The irritated, angry editor was running to and fro in the large, light
editorial office of the "N---- Gazette," crumpling in his hand a copy
of the publication, spasmodically shouting and swearing. It was a
tiny figure, with a sharp, thin face, decorated with a little beard
and gold eyeglasses. Stamping loudly with his thin legs, encased in
gray trousers, he fairly whirled about the long table, which stood in
the middle of the room, and was loaded down with crumpled newspapers,
galley-proofs, and fragments of manuscript. At the table, with one
hand resting upon it, while with the other he wiped his brow, stood
the publisher--a tall, stout, fair-haired man, of middle age, and with
a faint grin on his white, well-fed face, he watched the editor with
merry, brilliant eyes. The maker-up, an angular man, with a yellow face
and a sunken chest, in a light-brown coat, which was very dirty and far
too long for him, was shrinking closely against the wall. He raised his
brows, and gazed at the ceiling with staring eyes, as though trying
to recall something, or in meditation, but a moment later, wrinkled
up his nose in a disenchanted way, and dropped his head dejectedly on
his breast. In the doorway stood the form of the office boy; men with
anxious, dissatisfied countenances kept entering and disappearing,
jostling him on their way. The voice of the editor, cross, irritated,
and ringing, sometimes rose to a squeal, and made the publisher frown
and the maker-up shudder in affright.
"No ... this is such a rascally piece of business! I'll start a
criminal suit against this scoundrel.... Has the proof-reader arrived?
Devil take it,--I ask--has the proof-reader arrived? Call all the
compositors here! Have you told them? No, just imagine, what will
happen now! All the newspapers will take it up.... Dis-grrrace! All
Russia will hear of it.... I won't let that scoundrel off!"
And raising his hands which held the newspaper to his head, the editor
stood rooted to the spot, as though endeavoring to wrap his head in the
paper, and thus protect it from the anticipated disgrace.
"Find him first,..." advised the publisher, with a dry laugh.
"I'll f-find him, sir! I'll f-find him!"--the editor's eyes blazed,
and starting on his gallop once more, and pressing the newspaper to
his breast, he began to tousle it fiercely.--"I'll find him, and I'll
roast him.... And where's that proof-reader?... Aha!... Here.... Now,
sir, I beg that you will favor me with your company, my dear sirs!
Hm!... 'The peaceful commanders of the leaden armies ...' ha, ha! Pass
in ... there, that's it!"
One after another the compositors entered the room. They already knew
what the trouble was, and each one of them had prepared himself to play
the part of the culprit, in view of which fact, they all unanimously
expressed in their grimy faces, impregnated with lead dust, complete
immobility and a sort of wooden composure. They huddled together, in
the corner of the room, in a dense group. The editor halted in front of
them, with his hands, clutching the newspaper, thrown behind his back.
He was shorter in stature than they, and he was obliged to hold back
his head, in order to look them in the face. He made this movement too
quickly, and his spectacles flew up on his forehead; thinking that they
were about to fall, he flung his hand into the air to catch them, but,
at that moment, they fell back again on the bridge of his nose.
"Devil take you..." he gritted his teeth.
Happy smiles beamed on the grimy countenances of the compositors.
Someone uttered a suppressed laugh. "I have not summoned you hither
that you may show your teeth at me!"--shouted the editor viciously,
turning livid.--"I should think you had disgraced the newspaper enough
already.... If there be an honest man among you, who understands what
a newspaper is, what the press is, let him tell who was the author of
this.... In the leading article...." The editor began nervously to
unfold the paper.
"But what's it all about?" said a voice, in which nothing but simple
curiosity was audible.
"Ah! You don't know? Well, then ... here ... 'Our factory legislation
has always served the press as a subject for hot discussion ... that
is to say, for the talking of stupid trash and nonsense!...' There,
now! Are you satisfied? Will the man who added that 'talking' be
pleased ... and, particularly--the word 'talking'! how grammatical and
witty!--well, sirs, which of you is the author of that 'stupid trash
and non-sense'?"
"Whose article is it? Yours? Well, and you are the author of all the
nonsense that is said in it,"--rang out the same calm voice which had
previously put the question to the editor.
This was insolent, and all involuntarily assumed that the person who
was to blame for the affair had been found. A movement took place in
the hall: the publisher drew nearer to the group, the editor raised
himself on tiptoe, in the endeavor to see over the heads of the
compositors into the face of the speaker. The compositors separated.
Before the editor stood a stoutly-built young fellow, in a blue blouse,
with a pock-marked face, and curling locks of hair which stood up in
a crest above his left temple. He stood with his hands thrust deeply
into the pockets of his trousers, and, indifferently riveting his gray,
mischievous eyes on the editor, he smiled faintly from out of his
curling, light-brown beard. Everybody looked at him:--the publisher,
with brows contracted in a scowl, the editor with amazement and wrath,
the maker-up with a suppressed smile. The faces of the compositors
expressed both badly-concealed satisfaction and alarm and curiosity.
"So ... it's you?"--inquired the editor, at last, pointing at the
pock-marked compositor with his finger and compressing his lips in a
highly significant manner.
"Yes ... it's I...." replied the latter, grinning in a particularly simple
and offensive manner.
"A-ah!... Very glad to know it! So it's you? Why did you put it in,
permit me to inquire?"
"But have I said that I did put it in?"--and the compositor glanced at
his comrades.
"It certainly was he, Mítry[1] Pávlovitch," the maker-up remarked to
the editor.
[1] Mítry--colloquial abbreviation of Dmítry.--Translator.
"Well, if I did, I did,"--assented the compositor, not without a
certain good-nature, and waving his hand he smiled again.
Again all remained silent. No one had expected so prompt and calm a
confession, and it acted upon them all as a surprise. Even the editor's
wrath was converted, for a moment, into amazement. The space around
the pock-marked man grew wider, the maker-up went off quickly to the
table, the compositors stepped aside ...
"Then you did it deliberately, intentionally?" inquired the publisher,
smiling, and staring at the pock-marked man with eyes round with
astonishment.
"Be so good as to answer!"--shouted the editor, flourishing the
crumpled newspaper.
"Don't shout ... I'm not afraid. A great many people have yelled at me,
and all without any cause! ..." and in the compositor's eyes sparkled a
daring, impudent light.... "Exactly so ..." he went on, shifting from
foot to foot, and now addressing the publisher,--"I put in the words
deliberately...."
"You hear?"--the editor appealed to the audience.
"Well, as a matter of fact, what did you mean by it, you devil's
doll!"--the publisher suddenly flared up.--"Do you understand how much
harm you have done me?"
"It's nothing to you.... I think it must even have increased the retail
sales. But here's the editor ... really, that bit didn't exactly suit
his taste."
The editor was fairly petrified with indignation; he stood in front of
that cool, malicious man, and flashed his eyes in silence, finding no
words wherewith to express his agitated feelings.
"Well, it will be the worse for you, brother, on account of
this!"--drawled the publisher malevolently, and, suddenly softening, he
slapped his knee with his hand.
In reality, he was pleased with what had happened, and with the
workman's insolent reply: the editor had always treated him rather
patronizingly, making no effort to conceal his consciousness of his own
mental superiority, and now he, that same conceited, self-confident
man, was thrown prostrate in the dust ... and by whom?
"I'll pay you off for your insolence to me, my dear soul!" he added.
"Why, you certainly won't overlook it so!" assented the compositor.
This tone and these words again produced a sensation. The compositors
exchanged glances with one another, the maker-up elevated his eyebrows,
and seemed to shrivel up, the editor retreated to the table, and
supporting himself on it with his hands, more disconcerted and offended
than angry, he stared intently at his foe.
"What's your name?" inquired the publisher, taking his notebook from
his pocket.
"Nikólka[2] Gvózdeff, Vasíly Ivánovitch!" the maker-up promptly stated.
[2] Colloquial for Nikolái.--Translator.
"And you, you lackey of Judas the Traitor, hold your tongue when you're
not spoken to,"--said the compositor, with a surly glance at the
maker-up.--"I have a tongue of my own,... I answer for myself.... My
name is Nikoláï Semyónovitch Gvózdeff. My residence ...."
"We'll find that out!"--promised the publisher.--"And now, take
yourself off to the devil! Get out, all of you!..."
With a heavy shuffling of feet, the compositors departed. Gvózdeff
followed them.
"Stop ... if you please...." said the editor softly, but distinctly,
and stretched out his hand after Gvózdeff.
Gvózdeff turned toward him, with an indolent movement leaned against
the door-jamb, and, as he twisted his beard, he riveted his insolent
eyes upon the editor's face.
"I want to ask you about something,"--began the editor. He tried to
maintain his composure, but this he did not succeed in doing: his voice
broke, and rose to a shriek.--"You have confessed ... that in creating
this scandal ... you had me in view. Yes? What is the meaning of that?
revenge on me? I ask you--what did you do it for? Do you understand me?
Can you answer me?"
Gvózdeff twitched his shoulders, curled his lips, and dropping his
head, remained silent for a minute. The publisher tapped his foot
impatiently, the maker-up stretched his neck forward, and the editor
bit his lips, and nervously cracked his fingers. All waited.
"I'll tell you, if you like.... Only, as I'm an uneducated man,
perhaps it won't be intelligible to you ... Well, in that case, pray
excuse me!... Now, here's the way the matter stands. You write various
articles, and inculcate on everybody philanthropy and all that sort
of thing.... I can't tell you all this in detail--I'm not much of a
hand at reading and writing.... I think you know yourself, what you
discourse about every day.... Well, and so I read your articles.
You make comments on us workingmen ... and I read it all.... And it
disgusts me to read it, for it's nothing but nonsense. Mere shameless
words, Mítry Pávlovitch! ... because you write--don't steal, but what
goes on in your own printing-office? Last week, Kiryákoff worked three
days and a half, earned three rubles and eighty kopéks[3] and fell ill.
His wife comes to the counting-room for the money, but the manager
tells her, that he won't give it to her, and that she owes one ruble
and twenty kopéks in fines. Now talk about not stealing! Why don't
you write about these ways of doing things? And about how the manager
yells, and thrashes the poor little boys for every trifle?... You can't
write about that, because you pursue the same policy yourself.... You
write that life in the world is hard for folks--and I'll just tell you,
that the reason you write all that, is because you don't know how to
do anything else. That's the whole truth of the matter.... And that's
why you don't see any of the brutal things that go on right under your
nose, but you narrate very well about the brutalities of the Turks. So
aren't they nonsense--those articles of yours? I've been wanting this
long time to put some words into your articles, just to shame you. And
it oughtn't to be needed again!"
[3] About $1.90.--Translator.
Gvózdeff felt himself a hero. He puffed out his chest proudly, held
his head very high, and without attempting to conceal his triumph, he
looked the editor straight in the face. But the editor shrank close
against the table, clutched it with his hands, flung himself back,
paling and flushing by turns, and smiling persistently in a scornful,
confused, vicious, and suffering manner. His widely-opened eyes winked
fast.
"A socialist?"--inquired the publisher, with apprehension and interest,
in a low voice, addressing the editor. The latter smiled a sickly
smile, but made no reply, and hung his head.
The maker-up went off to the window, where stood a tub in which grew a
huge filodendron, that cast upon the floor a pattern of shade, took up
his post behind the tub, and thence watched them all, with eyes which
were as small, black, and shifty as those of a mouse. They expressed a
certain impatient expectation, and now and then a little flash of joy
lighted them up. The publisher stared at the editor. The latter was
conscious of this, raised his head, and with an uneasy gleam in his
eyes, and a nervous quiver in his face, he shouted after the departing
Gvózdeff:
"Stop ... if you please! You have insulted me. But you are not in the
right--I hope you feel that? I am grateful to you for ... y-your ...
straightforwardness, with which you have spoken out, hut, I repeat...."
He tried to speak ironically, but instead of irony, something wan and
false rang in his words, and he paused, in order to tune himself up
to a defence which should be worthy of himself and of this judge, as
to whose right to sit in judgment upon him, the editor, he had never
before entertained a thought.
"Of course!"--and Gvózdeff nodded his head.--"The only one who is right
is the one who can say a great deal."
And, as he stood in the doorway, he cast a glance around him, with an
expression on his face which plainly showed how impatient he was to get
away from there.
"No, excuse me!"--cried the editor, elevating his tone, and raising his
hand.--"You have brought forward an accusation against me, but before
that, you arbitrarily punished me for what you regard as a fault toward
you on my part.... I have a right to defend myself, and I request that
you will listen to me."
"But what business have you with me? Defend yourself to the publisher,
if necessary. But what have you to say to me? If I have insulted you,
drag me before the justice of the peace. But--defend yourself--that's
another matter! Good-bye!"--He turned sharply about, and putting his
hands behind his back, he left the room.
He had on his feet heavy boots with large heels, with which he tramped
noisily, and his footsteps echoed resoundingly in the vast, shed-like
editorial room.
"There you have history and geography--a detailed statement of the
case!"--exclaimed the publisher, when Gvózdeff had slammed the door
behind him.
"Vasíly Ivánovitch, I am not to blame in this matter ...." began the
maker-up, throwing his hands apart apologetically, as he approached the
publisher with short, cautious steps. "I make up the pages, and I can't
possibly tell what the man on duty has put into them. I'm on my feet
all night.... I'm here, while my wife lies ill at home, and my children
... three of them ... have no one to look after them.... I may say that
I sell my blood, drop by drop, for thirty rubles a month.... And when
Gvózdeff was hired, I said to Feódor Pávlovitch: 'Feódor Pávlovitch,'
says I, 'I've known Nikólka ever since he was a little boy, and I'm
bound to tell you, that Nikólka is an insolent fellow and a thief,
a man without conscience. He has already been tried in the district
court,' says I, 'and has even been in prison....'"
"What was he in prison for?"--inquired the editor thoughtfully, without
looking at the narrator.
"For pigeons, sir ... that is to say, not because of the pigeons,
but for smashing locks. He smashed the locks of seven dove-cotes in
one night, sir!... and set all the flocks at liberty--scattered all
the birds, sir! A pair of dark-gray ones belonging to me disappeared
also,--one fancy tumbler, and a pouter. They were very valuable birds."
"Did he steal them?"--inquired the publisher with curiosity.
"No, he doesn't pamper himself in that way. He was tried for theft,
but he was acquitted. So he's--an insolent fellow..... He released the
birds, and delighted in it, and jeered at us fanciers.... He has been
thrashed more than once already. Once he even had to go to the hospital
after the thrashing.... And when he came out, he bred devils in my
gossip's stove."[4]
[4] The word means "fellow sponsor" or intimate friend--the precise
sense does not always appear from the context. But it is worth noting
that a man and a woman who stand sponsors for a child in baptism,
in the Eastern Catholic Church, thereby place themselves within
the forbidden degrees of relationship, and can never marry each
other.--Translator.
"Devils!" said the publisher in amazement.
"What twaddle!"--the editor shrugged his shoulders, knit his brows, and
again biting his lips, he relapsed into thought.
"It's perfectly true, only I didn't say it just right,"--said the
maker-up abashed.--"You see, he, Nikólka, is a stove-builder. He's a
jack-of-all-trades: he understands the lithographic trade, he has been
an engraver, and a plumber, also.... Well, then, my gossip--she has
a house of her own, and belongs to the ecclesiastical class--and she
hired him to rebuild her stove. Well, he rebuilt it all right; only,
the rascally fellow, he cemented into the wall a bottle filled with
quicksilver and needles ... and he put something else in, too. This
produced a sound--such a peculiar sound, you know, like a groan and a
sigh; and then folks began to say that devils had bred in the house.
When they heated the stove, the quicksilver in the bottle warmed up,
and began to roam about in it. And the needles scratched against the
glass, just as though somebody were gnashing his teeth. Besides the
needles, he had put various iron objects into the bottle, and they made
noises, too, after their own fashion,--the needle after its fashion,
the nail after its fashion, and the result was a regular devil's
music.... My gossip even tried to sell her house, but nobody would buy
it--who likes to have devils round, sir? She had three prayer-services
with blessing of holy water celebrated--it did no good. The woman
bawled; she had a daughter of marriageable age, a hundred head of
fowl, two cows, and a good farm ... and these devils must needs spoil
everything! She struggled and struggled, so that it was pitiful to
see. But I must say that Nikólka rescued her. 'Give me fifty rubles,'
says he, 'and I'll drive out the devils!' She gave him four to start
with,--and afterward, when he had pulled out the bottle, and confessed
what the matter was--well, good-bye! She's a very clever woman, and she
wanted to hand him over to the police, but he persuaded her not to....
And he has a lot of other artful dodges."
"And for one of those charming 'artful dodges' yesterday I shall have
to pay. I!"--ejaculated the editor nervously, and tearing himself from
his place, he again began to fling himself about the room.--"Oh my God!
How stupid, how coarse, how trivial it all is...."
"We-ell, you're making a great fuss over it!"--said the publisher
soothingly.--"Make a correction, explain how it happened.... He's a
very interesting young fellow, deuce take him! He put devils in the
stove, ha, ha! No, by heaven! We'll teach him a lesson, but he's a
rascal with a brain, and he arouses for himself some feeling of ... you
know!"--the publisher snapped his fingers over his head, and cast a
glance at the ceiling.
"Does it interest you?"--cried the editor sharply.
"Well, why not? Isn't it amusing? And he described you pretty
thoroughly. He's got wit, the beast!"--the publisher said, taking
revenge on the editor for his shout.--"How do you intend to pay him
off?"
The editor suddenly ran close up to the publisher.
"I shall not pay him off, sir! I can't, Vasíly Ivánovitch, because that
manufacturer of devils is in the right! The devil knows what goes on in
your printing-office, do you hear? But we!... but I have to play the
fool, thanks to you. He's in the right, a thousand times over!"
"And also in the addition which he made to your article?"--inquired the
publisher venomously, and pursed up his lips ironically.
"Well, and what if he was? And he was right, in that also, yes! You
must understand, Vasíly Ivánovitch, for, you know, we're a liberal
newspaper...."
"And we print an edition of two thousand, reckoning in those
gratuitously distributed and the exchanges,"--dryly interposed the
publisher.--"But our competitor disposes of nine thousand!"
"We-ell, sir?"
"I have nothing more to say!"
The editor waved his hand hopelessly, and again, with dimming eyes,
he began to pace up and down the room.
"A charming situation!"--he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.--"A
sort of universal chase! All the dogs hunting down one, and that one
muzzled! Ha, ha! And that unfortunate w-workman! Oh my God!"
"Why, spit on the whole business, my dear fellow, don't get worked up
over it!"--counselled Vasíly Ivánovitch suddenly, with a good-natured
grin, as though tired out with emotions and recriminations.--"It has
come and it will go, and you will re-establish your honor. The affair
is far more ridiculous than dramatic." He pacifically offered the
editor his plump hand, and was on the point of quitting the room for
the office.
All at once, the door leading into the office opened, and Gvózdeff made
his appearance on the threshold. He had his cap on, and smiled not
without a certain amount of courtesy.
"I have come to tell you, Mr. Editor, that if you want to sue me, say
so--for I'm going away from here, and I don't want to be brought back,
by stages, by the police."
"Take yourself off!"--howled the editor, almost sobbing with wrath, and
rushed to the other end of the room.
"That means, we're quits,"--said Gvózdeff, adjusting his cap on his
head, and coolly wheeling round on the threshold, he disappeared.
"O-oh, the beast!"--sighed Vasíly Ivánovitch, in rapture, to Gvózdeff's
back, and with a blissful smile he began, in a leisurely manner, to put
on his overcoat.
*
Two days after the scene described above, Gvózdeff, in a blue blouse,
confined with a leather strap, in trousers hanging freely, and laced
shoes, in a white cap worn over one ear, and the nape of his neck, and
with a knobby stick in his hand, was walking staidly along the "Hill."
The "Hill" presented a sloping descent to the river. In ancient times,
this slope had been covered with a dense grove. Now, almost the whole
of the grove had been felled, the gnarled oaks and elms, shattered by
thunderstorms, reared heavenward their aged hollow boles, spreading
far abroad their knotted boughs. Around their roots twined the young
sprouts, small bushes clung to their trunks, and everywhere amid the
greenery the rambling public had trodden winding paths, which crept
downward to the river all flooded with the radiance of the sun.
Horizontally intersecting the "Hill" ran a broad avenue--an abandoned
post-road,--and along this, chiefly, the public strolled, promenading
in two files, one going in each direction.
Gvózdeff had always been very fond of strolling back and forth along
this avenue, with the public, and of feeling himself one of them, and,
like them, freely breathing the air impregnated with the fragrance of
the foliage, of freely and lazily moving along, and being a part of
something great, and feeling himself equal to all the rest.
On this day, he was on the verge of being tipsy, and his resolute,
pock-marked face had a good-natured, sociable expression. From his
left temple his chestnut forelocks curled upward. Handsomely shading
his ear, they lay on the band of his cap, imparting to Gvózdeff the
dashing air of a young artisan, who is satisfied with himself, and even
ready, on the instant, to sing a song, to dance, and to fight, and not
averse to drinking every minute. With these characteristic forelocks
Nature herself seemed to be desirous of recommending Nikólka Gvózdeff
to everyone as a fiery young fellow, who was conscious of his own
value. Glancing about him approvingly, with his gray eyes puckered up,
Gvózdeff, in a perfectly peaceable manner, jostled the public, bore its
nudges with entire equanimity, excused himself, when he trod on the
ladies' trains, in company with the rest swallowed the thick dust, and
felt extremely well. Athwart the foliage of the trees, the sun could be
seen setting in the meadows beyond the river. The sky there was purple,
warm, and caressing, alluring one thither to the spot where it touched
the rim of the dark green fields. Beneath the feet of the promenaders
lay a tracery of shadows, and the throng of people trod upon them,
without noticing their beauty. Foppishly thrusting a cigarette into
the left corner of his lips, and idly emitting from the right corner
little streams of smoke, Gvózdeff scanned the public, feeling within
him a genuine desire to have a chat with someone, over a couple of mugs
of beer in the restaurant, at the foot of the "Hill." He encountered
none of his acquaintances, and no suitable opportunity for picking up
a new acquaintance presented itself; for some reason, the public was
gloomy, in spite of its being a festival and with clear weather, and
did not respond to his communicative mood, although he had, already,
more than once, stared into the faces of the people he met with a
good-natured smile, and with an expression of perfect readiness to
enter into conversation. All at once, in the mass of people's backs,
there flashed before his eyes the back of a head which was familiar
to him, smoothly clipped and flat as though chopped off--the nape of
the neck belonging to the editor--Dmítry Pávlovitch Istómin. Gvózdeff
smiled, when he remembered how he had ill-treated that man, and began
to gaze with pleasure at Dmítry Pávlovitch's low-crowned, gray hat. Now
and then the editor's hat disappeared behind other hats, and, for some
reason, this disquieted Gvózdeff; he raised himself on tiptoe, to catch
sight of it, and when he found it, he smiled again.
Thus, following the editor, he walked along, and recalled the time
when he, Gvózdeff, had been Nikólka the locksmith, and the editor--was
Mítka,[4] the deacon's son. They had had another comrade, Míshka,[5]
whom they had nicknamed the Sugar-bowl. There had also been Váska[6]
Zhúkoff, the son of an official, from the last house in the street.
It was a nice house,--old, all overgrown with moss, all stuck around
with additions. Váska's father had a very fine flock of pigeons.
The courtyard of the house was a fine place in which to play at
hide-and-seek, because Váska's father was miserly, and saved up in his
yard all sorts of rubbish--broken carriages, and casks, and boxes.
Now Váska was a physician, in the country, and on the site of the old
house stood railway freight-houses.... They had had other chums--all
little boys of from eight to ten years of age. They had all resided on
the outskirts of the town, in Back Damp Street, had lived on friendly
terms with each other, and in constant hostility with the horrid little
boys of the other streets. They had devastated gardens and vegetable
patches, they had played at knuckle-bones, at tip-cat, and other games,
and had studied in the parish school.... Twenty-five years had elapsed
since that time.
[4] Mítka--colloquial diminutive for Dmítry.--Translator.
[5] Míshka--colloquial diminutive for Mikháïl.--Translator.
[6] Váska--colloquial diminutive for Vasíly.--Translator.
Time had been--and passed, the little boys had been as saucy and
grimy-faced as Nikólka the locksmith,--and now they had become persons
of importance. But Nikólka the locksmith had stuck fast in Back Damp
Street. They, when they had finished the parish school, had got into
the gymnasium,--he had not got in.... And how would it do if he were to
address the editor? Say good-afternoon, and enter into conversation?
He might begin by begging pardon for the row, and then talk--so, about
life in general.
The editor's hat kept flitting in front of Gvózdeff's eyes, as though
alluring him to itself, and Gvózdeff made up his mind. Just at that
moment, the editor was walking alone, in a free space, which had formed
in the crowd. He was stepping along with his thin legs in their light
trousers, his head kept turning from side to side, his short-sighted
eyes were screwed up, as he scanned the public. Gvózdeff came almost
alongside of him, gazed askance at his face in an amiable way, awaiting
a favorable moment, in order to wish him a good-afternoon, and, at the
same time, experiencing a keen desire to know how the editor would bear
himself toward him.
"Good-afternoon, Mítry Pávlovitch!"
The editor turned toward him, with one hand raised his hat, with the
other adjusted the eyeglasses on his nose, surveyed Gvózdeff, and
scowled.
But this did not daunt Nikoláï Gvózdeff,--on the contrary, he leaned
toward the editor, in the most agreeable way possible, and flooding him
with the odor of vódka, he inquired:
"Are you taking a stroll?"
For a second, the editor halted; his lips and nostrils quivered
scornfully, and he nodded curtly at Gvózdeff:
"What do you want?"
"I? Nothing! I just thought ... it's fine weather to-day! And I'm very
anxious to have a talk with you about that occurrence."
"I don't wish to talk about anything with you!"--declared the editor,
hastening his steps.
Gvózdeff did the same.
"You don't wish to? I understand.. you are right--I understand that
very well indeed.... As I put you to confusion, of course, you must
have a grudge against me...."
"You, simply ... you're drunk...." the editor halted once more.--"And
if you don't leave me in peace, I'll summon the police."
Gvózdeff smiled affectionately.
"Well, why?"
The editor looked askance at him, with the anxious glance of a man
who has fallen into an unpleasant position, and does not know how to
extricate himself from it. The public were already staring at them
with curiosity. Several persons pricked up their ears, scenting an
approaching row. Istómin cast a helpless glance around him.
Gvózdeff observed it.
"Let's turn aside,"--said he, and, without awaiting the other's
consent, with his shoulder he dexterously thrust Istómin to one side,
away from the broad avenue, into a narrow path, which descended the
hill between the bushes. The editor made no protest against this
manoeuvre,--perhaps because he had no time, perhaps because, away from
the public, entirely alone, he hoped to rid himself more promptly and
simply of his companion. He walked quietly down the path, cautiously
planting his cane on the ground, and Gvózdeff followed him, and
breathed on his hat.
"There's a fallen tree not far from here, we'll sit on that.... Don't
be angry with me, Mítry Pávlovitch, for this conduct of mine. Excuse
me! For I did it out of anger.... Anger sometimes torments fellows
like me to such a degree that you can't extinguish it with liquor....
Well, and at such times, one gets insolent to somebody: he strikes a
passer-by in the snout, or does something else.... I don't repent,
what's done is done; but, perhaps, I understand very well indeed, that
I didn't keep within bounds that time ... I went too far...."
Whether this sincere explanation touched the editor, or whether
Gvózdeff's personality aroused his curiosity, or whether he
comprehended that he could not get rid of this man, at all events, he
asked Gvózdeff:
"What is it that you want to talk about?"
"Why ... about everything! My soul is afflicted within me, because I
feel that I'm an offence to myself.... Here, let's sit down."
"I have no time...."
"I know ... the newspaper! It's eating up half your life, you're
squandering all your health on it.... You see, I understand! What's he,
the publisher? He has put his money into the paper, but you have put
your blood!. You have already written your eyes out.... Sit down!"
Along the path, in front of them, lay a large stump--the half-decayed
remains of what had once been a mighty oak. The branches of a
hazel-bush bent over the tree, forming a green tent; athwart the
branches gleamed the sky, already arrayed in the hues of sunset; the
spicy odor of fresh foliage filled the air. Gvózdeff seated himself,
and turning to the editor, who still continued to stand, gazing about
him with indecision, he began again:
"I have been drinking a little to-day ... I find life tiresome, Mítry
Pávlovitch! I've lagged behind my comrades, the workingmen; somehow, my
thoughts take an entirely different direction. I caught sight of you
to-day, and remembered that you used to be a chum of mine, you know ...
ha, ha!"
He laughed, because the editor looked at him with a swift change of
expression on his face, which rendered him really ridiculous.
"A chum? When?"
"Long ago, Mítry Pávlovitch.... We used to live in Back Damp Street
then ... do you remember? We lived across the courtyard from each
other. And opposite us Míshka the Sugar-bowl--at the present time,
Mikháïl Efímovitch Khruléff, the examining magistrate,--deigned to
have his residence with his stem papa.... Do you remember Efímitch? He
used to shake you and me by our top-knots.... Come, sit down, do."
The editor nodded his head affirmatively, and seated himself by the
side of Gvózdeff. He regarded him with the intense gaze of a man who
is recalling to mind something that took place long ago, and has been
entirely forgotten, and he rubbed his forehead.
But Gvózdeff was carried away by his memories.
"What a life we led then! And why can't a man remain a child all his
life long? He grows up ... why? Then he grows into the earth. All his
life long he endures divers misfortunes ... he becomes irritated,
savage ... nonsense! He lives, he lives and--at the end of his life,
there's nothing to show but trash.... A coffin ... and nothing more....
But we used to live on then without any dark thoughts, merrily,--like
little birds--that's all that can be said of it! We flew over the
fences after the fruits of other people's labors.... Do you remember,
one day, in Mrs. Petróvsky's vegetable-patch, on a thieving expedition,
I stuffed a cucumber up your nose? You set up a yell, and I--took
to my heels.... You came with your mamma to my father, to complain,
and my father whipped me in proper style.... But Míshka--Mikháïl
Efímovitch...."
The editor listened, and against his will he smiled. He wished to
preserve his seriousness and dignity in the presence of this man who
had evinced an inclination to be familiar. But in these stories of
the bright days of childhood there was something touching, and in
Gvózdeff's tone, so far, the notes which menaced Dmítry Pávlovitch's
vanity did not ring out with especial sharpness. And everything round
about was delightful. Somewhere up above, shuffled the feet of the
promenading public on the sands of the paths, their voices were barely
audible, and once in a while a laugh resounded; but the breeze was
sighing,--and all those faint sounds were drowned in the melancholy
rustling of the foliage. And when the rustling died away, there ensued
moments of complete silence, as though everything round about were
lending an attentive ear to the words of Nikoláï Gvózdeff, as he
confusedly related the story of his youth....
"Do you remember Várka, the daughter of Kolokóltzoff the house-painter?
She's married now to Shapóshnikoff the printer. Such a fine lady ...
it scares one to pass her.... She was a sickly little lass in those
days.... Do you remember, how she disappeared one day, and all we boys,
from the whole street, searched the fields and ravines for her? We
found her in the camp and led her home through the plain.... There was
an awful uproar! Kolokóltzoff treated us to gingerbread, and Várka,
when she saw her mother, said: 'I've been with the well-born wife
of an officer, and she wants me to be her daughter!' He, he!... Her
daughter!... She was a splendid little girl!..."
From the river were wafted certain sounds, as though someone's mighty,
grief-laden breast were moaning. A steamer was passing, and in the air
floated the tumult of the water, churned up by its wheels. The sky
was rose-colored, but around Gvózdeff and the editor the twilight was
thickening.... The spring night drew gradually on. The silence became
complete, profound, and Gvózdeff lowered his voice, as though yielding
to its influence.... The editor listened to him mutely, calling up in
his mind pictures of the distant past. All this had been.... And all
this had been better than what was now. Only in childhood is a free
soul, which does not notice the weight of the chains that are called
the conditions of life, possible. Childhood knows not the sharp
inflammations of conscience, knows no other falsehood save the
harmless falsehood of the child. How much is unknown in the days of
childhood, and how good is that ignorance! One lives ... and gradually
the comprehension of life is enlarged ... why is it enlarged, if one
dies, without having understood anything?
"So you see, Mítry Pávlovitch, it turns out, that you and I are birds
from one and the same nest ... yes! But our flights are different....
And when I recollect, that surely all the difference between me and my
former comrades lies in the fact that I did not sit in the gymnasium
over my books,--I feel bitter and disgusted.... Does that constitute a
man? A man consists of his soul, of his relations to his neighbor, as
it is said.... Well, then,--you are my neighbor, and what value do I
possess for you? None whatever!--Isn't that so?"
The editor, enticed away by his own thoughts, must have misunderstood
his companion's question.
"It is!"--he said, in a sincere, abstracted tone. But Gvózdeff burst
out laughing, and he caught himself up:
"That is to say, excuse me? What, precisely, are you asking about?"
"Isn't it true that to you I'm--an empty spot.... Whether I exist or
not is all one to you--you don't care a fig.... What is my soul to you?
I live alone in the world, and all the people who know me are very
tired of me. Because, I have an evil character, and I'm very fond of
playing all sorts of practical jokes. But, you see, I have feeling and
brains too ... I feel offence in my position. In what way am I worse
than you? Only in my occupation...."
"Ye-es ... that is sad!" said the editor, contracting his brow, then he
paused, and resumed, in a rather soothing tone:--"But, you see, another
point of view must be applied to the case...."
"Mítry Pávlovitch! Why a point of view? One man should not pay
attention to another man according to the point of view, but according
to the impulse of the heart! What's that point of view? Is it possible
to cast me aside because of some point of view or other? But I am
cast aside in life--I make no headway in it.... Why? Because I'm not
learned? But surely, if you learned folks would not judge from a
point of view, but in some other way,--you ought not to forget me, a
berry from the same field as yourselves, but draw me up toward you
from below, where I rot in ignorance and exasperation of my feelings?
Or--from the point of view--oughtn't you to do it?"
Gvózdeff screwed up his eyes, and gazed triumphantly into the face
of his companion. He felt that he was showing himself to the best
advantage, and emitted all his philosophy, which he had thought out
during the long years of his laborious, unsystematic, and sterile
life. The editor was disconcerted by his companion's attack, and tried
simultaneously to decide--what sort of a man this was, and what reply
he ought to make to his speech. But Gvózdeff, intoxicated with himself,
continued:
"You clever people will give me a hundred answers, and the sum total
of them will be--no, you ought not! But I say--you ought! Why? Because
I and you folks are from one street and from one origin.... You are
not the real lords of life ... you're not noblemen.... From them,
fellows of my sort have nothing to gain. Those men would say: 6 Go to
the devil'--and you'd go. Because--they're aristocrats from ancient
times, but you're only aristocrats because you know grammar, and that
sort of thing.... But you--are my equal, and I can demand from you
information about my path in life. I'm of the petty burgher class, and
so is Khruléff, and you ... are a deacon's son...."
"But, permit me ..." said the editor beseechingly, "am I denying your
right to demand?"
But Gvózdeff was not in the least interested to know what the editor
denied or what he admitted; he wanted to have his say, and he felt
himself, at that moment, capable of expressing everything which had
ever agitated him....
"Now, you will be pleased to permit me!"--he said, in a mysterious sort
of whisper, bending closer to the editor, and flashing his excited
eyes.--"Do you think it's easy for me to toil now for my comrades, to
whom, in days gone by, I used to give bloody noses? Is it easy for me
to receive forty kopéks as a tip from examining-magistrate Khruléff,
for whom I put in a water-closet a year ago? Surely, he's a man of the
same rank as myself.... And his name was Míshka the Sugar-bowl ... he
has rotten teeth now, just as he had then...."
A heavy, choking lump rose in his throat: he paused for a moment, and
burst out swearing--with such loud and repulsively-cynical oaths that
the editor shuddered, and moved away from him. When he had got through,
swearing, Gvózdeff seemed to weaken, as though the fire within him
had died out. He listened to himself, and no longer felt conscious of
anything within him which he wished to say.
"That's all!"--he ejaculated dully.
He had suddenly become inwardly empty, and this sensation of emptiness
produced irritation in him.
The editor gazed askance at him in a thoughtful way, and silently
considered--what should he say to this young fellow? He must say
something nice, just, and sincere. But Dmítry Pávlovitch Istómin found
nothing of what was required in his head, at the given moment, nor in
his heart. For a long time past, all ideal and high-flown discussions
of "questions" had evoked in him a feeling of boredom and exhaustion.
He had come out to-day to rest, he had purposely avoided meeting
his acquaintances,--and all of a sudden, here was this man with his
harangues. Of course, there was a modicum of truth in his harangues,
as there is in everything which people say. They were curious, and
might serve as a very interesting theme for a feuilleton.... But,
nevertheless, he must say something to him.
"Everything you have said--is not new, you know,"--he began....--"The
injustice of man's relations to man, has long been a topic of
discussion.... But, really, these speeches of yours do present one
novelty--in the sense, that they were formerly uttered by people of
another sort.... You formulate your thoughts in a somewhat one-sided
and inaccurate manner...."
"There's your point of view again!"--laughed Gvózdeff
faintly.--"Ekh-ma, gentlemen, gentlemen! You are endowed with brains,
but as to heart evidently ... tell me something which will suit my
complaint on the spot ... so there, now!"
Having spoken thus, he hung his head, and awaited the answer. Sadness
had seized upon him.
Again Istómin glanced at him, with frowning brow, and conscious of a
strong desire to get away. It seemed to him that Gvózdeff was drunk,
and for that reason had weakened after his excited speeches. He looked
at the white cap, which had fallen on the nape of Gvózdeff's neck, at
his pock-marked face and aggressive top-knot; with a glance he measured
his whole powerful, sinewy figure, and thought to himself, that this
was a very typical workingman, and if....
"Well, what is it?"--inquired Gvózdeff.
"But what can I say to you? To speak frankly, I do not perceive at all
clearly, what you wish to hear."
"There, that's it exactly!... You can't make me any answer!"--grinned
Gvózdeff.
The editor heaved a sigh of relief, justly assuming that the
conversation was at an end, and that Gvózdeff would assault him with no
further questions.... And all at once he thought:
"And what if he beats me? He's so vicious!"
He recalled the expression of Gvózdeff's face yonder, in the editorial
room, during that stupid scene. And he cast a furtive glance of
suspicion at him.
It was already dark. The silence was broken by the sounds of songs,
wafted from afar on the river. People were singing in chorus, and
the tenor voices were very distinctly audible. Large beetles hurtled
through the air with a metallic ring. Through the foliage of the trees
the stars were visible ... now and then, one branch or another over
their heads began to quiver, for some reason, and the soft trembling of
the leaves made itself heard. "There will be dew...." said the editor,
cautiously. Gvózdeff shuddered, and turned toward him.
"What did you say?"
"There will be dew, I say; it's harmful...."
"A-ah!"
They fell silent. On the river resounded the shout: "Háy-eï! Ba-a-arge
a-ho-oo-oy!"
"I think I shall go. Farewell for the present." "And shan't we have a
drink of beer together?"--suggested Gvózdeff suddenly, and added, with
a grin:--"Do me the honor!"
"No, excuse me, I cannot just now. And then, it's time for me to be
going, you know...."
Gvózdeff rose from the tree, and stared sullenly at the editor.
The latter, rising also, offered him his hand. "So you don't want
to have a drink of beer with me? Well, devil take you!"--Gvózdeff
cut the interview short, slapping his cap in place with a harsh
gesture.--"Aristocracy! At two kopéks the pair! I'll get drunk by
myself...."
The editor bravely turned his back on his companion, and walked up the
path, without uttering a word. As he passed Gvózdeff, he drew his head
down strangely between his shoulders, as though afraid of hitting it
against something. Gvózdeff descended the hill with huge strides. From
the river resounded a cracked voice:
"Ba-a-arge a-ho-oy! De-e-evils!... Send off a bo-o-o-oat!"
And among the trees rang the faint echo:
"O-o-oat!"