With swift strides the Khan approached the brink, and hurled
himself down. His son did not hold him back, there was no time for
that. And again nothing was audible from the sea--neither shriek
nor noise of the Khan’s fall. Only the waves plashed on there, and
the wind hummed wild songs.
Long did Tolaīk Alhalla gaze below, and then he said aloud:
“And grant me, also, as stout a heart, O Allah!”
And then he went forth into the gloom of the night.... Thus
perished Khan Mosolaīma el Asvab, and Tolaīk Alhalla became Khan of
the Crimea.
Of all his varied and acrid experiences the brain of “Maxim the
Bitter,” as his pseudonym means, is a bursting note-book. From it he
selects with entire artlessness--that is, without either the patience
or the knowledge which true art presupposes--whatever he needs for his
fictional work. Hence his longer productions, novels and plays, are not
well constructed. Indeed, they are marvellous mixtures of idealism,
realism, humor, shocking openness, and drivel, illuminated in sudden
patches by exquisite descriptions and lofty beauties. The best example
of his novels is “Fomá Gordyéeff,” and his strongest play is “The Night
Asylum.”
The general tone of Gorki’s work is not so depressing, because not
so hopeless, as that of his fellow fiction-writers of the younger
generation; but none of them dives so deep into the sub-silt of the
great Russian stream, for none is so native to its turgid, fetid flow.
To witness before our eyes, for example, the dragging down of the girl
in the short-story “Twenty-Six and One Other,” is so terrible as to
revolt the hardened. Yet in his tramps, his thieves, his broken-down
derelicts, there is a certain impudent bravery that strikes a new note
of hopefulness for submerged Russia. It is this, I think, that endeared
the young apostle of the proletariat when from 1892 to 1897 his
greatest short fictional work was done. He not only had a message for
revolutionary Russia, but the spirit of his characters was precisely
what so many of the drifting, sodden wrecks needed--boldness to look up.
For many superficial English and American readers Gorki furnished what
Professor Phelps has aptly compared to a slumming party--they were
pleased to be nauseated. Naturally, they soon dropped the new toy. But
others have continued to read him, some because they are in sympathy
with the reform movement, some from sheer enjoyment of the terrible,
others for the flashes of genius which are frequent enough to remind
us that he has not lived up to the anticipations his earlier writings
evoked. In this country, he has lost general sympathy, especially since
his comparatively recent visit culminated in the disclosure of his
illicit relations with his travelling companion, and much consequent
newspaper gossip; so that on the whole we wait for another to wear the
mantle of Tolstoi, which so many, six years ago, were ready to cast
upon the shoulders of Maxim Gorki.
Gorki has had a wild and varied life,--but he may tell the story in his
own words:
“I was born March 14th, either in 1868 or 1869, in Nijni Novgorod, in
the family of Vassili Vassilezewitsch Kaschirin, dyer, to his daughter
Warwara, and Maxim Sawwatjev Pjeschkow, who, according to his sign,
was an upholsterer. Thenceforth I have borne honorably and without a
stain the title of a member of the guild of artists. I was baptized by
the name of Alexei, but in choosing a pseudonym I preferred my father’s
name, Maxim.
“My real name is therefore Alexei Maximowitsch Pjeschkow. My father
died in Astrakhan when I was five years old. After the death of my
mother my grandfather placed me in a shoe-store. I was then nine years
old, and my grandfather had taught me to read in the Psalter and Prayer
Book. I ran away from my studies and became a draughtsman’s apprentice;
ran away from him and entered the workshop of a painter of saints’
images; then I served on a steamer as a cook’s boy; then I became a
gardener’s assistant.
“Here I remained till my fifteenth year, spending all my time in
zealously reading the productions of known authors, such as ‘Guak; or,
Unshakable Fidelity,’ ‘Andreas Fearnaught,’ ‘Jacschka, the Cut-throat,’
etc.
“While I was serving as cook’s boy on the steamboat, the cook, Smury,
gained a powerful influence over my development. He persuaded me to
read the ‘Legends of the Saints,’ Eckartshausen, Gogol, Gljeb Uspenski,
Dumas _père_, and various books on Freemasonry.
“Up to that time I had been a sworn enemy of all books and of all
printed paper, even including my passport. After my fifteenth year I
felt a passionate wish to learn, in pursuance of which I betook myself
to Kasan, under the impression that knowledge would be imparted free to
all who desired it. It turned out, however, that this was not the case;
so I went to work in a pretzel bakery, at a salary of three rubles a
month.
“Of all the kinds of work I have tried, this was the hardest. In Kasan
I came into relations with the ‘Lost People’ and lived long with them.
I worked in the villages on the Volga, now as a woodchopper, now as a
porter, and during this time read every book I could lay my hands on,
which various kind people supplied me with. I got along very badly, and
in 1888 even tried to kill myself by shooting a bullet into my body.
“I lay a long time in the hospital, but finally recovered and went into
the apple trade. I finally turned my back on inhospitable Kasan, to try
my luck in Zarizyn, where I got a job as a railroad attendant. Then I
returned to Nijni, where I had to go up for the army. But since they
could not make use of fellows with holes in their bodies, I escaped the
fate of becoming a soldier, and instead became a Munich beer seller.
I soon exchanged this calling for that of a clerk in the office of
Lanin, a lawyer of Nijni Novgorod.
“That was a turning point in my life. Lanin’s influence on my
development was immeasurably great. I owe this cultivated and
great-hearted man more than to any one else. But, however agreeable
I found life with Lanin, where my soul could at last find room to
breathe, I was again impelled to the life of a tramp. And I have
tramped all over Russia. Where have I not been! What have I not seen
and suffered! What kind of work have I not done!”
COMRADES
_By Maxim Gorki_
I
The burning July sun blazed dazzlingly over Smolkena, pouring down upon
the old huts a generous stream of resplendent rays. A goodly share
of the sunlight fell to the roof of the _Starosta’s_[2] hut, newly
recovered with smoothly-planed, yellow, fragrant planks. It was Sunday,
and almost the entire population of the village had gone out into the
street, thickly overgrown with grass and bespattered in spots with
quantities of dry mud. A large group of peasants--men and women--had
gathered in front of the _Starosta’s_ hut. Some sat on the earthwork
around the house, others simply stood; while the children chased one
another in and out of the throng, calling forth from the elders rebukes
and blows.
The centre of the crowd was a tall man, with large, drooping mustaches.
To judge from his swarthy face, covered with thick gray bristles and a
network of deep wrinkles, as well as from the gray tufts of hair which
forced their way from under the dirty straw hat, he might have been
fifty years of age. He was gazing on the ground, and the nostrils of
his large, gristly nose were quivering; and when he raised his head,
throwing his glance upon the windows of the _Starosta’s_ hut, his
eyes--large, melancholy, and even morose--became visible; they were
sunk deep within their orbits, and the bushy brows cast shadows over
their dark pupils. He was dressed in the brown under-cassock of a
lay-brother, worse for the wear; it hardly covered his knees, and was
girt with cord. Over his back was flung a bag; in his right hand he
carried a long stick with iron ferrule; his left hand he held in his
bosom. The people eyed him suspiciously, derisively, with contempt;
and with evident joy in having caught a wolf before he had had time to
do hurt to their flock. He was passing through the village, and had
asked for a drink at the window of the _Starosta’s_ hut. The _Starosta_
gave him cider and entered into conversation with him. The wayfarer,
however, unlike his kind, answered unwillingly. The _Starosta_ asked
him for his passport, but none was forthcoming. It was decided to send
him to the local magistrate. The _Starosta_ chose as the man’s escort
the village deputy, and was now in the hut giving him directions,
having in the meantime left the prisoner in the midst of the mob which
made sport of him.
The prisoner stood near the trunk of a willow and rested against it his
stooped back.
Presently there appeared on the staircase of the hut a dim-eyed old
man, with a foxy face and a gray, wedge-shaped beard. He lowered his
booted feet step by step, measuredly, and his round stomach moved
from side to side solidly under the long calico shirt. Just over his
shoulder came to view the bearded, four-cornered face of the deputy.
“Do you understand me, Efimushka?” the _Starosta_ questioned the deputy.
“Why shouldn’t I understand? It’s easy enough. Simply means I am to
take this man to the magistrate--and there’s an end of it!” The deputy,
pronouncing his speech with measured emphasis and with comical dignity,
winked at the public.
“And the papers?”
“The papers are stuck away in my bosom.”
“Well, all right, then,” said the _Starosta_, and, scratching his sides
energetically, he added:
“Go, and God be with you!”
“Well, shall we march on, father?” said the deputy to the prisoner.
“You might furnish a conveyance,” grumbled the prisoner at the deputy’s
proposition.
The _Starosta_ smiled.
“A con--vey--ance? The idea! There are lots of you fellows tramping
across fields and villages. Where are all the horses to come from?
You’ve got to make it on foot; that’s all there’s to it!”
“That’s nothing, father; let us go,” said the deputy cheerfully. “Do
you think it so far? Can’t be more than twenty versts! You’ll be there
before you know it. We shall make a nice trip of it. And afterwards you
shall have a rest.”
“In a cool place,” explained the _Starosta_.
“That’s nothing,” the deputy hastened to say. “A man, when he is very
tired, will find rest even in jail. And especially after a hot day you
will find it cool and comfortable there.”
The prisoner eyed his escort sharply; the latter smiled good-naturedly
and frankly.
“Well, come along, honest father! Good-bye, Vasil Gavrilich! Let’s go!”
“God be with you, Efimushka! Use both your eyes.”
“Yes, you’ll have to look sharp!” was the suggestion thrown at the
deputy by a young peasant in the crowd.
“What, do you think I’m an infant?”
They started, keeping close to the huts, so as to be within the strip
of shadow. The man in the cassock walked in front, with the loose but
rapid gait of a being accustomed to roaming. The deputy, with a sturdy
stick in his hand, followed.
Efimushka was a little peasant, low in stature, but built strongly,
with a broad, good-natured face framed in an unkempt red beard
beginning just below his bright gray eyes. He nearly always smiled at
something, showing his healthy yellow teeth, and wrinkling his nose as
if he wanted to sneeze. He was dressed in a long garment whose folds
were caught up at the waist with a belt, so that they might not hamper
his feet; on his head was stuck a dark green cap, without a visor,
reminding one of a prisoner’s cap.
His companion moved on as if oblivious of another presence. They walked
along by a narrow by-path, which wound its way through a billowy sea of
rye; and the shadows of the travellers glided along against the gold of
the corn.
Looking towards the horizon, the crest of a wood appeared blue against
the sky. To the left stretched endlessly field upon field; in their
midst, like a dark patch, lay a village; and beyond the village again
fields, losing themselves finally in the bluish haze.
To the right, from behind a group of willows, a church spire covered
with tin-plate, as yet unpainted, pierced the blue sky. It glistened
so strongly in the sun that it was painful to look at.
Up high the larks twittered; and in the rye the cornflowers smiled; and
it was hot--almost stifling. From under the feet of the travellers the
dust flew up.
Efimushka, clearing his throat, began to sing in falsetto voice.
“It’s no use. I can’t make my voice carry! And yet--there was a
time when I could sing.... The Vishensky teacher would say, ‘Well,
Efimushka, make a start!’ And we would sing together! A fine fellow he
was, too!”
“Who was he?”, asked the man in the cassock, in a dull bass voice.
“The Vishensky teacher.”
“Was Vishensky his name?”
“No, brother; that’s the name of the village. The teacher’s name was
Pavel Mikhalich. A first-rate sort he was. Died three years ago.”
“Was he young?”
“He wasn’t thirty.”
“What did he die of?”
“Of grief, I take it.”
Efimushka’s companion glanced at him askance and smiled.
“You see, my dear fellow, this is how it happened. He taught--seven
years at a stretch he taught. Well, he began to cough. He coughed
and he coughed, and then got to grieving.... Well, you know how it
is--grief drove him to drink. And Father Alexei did not like him; and
when he started drinking, Father Alexei sent a report to town--told
this and that: the teacher is drinking, and that sort of thing. It’s a
scandal, to be sure. And the people in town sent back an answer and a
woman teacher. She was tall, bony, big-nosed. Well, Pavel Mikhalich saw
how things stood. He felt hurt. ‘Here,’ thought he,’ I have taught and
taught ... and now you---- ’ ... From the school he went straight to
the hospital, and within five days gave up his soul to God.... That’s
all.”
For a time they went on in silence. They were approaching the wood,
which with every step loomed larger and larger and was turning from
blue to green.
“Shall we go by the wood?” asked Efimushka’s fellow traveller.
“We will only catch the edge of it, for a half-verst or so. But what
are you up to? I shall keep my eye on you, my good man.”
And Efimushka, shaking his head, laughed.
“What ails you?” the prisoner asked.
“Oh, nothing! But you are a funny one! ‘Shall we go by the wood?’ says
he. You are a simpleton, dear fellow; another wouldn’t have asked this
question--that is, if he were any smarter. He would have made straight
for the wood, and----”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing! I see through you, brother. Your game is like a very thin
reed! I should advise you to drop this idea about the wood! Do you
think you can get around me? I can handle three like you; as for you, I
can manage you with my left hand. Do you understand?”
“Understand you? You’re a fool!” said the prisoner simply but with
emphasis.
“Ah, I hit the mark that time!” said Efimushka triumphantly.
“Blockhead! What mark did you hit?” asked the prisoner, with a wry
smile.
“About the wood. I understand, I do. You were thinking that when we
reached the wood you would knock me down--yes, knock me down--and then
make a break for the fields or for the woods. Now, isn’t that so?”
“You’re a fool,” said the apprehended man, shrugging his shoulders.
“Where could I go?”
“Well, where you wish--that’s your affair.”
“But where?”
Efimushka’s companion was either angry or else he really wished to know
from his escort precisely in what direction he could run.
“I told you, where you wished,” replied Efimushka calmly.
“There’s nowhere where I could run, nowhere,” said his companion
quietly.
“W-well!” the escort pronounced incredulously, and waved his hand.
“There’s always some place where one could run to. The world is large.
There will be always enough room in it for one man.”
“Tell me, then: do you really want me to run away?” the prisoner,
smiling, ventured to ask.
“Ah, you! You are terribly good! What will come of it? You’ll run away,
and in your place some one else will have to go to jail. And that one
will be me. No, I’m simply making conversation.”
“You are a blessed fool--otherwise you seem a good sort of fellow,”
said Efimushka’s companion, uttering a sigh. Efimushka quite agreed
with him.
“It is true I am called blessed by some people; and that I’m a good
fellow is also true. I am a simple man--that’s at the bottom of it.
Other people say things with cunning, in an underhand sort of way, but
why should I? I am alone in the world. Deal wrongly--and you die; deal
rightly--you die also. And so I’ve kept straight, mostly.”
“That is the right way,” remarked the prisoner indifferently.
“How else should it be? Why should I let my soul go wrong when I am
alone here? I am a free man, brother. As I wish, so I live. I have my
own idea of life, and live according to it. So it goes. By the way, how
are you called?”
“How? Well, you may call me Ivan Ivanov.”
“So! Are you of the priesthood?”
“N-no.”
“Well! And I thought you were----”
“Because of my dress?”
“Well, you look like a runaway monk or an unfrocked priest.... But
your face is not at all suited; it looks more like a soldier’s. God
knows what kind of man you are!” Efimushka cast a curious glance at the
stranger. The other sighed, readjusted his hat, wiped the perspiration
from his forehead, and asked the deputy:
“Do you smoke?”
“Happy to afford you the pleasure. To be sure, I do!”
He drew out of his bosom a soiled pouch and, lowering his head, without
decreasing his gait, began to fill a clay pipe with tobacco.
“Well, have your smoke.” The prisoner paused, inclined his head to
receive a light from a match held by the convoy, and drew in his
cheeks. A thin blue smoke rose in the air.
“You haven’t told me as yet to what class you belong.”
“The gentry,” replied the prisoner curtly, and spat out sideways.
“So that’s it! How come you, then, to be strolling about without a
passport?”
“I simply choose to.”
“So--so! What an occupation! You gentry do not usually take to this
wolfish life. Ah, but you are a poor wretch!”
“Well, let it go at that ... and stop your chattering,” remarked the
poor wretch dryly.
Efimushka, however, surveyed the passportless man with increased
curiosity and interest, and, shaking his head in a perplexed manner,
continued:
“Eh, but how fate does play with a man, when you come to think of it!
And it is very likely true that you are of the gentry, because you have
a grand manner about you. Have you lived long like this?”
The man with the grand manner looked gloomily at Efimushka, and waved
him aside like some pestering wasp.
“Drop it, I tell you! Why do you stick at it like a woman?”
“Now, don’t be vexed,” said Efimushka reassuringly. “I speak from the
heart ... and I am really kind-hearted....”
“Well, that’s lucky for you.... On the other hand, your tongue keeps on
babbling without a stop--that’s unlucky for me!”
“No more, then, since you object. I can keep quiet, since you want none
of my conversation. Still, you’re vexed for nothing. Is it my fault
that you are leading a vagabond’s life?”
The prisoner stopped and clamped his jaws together so that his
cheek-bones stood out like two sharp corners and the gray bristle
covering them rose rigidly on end. He measured Efimushka from head to
foot with passionate disdain and with a screwed-up expression at the
eyes. Before Efimushka could note this, the other once more began to
measure the ground with a broad stride.
The face of the loquacious deputy assumed an aspect of distraught
pensiveness. He gazed upwards, whence sounded the trills of the larks,
and with them whistled between his teeth, at the same time swinging his
stick to the measure of his steps.
They approached the edge of the forest. It stood there like an
immovable, dark wall. Not a sound came from it to greet the travellers.
The sun already had set, and its oblique rays colored the tops of the
trees purple and gold. The trees exhumed a fragrant dampness; and the
gloom and the concentrated silence which filled the forest gave birth
to sombre feelings.
When a forest stands before us dark and immovable, when it is all
plunged in a mysterious silence, and every tree assumes the attitude
as of listening to something, then it seems that the entire forest is
filled with something alive, and that that something is only hiding
for a time. And you await the next moment in the expectation that it
will bring forth something huge and incomprehensible to the human mind,
and that it will speak in a mighty voice about the great mysteries of
creation.