by Maxim Gorky
“What did you speak to her about?”
The youth seemed annoyed and lowered his head gloomily.
“She does not know more than ten words, so we were silent.”
“True love,” said the old man, looking back and showing his strong teeth in a broad smile, “strikes the heart like lightning, and is as dumb as lightning, you know.”
The young man picked up a large stone and was about to throw it into the sea; but he threw it back over his shoulder, saying:
“Sometimes one cannot understand what people want with different languages.”
“They say some day it will be different,” said the old man, after a moments thought.
Over the blue surface of the sea, in the far-off milky mist, noiselessly glides a white steamer, like the shadow of a cloud.
“To Sicily,” said the old man, nodding towards the steamer.
From somewhere or other he took a long, uneven, black cigar, broke it in two and, handing one half over his shoulder to the young man, asked:
“What did you think about as you sat with her?”
“Man always thinks of happiness.”
“That’s why he is always so stupid,” the old man put in quietly.
They began to smoke. The blue smoke wreaths hung over the stones in the breathless air which was impregnated with the rich odour of fertile earth and gentle water.
“I sang to her and she smiled.”
“Eh?”
“But you know that I sing badly.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then I rested the oars and looked at her.”
“Aha!”
“I looked, saying to myself: ‘Here am I, young and strong, while you are languishing. Love me and make me happy.’”
“Was she feeling lonely?”
“Who that is not poor goes to a strange land if he feels merry?”
“Bravo!”
“I promise by the name of the Virgin Mary—I thought to myself—that I will be kind to you and that everybody shall be happy who lives near us.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the old man, throwing back his large head and bursting into loud bass laughter.
“I will always be true to you.”
“H’m.”
“Or—I thought—let us live together a little while; I will love you to your heart’s content; then you can give me some money for a boat and rigging, and a piece of land; and I will return to my own dear country and will always, as long as I live, remember and think kindly of you.”
“There’s some sense in that.”
“Then—towards the morning—it seemed to me that I needed nothing, that I did not want money, only her, even if it were only for one night.”
“That is simpler.”
“Just for one single night.”
“Well, well!” said the old man.
“It seems to me, Uncle Pietro, that a small happiness is always more honest.”
The old man was silent. His thick, shaven lips were compressed; he looked intently into the green water. The young man sang quietly and sadly:
“Oh, sun!”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man suddenly, shaking his head, “a small happiness is more honest, but a great happiness is better. Poor people are better-looking, but the rich are stronger. It is always so.”
The waves rock and splash. Blue wreaths of smoke float, like nymphs, above the heads of the two men. The young man rises to his feet and sings quietly, his cigar stuck in a corner of his mouth. He leans his shoulder against the grey side of the rock, folds his arms across his chest, and looks out to sea with the eyes of a dreamer.
But the old man is motionless, his head has sunk on his breast and he seems to doze.
The violet shadows on the mountains grow deeper and softer.
“O sun!” sings the youth.
“The sun was born more beautiful,
More beautiful than thou!
Bathe me in thy light,
O sun!
Fill me with thy life!”
The green waves chuckle merrily.
LOVE OF LOVERS
At a small station between Rome and Genoa the guard opened the door of our compartment and, with the assistance of a dirty oiler, led, carried almost, a little, one-eyed, old man up the steps into our midst.
“Very old!” remarked both at the same time, smiling good-naturedly.
But the old man turned out to be very vigorous. After thanking his helpers with a pretty gesture of his wrinkled hand he politely and gaily lifted his shabby dust-stained hat from his grey head, and, looking sharply at the seats with his one eye, inquired:
“Will you permit me?”
He was given a seat at once. He then straightened his blue linen suit, heaved a sigh of relief and, putting his hands on his little, withered knees, smiled good-humouredly, disclosing a toothless mouth.
“Going far, uncle?” asked my companion.
“Only three stations!” he replied readily. “I am going to my grandson’s wedding.”
After a few minutes he became very talkative and, raising his voice above the noise made by the wheels of the train, told us as he swayed this way and that like a broken branch on a windy day:
“I am a Ligurian: we Ligurians are a strong people. I, for instance, have thirteen sons and four daughters; I confuse my grandchildren in counting them; this is the second one to get married—that’s pretty good, don’t you think?”
He looked proudly round the compartment with his lustreless but still merry eye; then he laughed quietly and said: “See how many people I have given to my country and to the king!”
“How did I lose my eye? Oh, that was long ago, when I was still a boy, but already helping my father. He was breaking stones in the vineyard; our soil is very hard, and needs a lot of attention: there are a great many stones. A stone flew from underneath my father’s pick and hit me in the eye. I don’t remember any pain, but at dinner my eye came out—it was terrible, signors! They put it back in its place and applied some warm bread, but the eye died!”
The old man rubbed his brown skinny cheek, and laughed again in a merry, good-humoured way.
“At that time there were not so many doctors, and people were much more stupid. What! you think they may have been kinder? Perhaps they were.”
And now this dried-up, one-eyed, deeply wrinkled face, with its partial covering of greenish-grey, mouldy-looking hair, became knowing and triumphant.
“When one has lived as long as I one may talk confidently about men, isn’t that so?”
He raised significantly a dark, crooked finger as though threatening someone.
“I will tell you, signors, something about people.
“When my father died—I was thirteen at the time—you see how small I am even now: but I was very skilful and could work without getting tired (that is all I inherited from my father)—our house and land were sold for debts. And so, with but one eye and two hands, I lived on, working wherever I could get work. It was hard, but youth is not afraid of work, is it?
“When I was nineteen I met a girl whom Fate had meant me to love; she was as poor as myself, though stronger and more robust; she, also, lived with her mother, an old woman in failing health, and worked when and where she could. She was not very comely, but kind and clever. And she had a fine voice—oh! she sang like a professional, and that in itself means riches, signors!
“‘Shall we get married?’ said I, after we had known each other for some time.
“‘It would be funny, you one-eyed fellow!’ she replied rather sadly. ‘Neither you nor I have anything. What should we live on?’
“Upon my soul, neither I nor she had anything! But what does that signify to young love? You all know, signors, how little love requires; I was insistent and got my way.
“‘Yes, perhaps you are right,’ said Ida at last. ‘If the Holy Mother helps you and me now when we live apart, it will be much easier for her to help us when we live together.’
“We decided upon it and went to the priest.
“‘This is madness!’ said the priest. ‘Aren’t there beggars enough in Liguria? Unhappy people, playthings of the devil, you must struggle against his snares or you will pay dearly for your weakness.’
“All the youths in the commune jeered at us, and all the old people shook their heads, I can tell you. But youth is obstinate and will have its way! The wedding day drew near; we were no better off than we had been before; we really did not know where we should sleep on our wedding night.
“‘Let us go into the fields,’ said Ida. ‘Why won’t that do? The Mother of God is equally kind to all, and love is everywhere equally passionate when people are young.’
“That is what we decided upon: that the earth should be our bed and the sky our coverlet!
“At this point another story begins, signors; please pay attention; this is the best story of my long life. Early in the morning of the day before our wedding the old man Giovanni, for whom I worked, said to me like this, his pipe between his teeth, as if he were speaking about trifles:
“’Ugo, you had better go and clean out the old sheep-shed and put some straw in it. Although it is dry there, and no sheep have been in it for over a year, it ought to be cleaned out properly if you want to live in it with Ida.’
“Thus we had a house!
“As I worked and sang, the carpenter Constanzio stood in the door and asked:
“‘Are you going to live here with Ida? Where is your bed? You must come to me when you have finished and get one from me—I have one to spare.’
“As I went to his house Mary, the bad-tempered shopkeeper, shouted:
“‘The wretched sillies get married and don’t possess a sheet, or pillow, or anything else! You are quite crazy, you one-eyed fellow! Send your sweetheart to me.’
“And Ettore Viano, tortured by rheumatism and fever, shouted from the threshold of his house:
“‘Ask him whether he has saved up much wine for the guests! Oh, good people, who could be more light-headed than these two?’”
In a deep wrinkle on the old man’s cheek glistened a tear of happiness; he threw back his head and laughed noiselessly, pawing his old throat and the flabby skin of his face; his arms were as restless as a child’s.
“Oh, signors, signors!” said he, laughing and catching his breath. “On our wedding morn we had everything that was wanted for a home—a statue of the Madonna, crockery, linen, furniture—everything, I swear! Ida wept and laughed, and so did I, and everybody laughed—it is not the thing to weep on one’s wedding day, and they all laughed at us!
“Signors, words cannot tell how sweet it is to be able to say ‘our’ people. It is better still to feel that they are ‘yours,’ near and dear to you, your kindred, for whom your life is no joking matter, your happiness no plaything! And the wedding took place! It was a great day. The whole commune turned out to see us, and everybody came to our shed, which had become a rich house, as in a fairy-tale. We had everything: wine and fruit, meat and bread, and all ate and were merry. There is no greater happiness, signors, than to do good to others; believe me, there is nothing more beautiful or more joyful.
“And we had a priest. ‘These people,’ he said gravely, and in a manner suited to the occasion, ‘have worked for you all, and now you have provided for them so that they may be happy on this the best day of their life. That is exactly what you should have done, for they have worked for you, and work is of more account than copper and silver coins; work is always greater than the payment that is given for it! Money disappears, but work remains. These people are happy and humble; their life has been hard but they have not grumbled; it may be harder yet and they will not murmur—and you will help them in an hour of need. Their hands are willing and their hearts as good as gold.’ He said a lot of flattering things to me, to Ida and to the whole commune!”
The old man looked triumphantly, with his one eye, at his fellow-travellers, and there was something youthful and vigorous in his glance as he said:
“There you have something about people, signors. Curious, isn’t it?”
HEARTS AND CREEDS
It is spring-time, the sun shines brightly, and everyone is gay. Even the window-panes of the old stone houses seem to wear a cheerful smile.
Along the street of the little town streams a crowd in bright holiday attire. The whole population of the town is there: workers, soldiers, tradespeople, priests, officials, fishermen; all are intoxicated with the spirit of spring-time, talking, laughing, singing in joyous confusion, as if they were a single body overflowing with the zest of life.
The hats and parasols of the women make a medley of bright colours; red and blue balloons, like wonderful flowers, float from the hands of the children; and children, merry lords of the earth, laughing and rejoicing, are everywhere, like gems on the gorgeous cloak of a fairy prince.
The tender green leaves of the trees have not yet unfolded; they are sheathed in gorgeous buds, greedily drinking in the warm rays of the sun. Far off the sun smiles gently and seems to beckon us.
The impression seems to prevail that people have outlived their misfortunes, that yesterday was the last day of the hard shameful life that wearied them to death. To-day they have all awakened in high spirits, like schoolboys, with a strong, clear faith in themselves, in the invincibility of their will to overcome all obstacles, and now, all together, they march boldly into the future.
It was strange—strange and sad and suddenly depressing—to notice a sorrowful face in this lively crowd: it was that of a tall, strongly built man, not yet over thirty but already grey, who passed arm-in-arm with a young woman. He carried his hat in his hand, the hair on his shapely head glistened like silver, his thin but healthy face was calm and destined to remain for ever sad. The eyes, large and dark, and shaded by long lashes, were those of a man who cannot forget—who will never forget—the acute suffering through which he has passed.
“Notice that couple,” said my companion to me, “especially the man: he has lived through one of those dramas which are enacted more and more frequently amongst the workers of Northern Italy.”
And my companion went on:
That man is a socialist, the editor of a local Labour paper, a workman himself, a painter. He is one of those characters for whom science becomes a religion, and a religion that still more incites the thirst for knowledge. A keen and clever Anti-Clerical he was—just note what fierce looks the black priests send after him.
About five years ago he, a propagandist, met in one of his circles a girl who at once attracted his attention. Here women have learnt to believe silently and steadfastly; the priests have cultivated this ability in them for many centuries, and have achieved what they wished. Somebody rightly said that the Catholic Church has been built up on the breast of womankind. The cult of the Madonna is not only beautiful, as such heathen practices go, it is first of all a clever cult. The Madonna is simpler than Christ, she is nearer to one’s heart, there are no contradictions in her, she does not threaten with Gehenna—she only loves, pities, forgives—it is easy for her to make a captive of a woman’s heart for life.
But there he sees a girl who can speak, can inquire; and in all her questions he perceives, side by side with her naïve wonderment at his ideas, an undisguised lack of belief in him, and sometimes even fear and repulsion. The Italian propagandist has to speak a great deal about religion, to say incisive things about the Pope and the clergy; every time he spoke on that subject he saw contempt and hate for him in the eyes of the girl; if she asked about anything her words sounded unfriendly and her soft voice breathed poison. It was evident that she was acquainted with Catholic literature directed against socialism, and that in this c
ircle her word had as much weight as his own.
Until latterly the attitude here towards women was far more vulgar and much coarser than in Russia, and the Italian women were themselves to blame for this; taking no interest in anything except the Church, they were for the most part strangers to the work of social advancement carried on by men and did not understand its meaning.
The man’s self-love was wounded, the clever propagandist’s fame suffered in the collisions with the girl; he got angry; lost his temper; occasionally he ridiculed her successfully, but she paid him back in his own coin, evoking his involuntary admiration, forcing him carefully to prepare the lectures he had to give to the circle she attended.
In addition to all this he noticed that every time he came to speak about the present shameful state of things, how man was being oppressed, his body and his soul mutilated—whenever he drew pictures of the life of the future when all will be both outwardly and inwardly free—he noticed that she was quite another being: she listened to his speeches, stifling the anger of a strong and clever woman who knows the weight of life’s chains; listened to them with the rapt eagerness of a child that is told a fairy tale which is in harmony with its own magically complex soul.
This excited in him the anticipation of victory over a strong foe—a foe who could be a fine comrade, a valiant champion in the cause of a better future.
The rivalry between them lasted nearly a year, without calling forth any desire in them to join issue and fight their battle out; at length he made the first advance.
“Signorina is my constant opponent,” he said, “does she not think that in the interests of the cause it would be better if we were to become more closely acquainted?”
She willingly fell in with his suggestion, and almost from the first word they entered upon a spirited contest: the girl fiercely defended the Church as the only place where the souls of the weary find rest, where before the face of the Madonna all are equal and equally pitiable, notwithstanding the differences in worldly seeming. He replied that it was not rest that people needed but struggle, that civic equality is impossible without equality in material things, and that behind the cloak of the Madonna is concealed a man to whom it is advantageous that people should remain miserable and unenlightened.