The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “Never!”

  And after that, he felt sad.

  II

  On Saturday morning, a little unpleasantness began for Ippolít Sergyéevitch: as he was dressing himself, he had knocked the lamp off of the little table to the floor, it had flown into fragments, and several drops of kerosene from the broken reservoir had fallen into one of his shoes, which he had not yet put on his feet. The shoes, of course, had been cleaned, but it began to seem to Ippolít Sergyéevitch that a repulsive, oily odor was streaming upon the air from the tea, the bread, the butter, and even from the beautifully dressed hair of his sister.

  This spoiled his temper.

  “Take off the shoe, and set it in the sun, then the kerosene will evaporate,—” his sister advised him.—“And, in the meantime, put on my husband’s slippers, there is one pair which is perfectly new.”

  “Please don’t worry. It will soon disappear.”

  “It is of the greatest importance to wait until it disappears. Really, shall not I order the slippers to be brought?”

  “No…I don’t want them. Throw them away.”

  “Why? They are nice slippers, of velvet…they are fit to use.”

  He wanted to argue, the kerosene irritated him.

  “What will they be good for? You will not wear them.”

  “Of course I shall not, but Alexander will.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Why, Benkóvsky.”

  “Aha!—” he gave way to a hard laugh.—“That is very touching fidelity on the part of your dead husband’s slippers. And practical.”

  “You are malicious to-day.”

  She looked at him somewhat offended, but very searchingly, and, he, catching that expression in her eyes, thought unpleasantly:

  “She certainly imagines that I am irritated by Várenka’s absence.”

  “Benkóvsky will arrive in time for dinner, probably,—” she informed him, after a pause.

  “I’m very glad to hear it,—” he replied, as he commented to himself:

  “She wants me to be amiable toward my future brother-in-law.”

  And his irritation was augmented by a feeling of oppressive boredom. But Elizavéta Sergyéevna said, as she carefully spread a thin layer of butter on her bread:

  “Practicalness, in my opinion, is a very praiseworthy quality. Especially at the present moment, when impoverishment so oppresses our brethren, who live upon the fruits of the earth. Why should not Benkóvsky wear the slippers of my deceased husband?…”

  “And his shroud also, if you removed the shroud from him, and have preserved it,”—said Ippolít Sergyéevitch venomously to himself, concentrating his attention upon the operation of transferring the boiled cream from the cream-jug to his glass.

  “And, altogether, my husband has left a very extensive and appropriate wardrobe. And Benkóvsky is not spoiled. For you know how many of them there are—three young fellows besides Alexander, and five young girls. And the estate has about ten mortgages on it. You know, I purchased their library, on very advantageous terms;—there are some very valuable things in it. Look it over, and perhaps you will find something you need.… Alexander subsists on a very paltry salary.”

  “Have you known him long?—” he asked her;—it was necessary to talk about Benkóvsky, although he did not wish to do so.

  “Four years, altogether, and so…intimately, seven or eight months. You will see that he is very nice. He is so tender, so easily excited, and something of an idealist, a decadent, I think. However, all the young generation are inclined to decadentism.… Some fall on the side of idealism, others on the side of materialism…and both sorts seem very clever to me.”

  “There are men who profess ‘scepticism of a hundred horse power,’ as one of my comrades has defined it,—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, bending his face over his glass.

  She laughed, as she said:

  “That is witty, though it is also rather coarse. Really, I am on the verge of scepticism myself, the healthy scepticism, you know, which fetters the wings of all possible impulses, and seems to me indispensable for…the acquisition of correct views as to the life of people.”

  He made haste to finish his tea, and went away, announcing that he had to sort over the books which he had brought with him. But the odor of kerosene lingered still in his chamber, in spite of the open doors. He scowled, and taking a book, he went out into the park. There, in the closely clustered family of ancient trees, wearied with gales and thunderstorms, reigned a melancholy silence, which enervated the mind, and he walked on, without opening his book, down the principal avenue, thinking of nothing, desiring nothing.

  Here was the river and the boat. Here he had seen Várenka reflected in the water, and angelically beautiful in that reflection.

  “Well, I’m just like a boy from the gymnasium!” he cried to himself, conscious that the memory of her was agreeable to him.

  After halting for a moment by the side of the river, he stepped into the boat, seated himself in the stern, and began to gaze at that picture in the water, which had been so lovely three days before. It was equally beautiful to-day, but to-day, on its transparent background the white figure of that strange young girl did not make its appearance. Polkánoff lighted a cigarette, and immediately flung it into the water, reflecting that, perhaps, he had done a foolish thing in coming hither. As a matter of fact, of what use was he there? Apparently, only for the sake of preserving his sister’s good name, to speak more simply, in order to enable his sister to receive Mr. Benkóvsky into her house, without offending the proprieties. It was not an important rôle.… And that Benkóvsky could not be very clever if he really did love Polkánoff’s sister, who was, if anything, too clever.

  After having sat there for three hours in a semi-meditative condition, his thoughts paralyzed, in a certain way, and gliding over subjects, without sitting in judgment upon them, he rose, and went slowly to the house, angry with himself for the uselessly wasted time, and firmly resolving to set to work as speedily as possible. As he approached the terrace, he beheld a slender young man, in a white blouse, girt with a strap. The young man was standing with his back to the avenue, and was looking at something, as he bent over the table. Ippolít Sergyéevitch slackened his pace, wondering whether this could possibly be Benkóvsky? Then the young man straightened up, with a graceful gesture flung back the long locks of curling hair from his brow, and turned his face toward the avenue.

  “Why, he’s a page of the Middle Ages!” exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself.

  Benkóvsky’s face was oval, of a dead-white hue, and appeared jaded, because of the strained gleam of his large, almond-shaped, black eyes, deeply sunken in their orbits. His beautifully formed mouth was shaded by a small, black mustache, and his arched brow by locks of carelessly dishevelled, waving hair. He was small, below middle stature, but his willowy figure, elegantly built, and finely proportioned, concealed this defect. He looked at Ippolít Sergyéevitch as short-sighted persons look, and there was something sympathetic, but sickly, about his pale face. In a velvet beretta and costume, he really would seem like a page who had escaped from a picture representing a court of the Middle Ages.

  “Benkóvsky!”—he said, in a low tone, offering his white hand, with the long, slender fingers of a musician, to Ippolít Sergyéevitch, as the latter ascended the steps of the terrace.

  The young savant shook his hand cordially.

  For a moment, both preserved an awkward silence, then Ippolít Sergyéevitch began to talk about the beauty of the park. The young man answered him briefly, being anxious, evidently, merely to comply with the demands of politeness, and exhibiting no interest whatever in his companion.

  Elizavéta Sergyéevna soon made her appearance, in a loose white gown, with black lace on the collar, and girt at the waist with a long, black cord, terminating in tassels. This costume h
armonized well with her calm countenance, imparting a majestic expression to its small, but regular features. On her cheeks played a flush of satisfaction, and her cold eyes had an animated look.

  “Dinner will be ready at once,—” she announced.—“I am going to treat you to ice-cream. But why are you so bored, Alexander Petróvitch? Yes! You have not forgotten Schubert?”

  “I have brought Schubert and the books,—” he replied frankly, and meditatively admiring her.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch observed the expression of his face, and felt awkward, comprehending that this charming young man must have made a vow to himself not to recognize his existence.

  “That’s fine!”—exclaimed Elizavéta Sergyéevna, smiling at Benkóvsky.—“Shall we play it after dinner?” “If you like!—” and he bowed his head before her. This was gracefully done, but, nevertheless, it made Ippolít Sergyéevitch grin inwardly.

  “It does please me very much,—” declared his sister coquettishly.

  “And are you fond of Schubert?—” inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

  “I love Beethoven best of all—he is the Shakspear of music,—” replied Benkóvsky, turning his profile toward him.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch had heard Beethoven called the Shakspear of music before, and the difference between him and Schubert constituted one of those mysteries which did not interest him in the least. But this boy did interest him, and he seriously inquired:

  “Why do you place Beethoven, in particular, at the head of all?”

  “Because he is more of an idealist than all the other musical composers put together.”

  “Really? Do you, also, take that as the true view of the world?”

  “Undoubtedly. And I know that you are an extreme materialist,—” explained Benkóvsky, and his eyes gleamed strangely.

  “He wants to argue!” thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch,—“But he’s a nice young fellow, straightforward, and, probably, strictly honorable.”

  And his sympathy for this idealist, who was condemned to wear the dead man’s slippers, increased.

  “So, you and I are enemies?”—he inquired, with a smile.

  “Gentlemen!”—Elizavéta Sergyéevna called to them from the room.—“Don’t forget that you have only just made each other’s acquaintance.…”

  Másha, the maid, was setting the table, with a clatter of dishes, and she cast a furtive glance at Benkóvsky with eyes in which sparkled artless rapture. Ippolít also gazed at him, reflecting that he must treat this young fellow with all possible delicacy, and that it would be well to avoid “ideal” conversations with him, because he would, in all probability, get excited to the point of rage in arguments. But Benkóvsky stared at him with a burning glitter in his eyes, and a nervous quiver on his face.… Evidently, he was passionately anxious to talk, and he restrained his desire with difficulty. Ippolít Sergyéevitch made up his mind to confine himself to the bounds of strictly official courtesy.

  His sister, who was already seated at the table, tossed insignificant phrases, in a jesting tone, now to one, now to the other: the men made brief replies—one with the careless familiarity of a relative, the other with the respect of the lover. And all three were seized with a certain feeling of awkwardness and embarrassment, which made them keep watch over one another, and over themselves.

  Másha brought the first course out on the terrace.

  “Please come to dinner, gentlemen!”—Elizavéta Sergyéevna invited them, as she armed herself with the soup-ladle.—“Will you have a glass of vódka?”

  “Yes, I will!”—said Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

  “And I will not, if you will excuse me,” declared Benkóvsky.

  “I willingly excuse you. But you will drink, will you not?”

  “I do not wish to.…”

  “Touch glasses with a materialist,—” thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

  Either the savory soup with patties, or Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s ceremonious manner seemed somewhat to cool and soften the sullen gleam of the young man’s black eyes, and when the second course was served he began to talk:

  “Perhaps my exclamation, in reply to your question, struck you as a challenge—are we enemies? Perhaps it is impolite, but I assume that people’s relations to one another should be free from their official falsehood, which everyone has accepted as the rule.”

  “I entirely agree with you,” answered Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a smile.—“The more simply, the better. And your straightforward declaration only pleased me, if you will permit me to express myself in that way.”

  Benkóvsky smiled sadly, as he said:

  “We really are enemies in the realm of ideas, but that defines itself at once, of itself. Now, you say—c the more simply, the better,’ and I think so too, but I put one construction on those words, while you put another.…”

  “Do we?”—inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

  “Undoubtedly, if you proceed in the straight line of logic from the views set forth in your article.”

  “Of course I do.…”

  “There, you see.… And from my point of view, your idea of simplicity would be coarse. But let us drop that question.… Tell me, in regarding life merely as a mechanism, which has worked out everything, including ideas, do not you feel conscious of an inward chill, and is there not in your soul a single drop of compassion for all the mysterious and enchantingly beautiful, which we degrade to simple chemistry, to a commingling of atoms of material?”

  “Hm!… I do not feel that chill, for my place is clear to me, in the great mechanism of life, which is more poetical than all fantasies.… As for the metaphysical fermentation of sentiment and mind, that, you know, is a matter of taste. So far, no one knows what beauty is. In any case, it is proper to assume that it is a physiological sensation.”

  One talked in a low tone, full of pensiveness and sorrowful notes of pity for his erring interlocutor; the other spoke calmly, with a consciousness of his mental superiority, and with a desire not to employ words which wounded the vanity of his opponent—words which are so frequent in a discussion between two well-bred men, as to whose truth is the nearer to the real truth. Elizavéta Sergyéevna smiled slightly, as she watched the play of their countenances, and composedly ate her dinner, carefully gnawing the bones of her game. Másha peeped from behind the door, and, evidently, wished to understand what the gentlemen were saying, for her face wore a strained expression, and her eyes had become round, and lost their wonted expression of cunning and amiability.

  “You say—actuality, but what is it, when everything around us, and we ourselves are merely chemistry and mechanism, working without cessation? Everywhere motion, and everything is motion, and there is not the hundredth part of a second of rest.—How shall I seize actuality, how shall I recognize it, if I myself, at any given moment, am not what I was, am not what I shall be the following moment? You, I, we—are we merely material? But some day we shall lie beneath the holy pictures, filling the air with the vile stench of corruption.… All that will remain of us on earth will be, perhaps, some faded photographs, and they can never tell anyone about the joys and torments of our existence, which has been swallowed up by the unknown. Is it not terrible to believe that all we thinking and suffering beings live only for the purpose of decaying?”

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch listened attentively to his speech, and said to himself:

  “If you were convinced of the truth of your belief, you would be at ease. But here you are, shouting. And it is not because you are an idealist that you shout, my good fellow, but because you have weak nerves.”

  But Benkóvsky, gazing into his face, with flaming eyes, went on:

  “You talk about science,—very good!—I bow down before it as before a mighty power which will loose the bonds of the mystery that fetters me.… But by the light of it I behold myself on the same spot where stood my distant ancest
or, who believed that the thunder rumbles thanks to the prophet Elijah. I do not believe in Elijah; I know that it is caused by the action of electricity, but how is that any clearer than Elijah? In that it is more complicated? It is as inexplicable as motion, and all the other powers, which people are unsuccessfully trying to substitute for one. And it sometimes seems to me, that the entire business of science amounts to complicating conceptions—that is all! I think, that it is good to believe; people laugh at me, they say: ‘It is not necessary to believe, but to know,’ I want to know what matter is, and they answer me, literally, thus: ‘Matter is what is contained in that locality of space, in which we render objective the cause of the sensations that we receive,’ Why talk like that? Can that be given out as the answer to the question? It is a sneer at those who are passionately and sincerely seeking an answer to the anxious queries of their spirits.… I want to know the aim of existence—that aspiration of my spirit is also ridiculed. But I am living, life is not easy, and it gives me a right to demand a categorical answer from the monopolists of wisdom—why do I live?”

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch cast a sidelong glance at the face of Benkóvsky, which was glowing with emotion, and recognized the fact that that young man must be answered with words which should correspond with his own words, in the matter of the strength of stormy feeling injected into them. But, while he recognized this fact, he felt within himself a desire to retort. But the poet’s huge eyes grew still larger, a passionate melancholy burned within them. He sighed, and his white, elegant right hand, fluttered swiftly through the air, now convulsively clenched into a fist and menacing, now as though clutching at something in space, which it was powerless to grasp.

  “But, while giving nothing, how much you have taken from life I You reply to that with scorn.… But in it rings—what? The impossibility of retorting with confidence, and, in addition, your inability to pity people. For men are asking from you spiritual bread, and you are offering them the stone of negation! You have stolen the soul of life, and if there are in it no great feats of love and suffering, you are to blame for that, for, the slaves of reason, you have surrendered your soul into its power, and now it has turned cold, and is dying, ill and poverty-stricken! But life is just as gloomy as ever, and its torments, its woe, demand heroes.… Where are they?”