TWENTY-SIX AND ONE and OTHER STORIES
by
MAXIME GORKY
From the Vagabond Series
Translated from the Russian
Preface by Ivan Strannik
New York
J. F. Taylor & Company
1902
PREFACE
MAXIME GORKY
Russian literature, which for half a century has abounded in happy
surprises, has again made manifest its wonderful power of innovation.
A tramp, Maxime Gorky, lacking in all systematic training, has suddenly
forced his way into its sacred domain, and brought thither the fresh
spontaneity of his thoughts and character. Nothing as individual or as
new has been produced since the first novels of Tolstoy. His work owes
nothing to its predecessors; it stands apart and alone. It, therefore,
obtains more than an artistic success, it causes a real revolution.
Gorky was born of humble people, at Nizhni-Novgorod, in 1868 or
1869,--he does not know which--and was early left an orphan. He was
apprenticed to a shoemaker, but ran away, a sedentary life not being to
his taste. He left an engraver's in the same manner, and then went to
work with a painter of _ikoni_, or holy pictures. He is next found to
be a cook's boy, then an assistant to a gardener. He tried life in
these diverse ways, and not one of them pleased him. Until his
fifteenth year, he had only had the time to learn to read a little; his
grandfather taught him to read a prayer-book in the old Slav dialect.
He retained from his first studies only a distaste for anything printed
until the time when, cook's boy on board a steam-boat, he was initiated
by the chief cook into more attractive reading matter. Gogol, Glebe
Ouspenski, Dumas _pere_ were revelations to him. His imagination took
fire; he was seized with a "fierce desire" for instruction. He set out
for Kazan, "as though a poor child could receive instruction
gratuitously," but he soon perceived that "it was contrary to custom."
Discouraged, he became a baker's boy with the wages of three rubles
(about $1.50) a month. In the midst of worse fatigue and ruder
privations, he always recalls the bakery of Kazan with peculiar
bitterness; later, in his story, "Twenty-Six and One," he utilized this
painful remembrance: "There were twenty-six of us--twenty-six living
machines, locked up in a damp cellar, where we patted dough from
morning till night, making biscuits and cakes. The windows of our
cellar looked out into a ditch, which was covered with bricks grown
green from dampness, the window frames were obstructed from the outside
by a dense iron netting, and the light of the sun could not peep in
through the panes, which were covered with flour dust. . . ."
Gorky dreamed of the free air. He abandoned the bakery. Always
reading, studying feverishly, drinking with vagrants, expending his
strength in every possible manner, he is one day at work in a saw-mill,
another, 'longshoreman on the quays. . . . In 1888, seized with
despair, he attempted to kill himself. "I was," said he, "as ill as I
could be, and I continued to live to sell apples. . . ." He afterward
became a gate-keeper and later retailed _kvass_ in the streets. A
happy chance brought him to the notice of a lawyer, who interested
himself in him, directed his reading and organized his instruction.
But his restless disposition drew him back to his wandering life; he
traveled over Russia in every direction and tried his hand at every
trade, including, henceforth, that of man of letters.
He began by writing a short story, "Makar Tchoudra," which was
published by a provincial newspaper. It is a rather interesting work,
but its interest lies more, frankly speaking, in what it promises than
in what it actually gives. The subject is rather too suggestive of
certain pieces of fiction dear to the romantic school.
Gorky's appearance in the world of literature dates from 1893. He had
at this time, the acquaintance of the writer Korolenko, and, thanks to
him, soon published "Tchelkache," which met with a resounding success.
Gorky henceforth rejects all traditional methods, and free and
untrammeled devotes himself to frankly and directly interpreting life
as he sees it. As he has, so far, lived only in the society of tramps,
himself a tramp, and one of the most refractory, it has been reserved
for him to write the poem of vagrancy.
His preference is for the short story. In seven years, he has written
thirty, contained in three volumes, which in their expressive brevity
sometimes recall Maupassant.
The plot is of the simplest. Sometimes, there are only two personages:
an old beggar and his grandson, two workmen, a tramp and a Jew, a
baker's boy and his assistant, two companions in misery.
The interest of these stories does not lie in the unraveling of an
intricate plot. They are rather fragments of life, bits of biography
covering some particular period, without reaching the limits of a real
drama. And these are no more artificially combined than are the events
of real life.
Everything that he relates, Gorky has seen. Every landscape that he
describes has been seen by him in the course of his adventurous
existence. Each detail of this scenery is fraught for him with some
remembrance of distress or suffering. This vagrant life has been his
own. These tramps have been his companions, he has loved or hated
them. Therefore his work is alive with what he has almost
unconsciously put in of himself. At the same time, he knows how to
separate himself from his work; the characters introduced live their
own lives, independent of his, having their own characters and their
own individual way of reacting against the common misery. No writer
has to a greater degree the gift of objectivity, while at the same time
freely introducing himself into his work.
Therefore, his tramps are strikingly truthful. He does not idealise
them; the sympathy that their strength, courage, and independence
inspire in him does not blind him. He conceals neither their faults,
vices, drunkenness nor boastfulness. He is without indulgence for
them, and judges them discriminatingly. He paints reality, but
without, for all that, exaggerating ugliness. He does not avoid
painful or coarse scenes; but in the most cynical passages he does not
revolt because it is felt that he only desires to be truthful, and not
to excite the emotions by cheap means. He simply points out that
things are as they are, that there is nothing to be done about it, that
they depend upon immutable laws. Accordingly all those sad, even
horrible spectacles are accepted as life itself. To Gorky, the
spectacle presented by these characters is only natural: he has seen
them shaken by passion as the waves by the wind, and a smile pass over
their souls like the sun piercing the clouds. He is, in the true
acceptation of the term, a realist.
The introduction of tramps in literature is the great innovation of
Gorky. The Russian writers first interested themselves in the
cultivated classes of society; then they went as far as the moujik.
The "literature of the moujik," assumed a social importance. It had a
political influence and was not foreign to the abolition of serfdom.
In the story "Malva," Gorky offers us two characteristic types of
peasants who become tramps by insensible degrees; almost without
suspecting it, through the force of circumstances. One of them is
Vassili. When he left the village, he fully intended to return. He
went away to earn a little money for his wife and children. He found
employment in a fishery. Life was easy and joyous. For a while he
sent small sums of money home, but gradually the village and the old
life faded away and became less and less real. He ceased to think of
them. His son Iakov came to seek him and to procure work for himself
for a season. He had the true soul of a peasant.
Later he falls, like the others, under the spell of this easy, free
life, and one feels that Iakov will never more return to the village.
In Gorky's eyes, his work is tainted by a capital vice. It is unsuited
to producing the joy that quickens. Humanity has forgotten joy; what
has he done beyond pitying or rallying suffering? . . . These
reflections haunt him, and this doubt of his beneficent efficacy
imparts extreme sadness to his genius.
IVAN STRANNIK.
CONTENTS
Preface
Twenty-Six and One
Tchelkache
Malva
Twenty-Six and One
BY MAXIME GORKY
There were twenty-six of us--twenty-six living machines, locked up in
a damp cellar, where we patted dough from morning till night, making
biscuits and cakes. The windows of our cellar looked out into a
ditch, which was covered with bricks grown green from dampness, the
window frames were obstructed from the outside by a dense iron
netting, and the light of the sun could not peep in through the
panes, which were covered with flour-dust. Our proprietor stopped up
our windows with iron that we might not give his bread to the poor or
to those of our companions who, being out of work, were starving; our
proprietor called us cheats and gave us for our dinner tainted
garbage instead of meat.
It was stifling and narrow in our box of stone under the low, heavy
ceiling, covered with smoke-black and spider-webs. It was close and
disgusting within the thick walls, which were spattered with stains
of mud and mustiness. . . . We rose at five o'clock in the morning,
without having had enough sleep, and, dull and indifferent, we seated
ourselves by the table at six to make biscuits out of the dough,
which had been prepared for us by our companions while we were
asleep. And all day long, from morning till ten o'clock at night,
some of us sat by the table rolling out the elastic dough with our
hands, and shaking ourselves that we might not grow stiff, while the
others kneaded the dough with water. And the boiling water in the
kettle, where the cracknels were being boiled, was purring sadly and
thoughtfully all day long; the baker's shovel was scraping quickly
and angrily against the oven, throwing off on the hot bricks the
slippery pieces of dough. On one side of the oven, wood was burning
from morning till night, and the red reflection of the flame was
trembling on the wall of the workshop as though it were silently
mocking us. The huge oven looked like the deformed head of a
fairy-tale monster. It looked as though it thrust itself out from
underneath the floor, opened its wide mouth full of fire, and
breathed on us with heat and stared at our endless work through the
two black air-holes above the forehead. These two cavities were like
eyes--pitiless and impassible eyes of a monster: they stared at us
with the same dark gaze, as though they had grown tired of looking at
slaves, and expecting nothing human from them, despised them with the
cold contempt of wisdom. Day in and day out, amid flour-dust and mud
and thick, bad-odored suffocating heat, we rolled out the dough and
made biscuits, wetting them with our sweat, and we hated our work
with keen hatred; we never ate the biscuit that came out of our
hands, preferring black bread to the cracknels. Sitting by a long
table, one opposite the other--nine opposite nine--we mechanically
moved our hands, and fingers during the long hours, and became so
accustomed to our work that we no longer ever followed the motions of
our hands. And we had grown so tired of looking at one another that
each of us knew all the wrinkles on the faces of the others. We had
nothing to talk about, we were used to this and were silent all the
time, unless abusing one another--for there is always something for
which to abuse a man, especially a companion. But we even abused one
another very seldom. Of what can a man be guilty when he is half
dead, when he is like a statue, when all his feelings are crushed
under the weight of toil? But silence is terrible and painful only
to those who have said all and have nothing more to speak of; but to
those who never had anything to say--to them silence is simple and
easy. . . . Sometimes we sang, and our song began thus: During work
some one would suddenly heave a sigh, like that of a tired horse, and
would softly start one of those drawling songs, whose touchingly
caressing tune always gives ease to the troubled soul of the singer.
One of us sang, and at first we listened in silence to his lonely
song, which was drowned and deafened underneath the heavy ceiling of
the cellar, like the small fire of a wood-pile in the steppe on a
damp autumn night, when the gray sky is hanging over the earth like a
leaden roof. Then another joined the singer, and now, two voices
soar softly and mournfully over the suffocating heat of our narrow
ditch. And suddenly a few more voices take up the song--and the song
bubbles up like a wave, growing stronger, louder, as though moving
asunder the damp, heavy walls of our stony prison.
All the twenty-six sing; loud voices, singing in unison, fill the
workshop; the song has no room there; it strikes against the stones
of the walls, it moans and weeps and reanimates the heart by a soft
tickling pain, irritating old wounds and rousing sorrow.
The singers breathe deeply and heavily; some one unexpectedly leaves
off his song and listens for a long time to the singing of his
companions, and again his voice joins the general wave. Another
mournfully exclaims, Eh! sings, his eyes closed, and it may be that
the wide, heavy wave of sound appears to him like a road leading
somewhere far away, like a wide road, lighted by the brilliant sun,
and he sees himself walking there. . . .
The flame is constantly trembling in the oven, the baker's shovel is
scraping against the brick, the water in the kettle is purring, and
the reflection of the fire is trembling on the wall, laughing in
silence. . . . And we sing away, with some one else's words, our
dull sorrow, the heavy grief of living men, robbed of sunshine, the
grief of slaves. Thus we lived, twenty-six of us, in the cellar of a
big stony house, and it was hard for us to live as though all the
three stories of the house had been built upon our shoulders.
But besides the songs, we had one other good thing, something we all
loved and which, perhaps, came to us instead of the sun. The second
story of our house was occupied by an embroidery shop, and there,
among many girl workers, lived the sixteen year old chamber-maid,
Tanya. Every morning her little, pink face, with blue, cheerful
eyes, leaned against the pane of the little window in our hallway
door, and her ringing, kind voice cried to us: "Little prisoners!
Give me biscuits!"
We all turned around at this familiar, clear sound and joyously,
kind-heartedly looked at the pure maiden face as it smiled to us
delightfully. We were accustomed and pleased to see her nose
flattened against the window-pane, and the small, white teeth that
flashed from under her pink lips, which were open with a smile. We
rush to open the door for her, pushing one another; she enters,
cheerful and amiable, and holding out her apron. She stands before
us, leaning her head somewhat on one side and smiles all the time. A
thick, long braid of chestnut hair, falling across her shoulder, lies
on her breast. We, dirty, dark, deformed men, look up at her from
below--the threshold was four steps higher than the floor--we look at
her, lifting our heads upwards, we wish her a good morning. We say
to her some particular words, words we use for her alone. Speaking
to her our voices are somehow softer, and our jokes lighter.
Everything is different for her. The baker takes out a shovelful of
the brownest and reddest biscuits and throws them cleverly into
Tanya's apron.
"Look out that the boss doesn't see you!" we always warn her. She
laughs roguishly and cries to us cheerfully:
"Good-by, little prisoners!" and she disappears quickly, like a
little mouse. That's all. But long after her departure we speak
pleasantly of her to one another. We say the very same thing we said
yesterday and before, because she, as well as we and everything
around us, is also the same as yesterday and before. It is very hard
and painful for one to live, when nothing changes around him, and if
it does not kill his soul for good, the immobility of the
surroundings becomes all the more painful the longer he lives. We
always spoke of women in such a manner that at times we were
disgusted at our own rude and shameless words, and this is quite
clear, for the women we had known, perhaps, never deserved any better
words. But of Tanya we never spoke ill. Not only did none of us
ever dare to touch her with his hand, she never even heard a free
jest from us. It may be that this was because she never stayed long
with us; she flashed before our eyes like a star coming from the sky
and then disappeared, or, perhaps, because she was small and very
beautiful, and all that is beautiful commands the respect even of
rude people. And then, though our hard labor had turned us into dull
oxen, we nevertheless remained human beings, and like all human
beings, we could not live without worshipping something. We had
nobody better than she, and none, except her, paid any attention to
us, the dwellers of the cellar; no one, though tens of people lived
in the house. And finally--this is probably the main reason--we all
considered her as something of our own, as something that existed
only because of our biscuits. We considered it our duty to give her
hot biscuits and this became our daily offering to the idol, it
became almost a sacred custom which bound us to her the more every
day. Aside from the biscuits, we gave Tanya many advices--to dress
more warmly, not to run fast on the staircase, nor to carry heavy
loads of wood. She listened to our advice with a smile, replied to
us with laughter and never obeyed us, but we did not feel offended at
this. All we needed was to show that we cared for her. She often
turned to us with various requests. She asked us, for instance, to
open the heavy cellar door, to chop some wood. We did whatever she
wanted us to do with joy, and even with some kind of pride.
But when one of us asked her to mend his only shirt, she declined,
with a contemptuous sneer.
We laughed heartily at the queer fellow, and never again asked her
for anything. We loved her; all is said in this. A human being
always wants to bestow his love upon some one, although he may
sometime choke or slander him; he may poison the life of his neighbor
with his love, because, loving, he does not respect the beloved. We
had to love Tanya, for there was no one else we could love.
At times some one of us would suddenly begin to reason thus:
"And why do we make so much of the girl? What's in her? Eh? We
have too much to do with her." We quickly and rudely checked the man
who dared to say such words. We had to love something. We found it
out and loved it, and the something which the twenty-six of us loved
had to be inaccessible to each of us as our sanctity, and any one
coming out against us in this matter was our enemy. We loved,
perhaps, not what was really good, but then we were twenty-six, and
therefore we always wanted the thing dear to us to be sacred in the
eyes of others. Our love is not less painful than hatred. And
perhaps this is why some haughty people claim that our hatred is more
flattering than our love. But why, then, don't they run from us, if
that is true?
Aside from the biscuit department our proprietor had also a shop for
white bread; it was in the same house, separated from our ditch by a
wall; the _bulochniks_ (white-bread bakers), there were four of them,
kept aloof, considering their work cleaner than ours, and therefore
considering themselves better than we were; they never came to our
shop, laughed at us whenever they met us in the yard; nor did we go
to them. The proprietor had forbidden this for fear lest we might
steal loaves of white bread. We did not like the _bulochniks_,
because we envied them. Their work was easier than ours, they were
better paid, they were given better meals, theirs was a spacious,
light workshop, and they were all so clean and healthy--repulsive to
us; while we were all yellow, and gray, and sickly. During holidays
and whenever they were free from work they put on nice coats and
creaking boots; two of them had harmonicas, and they all went to the
city park; while we had on dirty rags and burst shoes, and the city
police did not admit us into the park--could we love the _bulochniks_?
One day we learned that one of their bakers had taken to drink, that
the proprietor had discharged him and hired another one in his place,
and that the other one was a soldier, wearing a satin vest and a gold
chain to his watch. We were curious to see such a dandy, and in the
hope of seeing him we, now and again, one by one, began to run out
into the yard.
But he came himself to our workshop. Kicking the door open with his
foot, and leaving it open, he stood on the threshold, and smiling,
said to us:
"God help you! Hello, fellows!" The cold air, forcing itself in at
the door in a thick, smoky cloud, was whirling around his feet; he
stood on the threshold, looking down on us from above, and from under
his fair, curled moustache, big, yellow teeth were flashing. His
waistcoat was blue, embroidered with flowers; it was beaming, and the
buttons were of some red stones. And there was a chain too. He was
handsome, this soldier, tall, strong, with red cheeks, and his big,
light eyes looked good--kind and clear. On his head was a white,
stiffly-starched cap, and from under his clean apron peeped out sharp
toes of stylish, brightly shining boots.
Our baker respectfully requested him to close the door; he did it
without haste, and began to question us about the proprietor. Vieing
with one another, we told him that our "boss" was a rogue, a rascal,
a villain, a tyrant, everything that could and ought to be said of
our proprietor, but which cannot be repeated here. The soldier
listened, stirred his moustache and examined us with a soft, light
look.
"And are there many girls here?" he asked, suddenly.
Some of us began to laugh respectfully, others made soft grimaces;
some one explained to the soldier that there were nine girls.
"Do you take advantage?" . . . asked the soldier, winking his eye.
Again we burst out laughing, not very loud, and with a confused
laughter. Many of us wished to appear before the soldier just as
clever as he was, but not one was able to do it. Some one confessed,
saying in a low voice:
"It is not for us." . . .
"Yes, it is hard for you!" said the soldier with confidence,
examining us fixedly. "You haven't the bearing for it . . . the
figure--you haven't the appearance, I mean! And a woman likes a good
appearance in a man. To her it must be perfect, everything perfect!
And then she respects strength. . . . A hand should be like this!"
The soldier pulled his right hand out of his pocket. The shirt
sleeve was rolled up to his elbow. He showed his hand to us. . . .
It was white, strong, covered with glossy, golden hair.
"A leg, a chest, in everything there must be firmness. And then,
again, the man must be dressed according to style. . . . As the
beauty of things requires it. I, for instance, I am loved by women.
I don't call them, I don't lure them, they come to me of themselves."
He seated himself on a bag of flour and told us how the women loved
him and how he handled them boldly. Then he went away, and when the
door closed behind him with a creak, we were silent for a long time,
thinking of him and of his stories. And then suddenly we all began
to speak, and it became clear at once that he pleased every one of
us. Such a kind and plain fellow. He came, sat awhile and talked.
Nobody came to us before, nobody ever spoke to us like this; so
friendly. . . . And we all spoke of him and of his future successes
with the embroidery girls, who either passed us by, closing their
lips insultingly, when they met us in the yard, or went straight on
as if we had not been in their way at all. And we always admired
them, meeting them in the yard, or when they went past our
windows--in winter dressed in some particular hats and in fur coats,
in summer in hats with flowers, with colored parasols in their hands.
But thereafter among ourselves, we spoke of these girls so that had
they heard it, they would have gone mad for shame and insult.
"However, see that he doesn't spoil Tanushka, too!" said the baker,
suddenly, with anxiety.
We all became silent, dumb-founded by these words. We had somehow
forgotten Tanya; it looked as though the soldier's massive, handsome
figure prevented us from seeing her. Then began a noisy dispute.
Some said that Tanya would not submit herself to this, others argued
that she would not hold out against the soldier; still others said
that they would break the soldier's bones in case he should annoy
Tanya, and finally all decided to look after the soldier and Tanya,
and to warn the girl to be on guard against him. . . . This put an
end to the dispute.
About a month went by. The soldier baked white bread, walked around
with the embroidery girls, came quite often to our workshop, but
never told us of his success with the girls; he only twisted his
moustache and licked his lips with relish.
Tanya came every morning for the biscuits and, as always, was
cheerful, amiable, kind to us. We attempted to start a conversation
with her about the soldier, but she called him a "goggle-eyed calf,"
and other funny names, and this calmed us. We were proud of our
little girl, seeing that the embroidery girls were making love to the
soldier. Tanya's relation toward him somehow uplifted all of us, and
we, as if guided by her relation, began to regard the soldier with
contempt. And we began to love Tanya still more, and, meet her in
the morning more cheerfully and kind-heartedly.
But one day the soldier came to us a little intoxicated, seated
himself and began to laugh, and when we asked him what he was
laughing at he explained: "Two had a fight on account of me. . . .
Lidka and Grushka. . . . How they disfigured each other! Ha, ha!
One grabbed the other by the hair, and knocked her to the ground in
the hallway, and sat on her. . . . Ha, ha, ha! They scratched each
other's faces. . . . It is laughable! And why cannot women fight
honestly? Why do they scratch? Eh?"
He sat on the bench, strong and clean and jovial; talking and
laughing all the time. We were silent. Somehow or other he seemed
repulsive to us this time.
"How lucky I am with women, Eh? It is very funny! Just a wink and I
have them!"
His white hands, covered with glossy hair, were lifted and thrown
back to his knees with a loud noise. And he stared at us with such a
pleasantly surprised look, as though he really could not understand
why he was so lucky in his affairs with women. His stout, red face
was radiant with happiness and self-satisfaction, and he kept on
licking his lips with relish.
Our baker scraped the shovel firmly and angrily against the hearth of
the oven and suddenly said, sarcastically:
"You need no great strength to fell little fir-trees, but try to
throw down a pine." . . .
"That is, do you refer to me?" asked the soldier.
"To you. . . ."
"What is it?"
"Nothing. . . . Too late!"
"No, wait! What's the matter? Which pine?"
Our baker did not reply, quickly working with his shovel at the oven.
He would throw into the oven the biscuits from the boiling kettle,
would take out the ready ones and throw them noisily to the floor, to
the boys who put them on bast strings. It looked as though he had
forgotten all about the soldier and his conversation with him. But
suddenly the soldier became very restless. He rose to his feet and
walking up to the oven, risked striking his chest against the handle
of the shovel, which was convulsively trembling in the air.
"No, you tell me--who is she? You have insulted me. . . . I? . . .
Not a single one can wrench herself from me, never! And you say to
me such offensive words." . . . And, indeed, he looked really
offended. Evidently there was nothing for which he might respect
himself, except for his ability to lead women astray; it may be that
aside from this ability there was no life in him, and only this
ability permitted him to feel himself a living man.
There are people to whom the best and dearest thing in life is some
kind of a disease of either the body or the soul. They make much of
it during all their lives and live by it only; suffering from it,
they are nourished by it, they always complain of it to others and
thus attract the attention of their neighbors. By this they gain
people's compassion for themselves, and aside from this they have
nothing. Take away this disease from them, cure them, and they are
rendered most unfortunate, because they thus lose their sole means of
living, they then become empty. Sometimes a man's life is so poor
that he is involuntarily compelled to prize his defect and live by
it. It may frankly be said that people are often depraved out of
mere weariness. The soldier felt insulted, and besetting our baker,
roared:
"Tell me--who is it?"
"Shall I tell you?" the baker suddenly turned to him.
"Well?"
"Do you know Tanya?"
"Well?"
"Well, try." . . .
"I?"
"You!"
"Her? That's easy enough!"
"We'll see!"
"You'll see! Ha, ha!"
"She'll. . . ."
"A month's time!"
"What a boaster you are, soldier!"
"Two weeks! I'll show you! Who is it? Tanya! Tfoo!" . . .
"Get away, I say."
"Get away, . . . you're bragging!"
"Two weeks, that's all!"
Suddenly our baker became enraged, and he raised the shovel against
the soldier. The soldier stepped back, surprised, kept silent for
awhile, and, saying ominously, in a low voice: "Very well, then!" he
left us.
During the dispute we were all silent, interested in the result. But
when the soldier went out, a loud, animated talk and noise was
started among us.
Some one cried to the baker:
"You contrived a bad thing, Pavel!"
"Work!" replied the baker, enraged.
We felt that the soldier was touched to the quick and that a danger
was threatening Tanya. We felt this, and at the same time we were
seized with a burning, pleasant curiosity--what will happen? Will
she resist the soldier? And almost all of us cried out with
confidence:
"Tanya? She will resist! You cannot take her with bare hands!"
We were very desirous of testing the strength of our godling; we
persistently proved to one another that our godling was a strong
godling, and that Tanya would come out the victor in this combat.
Then, finally, it appeared to us that we did not provoke the soldier
enough, that he might forget about the dispute, and that we ought to
irritate his self-love the more. Since that day we began to live a
particular, intensely nervous life--a life we had never lived before.
We argued with one another all day long, as if we had grown wiser.
We spoke more and better. It seemed to us that we were playing a
game with the devil, with Tanya as the stake on our side. And when
we had learned from the _bulochniks_ that the soldier began to court
"our Tanya," we felt so dreadfully good and were so absorbed in our
curiosity that we did not even notice that the proprietor, availing
himself of our excitement, added to our work fourteen _poods_ (a
_pood_ is a weight of forty Russian pounds) of dough a day. We did
not even get tired of working. Tanya's name did not leave our lips
all day long. And each morning we expected her with especial
impatience. Sometimes we imagined that she might come to us--and
that she would be no longer the same Tanya, but another one.
However, we told her nothing about the dispute. We asked her no
questions and treated her as kindly as before. But something new and
foreign to our former feelings for Tanya crept in stealthily into our
relation toward her, and this new _something_ was keen curiosity,
sharp and cold like a steel knife.
"Fellows! Time is up to-day!" said the baker one morning, commencing
to work.
We knew this well without his calling our attention to it, but we
gave a start, nevertheless.
"Watch her! . . . She'll come soon!" suggested the baker. Some one
exclaimed regretfully: "What can we see?"
And again a lively, noisy dispute ensued. To-day we were to learn at
last how far pure and inaccessible to filth was the urn wherein we
had placed all that was best in us. This morning we felt for the
first time that we were really playing a big game, that this test of
our godling's purity might destroy our idol. We had been told all
these days that the soldier was following Tanya obstinately, but for
some reason or other none of us asked how she treated him. And she
kept on coming to us regularly every morning for biscuits and was the
same as before. This day, too, we soon heard her voice:
"Little prisoners! I've come. . . ."
We hastened to let her in, and when she entered we met her, against
our habit, in silence. Staring at her fixedly, we did not know what
to say to her, what to ask her; and as we stood before her we formed
a dark, silent crowd. She was evidently surprised at our unusual
reception, and suddenly we noticed that she turned pale, became
restless, began to bustle about and asked in a choking voice:
"Why are you . . . such?
"And you?" asked the baker sternly, without taking his eyes off the
girl.
"What's the matter with me?"
"Nothing. . . ."
"Well, quicker, give me biscuits. . . ."
She had never before hurried us on. . . .
"There's plenty of time!" said the baker, his eyes fixed, on her face.
Then she suddenly turned around and disappeared behind the door.
The baker took up his shovel and said calmly, turning towards the
oven:
"It is done, it seems! . . . The soldier! . . . Rascal! . . .
Scoundrel!" . . .
Like a herd of sheep, pushing one another, we walked back to the
table, seated ourselves in silence and began to work slowly. Soon
some one said:
"And perhaps not yet." . . .
"Go on! Talk about it!" cried the baker.
We all knew that he was a clever man, cleverer than any of us, and we
understood by his words that he was firmly convinced of the soldier's
victory. . . . We were sad and uneasy. At twelve o'clock, during
the dinner hour, the soldier came. He was, as usual, clean and
smart, and, as usual, looked straight into our eyes. We felt awkward
to look at him.
"Well, honorable gentlemen, if you wish, I can show you a soldier's
boldness," . . . said he, smiling proudly. "You go out into the
hallway and look through the clefts. . . . Understand?"
We went out and, falling on one another, we stuck to the cleft, in
the wooden walls of the hallway, leading to the yard. We did not
have to wait long. . . . . . . . Soon Tanya passed with a quick
pace, skipping over the plashes of melted snow and mud. Her face
looked troubled. She disappeared behind the cellar door. Then the
soldier went there slowly and whistling. His hands were thrust into
his pockets, and his moustache was stirring.
A rain was falling, and we saw the drops fall into plashes, and the
plashes were wrinkling under their blows. It was a damp, gray day--a
very dreary day. The snow still lay on the roofs, while on the
ground, here and there, were dark spots of mud. And the snow on the
roofs, too, was covered with a brownish, muddy coating. The rain
trickled slowly, producing a mournful sound. We felt cold and
disagreeable.
The soldier came first out of the cellar; he crossed the yard slowly,
Stirring his moustache, his hands in his pockets--the same as always.
Then Tanya came out. Her eyes . . . her eyes were radiant with joy
and happiness, and her lips were smiling. And she walked as though
in sleep, staggering, with uncertain steps. We could not stand this
calmly. We all rushed toward the door, jumped out into the yard, and
began to hiss and bawl at her angrily and wildly. On noticing us she
trembled and stopped short as if petrified in the mud under her feet.
We surrounded her and malignantly abused her in the most obscene
language. We told her shameless things.
We did this not loud but slowly, seeing that she could not get away,
that she was surrounded by us and we could mock her as much as we
pleased. I don't know why, but we did not beat her. She stood among
us, turning her head one way and another, listening to our abuses.
And we kept on throwing at her more of the mire and poison of our
words.
The color left her face. Her blue eyes, so happy a moment ago,
opened wide, her breast breathed heavily and her lips were trembling.
And we, surrounding her, avenged ourselves upon her, for she had
robbed us. She had belonged to us, we had spent on her all that was
best in us, though that best was the crusts of beggars, but we were
twenty-six, while she was one, and therefore there was no suffering
painful enough to punish her for her crime! How we abused her! She
was silent, looked at us wild-eyed, and trembling in every limb. We
were laughing, roaring, growling. Some more people ran up to us.
Some one of us pulled Tanya by the sleeve of her waist. . . .
Suddenly her eyes began to flash; slowly she lifted her hands to her
head, and, adjusting her hair, said loudly, but calmly, looking
straight into our eyes:
"Miserable prisoners!"
And she came directly toward us, she walked, too, as though we were
not in front of her, as though we were not in her way. Therefore
none of us were in her way, and coming out of our circle, without
turning to us, she said aloud, and with indescribable contempt:
"Rascals! . . . Rabble!" . . .
Then she went away.
We remained standing in the centre of the yard, in the mud, under the
rain and the gray, sunless sky. . . .
Then we all went back silently to our damp, stony ditch. As before,
the sun never peeped in through our windows, and Tanya never came
there again! . . . .
Tchelkache
The sky is clouded by the dark smoke rising from the harbor. The
ardent sun gazes at the green sea through a thin veil. It is unable to
see its reflection in the water so agitated is the latter by the oars,
the steamer screws and the sharp keels of the Turkish feluccas, or sail
boats, that plough the narrow harbor in every direction. The waves
imprisoned by stone walls, crushed under the enormous weights that they
carry, beat against the sides of the vessels and the quays; beat and
murmur, foaming and muddy.
The noise of chains, the rolling of wagons laden with merchandise, the
metallic groan of iron falling on the pavements, the creaking of
windlasses, the whistling of steamboats, now in piercing shrieks, now
in muffled roars, the cries of haulers, sailors and custom-house
officers--all these diverse sounds blend in a single tone, that of
work, and vibrate and linger in the air as though they feared to rise
and disappear. And still the earth continues to give forth new sounds;
heavy, rumbling, they set in motion everything about them, or,
piercing, rend the hot and smoky air.
Stone, iron, wood, vessels and men, all, breathe forth a furious and
passionate hymn to the god of Traffic. But the voices of the men,
scarcely distinguishable, appear feeble and ridiculous, as do also the
men, in the midst of all this tumult. Covered with grimy rags, bent
under their burdens, they move through clouds of dust in the hot and
noisy atmosphere, dwarfed to insignificance beside the colossal iron
structures, mountains of merchandise, noisy wagons and all the other
things that they have themselves created. Their own handiwork has
reduced them to subjection and robbed them of their personality.
The giant vessels, at anchor, shriek, or sigh deeply, and in each sound
there is, as it were, an ironical contempt for the men who crawl over
their decks and fill their sides with the products of a slaved toil.
The long files of 'longshoremen are painfully absurd; they carry huge
loads of corn on their shoulders and deposit them in the iron holds of
the vessels so that they may earn a few pounds of bread to put in their
famished stomachs. The men, in rags, covered with perspiration, are
stupefied by fatigue, noise and heat; the machines, shining, strong and
impassive, made by the hands of these men, are not, however, moved by
steam, but by the muscles and blood of their creators--cold and cruel
irony!
The noise weighs down, the dust irritates nostrils and eyes; the heat
burns the body, the fatigue, everything seems strained to its utmost
tension, and ready to break forth in a resounding explosion that will
clear the air and bring peace and quiet to the earth again--when the
town, sea and sky will be calm and beneficent. But it is only an
illusion, preserved by the untiring hope of man and his imperishable
and illogical desire for liberty.
Twelve strokes of a bell, sonorous and measured, rang out. When the
last one had died away upon the air, the rude tones of labor were
already half softened. At the end of a minute, they were transformed
into a dull murmur. Then, the voices of men and sea were more
distinct. The dinner hour had come.
* * * * *
When the longshoremen, leaving their work, were dispersed in noisy
groups over the wharf, buying food from the open-air merchants, and
settling themselves on the pavement, in shady corners, to eat, Grichka
Tchelkache, an old jail-bird, appeared among them. He was game often
hunted by the police, and the entire quay knew him for a hard drinker
and a clever, daring thief. He was bare-headed and bare-footed, and
wore a worn pair of velvet trousers and a percale blouse torn at the
neck, showing his sharp and angular bones covered with brown skin. His
touseled black hair, streaked with gray, and his sharp visage,
resembling a bird of prey's, all rumpled, indicated that he had just
awakened. From his moustache hung a straw, another clung to his
unshaved cheek, while behind his ear was a fresh linden leaf. Tall,
bony, a little bent, he walked slowly over the stones, and, turning his
hooked nose from side to side, cast piercing glances about him,
appearing to be seeking someone among the 'longshoremen. His long,
thick, brown moustache trembled like a cat's, and his hands, behind his
back, rubbed each other, pressing closely together their twisted and
knotty fingers. Even here, among hundreds of his own kind, he
attracted attention by his resemblance to a sparrow-hawk of the
steppes, by his rapacious leanness, his easy stride, outwardly calm but
alert and watchful as the flight of the bird that he recalled.
When he reached a group of tatterdemalions, seated in the shade of some
baskets of charcoal, a broad-shouldered and stupid looking boy rose to
meet him. His face was streaked with red and his neck was scratched;
he bore the traces of a recent fight. He walked along beside
Tchelkache, and said under his breath:
"The custom-house officers can't find two boxes of goods. They are
looking for them. You understand, Grichka?"
"What of it?" asked Tchelkache, measuring him calmly with his eyes.
"What of it? They are looking, that's all."
"Have they inquired for me to help them in their search?"
Tchelkache gazed at the warehouses with a meaning smile.
"Go to the devil!"
The other turned on his heel.
"Hey! Wait!--Who has fixed you up in that fashion? Your face is all
bruised--Have you seen Michka around here?"
"I haven't seen him for a long time!" cried the other, rejoining the
'longshoremen.
Tchelkache continued on his way, greeted in a friendly manner by all.
But he, usually so ready with merry word or biting jest, was evidently
out of sorts to-day, and answered all questions briefly.
Behind a bale of merchandise appeared a custom-house officer, standing
in his dark-green, dusty uniform with military erectness. He barred
Tchelkache's way, placing himself before him in an offensive attitude,
his left hand on his sword, and reached out his right hand to take
Tchelkache by the collar.
"Stop, where are you going?"
Tchelkache fell back a step, looked at the officer and smiled drily.
The red, cunning and good-natured face of the custom-house officer was
making an effort to appear terrible; with the result that swollen and
purple, with wrinkling eyebrows and bulging eyes, it only succeeded in
being funny.
"You've been warned before: don't you dare to come upon the wharf, or
I'll break every rib in your body!" fiercely exclaimed the officer.
"How do you do, Semenitch! I haven't seen you for a long time,"
quietly replied Tchelkache, extending his hand.
"I could get along without ever seeing you! Go about your business!"
However, Semenitch shook the hand that was extended to him.
"You're just the one I want to see," pursued Tchelkache, without
loosening the hold of his hooked fingers on Semenitch's hand, and
shaking it familiarly. "Have you seen Michka?"
"What Michka? I don't know any Michka! Get along with you, friend, or
the inspector'll see you; he--"
"The red-haired fellow who used to work with me on board the
'Kostroma,'" continued Tchelkache, unmoved.
"Who stole with you would be nearer the truth! Your Michka has been
sent to the hospital: his leg was crushed under a bar of iron. Go on,
friend, take my advice or else I shall have to beat you."
"Ah!--And you were saying: I don't know Michka! You see that you do
know him. What's put you out, Semenitch?"
"Enough, Grichka, say no more and off with you--"
The officer was getting angry and, darting apprehensive glances on
either side, tried to free his hand from the firm grasp of Tchelkache.
The last named looked at him calmly from under his heavy eyebrows,
while a slight smile curved his lips, and without releasing his hold of
the officer's hand, continued talking.
"Don't hurry me. When I'm through talking to you I'll go. Tell me how
you're getting on. Are your wife and children well?"
Accompanying his words with a terrible glance, and showing his teeth in
a mocking grin, he added:
"I'm always intending to make you a visit, but I never have the time:
I'm always drunk--"
"That'll do, that'll do, drop that--Stop joking, bony devil! If you
don't, comrade, I--Or do you really intend to rob houses and streets?"
"Why? There's enough here for both of us. My God, yes!--Semenitch!
You've stolen two boxes of goods again?--Look out, Semenitch, be
careful! Or you'll be caught one of these days!"
Semenitch trembled with anger at the impudence of Tchelkache; he spat
upon the ground in a vain effort to speak. Tchelkache let go his hand
and turned back quietly and deliberately at the entrance to the wharf.
The officer, swearing like a trooper, followed him.
Tchelkache had recovered his spirits; he whistled softly between his
teeth, and, thrusting his hands in his trousers' pockets, walked
slowly, like a man who has nothing to do, throwing to the right and
left scathing remarks and jests. He received replies in kind.
"Happy Grichka, what good care the authorities take of him!" cried
someone in a group of 'longshoremen who had eaten their dinner and were
lying, stretched out on the ground.
"I have no shoes; Semenitch is afraid that I may hurt my feet," replied
Tchelkache.
They reached the gate. Two soldiers searched Tchelkache and pushed him
gently aside.
"Don't let him come back again!" cried Semenitch, who had remained
inside.
Tchelkache crossed the road and seated himself on a stepping-block in
front of the inn door. From the wharf emerged an interminable stream
of loaded wagons. From the opposite direction arrived empty wagons at
full speed, the drivers jolting up and down on the seats. The quay
emitted a rumbling as of thunder; accompanied by an acrid dust. The
ground seemed to shake.
Accustomed to this mad turmoil, stimulated by his scene with Semenitch,
Tchelkache felt at peace with all the world. The future promised him
substantial gain without great outlay of energy or skill on his part.
He was sure that neither the one nor the other would fail him; screwing
up his eyes, he thought of the next day's merry-making when, his work
accomplished, he should have a roll of bills in his pocket. Then his
thoughts reverted to his friend Michka, who would have been of so much
use to him that night, if he had not broken his leg. Tchelkache swore
inwardly at the thought that for want of Michka he might perhaps fail
in his enterprise. What was the night going to be?--He questioned the
sky and inspected the street.
Six steps away, was a boy squatting in the road near the sidewalk, his
back against a post; he was dressed in blue blouse and trousers, tan
shoes, and a russet cap. Near him lay a little bag and a scythe,
without a handle, wrapped in hay carefully bound with string. The boy
was broad shouldered and fairhaired with a sun-burned and tanned face;
his eyes were large and blue and gazed at Tchelkache confidingly and
pleasantly.
Tchelkache showed his teeth, stuck out his tongue, and, making a
horrible grimace, stared at him persistently.
The boy, surprised, winked, then suddenly burst out laughing and cried:
"O! how funny he is!"
Almost without rising from the ground, he rolled heavily along toward
Tchelkache, dragging his bag in the dust and striking the stones with
his scythe.