Produced by Martin Adamson
FOMA GORDYEFF
(The Man Who Was Afraid)
By Maxim Gorky
Translated by Herman Bernstein
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
OUT of the darkest depths of life, where vice and crime and misery
abound, comes the Byron of the twentieth century, the poet of the
vagabond and the proletariat, Maxim Gorky. Not like the beggar, humbly
imploring for a crust in the name of the Lord, nor like the jeweller
displaying his precious stones to dazzle and tempt the eye, he comes to
the world,--nay, in accents of Tyrtaeus this commoner of Nizhni Novgorod
spurs on his troops of freedom-loving heroes to conquer, as it were,
the placid, self-satisfied literatures of to-day, and bring new life to
pale, bloodless frames.
Like Byron’s impassioned utterances, “borne on the tones of a wild and
quite artless melody,” is Gorky’s mad, unbridled, powerful voice, as he
sings of the “madness of the brave,” of the barefooted dreamers, who are
proud of their idleness, who possess nothing and fear nothing, who are
gay in their misery, though miserable in their joy.
Gorky’s voice is not the calm, cultivated, well-balanced voice
of Chekhov, the Russian De Maupassant, nor even the apostolic,
well-meaning, but comparatively faint voice of Tolstoy, the preacher: it
is the roaring of a lion, the crash of thunder. In its elementary power
is the heart rending cry of a sincere but suffering soul that saw the
brutality of life in all its horrors, and now flings its experiences
into the face of the world with unequalled sympathy and the courage of a
giant.
For Gorky, above all, has courage; he dares to say that he finds the
vagabond, the outcast of society, more sublime and significant than
society itself.
His Bosyak, the symbolic incarnation of the Over-man, is as naive and
as bold as a child--or as a genius. In the vehement passions of the
magnanimous, compassionate hero in tatters, in the aristocracy of his
soul, and in his constant thirst for Freedom, Gorky sees the rebellious
and irreconcilable spirit of man, of future man,--in these he sees
something beautiful, something powerful, something monumental, and is
carried away by their strange psychology. For the barefooted dreamer’s
life is Gorky’s life, his ideals are Gorky’s ideals, his pleasures and
pains, Gorky’s pleasures and pains.
And Gorky, though broken in health now, buffeted by the storms of fate,
bruised and wounded in the battle-field of life, still like Byron and
like Lermontov,
“--seeks the storm
As though the storm contained repose.”
And in a leonine voice he cries defiantly:
“Let the storm rage with greater force and fury!”
HERMAN BERNSTEIN.
September 20, 1901.
FOMA GORDYEEF
Dedicated to
ANTON P. CHEKHOV
By
Maxim Gorky
CHAPTER I
ABOUT sixty years ago, when fortunes of millions had been made on the
Volga with fairy-tale rapidity, Ignat Gordyeeff, a young fellow, was
working as water-pumper on one of the barges of the wealthy merchant
Zayev.
Built like a giant, handsome and not at all stupid, he was one of those
people whom luck always follows everywhere--not because they are gifted
and industrious, but rather because, having an enormous stock of energy
at their command, they cannot stop to think over the choice of means
when on their way toward their aims, and, excepting their own will,
they know no law. Sometimes they speak of their conscience with fear,
sometimes they really torture themselves struggling with it, but
conscience is an unconquerable power to the faint-hearted only; the
strong master it quickly and make it a slave to their desires, for
they unconsciously feel that, given room and freedom, conscience would
fracture life. They sacrifice days to it; and if it should happen
that conscience conquered their souls, they are never wrecked, even in
defeat--they are just as healthy and strong under its sway as when they
lived without conscience.
At the age of forty Ignat Gordyeeff was himself the owner of three
steamers and ten barges. On the Volga he was respected as a rich and
clever man, but was nicknamed “Frantic,” because his life did not flow
along a straight channel, like that of other people of his kind, but
now and again, boiling up turbulently, ran out of its rut, away from
gain--the prime aim of his existence. It looked as though there were
three Gordyeeffs in him, or as though there were three souls in Ignat’s
body. One of them, the mightiest, was only greedy, and when Ignat lived
according to its commands, he was merely a man seized with untamable
passion for work. This passion burned in him by day and by night, he
was completely absorbed by it, and, grabbing everywhere hundreds and
thousands of roubles, it seemed as if he could never have enough of
the jingle and sound of money. He worked about up and down the Volga,
building and fastening nets in which he caught gold: he bought up grain
in the villages, floated it to Rybinsk on his barges; he plundered,
cheated, sometimes not noticing it, sometimes noticing, and, triumphant,
be openly laughed at by his victims; and in the senselessness of his
thirst for money, he rose to the heights of poetry. But, giving up so
much strength to this hunt after the rouble, he was not greedy in
the narrow sense, and sometimes he even betrayed an inconceivable but
sincere indifference to his property. Once, when the ice was drifting
down the Volga, he stood on the shore, and, seeing that the ice was
breaking his new barge, having crushed it against the bluff shore, he
ejaculated:
“That’s it. Again. Crush it! Now, once more! Try!”
“Well, Ignat,” asked his friend Mayakin, coming up to him, “the ice is
crushing about ten thousand out of your purse, eh?”
“That’s nothing! I’ll make another hundred. But look how the Volga is
working! Eh? Fine? She can split the whole world, like curd, with a
knife. Look, look! There you have my ‘Boyarinya!’ She floated but once.
Well, we’ll have mass said for the dead.”
The barge was crushed into splinters. Ignat and the godfather, sitting
in the tavern on the shore, drank vodka and looked out of the window,
watching the fragments of the “Boyarinya” drifting down the river
together with the ice.
“Are you sorry for the vessel, Ignat?” asked Mayakin.
“Why should I be sorry for it? The Volga gave it to me, and the Volga
has taken it back. It did not tear off my hand.”
“Nevertheless.”
“What--nevertheless? It is good at least that I saw how it was all done.
It’s a lesson for the future. But when my ‘Volgar’ was burned--I was
really sorry--I didn’t see it. How beautiful it must have looked when
such a woodpile was blazing on the water in the dark night! Eh? It was
an enormous steamer.”
“Weren’t you sorry for that either?”
“For the steamer? It is true, I did feel sorry for the steamer. But
then it is mere foolishness to feel sorry! What’s the use? I might have
cried; tears cannot extinguish fire. Let the steamers burn. And even
though everything be burned down, I’d spit upon it! If the soul is but
burning to work, everything will be erected anew. Isn’t it so?”
“Yes,” said Mayakin, smiling. “These are strong words you say. And
whoever speaks that way, even though he loses all, will nevertheless be
rich.”
Regarding losses of thousands of roubles so philosophically, Ignat knew
the value of every kopeika; he gave to the poor very seldom, and only to
those that were altogether unable to work. When a more or less healthy
man asked him for alms, Ignat would say, sternly:
“Get away! You can work yet. Go to my dvornik and help him to remove the
dung. I’ll pay you for it.”
Whenever he had been carried away by his work he regarded people
morosely and piteously, nor did he give himself rest while hunting for
roubles. And suddenly--it usually happened in spring, when everything on
earth became so bewitchingly beautiful and something reproachfully wild
was breathed down into the soul from the clear sky--Ignat Gordyeeff
would feel that he was not the master of his business, but its low
slave. He would lose himself in thought and, inquisitively looking about
himself from under his thick, knitted eyebrows, walk about for days,
angry and morose, as though silently asking something, which he feared
to ask aloud. They awakened his other soul, the turbulent and lustful
soul of a hungry beast. Insolent and cynical, he drank, led a depraved
life, and made drunkards of other people. He went into ecstasy, and
something like a volcano of filth boiled within him. It looked as though
he was madly tearing the chains which he himself had forged and carried,
and was not strong enough to tear them. Excited and very dirty, his face
swollen from drunkenness and sleeplessness, his eyes wandering madly,
and roaring in a hoarse voice, he tramped about the town from one tavern
to another, threw away money without counting it, cried and danced
to the sad tunes of the folk songs, or fought, but found no rest
anywhere--in anything.
It happened one day that a degraded priest, a short, stout little
bald-headed man in a torn cassock, chanced on Ignat, and stuck to him,
just as a piece of mud will stick to a shoe. An impersonal, deformed and
nasty creature, he played the part of a buffoon: they smeared his
bald head with mustard, made him go upon all-fours, drink mixtures of
different brandies and dance comical dances; he did all this in silence,
an idiotic smile on his wrinkled face, and having done what he was told
to do, he invariably said, outstretching his hand with his palm upward:
“Give me a rouble.”
They laughed at him and sometimes gave him twenty kopeiks, sometimes
gave him nothing, but it sometimes happened that they threw him a
ten-rouble bill and even more.
“You abominable fellow,” cried Ignat to him one day. “Say, who are you?”
The priest was frightened by the call, and bowing low to Ignat, was
silent.
“Who? Speak!” roared Ignat.
“I am a man--to be abused,” answered the priest, and the company burst
out laughing at his words.
“Are you a rascal?” asked Ignat, sternly.
“A rascal? Because of need and the weakness of my soul?”
“Come here!” Ignat called him. “Come and sit down by my side.”
Trembling with fear, the priest walked up to the intoxicated merchant
with timid steps and remained standing opposite him.
“Sit down beside me!” said Ignat, taking the frightened priest by the
hand and seating him next to himself. “You are a very near man to me. I
am also a rascal! You, because of need; I, because of wantonness. I am a
rascal because of grief! Understand?”
“I understand,” said the priest, softly. All the company were giggling.
“Do you know now what I am?”
“I do.”
“Well, say, ‘You are a rascal, Ignat!’”
The priest could not do it. He looked with terror at the huge figure of
Ignat and shook his head negatively. The company’s laughter was now like
the rattling of thunder. Ignat could not make the priest abuse him. Then
he asked him:
“Shall I give you money?”
“Yes,” quickly answered the priest.
“And what do you need it for?”
He did not care to answer. Then Ignat seized him by the collar, and
shook out of his dirty lips the following speech, which he spoke almost
in a whisper, trembling with fear:
“I have a daughter sixteen years old in the seminary. I save for her,
because when she comes out there won’t be anything with which to cover
her nakedness.”
“Ah,” said Ignat, and let go the priest’s collar. Then he sat for a long
time gloomy and lost in thought, and now and again stared at the priest.
Suddenly his eyes began to laugh, and he said:
“Aren’t you a liar, drunkard?”
The priest silently made the sign of the cross and lowered his head on
his breast.
“It is the truth!” said one of the company, confirming the priest’s
words.
“True? Very well!” shouted Ignat, and, striking the table with his fist,
he addressed himself to the priest:
“Eh, you! Sell me your daughter! How much will you take?”
The priest shook his head and shrank back.
“One thousand!”
The company giggled, seeing that the priest was shrinking as though cold
water was being poured on him.
“Two!” roared Ignat, with flashing eyes.
“What’s the matter with you? How is it?” muttered the priest, stretching
out both hands to Ignat.
“Three!”
“Ignat Matveyich!” cried the priest, in a thin, ringing voice. “For
God’s sake! For Christ’s sake! Enough! I’ll sell her! For her own sake
I’ll sell her!”
In his sickly, sharp voice was heard a threat to someone, and his eyes,
unnoticed by anybody before, flashed like coals. But the intoxicated
crowd only laughed at him foolishly.
“Silence!” cried Ignat, sternly, straightening himself to his full
length and flashing his eyes.
“Don’t you understand, devils, what’s going on here? It’s enough to make
one cry, while you giggle.”
He walked up to the priest, went down on his knees before him, and said
to him firmly:
“Father now you see what a rascal I am. Well, spit into my face!”
Something ugly and ridiculous took place. The priest too, knelt before
Ignat, and like a huge turtle, crept around near his feet, kissed his
knees and muttered something, sobbing. Ignat bent over him, lifted him
from the floor and cried to him, commanding and begging:
“Spit! Spit right into my shameless eyes!”
The company, stupefied for a moment by Ignat’s stern voice, laughed
again so that the panes rattled in the tavern windows.
“I’ll give you a hundred roubles. Spit!”
And the priest crept over the floor and sobbed for fear, or for
happiness, to hear that this man was begging him to do something
degrading to himself.
Finally Ignat arose from the floor, kicked the priest, and, flinging at
him a package of money, said morosely, with a smile:
“Rabble! Can a man repent before such people? Some are afraid to hear
of repentance, others laugh at a sinner. I was about to unburden myself
completely; the heart trembled. Let me, I thought. No, I didn’t think at
all. Just so! Get out of here! And see that you never show yourself to
me again. Do you hear?”
“Oh, a queer fellow!” said the crowd, somewhat moved.
Legends were composed about his drinking bouts in town; everybody
censured him strictly, but no one ever declined his invitation to those
drinking bouts. Thus he lived for weeks.
And unexpectedly he used to come home, not yet altogether freed from
the odour of the kabaks, but already crestfallen and quiet. With humbly
downcast eyes, in which shame was burning now, he silently listened to
his wife’s reproaches, and, humble and meek as a lamb, went away to his
room and locked himself in. For many hours in succession he knelt before
the cross, lowering his head on his breast; his hands hung helplessly,
his back was bent, and he was silent, as though he dared not pray. His
wife used to come up to the door on tiptoe and listen. Deep sighs were
heard from behind the door--like the breathing of a tired and sickly
horse.
“God! You see,” whispered Ignat in a muffled voice, firmly pressing the
palms of his hands to his broad breast.
During the days of repentance he drank nothing but water and ate only
rye bread.
In the morning his wife placed at the door of his room a big bottle of
water, about a pound and a half of bread, and salt. He opened the door,
took in these victuals and locked himself in again. During this time he
was not disturbed in any way; everybody tried to avoid him. A few days
later he again appeared on the exchange, jested, laughed, made contracts
to furnish corn as sharp-sighted as a bird of prey, a rare expert at
anything concerning his affairs.
But in all the moods of Ignat’s life there was one passionate desire
that never left him--the desire to have a son; and the older he grew the
greater was this desire. Very often such conversation as this took place
between him and his wife. In the morning, at her tea, or at noon during
dinner hour he gloomily glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman,
with a red face and sleepy eyes, and asked her:
“Well, don’t you feel anything?”
She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied:
“How can I help feeling? Your fists are like dumb-bells.”
“You know what I’m talking about, you fool.”
“Can one become pregnant from such blows?”
“It’s not on account of the blows that you don’t bear any children;
it’s because you eat too much. You fill your stomach with all sorts of
food--and there’s no room for the child to engender.”
“As if I didn’t bear you any children?”
“Those were girls,” said Ignat, reproachfully. “I want a son! Do you
understand? A son, an heir! To whom shall I give my capital after my
death? Who shall pray for my sins? Shall I give it to a cloister? I have
given them enough! Or shall I leave it to you? What a fine pilgrim you
are! Even in church you think only of fish pies. If I die, you’ll marry
again, and my money will be turned over to some fool. Do you think this
is what I am working for?”
And he was seized with sardonic anguish, for he felt that his life was
aimless if he should have no son to follow him.
During the nine years of their married life his wife had borne him four
daughters, all of whom had passed away. While Ignat had awaited their
birth tremblingly, he mourned their death but little--at any rate they
were unnecessary to him. He began to beat his wife during the second
year of their married life; at first he did it while being intoxicated
and without animosity, but just according to the proverb: “Love your
wife like your soul and shake her like a pear-tree;” but after each
confinement, deceived in his expectation, his hatred for his wife grew
stronger, and he began to beat her with pleasure, in revenge for not
bearing him a son.
Once while on business in the province of Samarsk, he received a
telegram from relatives at home, informing him of his wife’s death.
He made the sign of the cross, thought awhile and wrote to his friend
Mayakin:
“Bury her in my absence; look after my property.”
Then he went to the church to serve the mass for the dead, and, having
prayed for the repose of the late Aquilina’s soul, he began to think
that it was necessary for him to marry as soon as possible.
He was then forty-three years old, tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy
bass voice, like an arch-deacon; his large eyes looked bold and wise
from under his dark eyebrows; in his sunburnt face, overgrown with a
thick, black beard, and in all his mighty figure there was much truly
Russian, crude and healthy beauty; in his easy motions as well as in
his slow, proud walk, a consciousness of power was evident--a firm
confidence in himself. He was liked by women and did not avoid them.
Ere six months had passed after the death of his wife, he courted the
daughter of an Ural Cossack. The father of the bride, notwithstanding
that Ignat was known even in Ural as a “pranky” man, gave him his
daughter in marriage, and toward autumn Ignat Gordyeeff came home with
a young Cossack-wife. Her name was Natalya. Tall, well-built, with large
blue eyes and with a long chestnut braid, she was a worthy match for the
handsome Ignat. He was happy and proud of his wife and loved her with
the passionate love of a healthy man, but he soon began to contemplate
her thoughtfully, with a vigilant eye.
Seldom did a smile cross the oval, demure face of his wife--she was
always thinking of something foreign to life, and in her calm blue eyes
something dark and misanthropic was flashing at times. Whenever she was
free from household duties she seated herself in the most spacious room
by the window, and sat there silently for two or three hours. Her
face was turned toward the street, but the look of her eyes was so
indifferent to everything that lived and moved there beyond the window,
and at the same time it was so fixedly deep, as though she were looking
into her very soul. And her walk, too, was queer. Natalya moved about
the spacious room slowly and carefully, as if something invisible
restrained the freedom of her movements. Their house was filled with
heavy and coarsely boastful luxury; everything there was resplendent,
screaming of the proprietor’s wealth, but the Cossack-wife walked past
the costly furniture and the silverware in a shy and somewhat frightened
manner, as though fearing lest they might seize and choke her.
Evidently, the noisy life of the big commercial town did not interest
this silent woman, and whenever she went out driving with her husband,
her eyes were fixed on the back of the driver. When her husband took
her visiting she went and behaved there just as queerly as at home; when
guests came to her house, she zealously served them refreshments, taking
no interest whatever in what was said, and showing preference toward
none. Only Mayakin, a witty, droll man, at times called forth on her
face a smile, as vague as a shadow. He used to say of her:
“It’s a tree--not a woman! But life is like an inextinguishable
wood-pile, and every one of us blazes up sometimes. She, too, will take
fire; wait, give her time. Then we shall see how she will bloom.”
“Eh!” Ignat used to say to her jestingly. “What are you thinking about?
Are you homesick? Brighten up a bit!”
She would remain silent, calmly looking at him.
“You go entirely too often to the church. You should wait. You have
plenty of time to pray for your sins. Commit the sins first. You know,
if you don’t sin you don’t repent; if you don’t repent, you don’t work
out your salvation. You better sin while you are young. Shall we go out
for a drive?”
“I don’t feel like going out.”
He used to sit down beside her and embrace her. She was cold, returning
his caresses but sparingly. Looking straight into her eyes, he used to
say:
“Natalya! Tell me--why are you so sad? Do you feel lonesome here with
me?”
“No,” she replied shortly.
“What then is it? Are you longing for your people?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I am not thinking.”
“What then?”
“Oh, nothing!”
Once he managed to get from her a more complete answer:
“There is something confused in my heart. And also in my eyes. And it
always seems to me that all this is not real.”
She waved her hand around her, pointing at the walls, the furniture and
everything. Ignat did not reflect on her words, and, laughing, said to
her:
“That’s to no purpose! Everything here is genuine. All these are costly,
solid things. If you don’t want these, I’ll burn them, I’ll sell them,
I’ll give them away--and I’ll get new ones! Do you want me to?”
“What for?” said she calmly.
He wondered, at last, how one so young and healthy could live as though
she were sleeping all the time, caring for nothing, going nowhere,
except to the church, and shunning everybody. And he used to console
her:
“Just wait. You’ll bear a son, and then an altogether different life
will commence. You are so sad because you have so little anxiety, and he
will give you trouble. You’ll bear me a son, will you not?
“If it pleases God,” she answered, lowering her head.
Then her mood began to irritate him.
“Well, why do you wear such a long face? You walk as though on glass.
You look as if you had ruined somebody’s soul! Eh! You are such a
succulent woman, and yet you have no taste for anything. Fool!”
Coming home intoxicated one day, he began to ply her with caresses,
while she turned away from him. Then he grew angry, and exclaimed:
“Natalya! Don’t play the fool, look out!”
She turned her face to him and asked calmly:
“What then?”
Ignat became enraged at these words and at her fearless look.
“What?” he roared, coming up close to her.
“Do you wish to kill me?” asked she, not moving from her place, nor
winking an eye.
Ignat was accustomed to seeing people tremble before his wrath, and it
was strange and offensive to him to see her calm.
“There,” he cried, lifting his hand to strike her. Slowly, but in time,
she eluded the blow; then she seized his hand, pushed it away from her,
and said in the same tone:
“Don’t you dare to touch me. I will not allow you to come near me!”
Her eyes became smaller and their sharp, metallic glitter sobered Ignat.
He understood by her face that she, too, was a strong beast, and if she
chose to she wouldn’t admit him to her, even though she were to lose her
life.
“Oh,” he growled, and went away.
But having retreated once, he would not do it again: he could not bear
that a woman, and his wife at that, should not bow before him--this
would have degraded him. He then began to realise that henceforth his
wife would never yield to him in any matter, and that an obstinate
strife for predominance must start between them.
“Very well! We’ll see who will conquer,” he thought the next day,
watching his wife with stern curiosity; and in his soul a strong desire
was already raging to start the strife, that he might enjoy his victory
the sooner.
But about four days later, Natalya Fominichna announced to her husband
that she was pregnant.
Ignat trembled for joy, embraced her firmly, and said in a dull voice:
“You’re a fine fellow, Natalya! Natasha, if it should be a son! If you
bear me a son I’ll enrich you! I tell you plainly, I’ll be your slave!
By God! I’ll lie down at your feet, and you may trample upon me, if you
like!”
“This is not within our power; it’s the will of the Lord,” said she in a
low voice.
“Yes, the Lord’s!” exclaimed Ignat with bitterness and drooped his head
sadly.
From that moment he began to look after his wife as though she were a
little child.
“Why do you sit near the window? Look out. You’ll catch cold in your
side; you may take sick,” he used to say to her, both sternly and
mildly. “Why do you skip on the staircase? You may hurt yourself. And
you had better eat more, eat for two, that he may have enough.”
And the pregnancy made Natalya more morose and silent, as though she
were looking still deeper into herself, absorbed in the throbbing of new
life within her. But the smile on her lips became clearer, and in her
eyes flashed at times something new, weak and timid, like the first ray
of the dawn.
When, at last, the time of confinement came, it was early on an autumn
morning. At the first cry of pain she uttered, Ignat turned pale and
started to say something, but only waved his hand and left the bedroom,
where his wife was shrinking convulsively, and went down to the little
room which had served his late mother as a chapel. He ordered vodka,
seated himself by the table and began to drink sternly, listening to the
alarm in the house and to the moans of his wife that came from above. In
the corner of the room, the images of the ikons, indifferent and dark,
stood out confusedly, dimly illumined by the glimmering light of the
image lamp. There was a stamping and scraping of feet over his head,
something heavy was moved from one side of the floor to the other, there
was a clattering of dishes, people were bustling hurriedly, up and down
the staircase. Everything was being done in haste, yet time was creeping
slowly. Ignat could hear a muffled voice from above,
“As it seems, she cannot be delivered that way. We had better send to
the church to open the gates of the Lord.”
Vassushka, one of the hangers-on in his house, entered the room next to
Ignat’s and began to pray in a loud whisper:
“God, our Lord, descend from the skies in Thy benevolence, born of
the Holy Virgin. Thou dost divine the helplessness of human creatures.
Forgive Thy servant.”
And suddenly drowning all other sounds, a superhuman, soul-rending cry
rang out, and a continuous moan floated softly over the room and died
out in the corners, which were filled now with the twilight. Ignat cast
stern glances at the ikons, heaved a deep sigh and thought:
“Is it possible that it’s again a daughter?”
At times he arose, stupidly stood in the middle of the room, and crossed
himself in silence, bowing before the ikons; then he went back to the
table, drank the vodka, which had not made him dizzy during these hours,
dozed off, and thus passed the whole night and following morning until
noon.
And then, at last, the midwife came down hastily, crying to him in a
thin, joyous voice.
“I congratulate you with a son, Ignat Matveyich!”
“You lie!” said he in a dull voice. “What’s the matter with you,
batushka!” Heaving a sigh with all the strength of his massive chest,
Ignat went down on his knees, and clasping his hands firmly to his
breast, muttered in a trembling voice:
“Thank God! Evidently Thou didst not want that my stem should be
checked! My sins before Thee shall not remain without repentance. I
thank Thee, Oh Lord. Oh!” and, rising to his feet, he immediately began
to command noisily:
“Eh! Let someone go to St. Nicholas for a priest. Tell him that Ignat
Matveyich asked him to come! Let him come to make a prayer for the
woman.”
The chambermaid appeared and said to him with alarm:
“Ignat Matveyich, Natalya Fominichna is calling you. She is feeling
bad.”
“Why bad? It’ll pass!” he roared, his eyes flashing cheerfully. “Tell
her I’ll be there immediately! Tell her she’s a fine fellow! I’ll just
get a present for her and I’ll come! Hold on! Prepare something to eat
for the priest. Send somebody after Mayakin!”
His enormous figure looked as though it had grown bigger, and
intoxicated with joy, he stupidly tossed about the room; he was smiling,
rubbing his hands and casting fervent glances at the images; he crossed
himself swinging his hand wide. At last he went up to his wife.
His eyes first of all caught a glimpse of the little red body, which the
midwife was bathing in a tub. Noticing him, Ignat stood up on tiptoes,
and, folding his hands behind his back, walked up to him, stepping
carefully and comically putting forth his lips. The little one was
whimpering and sprawling in the water, naked, impotent and pitiful.
“Look out there! Handle him more carefully! He hasn’t got any bones
yet,” said Ignat to the midwife, softly.
She began to laugh, opening her toothless mouth, and cleverly throwing
the child over from one hand to the other.
“You better go to your wife.”
He obediently moved toward the bed and asked on his way:
“Well, how is it, Natalya?”
Then, on reaching her, he drew back the bed curtain, which had thrown a
shadow over the bed.
“I’ll not survive this,” said she in a low, hoarse voice.
Ignat was silent, fixedly staring at his wife’s face, sunk in the white
pillow, over which her dark locks were spread out like dead snakes.
Yellow, lifeless, with black circles around her large, wide-open
eyes--her face was strange to him. And the glance of those terrible
eyes, motionlessly fixed somewhere in the distance through the
wall--that, too, was unfamiliar to Ignat. His heart, compressed by a
painful foreboding, slackened its joyous throbbing.
“That’s nothing. That’s nothing. It’s always like this,” said he softly,
bending over his wife to give her a kiss. But she moaned right into his
face:
“I’ll not survive this.”
Her lips were gray and cold, and when he touched them with his own he
understood that death was already within her.
“Oh, Lord!” he uttered, in an alarmed whisper, feeling that fright was
choking his throat and suppressing his breath.
“Natasha? What will become of him? He must be nursed! What is the matter
with you?”
He almost began to cry at his wife. The midwife was bustling about him;
shaking the crying child in the air. She spoke to him reassuringly, but
he heard nothing--he could not turn his eyes away from the frightful
face of his wife. Her lips were moving, and he heard words spoken in
a low voice, but could not understand them. Sitting on the edge of the
bed, he spoke in a dull and timid voice: “Just think of it! He cannot
do without you; he’s an infant! Gather strength! Drive this thought away
from you! Drive it away.”
He talked, yet he understood he was speaking useless words. Tears welled
up within him, and in his breast there came a feeling heavy as stone and
cold as ice.
“Forgive me. Goodbye! Take care. Look out. Don’t drink,” whispered
Natalya, soundlessly.
The priest came, and, covering her face with something, and sighing,
began to read gentle, beseeching words:
“Oh God, Almighty Lord, who cureth every disease, cure also Thy servant
Natalya, who has just given birth to a child; and restore her from the
bed on which she now lies, for in the words of David, ‘We indulge in
lawlessness and are wicked in Thine eyes.”’
The old man’s voice was interrupted now and then, his thin face was
stern and from his clothes came the odour of rock-rose.
“Guard the infant born of her, guard him from all possible temptation,
from all possible cruelty, from all possible storms, from evil spirits,
night and day.”
Ignat listened to the prayer, and wept silently. His big, hot tears fell
on the bare hand of his wife. But the hand, evidently, did not feel that
the tears were dropping upon it: it remained motionless, and the skin
did not tremble from the fall of the tears. After the prayer Natalya
became unconscious and a day later she died, without saying another
word--she died just as quietly as she had lived. Having arranged
a pompous funeral, Ignat christened his son, named him Foma, and
unwillingly gave his boy into the family of the godfather, his old
friend Mayakin, whose wife, too, had given birth to a child not long
before. The death of his wife had sown many gray hairs in Ignat’s dark
beard, but in the stern glitter of his eyes appeared a new expression,
gentle, clear and mild.