by Maxim Gorky
“I’ve already observed, you sorcerer, where you hide your money!”
“You’re lucky.…” said Tyápa hoarsely.
“I’m going to snatch it away …”
“Take it.…”
These people bored Kuválda: there was not among them a single companion worthy to listen to his eloquence and capable of comprehending him.
“Where can the teacher be?”—he meditated aloud.
Martyánoff looked at him, and said:
“He’ll come …”
“I’m convinced that he’ll come—but he won’t drive up in a carriage. Future convict, let’s drink to your future. If you murder a man with money, share it with me.… Then, my dear fellow, I’ll go to America, to those…what’s their name? Lampas?… Pampas! I’ll go there, and I’ll wind up as president of the states. Then I’ll declare war on all Europe, and give it a sound drubbing. I’ll buy an army…in Europe, also…I’ll invite the French, the Germans, the Turks, and so forth, and with them I’ll beat their own relatives…as Ilyá of Muróm beat the Tatár with a Tatár.… With money, one can be an Ilyá also…and annihilate Europe, and hire Judas Petúnnikoff as a lackey.… He’ll do it…give him a hundred rubles a month, and he’ll do it! But he’ll make a bad lackey, for he’ll begin to steal.…”
“And a thin woman is better than a fat one in this respect also, she comes cheaper,”—said the deacon argumentatively. “My first wife used to buy twelve arshíns for a dress, the second bought ten.… And so it was with the food, also.…”
Tarás-and-a-Half laughed apologetically, turned his head toward the deacon, fixed his eyes on the latter’s face, and said, in confusion:
“I, also, had a wife.…”
“That may happen to anybody,”—remarked Kuválda.—“Continue your lies.…”
“She was thin, but she ate a great deal.… And she even died of that.…”
“You poisoned her, cock-eye!”—said The Gnawed Bone, with conviction.
“No, by God I didn’t! She overate herself on sturgeon,”—said Tarás-and-a-Half.
“And I tell you—that you poisoned her!”—reiterated The Gnawed Bone, decisively.
It often happened thus with him: when he had once uttered some piece of folly, he began to reiterate it, without quoting any grounds in confirmation, and though he talked, at first, in a capriciously-childish tone, he gradually worked up almost to a state of frenzy.
The deacon stood up for his friend.
“No, he is incapable of poisoning…there was no cause.…”
“And I say that he did poison her!”—squealed The Gnawed Bone.
“Hold your tongues!”—shouted the captain menacingly. His ill-humor had been converted into morose wrath. He stared at his friends with savage eyes, and not descrying in their ugly physiognomies, already half-drunk, anything which could supply further food for his wrath, he hung his head on his breast, sat thus for a few minutes, and then lay down on the ground, face upward. The Meteor was nibbling at a cucumber. He had taken the cucumber into his hand, without looking at it, thrust it up to the middle in his mouth, and immediately began to chew it with his large, yellow teeth, so that the brine from the cucumber spattered in all directions, bedewing his cheeks. Evidently, he was not hungry, but this process of eating diverted him. Martyánoff sat motionless as a statue, in the same attitude in which he had seated himself on the ground, and he, also, was staring in a concentrated, gloomy way, at a six-quart bottle of vódka, which was already half empty. Tyápa was staring at the ground, and noisily chewing meat, which did not yield to his aged teeth. The Gnawed Bone lay on his stomach, and coughed, with his whole tiny body curled up in a ball. The rest—all taciturn, obscure figures—were sitting and lying in various attitudes, and all these men together, clad in their rags and the evening twilight, were hardly distinguishable from the heaps of rubbish scattered over the courtyard and overgrown with tall grass. Their ungainly attitudes and their rags made them resemble deformed animals, created by a rough, fantastic power, as a travesty on man.
“There lived and dwelt in Súzdal town
A gentlewoman of no account.
And she was seized with a fit of cramps,
Of mo-st unpleasant cramps!”
the deacon began to hum, in an undertone, as he embraced Alexéi Maxímovitch, smiling beatifically into the latter’s face. Tarás-and-a-Half giggled voluptuously.
Night was at hand. In the sky, the stars were quietly kindling—up on the hill, in the town, the lights in the street-lamps. The mournful whistles of the steamers were wafted from the river, the door of Vavíloff’s tavern opened with a creaking and crashing of glass. Two dark figures entered the courtyard, approached the group of men gathered round the bottle, and one of them asked, hoarsely:
“Are you drinking?”
And the other, in an undertone, with envy and joy, said:
“Oh, what devils!”
Then a hand was extended across the head of the deacon, and grasped the bottle, and the characteristic gurgling of vódka became audible, as it was poured from the bottle into a cup. Then there was a loud grunting noise …
“Well, this is melancholy!”—ejaculated the deacon.—“Cock-eye! Let’s call to mind days of yore, let’s sing ‘By the rivers of Babylon!’”
“Does he know how?” inquired Símtzoff.
“He? He used to be a soloist in the Bishop’s choir, my good fellow.… Come on, Cock-eye.… O-on-the-e-ri-i-iv-ers .…”
The deacon’s voice was wild, hoarse, cracked, and his friend sang in a squeaking falsetto.
Enveloped in the gloom, the empty house seemed to have increased in size, or to have moved its whole mass of half-decayed wood nearer to these men, who were awaking in it a dull echo by their wild singing. A cloud, magnificent and dark, was slowly floating across the sky above it. Some one of the men with pasts was snoring, the rest, still not sufficiently intoxicated, were either eating and drinking in silence, or chatting in an undertone, broken with prolonged pauses. None of them were accustomed to this dejected mood at a banquet, which was rare as to the abundance of vódka and of viands. For some reason or other, the boisterous animation characteristic of the lodging-house’s inhabitants over a bottle did not flare up for a long time.
“You’re…dogs! Stop your howling,” said the captain to the singers, raising his head from the ground, and listening.—“Someone is driving in this direction…in a drozhky.…”
A drozhky at that hour in Vyézhaya Street could not fail to arouse general attention. Who from the town would run the risk of driving over the ruts and pit-holes of the street—who was it, and why? All raised their heads and listened. In the nocturnal silence the rumbling of the wheels, as they came in contact with the splashers, was plainly audible. It grew nearer and nearer. A voice rang out, roughly inquiring:
“Well, where is it?”
Someone answered:
“It must be that house, yonder.”
“I won’t go any further.…”
“They’re coming here!” exclaimed the captain.
“The police!” a tremulous murmur ran round.
“In a carriage! The fool!”—said Martyánoff in a dull tone.
Kuválda rose, and went to the gate.
The Gnawed Bone, stretching his head after him, began to listen.
“Is this the night lodging-house?” inquired someone, in a shaking voice.
“Yes, Aristíd Kuválda’s.. boomed the dissatisfied bass voice of the captain.
“There, there now…has Títoff the reporter been living here?”
“Aha! Have you brought him?”
“Yes.…”
“Drunk?”
“Ill!”
“That means, that he’s very drunk. Hey there, teacher! get up!”
“Wait! I’ll help you…he’s very ill. He ha
s been lying ill in my house for two days. Grasp him under the arm-pits.… The doctor has been. He’s in a very bad way.…”
Tyápa rose, and slowly walked to the gate, but The Gnawed Bone grinned and took a drink.
“Light up, there!” shouted the captain.
The Meteor went into the lodging-house and lighted the lamp. Then from the door of the house a broad streak of light streamed across the courtyard, and the captain, in company with a small man, led the teacher along it to the lodging-house. His head hung flabbily on his breast, his legs dragged along the ground, and his arms dangled in the air, as though they were broken. With the aid of Tyápa, they laid him in a heap on the sleeping-shelf, and he, trembling all over, stretched himself out on it, with a quiet groan.
“He and I have been working on the same newspaper.… He’s very unfortunate. I said:—‘Pray lie at my house, you will not incommode me …’ But he entreated me—‘Take me home!’ He got excited.… I thought that was injurious to him, and so I have brought him…home! He really belongs here, does he?”
“And, in your opinion, has he a home somewhere else?” asked Kuválda roughly, as he stared intently at his friend. “Tyápa, go and fetch some cold water!”
“So now.…” hesitated the little man.… “I suppose…he does not need me?”
“You?”—and the captain examined him critically.
The little man was dressed in a sack-coat, much the worse for wear, and carefully buttoned clear up to the chin. There was fringe on the edges of his trousers, his hat was red with age and crumpled, as was also his gaunt, hungry face.
“No, he doesn’t need you…there are a great many of your sort here.…” said the captain, turning away from the little man.
“Farewell for the present, then!”—The little man went to the door, and from that spot he quietly asked:
“If anything should happen…please give notice at the editorial office.… My name is Rýzhoff. I should like to write a brief obituary…for, after all, you know, he was a worker on the press.…”
“Hm! An obituary, you say? Twenty lines—twenty kopéks? I’ll do better: when he dies, I’ll cut off one of his legs and send it to the editorial office, addressed to you. That will be more profitable to you than an obituary, It’ll last you for two or three days…his legs are thick.… You’ve all been devouring him alive, surely you will eat him when he’s dead…also,.…”
The man gave a queer sort of snort, and vanished. The captain sat down on the sleeping-shelf beside the teacher, felt the latter’s brow and breast with his hand, and called him by name:
“Philip!”
The dull sound re-echoed from the dirty walls of the night lodging-house, and died away.
“This is awkward, brother!”—said the captain, softly smoothing the dishevelled hair of the teacher with his hand. Then the captain listened to his breathing, which was hot and spasmodic, scrutinized his face, which was sunken and earthy in hue, sighed, and frowning harshly, glanced around. The lamp was a bad one: its flame flickered, and black shadows danced silently over the walls of the lodging-house. The captain began to stare stubbornly at their silent play, and to stroke his beard.
Tyápa arrived with a bucket of water, set it on the sleeping-shelf by the teacher’s head, and, taking his hand, he raised it on his own hand, as though weighing it.
“The water is not needed,” and the captain waved his hand.
“The priest is needed,” announced the old rag-picker confidently.
“Nothing is needed,” decided the captain.
They fell silent, gazing at the teacher.
“Let’s go and have a drink, you old devil!”
“And he?”
“Can you help him?”
Tyápa turned his back on the teacher, and both of them went out into the courtyard, to their company.
“What’s going on there?”—inquired The Gnawed Bone, turning his sharp face to the captain.
“Nothing in particular.… The man is dying .…” the captain curtly informed him.
“Have they been beating him?” asked The Gnawed Bone, with interest.
The captain made no reply, for he was drinking vódka at the moment.
“It seems as though he knew that we have something wherewith to hold a feast in commemoration of him,” said The Gnawed Bone, as he lighted a cigarette.
Someone laughed, someone else sighed deeply. But, on the whole, the conversation between the captain and The Gnawed Bone did not produce upon these men any perceptible impression; at all events, it could not be seen that it had disturbed anyone, interested anyone, or set anyone to thinking. All of them had treated the teacher as though he were a remarkable man, but now many were already drunk, while others still remained calm outwardly. The deacon alone suddenly straightened himself up, made a noise with his lips, rubbed his forehead, and howled wildly:
“Whe-ere the just re-po-o-ose!”53
“Here, you!”—hissed The Gnawed Bone,—“what’s that you’re roaring?”
“Give him a whack in his ugly face!”—counselled the captain.
“Fool!” rang out Tyápa’s hoarse voice. “When a man is dyings one should hold his tongue…there should be quiet.…”
It was quiet enough: both in heaven, which was covered with storm-clouds and threatened rain, and on earth, enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the autumnal night. From time to time the snores of those who had fallen asleep, the gurgling of the vódka as it was poured out, and munching were audible. The deacon kept muttering something. The storm-clouds floated low, as though they were on the point of striking the roof of the old house and overturning it on top of the group of men.
“Ah…one’s soul feels badly when a man whom he knows is dying,” remarked the captain, with a hiccough, and bowed his head upon his breast.
No one answered him.
“He was the best…among us…the cleverest…the most decent.… I’m sorry for him.…”
“Gi-i-ive re-est wi-i-ith the Sa-a-aints54…sing, you cock-eyed rogue!”—blustered the deacon, punching the ribs of his friend who was slumbering by his side.
“Shut up!… you!”—exclaimed The Gnawed Bone in a whisper, as he sprang to his feet.
“I’ll hit him over the noddle,”—suggested Martyánoff, raising his head from the ground.
“Aren’t you asleep?”—said Aristíd Fómitch, with unusual amiability.—“ Did you hear? The teacher’s here.…”
Martyánoff fidgeted heavily about on the ground, rose, looked at the strip of light which proceeded from the door and windows of the lodging-house, waggled his head, and sat down in silence by the captain’s side.
“Shall we take a drink?” suggested the latter.
Having found some glasses by the sense of feeling, they took a drink.
“I’ll go and take a look.. said Tyápa; “perhaps he needs something.…”
“He needs a coffin.…” grinned the captain.
“Don’t you talk about that,” entreated The Gnawed Bone, in a low voice.
After Tyápa, The Meteor rose from the ground. The deacon, also, attempted to rise, but rolled over on his side, and swore loudly.
When Tyápa went away the captain slapped Martyánoff on the shoulder, and said in a low voice:
“So now, Martyánoff.… You ought to feel it more than the others.… You were…however, devil take it. Are you sorry for Philip?”
“No,”—replied the former jail-warden, after a pause.—“I don’t feel anything of that sort, brother.… I’ve got out of the habit.… It’s abominable to live so. I’m speaking seriously when I say that I’ll murder somebody.…”
“Yes?”—said the captain vaguely. “Well…what of that? Let’s have another drink!”
“W-we are in-in-sig-ni-fi-cant fo-olks. I’ve had a drink—but I’ll take ano-therrr!”
Símtzoff now awoke, and began to sing in a blissful voice.
“Brethren! Who’s there? Pour out a cupful for the old man!”
They poured it and handed it to him. After drinking it, he again rolled over in a heap, knocking his head against someone’s side.
The silence lasted for a couple of minutes—a silence as gloomy and painful as the autumnal night. Then someone whispered.…
“What?” the question rang out.
“I say, that he was a splendid fellow. Such a quiet head.…” they said in an undertone.
“And he had money, too…and he didn’t spare it for the fellows.…” and again silence reigned.
“He’s dying!” Tyápa’s shout resounded over the captain’s head.
Aristíd Fómitch rose, and moving his feet with forced steadiness, he went to the lodging-house.
“What are you going for?” Tyápa stopped him.—“Don’t go. For you’re drunk…and it isn’t a good thing.…”
The captain halted and meditated.
“What is good on this earth? Go to the devil!” And he gave Tyápa a shove.
The shadows were still leaping along the walls of the night lodging-house, as though engaged in mute conflict with one another. On the sleeping-shelf, stretched out at full length lay the teacher, rattling in the throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare chest heaved violently, froth was oozing from the comers of his mouth, and on his face there was a strained expression, as though he were making an effort to say something great, difficult—and was not able, and was suffering inexpressibly in consequence.
The captain stood in front of him, with his hands clasped behind his back, and stared at him for about a minute. Then he began to speak, painfully contracting his brows:
“Philip! Say something to me…throw a word of comfort to your friend!… I love you, brother.… All men are beasts, but you were for me—a man …although you were a drunkard. Akh, how you did drink vódka! Philip! It was exactly that which has ruined you.… And why? You ought to have known how to control yourself…and listen to me. D-didn’t I use to tell you.…”