while, the "wanderlust" again seized him. "Not feeling at home
among these intelligent people," he traveled. From Nizhny Novgorod,
he went, in 1893, to Tzaratzine; then he traveled on foot through
the entire province of the Don, the Ukraine, entered into
Bessarabia, and from there descended by the coast of the Crimea as
far as Kuban.
In October, 1892, Gorky found himself at Tiflis, where he worked in
the railroad shops. That same year, he published in a local paper
his first story, "Makar Choudra," in which already a remarkable
talent was evident.
Leaving Tiflis after a short sojourn there, he came to the banks of
the Volga, in his native country, and began to write stories for the
local papers. A happy chance made him meet Korolenko, who took a
great interest in the "debutante" writer. "In the year 1893-1894,"
writes Gorky, "I made the acquaintance of Vladimir Korolenko, to
whom I owe my introduction into 'great' literature. He has done a
great deal for me in teaching me many things."
The important influence of Korolenko on the literary development of
Gorky can best be seen in one of the latter's letters to his
biographer, Mr. Gorodetsky. "Write this," he says to his biographer,
"write this without changing a single word: It is Korolenko who
taught Gorky to write, and if Gorky has profited but little by the
teaching of Korolenko, it is the fault of Gorky alone. Write:
Gorky's first teacher was the soldier-cook Smoury; his second
teacher was the lawyer Lanine; the third, Alexander Kalouzhny, an
'ex-man;' the fourth, Korolenko...."
From the day when he met Korolenko, Gorky's stories appeared mostly
in the more important publications. In 1895, he published
"Chelkashe" in the important Petersburg review, "Russkoe Bogatsvo;"
a year later, other publications equally well known published,
"Konovalov," "Malva," and "Anxiety." These works brought Gorky into
the literary world, where he soon became one of the favorite
writers. The critics, at first sceptical, soon joined their voices
with the enthusiastic clamor of the people.
* * * * *
Gorky's wandering life has given his works a peculiar and
universally established form. He is, above all others, the poet of
the "barefoot brigade," of the vagabonds who eternally wander from
one end of Russia to the other, carelessly spending the few pennies
that they have succeeded in earning, and who, like the birds of the
sky, have no cares for the morrow.
But this does not suffice to explain this author's popularity,
especially among the younger generation. The "barefoot brigade" is
not a novelty in Russian literature. We find it in the works of
Reshetnikov, Uspensky, Mamine, Zhassinsky, and others. It is true
that, up to this time, the vagabonds had been represented as the
dregs of the people, as hopeless drunkards, thieves, and murderers.
The writers who represented them were satisfied in rousing in their
readers pity for the victims of this social disorder, victims so
wounded by fate, that they have not even a realization of the
injustice with which they are treated. And it is only in the works
of the great dramatist Ostrovsky that we find any happy vagabonds,
with a deep love of nature and beauty.
Gorky's vagabonds have, like Ostrovsky's, exalted feelings for
natural beauties, but they possess, besides, a full consciousness of
themselves, and they declare open war against society. Gorky lives
the lives of his heroes; he seems to sink himself into them, and, at
the same time, he idealizes them, and often uses them as his
spokesmen. Far from being crushed by fate, his vagabonds clothe
themselves with a certain pride in their misery; for them, the ideal
existence is the one they lead, because it is free; with numerous
variations, they all exalt the irresistible seduction of
vagabondage:
"As for me, just listen! How many things I've seen in my fifty-eight
years," says Makar Choudra. "In what country have I not been? That
is the only way to live. Walk, walk, and you see everything. Don't
stay long in one place: what is there out of the ordinary in that?
Just as day and night eternally run after one another, thus you must
run, avoiding daily life, so that you will not cease to love it...."
"I, brother,"--says, in turn, Konovalov,--"I have decided to go all
over the earth, in every sense of the word. You always see something
new.... You think of nothing.... The wind blows, and you might say
that it blows the dust out of your soul. You feel free and easy....
You are not troubled by any one. If you are hungry, you stop, and
work to earn a few pennies; if there is no work to be had, you ask
for some bread and it is given to you. So you see many countries,
and the most diverse beauties...."
Likewise, in "Tedium," Kouzma Kossiyak thus clearly expresses
himself:
"I would not give up my liberty for any woman, nor for any
fireplace. I was born in a shed, do you hear, and it is in a shed
that I am going to die; that is my fate. I am going to wander
everywhere until my hair turns grey.... I get bored when I stay in
the same place."
In their feeling of hostility to all authority, and all fixed
things, including bourgeois happiness and economical principles,
some of Gorky's characters resemble some of those superior heroes
of Russian literature, like Pushkin's Evgeny Onyegin, Lermontov's
Pechorine, and, finally, Turgenev's Rudin, who, in their way, are
vagabonds, filled with the same independent spirit in their
respective social, intellectual, or political circles.
On the other hand, Gorky's wandering beggars are closely related to
those "free men" to whom M. S. Maximov attributes a historic role
which was favorable to the extension of the Russian empire.
"Russia," he says, in his book, "Siberia and the Prison," "lived by
vagabondage after she became a State; thanks to the vagabonds, she
has extended her boundaries: for, it is they who, in order to
maintain their independence, fought against the nomad tribes who
attacked them from the south and the east...."
There is a marked difference between these two classes: men of the
former look for a place on this earth where they can establish
themselves; while men of the other class, those who are out of work,
drunkards, and lazy men, have no taste for a sedentary life.
But if Gorky has not created the type of vagabond which is so
familiar to those who know Russian literature, on the other hand, he
has remodeled it with his original, energetic, and vibrantly
realistic talent. His nomad "barefoot brigade," picturesquely
encamped, is surrounded with a sort of terribly majestic halo in
these vast stretches of country, a background against which their
sombre silhouettes are set off. From the perfumed steppes to the
roaring sea, they conjure up to the eye of their old co-mate the
enchanting Slavic land of which they are the audacious offsprings.
And Gorky also lovingly gives them a familiar setting, painted with
bold strokes, of plains and mountains which border in the distance
the glaucous stretch of the sea. The sea! With what fervor does
Gorky depict the anger and the peace of the sea. It always inspires,
like an adored mistress:
"... The sea sleeps.
"Immense, sighing lazily along the strand, it has gone to sleep,
peaceful in its huge stretch, bathed in the moonlight. As soft as
velvet, and black, it mingles with the dark southern sky and sleeps
profoundly, while on its surface is reflected the transparent tissue
of the flaky, immobile clouds, in which is incrusted the gilded
design of the stars."
Thus, like a "leitmotiv," the murmuring of the water interrupts the
course of the story. And the steppe, this steppe "which has devoured
so much human flesh and has drunk so much blood that it has become
fat and fecund," surrounds with its immensity these miserable
wandering beings and menaces them with its storm:
"Suddenly, the entire steppe undulated, enveloped with a dazzling
blue light which seemed to enlarge the horizon ... the shadows
trembled and disappeared for a moment ... a crash of thunder burst
forth, disturbing the sky, where many black clouds were flying
past....
"... At times the steppe stretched forth like an oscillating giant
... the vast stretch of blue and cloudless sky poured light down
upon us, and seemed like an immense cupola of sombre color."
The wind passed "in large and regular waves, or blew with a sharp
rattle, the leaves sighed and whispered among themselves, the waves
of the river washed up on the banks, monotonous, despairing, as if
they were telling something terribly sad and mournful," the entire
country vibrated with a powerful life that harmonized with the souls
of the people.
In "Old Iserguile," Gorky writes: "I should have liked to transform
myself into dust and be blown about by the wind; I should have liked
to stretch myself out on the steppe like the warm waters of the
river, or throw myself into the sea and rise into the sky in an opal
mist; I should have liked to drink in this evening so wonderful and
melancholy.... And, I know not why, I was suffering...."
Gorky's stories, always short enough, have little or no plot, and
the characters are barely sketched. But, in these simple frames, he
has confined the power of an art which is prolific, supple and
profoundly living. Let us take, for example, "The Friends." Dancing
Foot and The One Who Hopes are ordinary thieves, the terror of the
villagers whose gardens they rob. One day, when they are especially
desperate, they steal a thin horse which is browsing at the edge of
the woods. The One Who Hopes gets an incurable sickness, and it is
perhaps on account of his approaching death that he feels scruples
at this crime. Dancing Foot expresses the scorn that the weakness of
his companion inspires him with, but he ends by giving in and
returns the animal. One hour later, The One Who Hopes falls dead in
front of Dancing Foot, who is tremendously upset in spite of his
affected indifference.
A dry outline cannot possibly convey the emotion contained in this
little drama, where the low mentality of the characters is rendered
with the mastery which Gorky usually shows in creating his elemental
heroes. Among other works that should be noted are "Cain and
Arteme," so poignantly ironical in its simplicity, "To Drive Away
Tedium," "The Silver Clasps," "The Prisoner," and that little
masterpiece, "Twenty-Six Men and a Girl," in which we see
twenty-six bakers pouring out an ideal and mystical love on Tanya,
the little embroiderer, who they believe, is as pure as an angel.
One day, a brutal soldier comes to defy them, and boasts that he
will conquer this young girl. He succeeds. Then the twenty-six
insult their fallen idol; the tragedy is not so much in the insults
that they hurl at her, as in the suffering they undergo through
having lost the illusion that was so dear to them.
Let us note, incidentally, the existence of a sort of comic spirit
in these works which relieves the tragedy of the situations. In
spite of their dark pessimism, the actors in these little dramas
have an appearance of gaiety which deceives. It is by this popular
humor that Gorky is the continuator of the work of Gogol; this is
especially noticeable in "The Fair at Goltva."
* * * * *
In studying Gorky, one is often struck by the homogeneity of the
types which he has described. Open any of his books, and you will
always meet that "restless" type, dissatisfied with the banality of
his existence, trying to get away from it, and leaning irresistibly
towards absolute liberty, far removed from social and political
obligations.
Who are these "restless" people? Toward what end are they striving?
What do they represent? First, they have an immense reserve force
which they do not know what to do with; they have got out of the
rut, the rut which they despise, but it is hard for them to create
another sort of existence for themselves. Bourgeois happiness
repulses them, while all sorts of duties are hateful to them. They
consider the people who are contented with this sort of a life as
slaves, unworthy of the name of man, and they show the same disdain
for the peasants, for the leading classes, and for the workingmen.
The simple farmer excites the scorn of the "barefoot brigade:"
"As for me," says one of them, "I don't like any peasants.... They
are all dogs! They have provincial States, and they do for them....
They tremble, they are hypocrites, but they want to live; they have
one protection: the soil.... However, we must tolerate the peasant,
for he has a certain usefulness."
"What is a peasant?" asks another. And he answers the question
himself: "The peasant is for all men a matter of food, that is to
say, an animal that can be eaten. The sun, the water, the air, and
the peasant are indispensable to man's existence...."
One might think that this hostility was the fruit of a feeling of
envy provoked by the fact that the peasant seems to enjoy so many
advantages. But, on the contrary, the "barefoot brigade" admits
that the peasant subjugates his individuality for any sort of
profit, and that he cannot feel the yoke which he has voluntarily
taken in the hope of getting his daily bread.
These workingmen "who pitifully dig in the soil" are unfortunate
slaves. "They do nothing but construct, they work perpetually, their
blood and sweat are the cement of all the edifices of the earth. And
yet the remuneration which they receive, although they are crushed
by their work, does not give them shelter or enough food really to
live on."
The enlightened classes are always characterized in Gorky's works by
violent traits. The architect Shebouyev accords a sufficiently
great, but scarcely honorable, place to the category of intelligent
men to whom he belongs.
"All of us," he says, "are nonentities, deprived of happiness. We
are in such great numbers! And our numbers have been a power for so
long a time! We are animated by so many desires, pure and honest....
Why is there so much talk among us and so little action? And, all
the while, the germs are there!... All these papers, novels,
articles are germs ... just germs, and nothing else.... Some of us
write, others read; after reading, we discuss; after discussing, we
forget what we have read. For us, life is tedious, heavy, grey, and
burdensome. We live our lives, but sigh from fatigue and complain
of the heavy burdens we are carrying."
The journalist Yezhov, in "Thomas Gordeyev," expresses himself in
the same manner, but even more decisively:
"I should like to say to the intelligent classes: 'You people are
the best in my country! Your life is paid for by the blood and tears
of ten Russian generations! How much you have cost your country! And
what do you for her? What have you given to life? What have you
done?...'"
The absence of all independence, of any passion even a little
sincere, the complete submission of heart and mind to the old
prescribed morality, the constant effort to realize mere personal
ambitions--all of these are the reproaches that Gorky addresses to
cultivated man, whose moral disintegration he proves has been
produced by routine and prejudice.
In contrast to them, the vagabonds are the instinctive enemies of
all slavery, in any form whatsoever. The complete independence of
their personality means everything to them. And no material
conditions, no matter how prosperous, will induce them to make the
least compromise on this point. One of these "restless" types,
Konovalov, tells how, after he had bound himself to the wife of a
rich merchant, he could have lived in the greatest comfort, but he
abandoned everything, the easy life, and even the woman, whom he
loved well enough, in order to go out and look for the unknown. This
is a common adventure on the part of Gorky's heroes.
* * * * *
What is the cause of this restlessness?
"Well, you see," explains Konovalov, "I became weary. It was such
weariness, I must tell you, little brother, that at moments I simply
could not live. It seemed to me as if I were the only man on the
whole earth, and, with the exception of myself, there was no living
thing anywhere. And in those moments, everything was repugnant to
me, everything in the world; I became a burden to myself, and if
everybody were dead, I wouldn't even sigh! It must have been a
disease with me, and the reason why I took to drink, for, before
this time, I never drank."
For the same reasons, in "Anguish," a workingman leaves his mistress
and his employer, the miller. Where does this anguish come from?
Perhaps it is the simple result of a psychological process which,
Konovalov admits, is nothing other than a disease. It is very
possible that, in impulsive acts, a psychiatrist would see something
analogous to alcoholism, or the symptoms of some other anomaly.
Turgenev had already analyzed a similar case in "The Madman." When
Michael Poltev is asked what evil spirit led him to drink and to
risk his life, he always refers to his anguish.
"'Why this anguish?' asks his uncle.
"'Why?... When the brain is free, one begins to think of poverty,
injustice, Russia.... And that's the end! anguish hastens on.... One
is ready to send a bullet through one's head! There's nothing left
to do but get drunk!...'
"'And why do you associate Russia with all of that? Why, you are
nothing but a sluggard!'
"'But I can do nothing, dear uncle!... Teach me what I ought to do,
to what task I ought to consecrate my life. I will do it
gladly!...'"
Gorky's characters give the same explanation of their "ennui," and
almost in identical terms. This disgust comes in great part from not
knowing how to adapt oneself to life, nor how to become a "useful"
man.
"Take me, for instance," says Konovalov, "what am I? A vagabond ...
a drunkard, a crack-brained sort of man. There is no reason for my
life. Why do I live on earth, and to whom am I useful? I have no
home, no wife, no children, and I don't feel as if I wanted any. I
live and am bored.... What about? No one knows. I have no life
within myself, do you understand? How shall I express it? There's a
spark, or force lacking in my soul...."
Another character, the shoemaker Orlov, in "Orlov and His Wife,"
especially reflects this pessimistic disposition. In the same way as
Konovalov, he is born with "restlessness in his heart."
He is a shoemaker; and why?
"As if there weren't enough of them already! What pleasure is there
in this trade for me? I sit in a cellar and sew. Then I shall die.
They say that the cholera is coming.... And after that? Gregory
Orlov lived, made shoes--and died of the cholera. What does that
signify? And why was it necessary that I should live, make shoes and
die, tell me?"
These creatures are under the impression that they are superfluous;
therefore their pessimistic conclusions. All of them passionately
want to be able to express the meaning of life in general, their
life in particular, but the task is too much for them.
Gorky's heroes consider themselves "useless beings," but they never
humiliate themselves. Their restlessness of spirit does not permit
them to resign themselves to the reigning banality or to take part
in it without protesting. At the same time, some of them are gifted
with sufficient personality to possess an unshaken faith in
themselves, in their strength, which keeps them from letting the
responsibility of their torments fall back upon society.
Promtov, the hero of "The Strange Companion," makes these restless
seekers the descendants of the Wandering Jew: "Their peculiarity,"
he ironically says, "is, that whether rich or poor, they cannot find
a suitable place for themselves on earth, and establish themselves
in it. The greatest of them are satisfied with nothing: money,
women, nor men."
What, then, do these "greatest" want?
Their desires evidently take a multitude of forms, and have the most
diverse shades; but the greatest number of them are impatient for
extraordinary happenings, eager for exploits. Some of them declare
that they would be willing to throw themselves on a hundred knives
if humanity could be relieved by their doing so. But simple daily
activity, even if it is useful, does not satisfy them.
The shoemaker Orlov leaves his cellar, as he calls it, and accepts a
position in the hospital where they are taking care of cholera
patients. His devotion makes him an "indispensable man;" he is
reborn, and, according to his own words, he is "ripe for life." It
seems as if his end were going to be attained. But not so.
Restlessness seizes him again. Orlov questions the value of his
work. He saves sick people from the cholera. Is he doing good? The
greatest care is taken of these people, but how many people are
there outside of the hospitals, one hundred times as many as there
are inside, who are just as unfortunate, but, in spite of that fact,
are not helped by any one?
"While you live," he declares, "no one will refuse to give you a
drink of water. And if you are near death, not only will they not
allow you to die, but they will go to some expense to stop you. They
organize hospitals.... They give you wine at 'six and a half rubles
a bottle.' The sick man gets well, the doctors are happy, and Orlov
would like to share their joy; but he cannot, for he knows that, on
leaving the threshold of the hospital, a life 'worse than the
convulsions of the cholera' awaits the convalescent...." And again
he is seized by the desire to drink, and to be a vagabond, and by a
wish to experience new sensations.
* * * * *
These, then, are the vagabonds whom we can class in the category of
the "restless." After these, come those whom the author terms the
"ex-men," and whom he studies, under this title, in one of his
longest stories. The ex-men are closely related to the "restless;"
however, they differ from them in that they push their opinions to
an extreme, for they are, more than the others, miserable and at bay
against society.
"What difference would it make if it all went to the devil," one of
them philosophizes--"I should like to see the earth go to pieces
suddenly, provided that I should perish the last, after having seen
the others die.... I'm an ex-man, am I not? I am a pariah, then,
estranged from all bonds and duties.... I can spit on everything!"
Thomas Gordeyev's father develops another thesis; a rich and
rational bourgeois, he tries to inculcate in his son from his
infancy--a son who later augments the ranks of the "restless"--the
most perfect spirit of egotism.
"You must pity people," he says, "but do it with discernment. First,
look at a man, see what good you can get out of him, and see what he
is good for. If you think he is a strong man, capable of work, help
him. But if you think him weak and little suited for work, abandon
him without pity. Remember this: two boards have fallen into the
mud, one of them is worm-eaten, the other is sound. What are you
going to do? Pay no attention to the worm-eaten plank, but take out
the sound one and dry it in the sun. It may be of service to you or
to some one else...."
The reader will note the absolute egotism in all of Gorky's types.
The "restless" are interested only in their own misery, and they
think that all men are like them; nor do they try to stop or bridle
their passions.
Strong passions are one of the most precious privileges of mankind.
This truth is well shown in the story: "Once More About the
Devil."[7] Here, the men have become shabby and insignificant since
there has been propagated among them, with a new strength, the
gospel of individual perfection. The demon stifles, in the heart of
Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, all the passions that can agitate a human
soul,--ambition, pity, evil, and anger; this operation makes Ivan an
absolutely perfect being. On his face there appears that beatitude
which words cannot express. The devil has crushed all "substance"
out of him, and he is completely "empty."
[7] This was preceded by a story called "The Devil."
One understands that Gorky's heroes cannot find what would be good
for them, nor feel the least satisfaction in doing their fellow men
a good service. They only dream of action; their sole desire is to
affirm their individuality by "manifesting" themselves, little
matter how. Old Iserguille is persuaded that "in life, there is room
for mighty deeds" and, if a man likes them, he will find occasion to
do them. Konovalov is most enthusiastic over Zhermak,[8] to whom he
feels himself akin.
[8] A celebrated brigand in the time of Ivan the Terrible who, in
order to be pardoned, conquered Siberia in the name of the Tsar.