"Ended, ended, quite ended! We must draw the boat up farther, so that
it will be out of reach of the tide. They will come after it. And,
now, good-bye. The town is eight versts from here. You'll return to
town, eh?"
Tchelkache's face still beamed with a slily good-natured smile; he
seemed to be planning something pleasant for himself and a surprise for
Gavrilo. He put his hand in his pocket and rustled the bank-notes.
"No, I'm not going. . . I. . ."
Gavrilo stifled and choked. He was shaken by a storm of conflicting
desires, words and feelings. He burned as though on fire.
Tchelkache gazed at him with astonishment.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked.
"Nothing."
But Gavrilo's face grew red and then ashy pale. The lad moved his feet
restlessly as though he would have thrown himself upon Tchelkache, or
as though he were torn by Borne secret desire difficult to realize.
His suppressed excitement moved Tchelkache to some apprehension. He
wondered what form it would take in breaking out.
Gavrilo gave a laugh, a strange laugh, like a sob. His head was bent,
so that Tchelkache could not see the expression of his face; he could
only perceive Gavrilo's ears, by turns red and white.
"Go to the devil!" exclaimed Tchelkache, motioning with his hand. "Are
you in love with me? Say? Look at you mincing like a young girl. Are
you distressed at leaving me? Eh! youngster, speak, or else I'm going!"
"You're going?" cried Gavrilo, in a sonorous voice. The deserted and
sandy beach trembled at this cry, and the waves of sand brought by the
waves of the sea seemed to shudder. Tchelkache also shuddered.
Suddenly Gavrilo darted from his place, and throwing himself at
Tchelkache's feet, entwined his legs with his arms and drew him toward
him. Tchelkache tottered, sat down heavily on the sand, and gritting
his teeth, brandished his long arm and closed fist in the air. But
before he had time to strike, he was stopped by the troubled and
suppliant look of Gavrilo.
"Friend! Give me . . . that money! Give it to me, in the name of
Heaven. What need have you of it? It is the earnings of one night
. . . a single night . . . And it would take me years to get as much
as that. . . Give it to me. . . I'll pray for you . . . all my life
. . . in three churches . . . for the safety of your soul. You'll
throw it to the winds, and I'll give it to the earth. Oh! give me that
money. What will you do with it, say? Do you care about it as much as
that? One night . . . and you are rich! Do a good deed! You are
lost, you! . . . You'll never come back again to the way, while I!
. . . Ah! give it to me!"
Tchelkache frightened, astonished and furious threw himself backward,
still seated on the sand, and leaning on his two hands silently gazed
at him, his eyes starting from their orbits; the lad leaned his head on
his knees and gasped forth his supplications. Tchelkache finally
pushed him away, jumped to his feet, and thrusting his hand into his
pocket threw the multi-colored bills at Gavrilo.
"There, dog, swallow them!" he cried trembling with mingled feelings of
anger, pity and hate for this greedy slave. Now that he had thrown him
the money, he felt himself a hero. His eyes, his whole person, beamed
with conscious pride.
"I meant to have given you more. I pitied you yesterday. I thought of
the village. I said to myself: 'I'll help this boy.' I was waiting to
see what you'd do, whether you'd ask me or not. And now, see!
tatterdemalion, beggar, that you are! . . . Is it right to work
oneself up to such a state for money . . . to suffer like that?
Imbeciles, greedy devils who forget . . . who would sell themselves for
five kopeks, eh?"
"Friend . . . Christ's blessing on you! What is this? What?
Thousands? . . . I'm a rich man, now!" screamed Gavrilo, in a frenzy of
delight, hiding the money in his blouse. "Ah! dear man! I shall, never
forget this! never! And I'll beg my wife and children to pray for you."
Tchelkache listened to these cries of joy, gazed at this face,
irradiated and disfigured by the passion of covetousness; he felt that
he himself, the thief and vagabond, freed from all restraining
influence, would never become so rapacious, so vile, so lost to all
decency. Never would he sink so low as that! Lost in these
reflections, which brought to him the consciousness of his liberty and
his audacity, he remained beside Gavrilo on the lonely shore.
"You have made me happy!" cried Gavrilo, seizing Tchelkache's hand and
laying it against his cheek.
Tchelkache was silent and showed his teeth like a wolf. Gavrilo
continued to pour out his heart.
"What an idea that was of mine! We were rowing here . . . I saw the
money . . . I said to myself:
"Suppose I were to give him . . . give you . . . a blow with the oar
. . . just one! The money would be mine; as for him, I'd throw him in
the sea . . . you, you understand? Who would ever notice his
disappearance? And if you were found, no inquest would be made: who,
how, why had you been killed? You're not the kind of man for whom any
stir would be made! You're of no use on the earth! Who would take
your part? That's the way it would be! Eh?"
"Give back that money!" roared Tchelkache, seizing Gavrilo by the
throat.
Gavrilo struggled, once, twice . . . but Tchelkache's other arm
entwined itself like a serpent around him . . . a noise of tearing
linen,--and Gavrilo slipped to the ground with bulging eyes, catching
at the air with his hands and waving his legs. Tchelkache, erect,
spare, like a wild beast, showed his teeth wickedly and laughed
harshly, while his moustache worked nervously on his sharp, angular
face. Never, in his whole life, had he been so deeply wounded, and
never had his anger been so great.
"Well! Are you happy, now?" asked he, still laughing, of Gavrilo, and
turning his back to him, he walked away in the direction of the town.
But he had hardly taken two steps when Gavrilo, crouching like a cat,
threw a large, round stone at him, crying furiously:
"O--one!"
Tchelkache groaned, raised his hands to the back of his neck and
stumbled forward, then turned toward Gavrilo and fell face downward on
the sand. He moved a leg, tried to raise his head and stiffened,
vibrating like a stretched cord. At this, Gavrilo began to run, to run
far away, yonder, to where the shadow of that ragged cloud overhung the
misty steppe. The murmuring waves, coursing over the sands, joined him
and ran on and on, never stopping. The foam hissed, the spray flew
through the air.
The rain fell. Slight at first, it soon came down thickly, heavily and
came from the sky in slender streams. They crossed, forming a net that
soon shut off the distance on land and water. For a long time there
was nothing to be seen but the rain and this long body lying on the
sand beside the sea . . . But suddenly, behold Gavrilo coming from out
the rain, running; he flew like a bird. He went up to Tchelkache, fell
upon his knees before him, and tried to turn him over. His hand sank
into a sticky liquid, warm and red. He trembled and drew back, pale
and distracted.
"Get up, brother!" he whispered amid the noise of the falling rain into
the ear of Tchelkache.
Tchelkache came to himself and, repulsing Gavrilo, said in a hoarse
voice:
"Go away!"
"Forgive me, brother: I was tempted by the devil . . ." continued
Gavrilo, trembling and kissing Tchelkache's hand.
"Go, go away!" growled the other.
"Absolve my sin! Friend . . . forgive me!"
"Go, go to the devil!" suddenly cried out Tchelkache, sitting up on the
sand. His face was pale, threatening; his clouded eyes closed as
though he were very sleepy . . . "What do you want, now? You've
finished your business . . . go! Off with you!"
He tried to kick Gavrilo, prostrated by grief, but failed, and would
have fallen if Gavrilo hadn't supported him with his shoulders.
Tchelkache's face was now on a level with Gavrilo's. Both were pale,
wretched and terrifying.
"Fie!"
Tchelkache spat in the wide opened eyes of his employe.
The other humbly wiped them with his sleeve, and murmured:
"Do what you will . . . I'll not say one word. Pardon me, in the name
of Heaven!"
"Fool, you don't even know how to steal!" cried Tchelkache,
contemptuously. He tore his shirt under his waistcoat and, gritting
his teeth in silence, began to bandage his head.
"Have you taken the money?" he asked, at last.
"I haven't taken it, brother; I don't want it! It brings bad luck!"
Tchelkache thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew the
package of bills, put one of them in his pocket and threw all the rest
at Gavrilo.
"Take that and be off!"
"I cannot take it . . . I cannot! Forgive me!"
"Take it, I tell you!" roared Tchelkache, rolling his eyes frightfully.
"Pardon me! When you have forgiven me I'll take it," timidly said
Gavrilo, falling on the wet sand at Tchelkache's feet.
"You lie, fool, you'll take it at once!" said Tchelkache, confidently,
and raising his head, by a painful effort, he thrust the money before
his face. "Take it, take it! You haven't worked for nothing! Don't
be ashamed of having failed to assassinate a man! No one will claim
anyone like me. You'll be thanked, on the contrary, when it's learned
what you've done. There, take it! No one'll know what you've done and
yet it deserves some reward! Here it is!"
Gavrilo saw that Tchelkache was laughing, and he felt relieved. He
held the money tightly in his hand.
"Brother! Will you forgive me? Won't you do it? Say?" he supplicated
tearfully.
"Little brother!" mimicked Tchelkache, rising on his tottering limbs.
"Why should I pardon you? There's no occasion for it. To-day it's
you, to-morrow it'll be me . . ."
"Ah! brother, brother!" sighed Gavrilo, sorrowfully, shaking his head.
Tchelkache was standing before him, smiling strangely; the cloth
wrapped around his head, gradually reddening, resembled a Turkish
head-dress.
The rain fell in torrents. The sea complained dully and the waves beat
angrily against the beach.
The two men were silent.
"Good-bye!" said Tchelkache, with cold irony.
He staggered, his legs trembled, and he carried his head oddly, as
though he was afraid of losing it.
"Pardon me, brother!" again repeated Gavrilo.
"It's nothing!" drily replied Tchelkache, as he supported his head with
his left hand and gently pulled his moustache with his right.
Gavrilo stood gazing after him until he had disappeared in the rain
that still fell in fine, close drops, enveloping the steppe in a mist
as impenetrable and gray as steel.
Then Gavrilo took off his wet cap, made the sign of the cross, looked
at the money pressed tightly in his hand and drew a long, deep sigh; he
concealed his booty in his blouse and began to walk, taking long
strides, in the opposite direction to that in which Tchelkache had gone.
The sea thundered, threw great heavy waves upon the sand and broke them
into foam and spray. The rain lashed the sea and land pitilessly; the
wind roared. All the air around was filled with plaints, cries and
dull sounds. The rain masked sea and sky. . .
The rain and the breaking waves soon washed away the red spot where
Tchelkache had been struck to the ground; they soon effaced his
footprints and those of the lad on the sand, and the lonely beach was
left without the slightest trace of the little drama that had been
played between these two men.
Malva
BY MAXIME GORKY
The sea laughed.
It trembled at the warm and light breath of the wind and became covered
with tiny wrinkles that reflected the sun in blinding fashion and
laughed at the sky with its thousands of silvery lips. In the deep
space between sea and sky buzzed the deafening and joyous sound of the
waves chasing each other on the flat beach of the sandy promontory.
This noise and brilliancy of sunlight, reverberated a thousand times by
the sea, mingled harmoniously in ceaseless and joyous agitation. The
sky was glad to shine; the sea was happy to reflect the glorious light.
The wind caressed the powerful and satin-like breast of the sea, the sun
heated it with its rays and it sighed as if fatigued by these ardent
caresses; it filled the burning air with the salty aroma of its
emanations. The green waves, coursing up the yellow sand, threw on the
beach the white foam of their luxurious crests which melted with a
gentle murmur, and wet it.
At intervals along the beach, scattered with shells and sea weed, were
stakes of wood driven into the sand and on which hung fishing nets,
drying and casting shadows as fine as cobwebs. A few large boats and a
small one were drawn up beyond high-water mark, and the waves as they
ran up towards them seemed as if they were calling to them. Gaffs,
oars, coiled ropes, baskets and barrels lay about in disorder and amidst
it all was a cabin built of yellow branches, bark and matting. Above
the general chaos floated a red rag at the extremity of a tall mast.
Under the shade of a boat lay Vassili Legostev, the watchman at this
outpost of the Grebentchikov fishing grounds. Lying on his stomach, his
head resting on his hands, he was gazing fixedly out to sea, where away
in the distance danced a black spot. Vassili saw with satisfaction that
it grew larger and was drawing nearer.
Screwing up his eyes on account of the glare caused by the reflection on
the water, he grunted with pleasure and content. Malva was coming. A
few minutes more and she would be there, laughing so heartily as to
strain every stitch of her well-filled bodice. She would throw her
robust and gentle arms around him and kiss him, and in that rich
sonorous voice that startles the sea gulls would give him the news of
what was going on yonder. They would make a good fish soup together,
and drink brandy as they chatted and caressed each other. That is how
they spent every Sunday and holiday. And at daylight he would row her
back over the sea in the sharp morning air. Malva, still nodding with
sleep, would hold the tiller and he would watch her as he pulled. She
was amusing at those times, funny and charming both, like a cat which
had eaten well. Sometimes she would slip from her seat and roll herself
up at the bottom of the boat like a ball.
As Vassili watched the little black spot grow larger it seemed to him
that Malva was not alone in the boat. Could Serejka have come along
with her? Vassili moved heavily on the sand, sat up, shaded his eyes
with his hands, and with a show of ill humor began to strain his eyes to
see who was coming. No, the man rowing was not Serejka. He rows strong
but clumsily. If Serejka were rowing Malva would not take the trouble
to hold the rudder.
"Hey there!" cried Vassili impatiently.
The sea gulls halted in their flight and listened.
"Hallo! Hallo!" came back from the boat. It was Malva's sonorous voice.
"Who's with you?"
A laugh replied to him.
"Jade!" swore Vassili under his breath.
He spat on the ground with vexation.
He was puzzled. While he rolled a cigarette he examined the neck and
back of the rower who was rapidly drawing nearer. The sound of the
water when the oars struck it resounded in the still air, and the sand
crunched under the watchman's bare feet as he stamped about in his
impatience.
"Who's with you?" he cried, when he could discern the familiar smile on
Malva's pretty plump face.
"Wait. You'll know him all right," she replied laughing.
The rower turned on his seat and, also laughing, looked at Vassili.
The watchman frowned. It seemed to him that he knew the fellow.
"Pull harder!" commanded Malva.
The stroke was so vigorous that the boat was carried up the beach on a
wave, fell over on one side and then righted itself while the wave
rolled back laughing into the sea. The rower jumped out on the beach,
and going up to Vassili said:
"How are you, father?"
"Iakov!" cried Vassili, more surprised than pleased.
They embraced three times. Afterwards Vassili's stupor became mingled
with both joy and uneasiness. The watchman stroked his blond beard with
one hand and with the other gesticulated:
"I knew something was up; my heart told me so. So it was you! I kept
asking myself if it was Serejka. But I saw it was not Serejka. How did
you come here?"
Vassili would have liked to look at Malva, but his son's rollicking eyes
were upon him and he did not dare. The pride he felt at having a son so
strong and handsome struggled in him with the embarrassment caused by
the presence of Malva. He shuffled about and kept asking Iakov one
question after another, often without waiting for a reply. His head
felt awhirl, and he felt particularly uneasy when he heard Malva say in
a mocking tone.
"Don't skip about--for joy. Take him to the cabin and give him
something to eat."
The father examined his son from head to foot. On the latter's lips
hovered that cunning smile Vassili knew so well. Malva turned her green
eyes from the father to the son and munched melon seeds between her
small white teeth. Iakov smiled and for a few seconds, which were
painful to Vassili, all three were silent.
"I'll come back in a moment," said Vassili suddenly going towards the
cabin. "Don't stay there in the sun, I'm going to fetch some water.
We'll make some soup. I'll give you some fish soup, Iakov."
He seized a saucepan that was lying on the ground and disappeared behind
the fishing nets.
Malva and the peasant followed him.
"Well, my fine young fellow, I brought you to your father, didn't I?"
said Malva, brushing up against Iakov's robust figure.
He turned towards her his face framed in its curled blond beard, and
with a brilliant gleam in his eyes said:
"Yes, here we are--It's fine here, isn't it? What a stretch of sea!"
"The sea is great. Has the old man changed much?"
"No, not much. I expected to find him more grey. He's still pretty
solid."
"How long is it since you saw him?"
"About five years. I was nearly seventeen when he left the village."
They entered the cabin, the air of which was suffocating from the heat
and the odor of cooking fish. They sat down. Between them there was a
roughly-hewn oak table. They looked at each other for a long time
without speaking.
"So you want to work here?" said Malva at last.
"I don't know. If I find something, I'll work."
"You'll find work," replied Malva with assurance, examining him
critically with her green eyes.
He paid no attention to her, and with his sleeve wiped away the
perspiration that covered his face.
She suddenly began to laugh.
"Your mother probably sent messages for your father by you?"
Iakov gave a shrug of ill humor and replied:
"Of course. What if she did?"
"Oh, nothing."
And she laughed the louder.
Her laugh displeased Iakov. He paid no attention to her and thought of
his mother's instructions. When she accompanied him to the end of the
village she had said quickly, blinking her eyes:
"In Christ's name, Iakov say to him: 'Father, mother is alone yonder.
Five years have gone by and she is always alone. She is getting old.'
Tell him that, Iakov, my little Iakov, for the love of God. Mother will
soon be an old woman. She's always alone, always at work. In Christ's
name, tell him that."
And she had wept silently, hiding her face in her apron.
Iakov had not pitied her then, but he did now. And his face took on a
hard expression before Malva, as if he were about to abuse her.
"Here I am!" cried Vassili, bursting in on them with a wriggling fish in
one hand and a knife in the other.
He had not got over his uneasiness, but had succeeded in dissimulating
it deep within him. Now he looked at his guests with serenity and good
nature; only his manner was more agitated than usual.
"I'll make a bit of a fire in a minute, and we'll talk. Why, Iakov,
what a fine fellow you've grown!"
Again he disappeared.
Malva went on munching her melon seeds. She stared familiarly at Iakov.
He tried not to meet her eyes, although he would have liked to, and he
thought to himself:
"Life must come easy here. People seem to eat as much as they want to.
How strong she is and father, too!"
Then intimidated by the silence, he said aloud:
"I forgot my bag in the boat. I'll go and get it."
Iakov rose leisurely and went out. Vassili appeared a moment later. He
bent down towards Malva and said rapidly with anger:
"What did you want to bring him for? What shall I tell him about you?"
"What's that to me? Am I afraid of him? Or of you?" she asked, closing
her green eyes with disdain. Then she laughed: "How you went on when
you saw him. It was so funny!"
"Funny, eh?"
The sand crunched under Iakov's steps and they had to suspend their
conversation. Iakov had brought a bag which he threw into a corner. He
cast a hostile look at the young woman.
She went on munching her seeds. Vassili, seating himself on the
woodbin, said with a forced smile:
"What made you think of coming?"
"Why, I just came. We wrote you."
"When? I haven't received any letter."
"Really? We wrote often."
"The letter must have got lost," said Vassili regretfully. "It always
does when it's important."
"So you don't know how things are at home?" asked Iakov, suspiciously.
"How should I know? I received no letter."
Then Iakov told him that the horse was dead, that all the corn had been
eaten before the beginning of February, and that he himself had been
unable to find any work. Hay was also short, and the cow had almost
perished from hunger. They had managed as best they could until April
and then they decided that Iakov should join the father far away and
work three months with him. That is what they had written. Then they
sold three sheep, bought flour and hay and Iakov had started.
"How is that possible?" cried Vassali. "I sent you some money."
"Your money didn't go far. We repaired the cottage, we had to marry
sister off and I bought a plough. You know five years is a long time."
"Hum," said Vassili, "wasn't it enough? What a tale of woe! Ah,
there's my soup boiling over!"
He rose and stooping before the fire on which was the saucepan, Vassili
meditated while throwing the scum into the flame. Nothing in his son's
recital had touched him particularly, and he felt irritated against his
wife and Iakov. He had sent them a great deal of money during the last
five years, and yet they had not been able to manage. If Malva had not
been present he would have told his son what he thought about it. Iakov
was smart enough to leave the village on his own responsibility and
without the father's permission, but he had not been able to get a
living out of the soil. Vassili sighed as he stirred the soup, and as
he watched the blue flames he thought of his son and Malva.
Henceforward, he thought, his life would be less agreeable, less free.
Iakov had surely guessed what Malva was.
Meanwhile Malva, in the cabin, was trying to arouse the rustic with her
bold eyes.
"Perhaps you left a girl in the village?" she asked suddenly.
"Perhaps," he responded surlily.
Inwardly he was abusing Malva.
"Is she pretty?" she asked with indifference.
Iakov made no reply.
"Why don't you answer? Is she better looking than I, or no?"
He looked at her in spite of himself. Her cheeks were sunburnt and
plump, her lips red and tempting and now, parted in a malicious smile,
showing the white even teeth, they seemed to tremble. Her bust was full
and firm under a pink cotton waist that set off to advantage her trim
waist and well-rounded arms. But he did not like her green and cynical
eyes.
"Why do you talk like that?" he asked.
He sighed without reason and spoke in a beseeching tone, yet he wanted
to speak brutally to her.
"How shall I talk?" she asked laughing.
"There you are, laughing--at what?"
"At you--."
"What have I done to you?" he said with irritation. And once more he
lowered his eyes under her gaze.
She made no reply.
Iakov understood her relations towards his father perfectly well and
that prevented him from expressing himself freely. He was not
surprised. It would have been difficult for a man like his father to
have been long without a companion.
"The soup is ready," announced Vassili, at the threshold of the cabin.
"Get the spoons, Malva."
When she found the spoons she said she must go down to the sea to wash
them.
The father and son watched her as she ran down the sands and both were
silent.
"Where did you meet her?" asked Vassili, finally.
"I went to get news of you at the office. She was there. She said to
me: 'Why go on foot along the sand? Come in the boat. I'm going
there.' And so we started."
"And--what do you think of her?"
"Not bad," said Iakov, vaguely, blinking his eyes.