The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  She held out a piece of silver money to me, grasped between her first finger and her thumb. I felt ashamed to take that cold thing from her, but I did not dare to refuse. As I went out, I laid it on the pedestal of the stair-banisters.

  I took away with me a deep, new impression from that woman. It was as if a new day had dawned for me. I lived for several days in a state of joy, thinking of the spacious room and the tailor’s wife sitting in it, dressed in pale blue and looking like an angel. Everything around her was unfamiliarly beautiful. A dull-gold carpet lay under her feet; the winter day looked through the silver panes of the window, warming itself in her presence. I wanted very much to look at her again. How would it be if I went to her and asked her for a book?

  I acted upon this idea. Once more I saw her in the same place, also with a book in her hand; but she had a red handkerchief tied round her face, and her eyes were swollen. As she gave me a book with a black binding, she indistinctly called out something. I went away feeling sad, carrying the book, which smelt of creosote and aniseed drops. I hid it in the attic, wrapping it up in a clean shirt and some paper; for I was afraid that my employers might find it and spoil it.

  They used to take the “Neva” for the sake of the patterns and prizes, but they never read it. When they had looked at the pictures, they put it away in a cupboard in the bedroom, and at the end of the year they had been bound, placing them under the bed, where already lay three volumes of “The Review of Painting.” When I washed the floor in the bedroom dirty water flowed under these books. The master subscribed to the “Russian Courier,” but when he read it in the evening he grumbled at it.

  “What the devil do they want to write all tins for? Such dull stuff!”

  On Saturday, when I was putting away the linen in the attic, I remembered about the book. I undid it from its wrappings, and read the first lines: “Houses are like people; they all have physiognomies of their own.” The truth of this surprised me, and I went on reading farther, standing at the dormer-window until I was too cold to stay longer. But in the evening, when they had gone to vespers, I carried the book into the kitchen and buried myself in the yellow, worn pages, which were like autumn leaves. Without effort, they carried me into another life, with new names and new standards, showed me noble heroes, gloomy villains, quite unlike the people with whom I had to do. This was a novel by Xavier de Montepaine. It was long, like all his novels, simply packed with people and incidents, describing an unfamiliar, vehement life. Everything in this novel was wonderfully clear and simple, as if a mellow light hidden between the lines illuminated the good and evil. It helped one to love and hate, compelling one to follow with intense interest the fates of the people, who seemed so inextricably entangled. I was seized with sudden desires to help this person, to hinder that, forgetting that this life, which had so unexpectedly opened before me, had its existence only on paper. I forgot everything else in the exciting struggles. I was swallowed up by a feeling of joy on one page, and by a feeling of grief on the next.

  I read until I heard the bell ring in the front hall. I knew at once who it was that was ringing, and why.

  The candle had almost burned out. The candlestick, which I had cleaned only that morning, was covered with grease; the wick of the lamp, which I ought to have looked after, had slipped out of its place, and the flame had gone out. I rushed about the kitchen trying to hide the traces of my crime. I slipped the book under the stove-hole, and began to put the lamp to rights. The nurse came running out of the sitting-room.

  “Are you deaf? They have rung!”

  I rushed to open the door.

  “Were you asleep?” asked the master roughly. His wife, mounting the stairs heavily, complained that she had caught cold. The old lady scolded me. In the kitchen she noticed the burned-out candle at once, and began to ask me what I had been doing. I said nothing. I had only just come down from the heights, and I was all to pieces with fright lest they should find the book. She cried out that I would set the house on fire. When the master and his wife came down to supper she complained to them.

  “There, you see, he has let the candle gutter, he will set the house on fire.”

  While they were at supper the whole four of them lashed me with their tongues, reminding me of all my crimes, wilful and involuntary, threatening me with perdition; but I knew quite well that they were all speaking not from ill-feeling, or for my good, but simply because they were bored. And it was curious to observe how empty and foolish they were compared with the people in books.

  When they had finished eating, they grew heavy, and went wearily to bed. The old woman, after disturbing God with her angry complaints, settled herself on the stove and was silent. Then I got up, took the book from the stove-hole, and went to the window. It was a bright night, and the moon looked straight into the window; but my sight was not good enough to see the small print. My desire to read was tormenting me. I took a brass saucepan from the shelf and reflected the light of the moon from it on the book; but it became still more difficult and blurred. Then I betook myself to the bench in the corner where the icon was, and, standing upon it, began to read by the light of the small lamp. But I was very tired, and dozed, sinking down on the bench. I was awakened by the cries and blows of the old woman. She was hitting me painfully over the shoulders with the book, which she held in her hand. She was red with rage, furiously tossing her brown head, barefooted, and wearing only her night-dress. Victor roared from the loft:

  “Mamasha, don’t make such a noise! You make life unbearable.”

  “She has found the book. She will tear it up!” I thought.

  My trial took place at breakfast-time. The master asked me, sternly:

  “Where did you get that book?”

  The women exclaimed, interrupting each other. Victor sniffed contemptuously at the pages and said:

  “Good gracious! what does it smell of?”

  Learning that the book belonged to the priest, they looked at it again, surprised and indignant that the priest should read novels. However, this seemed to calm them down a little, though the master gave me another long lecture to the effect that reading was both injurious and dangerous.

  “It is the people who read books who rob trains and even commit murders.”

  The mistress cried out, angry and terrified:

  “Have you gone out of your mind? What do you want to say such things to him for?”

  I took Montepaine to the soldier and told him what had happened. Sidorov took the book, opened a small trunk, took out a clean towel, and, wrapping the novel in it, hid it in the trunk.

  “Don’t you take any notice of them. Come and read here. I shan’t tell any one. And if you come when I am not here, you will find the key hanging behind the icon. Open the trunk and read.”

  The attitude my employers had taken with regard to the book raised it to the height of an important and terrible secret in my mind. That some “readers” had robbed a train or tried to murder some one did not interest me, but I remembered the question the priest had asked me in confession, the reading of the gymnasiast in the basement, the words of Smouri, the “proper books,” and grandfather’s stories of the black books of freemasonry. He had said:

  “In the time of the Emperor Alexander Pavlovich of blessed memory the nobles took up the study of ‘black books’ and freemasonry. They planned to hand over the whole Russian people to the Pope of Rome, if you please! But General Arakcheev caught them in the act, and, without regard to their position, sent them all to Siberia, into prison. And there they were; exterminated like vermin.”

  I remembered the “umbra” of Smouri’s book and “Gervase” and the solemn, comical words:

  Profane ones who are curious to know our business,

  Never shall your weak eyes spy it out!

  I felt that I was on the threshold of the discovery of some great secret, and went about like a lunatic. I wanted t
o finish reading the book, and was afraid that the soldier might lose it or spoil it somehow. What should I say to the tailor’s wife then?

  The old woman watched me sharply to see that I did not run to the orderly’s room, and taunted me:

  “Bookworm! Books! They teach dissoluteness. Look at that woman, the bookish one. She can’t even go to market herself. All she can do is to carry on with the officers. She receives them in the daytime. I kno-o-w.”

  I wanted to cry, “That’s not true. She does not carry on,” but I was afraid to defend the tailor’s wife, for then the old woman might guess that the book was hers.

  I had a desperately bad time of it for several days. I was distracted and worried, and could not sleep for fear that Montepaine had come to grief. Then one day the cook belonging to the tailor’s household stopped me in the yard and said:

  “You are to bring back that book.”

  I chose the time after dinner, when my employers lay down to rest, and appeared before the tailor’s wife embarrassed and crushed. She looked now as she had the first time, only she was dressed differently. She wore a gray skirt and a black velvet blouse, with a turquoise cross upon her bare neck. She looked like a hen bullfinch. When I told her that I had not had time to read the book, and that I had been forbidden to read, tears filled my eyes. They were caused by mortification, and by joy at seeing this woman.

  “Foo! what stupid people!” she said, drawing her fine brows together. “And your master has such an interesting face, too! Don’t you fret about it. I will write to him.”

  “You must not! Don’t write!” I begged her. “They will laugh at you and abuse you. Don’t you know that no one in the yard likes you, that they all laugh at you, and say that you are a fool, and that some of your ribs are missing?”

  As soon as I had blurted this out I knew that I had said something unnecessary and insulting to her. She bit her lower lip, and clapped her hands on her hips as if she were riding on horseback. I hung my head in confusion and wished that I could sink into the earth; but she sank into a chair and laughed merrily, saying over and over again:

  “Oh, how stupid! how stupid! Well, what is to be done?” she asked, looking fixedly at me. Then she sighed and said, “You are a strange boy, very strange.”

  Glancing into the mirror beside her, I saw a face with high cheek-bones and a short nose, a large bruise on the forehead, and hair, which had not been cut for a long time, sticking out in all directions. That is what she called “a strange boy.” The strange boy was not in the least like a fine porcelain figure.

  “You never took the money that I gave you. Why?”

  “I did not want it.”

  She sighed.

  “Well, what is to be done? If they will allow you to read, come to me and I will give you some books.”

  On the mantel-shelf lay three books. The one which I had brought back was the thickest. I looked at it sadly. The tailor’s wife held out her small, pink hand to me.

  “Well, good-by!”

  I touched her hand timidly, and went away quickly.

  It was certainly true what they said about her not knowing anything. Fancy calling two gravities money! It was just like a child.

  But it pleased me.

  CHAPTER IX

  I have sad and ludicrous reasons for remembering the burdensome humiliations, insults, and alarms which my swiftly developed passion for reading brought me.

  The books of the tailor’s wife looked as if they were terribly expensive, and as I was afraid that the old mistress might burn them in the stove, I tried not to think of them, and began to buy small colored books from the shop where I bought bread in the mornings.

  The shopkeeper was an ill-favored fellow with thick lips. He was given to sweating, had a white, wizen face covered with scrofulous scars and pimples, and his eyes were white. He had short, clumsy fingers on puffy hands. His shop took the place of an evening club for grown-up people; also for the thoughtless young girls living in the street. My master’s brother used to go there every evening to drink beer and play cards. I was often sent to call him to supper, and more than once I saw, in the small, stuffy room behind the shop, the capricious, rosy wife of the shopkeeper sitting on the knee of Victorushka or some other young fellow. Apparently this did not offend the shopkeeper; nor was he offended when his sister, who helped him in the shop, warmly embraced the drunken men, or soldiers, or, in fact any one who took her fancy. The business done at the shop was small. He explained this by the fact that it was a new business, although the shop had been open since the autumn. He showed obscene pictures to his guests and customers, allowing those who wished to copy the disgraceful verses beneath them.

  I read the foolish little books of Mischa Evstignev, paying so many copecks for the loan of them. This was dear, and the books afforded me no pleasure at all. “Guyak, or, the Unconquerable Truth,” “Franzl, the Venitian,” “The Battle of the Russians with the Kabardines,” or “The Beautiful Mahomedan Girl, Who Died on the Grave of her Husband,”—all that kind of literature did not interest me either, and often aroused a bitter irritation. The books seemed to be laughing at me, as at a fool, when they told in dull words such improbable stories.

  “The Marksmen,” “Youri Miloslavski,” “Monks’ Secrets,” “Yapacha, the Tatar Freebooter,” and such books I like better. I was the richer for reading them; but what I liked better than all was the lives of the saints. Here was something serious in which I could believe, and which at times deeply stirred me. All the martyrs somehow reminded me of “Good Business,” and the female martyrs of grandmother, and the holy men of grandfather in his best moments.

  I used to read in the shed when I went there to chop wood, or in the attic, which was equally uncomfortable and cold. Sometimes, if a book interested me or I had to read it quickly, I used to get up in the night and light the candle; but the old mistress, noticing that my candle had grown smaller during the night, began to measure the candles with a piece of wood, which she hid away somewhere. In the morning, if my candle was not as long as the measure, or if I, having found the measure, had not broken it to the length of the burned candle, a wild cry arose from the kitchen. Sometimes Victorushka called out loudly from the loft:

  “Leave off that howling, Mamasha! You make life unbearable. Of course he burns the candles, because he reads books. He gets them from the shop. I know. Just look among his things in the attic.”

  The old woman ran up to the attic, found a book, and burned it to ashes.

  This made me very angry, as you may imagine, but my love of reading increased. I understood that if a saint had entered that household, my employers would have set to work to teach him, tried to set him to their own tune. They would have done this for something to do. If they had left off judging people, scolding them, jeering at them, they would have forgotten how to talk, would have been stricken with dumbness, and would not have been themselves at all. When a man is aware of himself, it must be through his relations with other people. My employers could not behave themselves toward those about them otherwise than as teachers, always ready to condemn; and if they had taught somebody to live exactly as they lived themselves, to think and feel in the same way, even then they would have condemned him for that very reason. They were that sort of people.

  I continued to read on the sly. The old woman destroyed books several times, and I suddenly found myself in debt to the shopkeeper for the enormous amount of forty-seven copecks. He demanded the money, and threatened to take it from my employers’ money when they sent me to make purchases.

  “What would happen then?” he asked jeeringly.

  To me he was unbearably repulsive. Apparently he felt this, and tortured me with various threats from which he derived a peculiar enjoyment. When I went into the shop his pimply face broadened, and he would ask gently:

  “Have you brought your debt?”

  “No.”
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  This startled him. He frowned.

  “How is that? Am I supposed to give you things out of charity? I shall have to get it from you by sending you to the reformatory.”

  I had no way of getting the money, my wages were paid to grandfather. I lost my presence of mind. What would happen to me? And in answer to my entreaty that he wait for settlement of the debt, the shopkeeper stretched out his oily, puffy hand, like a bladder, and said:

  “Kiss my hand and I will wait.”

  But when I seized a weight from the counter and brandished it at him, he ducked and cried:

  “What are you doing? What are you doing? I was only joking.”

  Knowing well that he was not joking, I resolved to steal the money to get rid of him. In the morning when I was brushing the master’s clothes, money jingled in his trousers’ pockets, and sometimes it fell out and rolled on the floor. Once some rolled into a crack in the boards under the staircase. I forgot to say anything about this, and remembered it only several days afterward when I found two greven between the boards. When I gave it back to the master his wife said to him:

  “There, you see! You ought to count your money when you leave it in your pockets.”

  But my master, smiling at me, said:

  “He would not steal, I know.”

  Now, having made up my mind to steal, I remembered these words and his trusting smile, and felt how hard it would be for me to rob him. Several times I took silver out of the pockets and counted it, but I could not take it. For three days I tormented myself about this, and suddenly the whole affair settled itself quickly and simply. The master asked me unexpectedly:

  “What is the matter with you, Pyeshkov? You have become dull lately. Aren’t you well, or what?”

  I frankly told him all my troubles. He frowned.

  “Now you see what books lead to! From them, in some way or another, trouble always comes.”

  He gave me half a ruble and admonished me sternly:

  “Now look here; don’t you go telling my wife or my mother, or there will be a row.”