t know…I’ll see about it! I’m of no great importance: I’ve had a good time, and I shall again!”
“A worthy, though simple problem,”—the captain lauded him.
Símtzoff added, after a pause, that he would get settled more promptly than the rest, because the women were very fond of him. This was true: the old man always had two or three mistresses among the women of the town, who supported him, for two or three days at a stretch, on their scanty earnings. They frequently beat him, but he bore it stoically; for some reason or other, they could not hurt him much—perhaps, because they were sorry for him. He was a passionate lover of women, and was wont to relate, that women were the cause of all his misfortunes in life. The intimacy of his relations to women, and the character of their relations to him were confirmed, both by his frequent illnesses, and by his clothing, which was always well mended, and cleaner than the clothing of his comrades. And now, as he sat on the ground, at the door of the lodging-house, in a circle of his comrades, he began boastfully to relate, that he had long since been invited by The Radish to live with her, but he would not go to her, he did not wish to desert the company.
He was listened to with interest, and not without envy. They all knew The Radish—she lived not far away, under the hill, and only a short time before this had spent several months in prison for her second case of theft. She was a wet-nurse, who “had seen better days,” a tall, plump country woman, with a pock-marked face, and very handsome, though always drunken, eyes.
“You don’t say so, you old devil!”—swore The Gnawed Bone, as he gazed at Símtzoff, who was smiling conceitedly.
“And why do they love me? Because I know what their souls delight in.…”
“We-ell?”—exclaimed Kuválda, interrogatively.
“I know how to make them feel sorry for me.… And when a woman feels compassion—she’ll even go so far as to cut a throat out of compassion. Weep before her, beg her to kill you, she’ll take compassion on you and kill you.…”
“I’ll kill!” declared Martyánoff, resolutely, grinning in his gloomy style.
“Whom?”—inquired The Gnawed Bone, moving away from him.
“It doesn’t matter…Petúnnikoff…Egórka…even you’d do!”
“Why?”—queried Kuválda, with great interest.
“I want to go to Siberia…I’m tired of this…mean life.… But there a fellow will find out how he ought to live.…”
“Ye-es, they’ll show you there, in detail,”—assented the captain in a melancholy way.
Nothing more was said about Petúnnikoff, and their approaching expulsion from the night lodging-house. All of them were already convinced that this expulsion was near at hand—at a distance of two or three days, perhaps, and they regarded it as superfluous to bother themselves with discussions on that subject. Discussing the matter would not improve the situation, and, in conclusion, the weather was not cold yet, although the rains were beginning—it was still possible to sleep on any clod of earth, outside the town.
Arranging themselves in a circle on the grass, these men idly conducted a long conversation on various subjects, passing freely from one theme to another, and wasting just so much attention on the other man’s words as was required to keep up the conversation without a break. It was tiresome to remain silent, but it was also tiresome to listen attentively. This company of men with pasts had one great merit: in it no one put any constraint upon himself, in the effort to appear better than he was, and no one incited the others to exercise such constraint over himself.
The August sun assiduously warmed the rags of these men, who had turned to it their backs and their uncombed heads—a chaotic combination of the vegetable kingdom with the mineral and the animal. In the corners of the courtyard the grass grew luxuriantly,—tall burdocks sown with clinging burs, and some other plants, which were of no use to anybody, delighted the eyes of the men who were of no use to anybody.
&nbs
p; * * * *
But in Vavíloff’s tavern the following scene had been enacted.
Petúnnikoff junior had entered it, in a leisurely manner, had looked about him, frowned fastidiously, and slowly removing from his head his gray hat, he had inquired of the tavern-keeper, who greeted him with a respectful bow, and an amiable grin:
“Egór Teréntievitch Vavíloff—are you he?”
“Exactly so!”51 replied the non-commissioned officer, resting both hands on the counter, as though preparing to leap over it.
“I have some business with you,”—announced Petúnnikoff.
“Perfectly delighted.… Please come to my rooms!”
They entered his rooms, and seated themselves—the visitor on the waxed-cloth divan in front of the round table, the host on a chair facing him. In one corner of the room burned a shrine-lamp in front of a huge, treble-panelled image-case, around which, on the wall, more holy pictures were also suspended. Their vestments were brilliantly polished, and shone like new ones. In the room, closely set with trunks, and ancient furniture of various sorts, there was an odor of olive oil, tobacco, and sour cabbage. Petúnnikoff surveyed things, and again made a grimace. Vavíloff, with a sigh, glanced at the holy pictures, and then they fixedly regarded each other, and both made a mutually good impression. Vavíloff’s frankly-knavish eyes pleased Petúnnikoff. Petúnnikoff’s open, cold, resolute face, with its broad, strong cheek-bones, and closely set white teeth, pleased Vavíloff.
Well, sir, you know me, of course, and you can guess what I am going to talk to you about!” began Petúnnikoff.
“About the suit…I assume,”—said the non-commissioned officer deferentially.
“Precisely. It is pleasant to see that you make no pretences, but go straight to the point, like a man with a straight-forward soul,”—Petúnnikoff encouraged his interlocutor.
“I’m a soldier, sir.…” said the latter, modestly.
“That’s evident. So, we will conduct the business in a simple, straight-forward manner, in order to get through with it the more promptly.”