pulling his trousers.
"Just so, little one, just so!" frankly replied Tchelkache. This
robust and artless lad pleased him from the first.
"Have you come from the hay-harvest?"
"Yes. I've mowed a verst and earned a kopek! Business is bad! There
are so many hands! The starving folks have come--have spoiled the
prices. They used to give sixty kopeks at Koubagne. As much as that!
And formerly, they say, three, four, even five rubles."
"Formerly!--Formerly, they gave three rubles just for the sight of a
real Russian. Ten years ago, I made a business of that. I would go to
a village, and I would say: 'I am a Russian!' At the words, everyone
came flocking to look at me, feel of me, marvel at me--and I had three
rubles in my pocket! In addition, they gave me food and drink and
invited me to stay as long as I liked."
The boy's mouth had gradually opened wider and wider, as he listened to
Tchelkache, and his round face expressed surprised admiration; then,
comprehending that he was being ridiculed by this ragged man, be
brought his jaws together suddenly and burst, out laughing. Tchelkache
kept a serious face, concealing a smile under his moustache.
"What a funny fellow! . . . You said that as though it was true, and I
believed you. But, truly, formerly, yonder. . . ."
"And what did I say? I said that formerly, yonder. . ."
"Get along with you!" said the boy, accompanying his words with a
gesture. "Are you a shoemaker? or a tailor? Say?"
"I?" asked Tchelkache; then after a moment's reflection, he added:
"I'm a fisherman."
"A fisherman? Really! What do you catch, fish?"
"Why should I catch fish? Around here the fishermen catch other things
besides that. Very often drowned men, old anchors, sunken
boats--everything, in fact! There are lines for that. . ."
"Invent, keep on inventing! Perhaps you're one of those fishermen who
sing about themselves:
"We are those who throw our nets
Upon dry banks,
Upon barns and stables!"
"Have you ever seen any of that kind?" asked Tchelkache, looking
ironically at him, and thinking that this honest boy must be very
stupid.
"No, I've never seen any; but I've heard them spoken of."
"Do you like them?"
"Why not? They are fearless and free."
"Do you feel the need of freedom? Do you like freedom?"
"How could I help liking it? One is his own master, goes where he
likes, and does what he pleases. If he succeeds in supporting himself
and has no weight dragging at his neck, what more can he ask? He can
have as good a time as he likes provided he doesn't forget God."
Tchelkache spat contemptuously and interrupted the boy's questions by
turning his back to him.
"Look at me, for instance," said the other, with sudden animation.
"When my father died, he left little. My mother was old, the land worn
out, what could I do? One must live. But how? I don't know. A
well-to-do family would take me in as a son-in-law, to be sure! If the
daughter only received her share! But no! The devil of a
father-in-law never wants to divide the property. So then, I must
toil for him . . . a long time . . . years. Do you see how it stands?
While if I could put by a hundred and fifty rubles, I should feel
independent and be able to talk to the old man. 'Will you give Marfa
her share?' No! 'All right! She's not the only girl in the village,
thank God.' And so I'd be perfectly free, my own master. Yes!" The
lad sighed. "As it is, there's nothing for it but to go into a family.
I've thought that if I were to go to Koubagne, I'd easily make two
hundred rubles. Then I should have a chance for myself. But no,
nothing has come my way, I've failed in everything! So now it's
necessary to enter a family, be a slave, because I can't get along with
what I have--impossible! Ehe! . . ."
The lad detested the idea of becoming the husband of some rich girl who
would remain at home. His face grew dull and sad. He moved restlessly
about on the ground; this roused Tchelkache from the reflections in
which his speech had plunged him.
Tchelkache felt that he had no more desire to talk, but he nevertheless
asked:
"Where are you going, now?"
"Where am I going? Home, of course!"
"Why of course? . . . Perhaps you'd like to go to Turkey."
"To Turkey?" drawled the boy. "Do Christians go there? What do you
mean by that?"
"What an imbecile you are!" sighed Tchelkache, and he again turned his
back on his interlocutor, thinking this time that he would not
vouchsafe him another word. This robust peasant awakened something
obscure within him.
A confused feeling was gradually growing up, a kind of vexation was
stirring the depths of his being and preventing him from concentrating
his thoughts upon what he had to do that night.
The lad whom he had just insulted muttered something under his breath
and looked askance at him. His cheeks were comically puffed out, his
lips pursed up, and he half closed his eyes in a laughable manner.
Evidently he had not expected that his conversation with this
moustached person would end so quickly and in a manner so humiliating
for him.
Tchelkache paid no more attention to him. Sitting on the block, he
whistled absent-mindedly and beat time with his bare and dirty heel.
The boy longed to be revenged.
"Hey! Fisherman! Are you often drunk?" he began; but at the same
instant the fisherman turned quickly around and asked:
"Listen, youngster! Do you want to work with me to-night? Eh? Answer
quick."
"Work at what?" questioned the boy, distrustfully.
"At what I shall tell you. . . We'll go fishing. You shall row. . ."
"If that's it . . . why not? All right! I know how to work. . . Only
suppose anything happens to me with you; you're not reassuring, with
your mysterious airs. . ."
Tchelkache felt a burning sensation in his breast and said with
concentrated rage:
"Don't talk about what yon can't understand, or else, I'll hit yon on
the head so hard that your ideas will soon clear up."
He jumped up, pulling his moustache with his left hand and doubling his
right fist all furrowed with knotted veins and hard as iron; his eyes
flashed.
The lad was afraid. He glanced quickly around him and, blinking
timidly, also jumped up on his feet. They measured each other with
their eyes in silence.
"Well?" sternly demanded Tchelkache.
He was boiling over with rage at being insulted by this young boy, whom
he had despised even when talking with him, and whom he now began to
hate on account of his pure blue eyes, his healthy and sun-burned face
and his short, strong arms; because he had, somewhere yonder, a village
and a home in that village; because it had been proposed to him to
enter as son-in-law in a well-to-do family, and, above all, because
this being, who was only a child in comparison with himself, should
presume to like liberty, of which he did not know the worth and which
was useless to him. It is always disagreeable to see a person whom we
consider our inferior like, or dislike, the same things that we do and
to be compelled to admit that in that respect they are our equals.
The lad gazed at Tchelkache and felt that he had found his master.
"Why . . ." said he; "I consent. I'm willing. It's work that I'm
looking for. It's all the same to me whether I work with you or
someone else. I only said that because you don't seem like a man that
works . . . you are far too ragged. However, I know very well that
that may happen to anyone. Have I never seen a drunkard? Eh! How
many I've seen, and much worse than you!"
"Good! Then you consent?" asked Tchelkache, somewhat mollified.
"I, why yes, with pleasure. Name your price."
"My price depends upon the work. It's according to what we do and
take. You may perhaps receive five rubles. Do you understand?"
But now that it was a question of money, the peasant wanted a clear
understanding and exacted perfect frankness on the part of his master.
He again became distrustful and suspicious.
"That's scarcely to my mind, friend. I must have those five rubles in
my hand how."
Tchelkache humored him.
"Enough said, wait a little. Let us go to the tavern."
They walked side by side along the street; Tchelkache twisting his
moustache with the important air of an employer, the lad submissively,
but at the same time filled with distrust and fear.
"What's your name?" asked Tchelkache.
"Gavrilo," replied the lad.
When they had entered the dirty and smoky ale-house Tchelkache went up
to the bar and ordered, in the familiar tone of a regular customer, a
bottle of brandy, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea, and, after
enumerating the order, said briefly: "to be charged!" To which the boy
responded by a silent nod. At this, Gavrilo was filled with great
respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well
known and treated with so much confidence.
"There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant,
I will be back directly."
He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a
basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and
a musty odor. In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken
sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was
humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very
much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian.
Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and
sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.
Further on, other faces started out from the darkness, all dishevelled,
half drunk, writhing, restless. . .
Gavrilo was afraid to remain alone. He longed for his master's return.
The divers noises of the ale-house blended in one single note: it
seemed like the roaring of some enormous animal with a hundred voices,
struggling blindly and furiously in this stone box and finding no
issue. Gavrilo felt himself growing heavy and dull as though his body
had absorbed intoxication; his head swam and he could not see, in spite
of his desire to satisfy his curiosity.
Tchelkache returned; he ate and drank while he talked. At the third
glass Gavrilo was drunk. He grew lively; he wanted to say something
nice to his host, who, worthy man that he was, was treating him so
well, before he had availed himself of his services. But the words,
which vaguely mounted to his throat, refused to leave his suddenly
thick tongue.
Tchelkache looked at him. He said, smiling sarcastically.
"So you're done for, already! . . . it isn't possible! Just for five
small glasses! How will you manage to work?"
"Friend," stammered Gavrilo, "don't be afraid! I will serve you. Ah,
how I'll serve you! Let me embrace you, come?"
"That's right, that's right! . . . One more glass?"
Gavrilo drank. Everything swam before his eyes in unequal waves. That
was unpleasant and gave him nausea. His face had a stupid expression.
In his efforts to speak, he protruded his lips comically and roared.
Tchelkache looked at him fixedly as though he was recalling something,
then without turning aside his gaze twisted his moustache and smiled,
but this time, moodily and viciously.
The ale-house was filled with a drunken uproar. The red-haired sailor
was asleep with his elbows on the table.
"Let us get out of here!" said Tchelkache rising.
Gavrilo tried to rise, but not succeeding, uttered a formidable oath
and burst out into an idiotic, drunken laugh.
"See how fresh you are!" said Tchelkache, sitting down again. Gavrilo
continued to laugh, stupidly contemplating his master. The other
looked at him lucidly and penetratingly. He saw before him a man whose
life he held in his hands. He knew that he had it in his power to do
what he would with him. He could bend him like a piece of cardboard,
or help him to develop amid his staid, village environments. Feeling
himself the master and lord of another being, he enjoyed this thought
and said to himself that this lad should never drink of the cup that
destiny had made him, Tchelkache, empty. He at once envied and pitied
this young existence, derided it and was moved to compassion at the
thought that it might again fall into hands like his own. All these
feelings were finally mingled in one--paternal and authoritative. He
took Gavrilo by the arm, led and gently pushed him from the public
house and deposited him in the shade of a pile of cut wood; he sat down
beside him and lighted his pipe. Gavrilo stirred a little, muttered
something and went to sleep.
* * * * *
"Well, is it ready?" asked Tchelkache in a low voice to Gavrilo who was
looking after the oars.
"In a moment! one of the thole-pins is loose; may I pound it down with
an oar?"
"No, no! No noise! Push it down with your hands, it will be firm."
They noiselessly cut loose the boat fastened to the bow of a sailing
vessel. There was here a whole fleet of sailing vessels, loaded with
oak bark, and Turkish feluccas still half full of palma, sandal-wood
and great cypress logs.
The night was dark; the sky was overspread with shreds of heavy clouds,
and the sea was calm, black and thick as oil. It exhaled a humid and
salt aroma, and softly murmured as it beat against the sides of the
vessels and the shore and gently rocked Tchelkache's boat. Far out at
sea rose the black forms of ships; their sharp masts, surmounted with
colored lanterns, were outlined against the sky. The sea reflected the
lights and appeared to be sown with yellow spots, which trembled upon
its soft velvety black bosom, rising and falling regularly. The sea
was sleeping the healthy sound sleep of the laborer after his day's
work.
"We're off!" said Gavrilo, dipping his oars.
"Let us pull!"
Tchelkache, with a strong stroke of the oar, drove the boat into an
open space between two fishing-boats; he pulled rapidly over the
shining water, which glowed, at the contact of the oars, with a blue
phosphorescent fire. A long trail of softly scintillating light
followed the boat windingly.
"Well! does your head ache very much?" asked Tchelkache, kindly.
"Horribly! It rings like a clock . . . I'm going to wet it with a
little water."
"What good will that do? Wet it rather inside; you'll come to quicker."
Tchelkache handed the bottle to Gavrilo.
"Do you think so? With the blessing of God! . . ." A soft gurgle was
heard.
"Eh! you're not sorry to have the chance? Enough!" cried Tchelkache,
stopping him.
The boat shot on again, noiselessly; it moved easily between the
ships. . . . All at once it cleared itself from the other craft, and
the immense shining sea lay before them. It disappeared in the blue
distance, where from its waters rose lilac-gray clouds to the sky;
these were edged with down, now yellow, again green as the sea, or
again slate-colored, casting those gloomy shadows that oppress soul and
mind. The clouds slowly crept over one another, sometimes melting in
one, sometimes dispersing each other; they mingled their forms and
colors, dissolving or reappearing with new contours, majestic and
mournful. This slow moving of inanimate masses had something fatal
about it. It seemed as though yonder at the confines of the sea, there
was an innumerable quantity of them always crawling indifferently over
the sky, with the wicked and stupid intention of never allowing it to
illumine the sleeping sea with the million golden eyes of its
many-colored stars, which awaken the noble desires of beings in
adoration before their holy and pure light.
"Isn't the sea beautiful?" asked Tchelkache.
"Not bad! Only one is afraid on it," replied Gavrilo, rowing evenly
and strongly. The sea could scarcely be heard; it dripped from the
long oars and still shone with its warm, blue phosphorescent lights.
"Afraid? Simpleton!" growled Tchelkache.
He, the cynical robber, loved the sea. His ardent temperament, greedy
for impressions, never tired of contemplating its infinite, free and
powerful immensity. It offended him to receive such a reply to his
question concerning the beauty of the sea that he loved. Seated at
the tiller, he cleaved the water with his oar and gazed tranquilly
before him, filled with the desire to thus continue rowing forever over
this velvet plain.
On the sea, warm and generous impulses rose within him, filled his soul
and in a measure purified it of the defilements of life. He enjoyed
this effect and liked to feel himself better, out here, amid the waves
and air where the thoughts and occupations of life lose their interest
and life itself sinks into insignificance. In the night, the sound of
its soft breathing is wafted over the slumbering sea, and this infinite
murmur fills the soul with peace, checks all unworthy impulses and
brings forth mighty dreams.
"The nets, where are they, eh?" suddenly asked Gavrilo, inspecting the
boat.
Tchelkache shuddered.
"There's the net, at the rudder."
"What kind of a net's that?" asked Gavrilo, suspiciously.
"A sweep-net. . ."
But Tchelkache was ashamed to lie to this child to conceal his real
purpose; he also regretted the thoughts and feelings that the lad had
put to flight by his question. He became angry. He felt the sharp
burning sensation that he knew so well, in his breast; his throat
contracted. He said harshly to Gavrilo:
"You're there; well, remain there! Don't meddle with what doesn't
concern you. You've been brought to row, now row. And if you let your
tongue wag, no good will come of it. Do you understand?"
For one minute, the boat wavered and stopped. The oars stood still in
the foaming water around them, and Gavrilo moved uneasily on his seat.
"Row!"
A fierce oath broke the stillness. Gavrilo bent to the oars. The
boat, as though frightened, leaped ahead rapidly and nervously, noisily
cutting the water.
"Better than that!"
Tchelkache had risen from the helm and, without letting go his oar, he
fixed his cold eyes upon the pale face and trembling lips of Gavrilo.
Sinuous and bending forward, he resembled a cat ready to jump. A
furious grinding of teeth and rattling of bones could be heard.
"Who goes there?"
This imperious demand resounded over the sea.
"The devil! Row, row! No noise! I'll kill you, dog. Row, can't you!
One, two! Dare to cry out! I'll tear you from limb to limb! . . ."
hissed Tchelkache.
"Oh, Holy Virgin," murmured Gavrilo, trembling and exhausted.
The boat turned, obedient to his touch; he pulled toward the harbor
where the many-colored lanterns were grouped together and the tall
masts were outlined against the sky.
"Hey! Who calls?" was again asked. This time the voice was further
away; Tchelkache felt relieved.
"It's you, yourself, friend, who calls!" said he, in the direction of
the voice. Then, he turned to Gavrilo, who continued to murmur a
prayer. "Yes, brother, you're in luck. If those devils had pursued
us, it would have been the end of you. Do you hear? I'd have soon
sent you to the fishes."
Now that Tchelkache again spoke quietly and even good-naturedly,
Gavrilo, still trembling with fear, begged him:
"Listen, let me go! In the name of Christ, let me go. Set me down
somewhere. Oh dear! oh, dear! I'm lost! For God's sake, let me go.
What do you want of me? I can't do this, I've never done anything like
it. It's the first time, Lord! I'm lost! How did you manage,
comrade, to get around me like this? Say? It's a sin, you make me
lose my soul! . . . Ah! what a piece of business!"
"What business?" sternly questioned Tchelkache. "Speak, what business
do you mean?"
The lad's terror amused him; he also enjoyed the sensation of being
able to provoke such fear.
"Dark transactions, brother. . . Let me go, for the love of Heaven.
What am I to you? Friend . . ."
"Be quiet! If I hadn't needed you, I shouldn't have brought you! Do
you understand? Eh! Well, be quiet!"
"Oh, Lord!" sobbed Gavrilo.
"Enough!"
Gavrilo could no longer control himself and his breath came in broken
and painful gasps; he wept and moved restlessly about on his seat, but
rowed hard, in despair. The boat sped ahead like an arrow. Again the
black hulls of the ships arose before them, and the boat, turning like
a top in the narrow channels that separated them, was soon lost among
them.
"Hey! You, listen: If anyone speaks to us, keep still, if you value
your skin. Do you understand?"
"Alas!" hopelessly sighed Gavrilo, in response to this stern command,
and he added: "It was my lot to be lost!"
"Stop howling!" whispered Tchelkache.
These words completely robbed Gavrilo of all understanding and he
remained crushed under the chill presentiment of some misfortune. He
mechanically dipped his oars and sending them back and forth through
the water in an even and steady stroke did not lift his eyes again.
The slumbering murmur of the waves was gloomy and fearsome. Here is
the harbor. . . From behind its stone wall, comes the sound of human
voices, the plashing of water, singing and shrill whistling."
"Stop!" whispered Tchelkache.
"Drop the oars! Lean your hands against the wall! Softly, devil!"
Gavrilo caught hold of the slippery stone and guided the boat along the
wall. He advanced noiselessly, just grazing the slimy moss of the
stone.
"Stop, give me the oars! Give them here! And your passport, where
have you put it? In your bag! Give me the bag! Quicker! . . . That,
my friend, is so that you'll not run away. . . Now I hold you.
Without oars you could have made off just the same, but, without a
passport you'll not dare. Wait! And remember that if you so much as
breathe a word I'll catch you, even though at the bottom of the sea."
Suddenly, catching hold of something, Tchelkache rose in the air; he
disappeared over the wall.
Gavrilo shuddered. . . It had been so quickly done! He felt that the
cursed weight and fear that he experienced in the presence of this
moustached and lean bandit had, as it were, slipped off and rolled away
from him. Could he escape, now? Breathing freely, he looked around
him. On the left rose a black hull without masts, like an immense
empty, deserted coffin. The waves beating against its sides awakened
heavy echoes therein, resembling long-drawn sighs. On the right,
stretched the damp wall of the quay, like a cold heavy serpent. Behind
were visible black skeletons, and in front, in the space between the
wall and the coffin, was the sea, silent and deserted, with black
clouds hanging over it. These clouds were slowly advancing, their
enormous, heavy masses, terrifying in the darkness, ready to crush man
with their weight. All was cold, black and of evil omen. Gavrilo was
afraid. This fear was greater than that imposed on him by Tchelkache;
it clasped Gavrilo's breast in a tight embrace, squeezed him to a
helpless mass and riveted him to the boat's bench.
Perfect silence reigned. Not a sound, save the sighs of the seas; it
seemed as though this silence was about to be suddenly broken by some
frightful, furious explosion of sound that would shake the sea to its
depths, tear apart the dark masses of clouds floating over the sky and
bury under the waves all those black craft. The clouds crawled over
the sky as slowly and as wearily as before, but the sea gradually
emerged from under them, and one might fancy, looking at the sky, that
it was also a sea, but an angry sea overhanging a peaceful, sleeping
one. The clouds resembled waves whose gray crests touched the earth;
they resembled abysses hollowed by the wind between the waves and
nascent billows not yet covered with the green foam of fury.
Gavrilo was oppressed by this dark calm and beauty; he realized that he
desired his master's return. But he did not come! The time passed
slowly, more slowly than crawled the clouds up in the sky. . . And the
length of time augmented the agony of the silence. But just now behind
the wall, the plashing of water was heard, then a rustling, and
something like a whisper. Gavrilo was half dead from fright.
"Hey, there! Are you asleep? Take this! Softly!" said Tchelkache's
hoarse voice.
From the wall descended a solid, square, heavy object. Gavrilo put it
in the boat, then another one like it. Across the wall stretched
Tchelkache's long figure. The oars reappeared mysteriously, then
Gavrilo's bag fell at his feet and Tchelkache out of breath seated
himself at the tiller.
Gavrilo looked at him with a timid and glad smile.
"Are you tired?" said he.
"A little, naturally, simpleton! Row firm, with all your might. You
have a pretty profit, brother! The affair is half done, now there only
remains to pass unseen under the eyes of those devils, and then you'll
receive your money and fly to your Machka. . . You have a Machka, say,
little one?"