The Project Gutenberg eBook of The dreams of Chang and other stories
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The dreams of Chang and other stories
Author: Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
Translator: Bernard Guilbert Guerney
Release date: March 17, 2026 [eBook #78224]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1923
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78224
Credits: Tim Lindell, chenzw, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAMS OF CHANG AND OTHER STORIES ***
_The_ DREAMS _of_ CHANG
AND OTHER STORIES
_Also by_ IVAN BUNIN
THE VILLAGE
_Authorized translation from the Russian
by
ISABEL F. HAPGOOD_
NEW YORK: ALFRED · A · KNOPF
_The_ DREAMS _of_ CHANG
AND OTHER STORIES
_Authorized translation from the Russian of_
IVAN BUNIN
_by Bernard Guilbert Guerney_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
ALFRED · A · KNOPF
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
_Published, September, 1923_
_Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co.,
Binghamton, N. Y.
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York.
Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York._
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
THE DREAMS OF CHANG 9
A COMPATRIOT 34
BRETHREN 46
GAUTAMI 86
THE SON 91
LIGHT BREATHING 110
AN EVENING IN SPRING 119
THE SACRIFICE 137
AGLAIA 144
THE GRAMMAR OF LOVE 158
A NIGHT CONVERSATION 173
A GOODLY LIFE 209
“I SAY NOTHING” 248
DEATH 268
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO 280
_TRANSLATION_
_Dear Mr. Knopf_,
I have much pleasure in hereby confirming the fact that you are the
only publisher authorized by me to issue in the United States of North
America my two books: the collection of short stories entitled “The
Gentleman from San Francisco” and the novel, “The Village.”
With assurances of the highest esteem,
I remain,
dear Sir,
yours very truly,
I. BOUNINE (I. BUNIN)
Paris, 21-4-23.
[Illustration]
THE DREAMS OF CHANG
What does it matter of whom we speak? Any that have lived and that live
upon this earth deserve to be the subject of our discourse.
Once upon a time Chang had come to know the universe and the captain,
his master, to whom his earthly existence had become linked. And six
entire years have run since then,--have run like the sands in a ship’s
hourglass.
It is again night,--dream or reality? And again comes morning,--reality
or dream? Chang is old, Chang is a drunkard,--he is always dozing.
Outside, in the city of Odessa, it is winter. The weather is nasty,
sullen,--far worse than that of China was when Chang and the captain
met each other. Fine, stinging snow whirls through the air; it flies
obliquely over the ice-covered, slippery asphalt of the desolate
seaside boulevard, and painfully lashes the face of every running
Jew who, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and with his
shoulders hunched up, is zigzagging to the left and right,--awkwardly,
Hebraically. Beyond the harbour, likewise deserted, beyond the bay,
hazy from the snow, the barren shores, low and flat, are faintly
visible. The jetty is hazy all the time with a thick, gray haze: the
sea, in foamy, bellying waves, surges over it from morn till night. The
wind whistles and reverberates among the telephone wires overhead....
On such days life in the city does not start at an early hour. Nor
do Chang and the captain awake early. Six years,--is it a long time,
or short? In six years Chang and the captain have grown old, although
the captain is not yet forty; and their lot has harshly changed. They
no longer sail the seas,--they live “on shore,” as seamen say; nor
are they living in the same place they lived in at one time, but in a
narrow and rather dark street, in a garret; the house is redolent of
anthracite, and is occupied by Jews,--of the sort that come to their
families only toward evening and who sup with their hats shoved on the
back of their heads. Chang and the captain have a low ceiling; their
room is large and chill. Besides that, it is always gloomy and dark
inside; the two windows placed in the sloping wall-roof are small and
round, reminding one of port-holes. Something in the nature of a chest
of drawers stands between the windows, and against the wall to the left
is an old iron bed,--and there you have all the furnishings of this
bleak dwelling,--unless the fireplace, out of which a fresh wind is
always blowing, be included.
Chang sleeps in the nook behind the fireplace; the captain on the bed.
What sort of a bed this is, sagging almost to the floor, and what
kind of mattress it has, any one who has lived in garrets can easily
imagine; as for the dirty pillow, it is so scanty that the captain is
forced to put his jacket under it. However, the captain sleeps very
peacefully even on this bed; he lies on his back, his eyes shut and
his face ashen, as motionless as though he were dead. What a splendid
bed had formerly been his! Well built, high, with chests underneath;
the bedding was thick and snug, the sheets fine and smooth, and the
snowy-white pillows were chilling! But even then, even when lulled by
the rolling of the waves, he had not slept as heavily as he sleeps now:
now he gets very tired during the day, and besides that, what has he
to worry about now,--what can he oversleep, and with what can the new
day gladden him? At one time there had been two truths in this world,
that had constantly stood sentry in turns: the first was, that life is
unutterably beautiful; and the second, that life holds a meaning only
for lunatics. Now the captain affirms that there is, has been, and
will be for all eternity but one truth,--the ultimate truth, the truth
of Job the Hebrew, the truth of Ecclesiastes, the sage of an unknown
tribe. Often does the captain say now, as he sits in some beer shop:
“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil
days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no
pleasure in them!” Still the days and nights go on as before, and now
there has again been a night, and again morning is coming on. And the
captain and Chang are awaking.
But, having waked, the captain does not change his position and does
not open his eyes. His thoughts at that moment are not known even
to Chang, who is lying on the floor beside the fireless hearth from
which the freshness of the sea had come all night. Chang is aware of
only one thing,--that the captain will lie thus for not less than an
hour. Chang, after casting a look at the captain out of the corner of
his eye, again closes his lids, and again dozes off. Chang, too, is a
drunkard; in the morning he, too, is befuddled, weak, and beholds the
universe with that languid queasiness which is so familiar to all those
travelling on ships and suffering from sea-sickness. And because of
that, as he dozes off, in this morning hour, Chang sees a dream that
is tormenting, wearisome....
He sees:
An old, rheumy-eyed Chinaman has clambered up onto a steamer’s deck,
and has squatted down on his heels; whiningly, he importunes all those
who pass by him to buy a wicker-basket of spoilt small fish which he
has brought with him. It is a dusty and a chill day on a broad Chinese
river. In the boat with a bamboo sail, swaying in the muddy water of
the river, a puppy is sitting,--a little rusty dog, having about it
something of the fox and something of the wolf, with thick, coarse fur
at its neck; sternly and intelligently his black eyes look up and down
the high iron side of the steamer, and his ears are cocked.
“Better sell your dog!” gaily and loudly, as though to a deaf man,
the young captain of the ship, who was standing idling on his bridge,
yelled to the Chinaman.
The Chinaman,--Chang’s first master,--cast his eyes upward; confused,
both by the yell and by joy, he began bowing and lisping: “Ve’y good
dog, ve’y good.”[*] And the puppy was purchased,--for only a single
silver rouble,--was called Chang, and sailed off on that very day with
his new master to Russia; and, in the beginning, for three whole weeks,
he suffered so with sea-sickness, and was in such a daze, that he saw
nothing: neither the ocean nor Singapore, nor Colombo....
[*] In English in the original. _Trans._
It had been the beginning of autumn in China; the weather was bad. And
Chang felt qualmish when they had barely passed into the estuary. They
were met by lashing rain and mist; white-caps glimmered over the plain
of waters; the gray-green swell swayed, rushed, plashed, many-pointed
and senseless; meanwhile, the flat shores were spreading, losing
themselves in the fog,--and there was more and more water all around.
Chang, in his fur coat, silvery from the rain, and the captain, in a
waterproof great-coat with the hood raised, were on the bridge, whose
height could be felt now more than before. The captain issued commands,
while Chang shivered and tossed his head in the wind. The water was
widening, embracing all the inclement horizon, blending with the misty
sky. The wind tore the spray from the great noisy swell, swooping
down from any and every direction; it whistled through the sail-yards
and boomingly slapped the canvas awnings below; the sailors, in the
meanwhile, in iron-shod boots and wet capes, were untying, catching and
furling them. The wind was seeking the best spot from which to strike
its strongest blow, and just as soon as the steamer, slowly bowing
before it, had taken a sharper turn to the right, the wind raised it up
on such a huge, boiling roller, that it could not hold back; it plunged
down from the ridge of the roller, burying itself in the foam,--and in
the pilot’s round-house a coffee cup, forgotten upon a little table by
the waiter, shattered against the floor with a ring.... And then the
fun began!
There were all sorts of days after that: now the sun would blaze
down scorchingly out of the radiant azure; now clouds would pile up
in mountains and burst with peals of terrifying thunder; or raging
torrents of rain descended in floods upon the steamer and the sea;
or else there was rocking,--yes, rocking, even when the ship was
at anchor. Utterly worn out, Chang during all the three weeks did
not once forsake his corner in the hot, half-dark corridor of the
second-class cabins on the poop, where he lay near the high threshold
of the door leading onto the deck. Only once a day was this door
opened, when the captain’s orderly brought food to Chang. And of the
entire voyage to the Red Sea Chang’s memory has retained only the
creaking of the ship’s partitions, his nausea, and the sinking of his
heart, now flying downward into some abyss together with the quivering
stern, now rising up to heaven with it; also did he remember his
prickly, deathly terror whenever, with the sound of a cannon firing,
a whole mountain of water would splash against this stern, after it
had been raised high and had again careened to one side, with its
propeller roaring in the air; the water would extinguish the daylight
in the port holes, and then would run down in opaque torrents over
their thick glass. The sick Chang heard the distant cries of commands,
the thundering whistle of the boatswain, the tramp of sailors’ feet
somewhere overhead; he heard the plash and the noise of the water; he
could distinguish through his half-shut eyes the semi-dark corridor
filled with jute bails of tea,--and Chang went daft, became tipsy, from
nausea, heat, and the strong odour of tea....
But here Chang’s dream breaks off.
Chang starts and opens his eyes: that was no wave hitting against
the stern with a sound of a cannon firing,--it was the jarring of a
door somewhere below, flung back with force by somebody or other. And
after this the captain coughingly clears his throat and slowly arises
from his sagging couch. He puts on and laces his battered shoes, dons
his black coat with the brass buttons, taking it out from under the
pillow; Chang, in the meanwhile, in his rusty, worn fur coat, yawns
discontentedly, with a whine, having risen from the floor. Upon the
chest of drawers is a bottle of vodka, some of which has already been
drunk. The captain drinks straight out of the bottle, and, slightly out
of breath, wiping his moustache, he goes toward the fireplace and pours
out some vodka into a little bowl standing near Chang for him as well.
Chang starts lapping it greedily. As for the captain, he begins smoking
and lies down again, to await the hour when it will be full day. The
distant rumble of the tramway can already be heard; already, far below
in the street, flows the ceaseless clamping of horses’ hoofs; but it
is still too early to go out. And the captain lies and smokes. Having
done with his lapping, Chang, too, lies down. He jumps up onto the bed,
curls up in a ball at the feet of the captain, and slowly floats away
into that blissful state which vodka always bestows. His half-shut eyes
grow misty, he looks faintly at his master, and, feeling a constantly
increasing tenderness toward him, thinks what in human speech may be
expressed as follows: “Oh, you foolish, foolish fellow! There is but
one truth in this world, and if you but knew what a wonderful truth it
is!” And again, in something between thought and dream, Chang reverts
to that distant morning, when the steamer, after carrying the captain
and Chang from China over the tormented restless ocean, had entered the
Red Sea....
He dreams:
As they passed Perim, the steamer swayed less and less, as though it
were lulling him asleep, and Chang fell into a sweet and sound sleep.
And suddenly he started, awake. And, when he had become awake, he
was astonished beyond all measure: it was quiet everywhere; the stern
was rhythmically vibrating, without any downward plunges; the noise
of the water, rushing somewhere beyond the walls, was even; the warm
odour from the kitchen, creeping out on deck from underneath a door,
was enchanting.... Chang got up on his hind legs and looked into
the deserted general cabin,--there, in the obscurity, was a softly
radiant, aureately-lilac something; a something barely perceptible to
the eye, but extraordinarily joyous; there the rear port holes were
open to the sunlit blue void, open to the spaciousness, to the air,
while over the low ceiling streamed sinuous rills of light reflected
from mirrors,--they flowed on, without flowing away.... And the same
thing happened to Chang that had also happened more than once in those
days to his master, the captain: he suddenly comprehended that there
existed in this universe not one truth, but two truths: one, that to be
living in this world and to sail the seas was a dreadful thing, and the
other.... But Chang did not have time to think of the other,--through
the door, unexpectedly flung open, he saw the trap-ladder leading to
the spar-deck, the black, glistening mass of the steamer’s funnel,
the clear sky of a summer morning, and, coming rapidly from under
the ladder, out of the engine room, the captain. He had shaved and
washed; there was the fragrance of fresh Eau-de-cologne about him; his
fair moustache turned upward, after the German fashion; the glance
of his light, keen eyes was sparkling, and everything upon him was
tight-fitting and snowy white. And upon beholding all this Chang darted
forward so joyously that the captain caught him in the air, kissed him
resoundingly on the head, and, turning him about, carrying him in his
arms, with a hop, skip and a jump came out on the spar-deck, then the
upper deck, and from there still higher, to that very bridge where it
had been so terrible in the estuary of the great Chinese river.
On the bridge the captain entered the pilot’s round-house, while Chang,
who had been dropped to the floor, sat for a space, his fox-like brush
unfurled to its full length over the smooth boards. It was very hot and
radiant behind Chang, from the low-lying sun. It must also have been
hot in Arabia, that was passing by so near on the right, with its shore
of gold, with its black-brown mountains, its peaks, that resembled
the mountains of some dead planet, also all deeply strewn with gold
dust; Arabia, its entire sandy and mountainous waste visible with such
extraordinary distinctness that it seemed as if one could jump over
there. And above, on the bridge, the morning could still be felt, there
was still the pull of a light, fresh coolness; the captain’s mate,--the
very same who later on used so often to make Chang furious by blowing
into his nose,--a man in white clothes, with a white helmet and wearing
fearful black spectacles, was sauntering briskly back and forth over
the bridge, constantly looking up at the sharp tip of the front mast
that reached up to the sky, and over which was curling the flimsiest
wisp of a cloud.... Then the captain called out from the round-house:
“Here, Chang! Come on and have coffee!” and Chang immediately jumped
up, circled the round-house, and deftly dashed over its brass
threshold. And beyond the threshold it proved to be even better than
on the bridge: there was a broad leather divan, fixed to the wall;
over it hung certain things like wall-clocks, their glass and hands
glistening; and on the floor was a slop-bowl with a mixture of sweet
milk and bread. Chang began lapping it greedily, while the captain
busied himself with his work. Upon the counter, placed under the window
opposite the divan, he unrolled a large maritime chart, and, placing a
ruler over it, firmly drew a long line upon it with scarlet ink. Chang,
having finished his lapping, with milk on his muzzle, jumped up on the
counter and sat down near the very window, out of which he could see
the blue turned-over collar of a sailor in a roomy blouse, who, with
his back to the window, was standing at the many-horned wheel. And at
this point the captain, who, as it turned out afterward, was very fond
of having a chat when he was all alone with Chang, said to him:
“You see, brother, this is the Red Sea itself. You and I have to pass
through it as cleverly as we can,--just see how gaily coloured it is!
I have to land you in Odessa in good order, because they already know
there of your existence. I have already blabbed about you to a most
capricious little girl; I have bragged to her about your lordship, over
a sort of long cable, d’you understand, that has been laid down by
clever people over the bottom of all the seas and oceans.... For after
all, Chang, I am an awfully lucky fellow, so lucky that you can’t even
imagine it, and for that reason I am terribly averse to getting stuck
on one of these reefs, to have no end of disgrace on my first distant
cruise....”
And, saying this, the captain suddenly gave Chang a stern look and
slapped his muzzle:
“Paws off!” he cried commandingly. “Don’t you dare climb on government
property!”
And Chang, with a toss of his head, growled and puckered up his face.
This was the first slap he had ever received, and he was offended; it
again seemed to him that to be living in this world and to be sailing
the seas was an atrocious thing. He turned away, his translucently
yellow eyes dimming and contracting, and with a low growl he bared
his wolfish fangs. But the captain did not consider Chang’s offended
feelings of any importance. He lit a cigarette and returned to the
divan; having taken a gold watch out of a side pocket of his _piqué_
jacket, he pried back its lids with a strong nail, and looking upon
a glistening, unusually animated, bustling something which ran and
resoundingly whispered within the watch, again began speaking in a
comradely tone. He again told Chang that he was bringing him to Odessa,
to Elissavetinskaya Street; that in Elissavetinskaya Street he, the
captain, had apartments, first of all; secondly, a wife who was a
beauty; and, thirdly, a wonderful little daughter; and that he, the
captain, was a very lucky fellow after all.
“A lucky fellow, after all, Chang!” said the captain, and then added:
“This daughter of mine, Chang, is a lively little girl, full of
curiosity and persistence,--it is going to be bad for you at times,
especially for your tail! But if you only knew, Chang, what a beautiful
creature she is! I love her so much, brother, that at times I am even
afraid of my love: she is all the world to me,--well, almost all, let
us say; but is that as it should be? And, in general, should any one
be loved so greatly?” he asked. “For, were all these Buddhas of yours
more foolish than you and I? And yet, just you listen to what they say
about this love of the universe and all things corporeal, beginning
with sunlight, with a wave, with the air, and winding up with woman,
with an infant, with the scent of white acacia! Or else,--do you know
what sort of a thing this Tao is, that has been thought up by nobody
else but you Chinamen? I know it but poorly myself, brother, but then,
everybody knows it poorly; but, as far as it is possible to understand
it, just what is it, after all? The Abyss, our First Mother; She gives
birth to all things that exist in this universe, and She devours them
as well, and, devouring them, gives birth to them anew; or, to put it
in other words, It is the Path of all that exists, which nothing that
exists may resist. But we resist It every minute; every minute we want
to turn to our desire not only the soul of a beloved woman, let us say,
but even the entire universe as well! It is an eerie thing to be living
in this world, Chang,” said the captain; “it’s a most pleasant thing,
but still an eerie one, and especially for such as I! For I am too avid
of happiness, and all too often do I lose the way: dark and evil is
this Path,--or is it entirely, entirely otherwise?”
And, after a silence, he added further:
“For after all, what is the main thing? When you love somebody, there
is no power on earth that can make you believe that the one you love
can possibly not love you. And that is just where the devil comes in,
Chang. But how magnificent life is; my God, how magnificent!”
Made red hot by the now high risen sun, and quivering slightly as it
ran, the steamer was tirelessly cleaving the Red Sea, now stilled in
the abyss of the sultry empyrean spaciousness. The radiant void of
the tropical sky was peeping in through the door of the round-house.
Noonday was approaching; the brass threshold simply blazed in the sun.
The glassy swell rolled more and more slowly over the side, flaring up
with a blinding glitter, and lighting up the round-house. Chang was
sitting on the divan, listening to the captain. The captain, who had
been patting Chang on the head, shoved him to the floor: “No, it’s too
hot, brother!” said he; but this time Chang was not offended,--it was
too fine a thing to be living in this world on this joyous noonday. And
then....
But here again Chang’s dream is interrupted.
“Come on, Chang!” says the captain, dropping his feet down from the
bed. And again in astonishment Chang sees that he is not on a steamer
on the Red Sea, but in a garret in Odessa, and that it really is
noonday outside,--not a joyous noonday, however, but a dark, dreary,
inimical one, and he growls softly at the captain who has disturbed
him. But the captain, paying no attention to him, puts on his old
uniform cap and his old uniform great coat, and, shoving his hands deep
in his pockets and all hunched up, goes toward the door. Willy-nilly,
Chang, too, has to jump down from the bed. It is a hard thing for the
captain to descend the stairs and he has no heart for it, as though
he were doing it under the compulsion of harsh necessity. Chang rolls
along rather rapidly,--he is still enlivened by that yet unallayed
irritation with which the blissful state induced by vodka always
ends....
Yes,--it is two years now since Chang and the captain have been
occupied, day in and day out, in visiting one restaurant after another.
There they drink, have snacks, contemplate the other drunkards who
drink and have snacks alongside of them, amid the noise, tobacco smoke,
and all sorts of bad odours. Chang lies on the floor, at the captain’s
feet. As for the captain, he sits and smokes, his elbows firmly planted
on the table,--a habit he has acquired at sea; he is awaiting that
hour when it will be necessary, in accordance with some law which he
had himself mentally formulated, to migrate to some other restaurant
or coffee-house: Chang and the captain breakfast in one place, drink
coffee in another, dine in a third, and sup in a fourth. Usually the
captain is silent. But there are times when the captain meets some one
of his erstwhile friends, and then he talks all day long without cease
of the insignificance of life, and every minute regales with wine now
himself, now his _vis à vis_, now Chang,--the last always has some bit
of china on the floor before him. They would pass the present day also
in precisely the same way: they had agreed to breakfast this day with
a certain old friend of the captain’s, an artist in a high silk hat.
And that meant that at first they would sit in a certain malodorous
beer-shop, among red-faced Germans,--stolid, business-like people, who
worked from morn till night with, of course, the sole aim of drinking,
eating, working all over again, and propagating others of their kind.
Then they would go to a coffee-house filled to overflowing with Greeks
and Jews, whose entire existence, likewise senseless but exceedingly
perturbed, was swallowed up in ceaseless expectation of stock-exchange
news: and from the coffee-house they would set out for a restaurant
whither flocked all sorts of human rag-tag, and there they would sit
far into the night....
A winter day is short, but with a bottle of wine, sitting in
conversation with a friend, it is still shorter. And now Chang, the
captain, and the artist had already been both in the beer-shop and in
the coffee-house, and it is the sixth hour that they have been sitting
and drinking in the restaurant. And again the captain, having put his
elbows on the table, is ardently assuring the artist that there is but
one truth in this world,--a truth evil and base. “You just look about
you,” he is saying, “you just recall all those that you and I see every
day in the beer-shop, in the coffee-house, and out on the street!
My friend, I have seen the entire earthly globe--life is like that
all over! Everything that these people pretend as constituting their
life is all bosh and a lie: they have neither God, nor conscience,
nor a sensible purpose in existing, nor love, nor friendship, nor
honesty,--there is even no common pity. Life is a dreary, winter day in
a filthy tavern, no more....”
And Chang, lying under the table, hears all this in the fog of a
tipsiness, in which there is no longer any exhilaration. Does he agree
with the captain, or does he not? It is impossible to answer this
definitely,--but since it is impossible, it means that things are
in a bad way. Chang does not know, does not understand, whether the
captain is right; but then, it is only when we experience sorrow that
we all say: “I do not know, I do not understand,”--whereas when joy is
its portion every living being is convinced that it knows all things,
understands all things.... But suddenly a ray of sunlight seems to cut
through this fog of tipsiness: there is a sudden tapping of a baton
against a music stand on the band-stand of the restaurant--and a
violin begins to sing, followed by a second, a third.... They sing more
and more passionately, more and more sonorously,--and a minute later
Chang’s soul overflows with an entirely different yearning, with an
entirely different sadness. His soul quivers from an incomprehensible
rapture, from some sweet torment, from a longing for something
indefinite,--and Chang no longer distinguishes whether he is in a dream
or awake. He yields with all his being to the music, submissively
follows it into some other world--and once more he sees himself on the
threshold of that beautiful world; silly, with a faith in the universe,
a puppy on board a steamer in the Red Sea....
“Yes, but how was it?” he half-thinks, half-dreams. “Yes, I remember:
it was a good thing to be alive on that hot noonday on the Red Sea!”
Chang and the captain were sitting in the round-house; later on they
stood on the ship’s bridge.... Oh, how much light there was; what a
deep blue the sea was, and how azure the sky! How amazingly vivid
against the background of the sky were all these white, red, and
yellow sailors’ blouses hung out to dry at the prow! Then, afterwards,
Chang and the captain and the other men of the ship (whose faces were
brick-red, with oily eyes, whereas their foreheads were white and
perspiring), breakfasted in the hot general cabin of first-class,
under an electric ventilator buzzing and blowing out of a corner.
After breakfast Chang took a little nap; after tea he had dinner,
and after dinner he was again sitting aloft, before the pilot’s
round-house, where a steward had placed a canvas chair for the captain,
and gazing far out at the sea; at the sunset, tenderly green among
the many-coloured and many-formed little clouds; at the sun, wine-red
and shorn of its beams, that, as soon as it had touched the turbid
horizon, lengthened out and took on the semblance of a dark-flamed
mitre.... Rapidly did the steamer run in pursuit of it; over the side
the smooth, watery humps simply flashed by, giving off a sheen of
blueish-lilac shagreen. But the sun hastened on and on,--the sea seemed
to be absorbing it,--and kept on decreasing and decreasing, and became
an elongated, glowing ember. It began to quiver and went out; and,
as soon as it had gone out, the shadow of some sadness immediately
fell upon all the world, and the wind, constantly blowing harder as
the night came on, became still more turbulent. The captain, gazing
at the dark flame of the sunset, was sitting with his head bared, his
hair a-flutter in the wind, and his face was pensive, proud, and sad.
And one felt that he was happy none the less, and that not only this
entire steamer, running on at his will, but all the universe as well
was in his power; because at that moment all the universe was in his
soul,--and also because even then there was the odour of wine on his
breath....
And when the night fell, it was awesome and magnificent. It was black,
disquieting, with an unruly wind, and with such a vivid glow from the
waves swirling up around the steamer that Chang, who was trotting
behind the captain as the latter rapidly and ceaselessly paced the
deck, would jump away with a yelp from the side of the ship. And the
captain again picked Chang up in his arms, and putting his cheek
against Chang’s beating heart,--for it beat in precisely the same way
as the captain’s--walked with him to the very end of the deck, on to
the poop, and stood there for a long time in the darkness, bewitching
Chang with a wondrous and horrible spectacle: from under the towering,
enormous stern, from under the dully raging propeller, myriads of
white-flamed needles were pouring forth with a crisp swishing; they
extricated themselves and were instantly whirled away into the
snowy, sparkling path that the steamer was laying down. Now, again,
there would be enormous blue stars: now some sort of tightly-coiled
blue globes that would explode vividly, and, fading out, smoulder
mysteriously with pale-green phosphorescence within the boiling watery
hummocks. The wind, coming from all directions, beat strongly and
softly upon Chang’s muzzle, ruffling and chilling the thick fur upon
his chest; and, nestling closely to the captain, as though they were
both of the same kin, Chang scented an odour that seemed to be that
of cold sulphur, breathed in the air coming from the furrowed inmost
depths of the sea. And the stern kept on quivering; it was lowered and
lifted by some great and unutterably free force, and Chang swayed and
swayed, excitedly contemplating this blind and dark, yet an hundredfold
living, dully turbulent Bottomless Gulf. And at times some especially
mischievous and ponderous wave, noisily flying past the stern, would
illumine the hands and the silvery clothes of the captain with an
eldritch glow....
On this night the captain for the first time brought Chang into his
large and cozy cabin, softly illuminated by a lamp under a red silk
shade. Upon the writing table, that was squeezed in tightly near the
captain’s bed, in the light and shade thrown by the lamp, stood two
narrow frames, holding two photographic portraits: one of a pretty
little petulant girl in curly locks, seated at her capricious ease in
a deep arm-chair; and the other that of a young woman, taken almost at
full length, with a white lace parasol over her shoulder, in a large
lace hat, and wearing a smart spring dress,--she was stately, slender,
beautiful and pensive, like some Georgian _tsarevna_. And the captain
said, as he undressed to the noise of the black waves beyond the open
window:
“This woman won’t like you and me, Chang! There are some feminine
souls, brother, which languish eternally in a certain pensive
yearning for love, and who just for that very same reason never love
anybody. There are such,--and how shall they be judged for all their
heartlessness, falsehood, their dreams of going on the stage, of owning
an automobile, of yachting picnics, of some sportsman or other, who
pretends to be an Englishman, and tortures his hair, all greasy with
pomatum, into a straight parting? Who shall divine them? Everyone
according to his or her lights, Chang; and are they not fulfilling
the innermost secret behests of Tao Itself, even as they are being
fulfilled by some sea-creature that is now freely going upon its way in
these black, fiery-armoured waves?”
“Oo-oo!” said the captain, sitting down on a chair and unlacing his
white shoe. “What didn’t I go through, Chang, when I felt for the
first time that she was not entirely mine,--on that night when for the
first time she had gone alone to the Yacht Club ball and had returned
toward morning, like a wilted rose, pale from fatigue and her still
unabated excitement, with her eyes all dark, widened, and distant from
me! If you only knew how inimitably she wanted to hoodwink me, with
what artless wonder she asked: ‘But aren’t you asleep yet, poor dear?’
Right then I could not have uttered even a word, and she understood
me at once and became silent; she merely threw a quick glance at
me,--and began undressing in silence. I wanted to kill her, but she
dryly and calmly said: ‘Help me unfasten my dress at the back,’--and I
submissively approached her and began with trembling hands to unfasten
all these hooks and snaps,--and just as soon as I saw her body through
the open dress, saw her back between the shoulder blades, and her
chemise, dropping off the shoulders and tucked into the corset; just
as soon as I felt the scent of her black hair and caught a glimpse of
her breasts, raised up by the corset, reflected in the bright pier
glass....”
And, without finishing, the captain waved his hand in a hopeless
gesture.
He undressed, lay down, and extinguished the light, and Chang, turning
and settling in the morocco chair near the writing table, saw how
the black cerement of the sea was furrowed by rows of white flame,
flaring up and fading out; saw how some lights flashed up ominously
upon the black horizon; saw how an awesome living wave would run up
from thence and with a menacing noise would grow higher than the side
of the ship, and look into the cabin,--like some serpent of fairy
tale shining through and through with eyes of the natural colours of
precious stones, shining through and through with translucent emeralds
and sapphires. And he saw how the steamer thrust it aside and evenly
kept on in its course, amid the ponderous and vacillant masses of this
primordial element, now foreign and inimical to us, that is called
Ocean....
In the night the captain emitted some sudden cry; and, frightened
himself by this cry, which rang with some basely-plaintive passion, he
instantly awoke. Having lain for a minute in silence, he sighed and
said mockingly:
“Yes, there’s a story for you! ‘_As_ a jewel of gold in a swine’s
snout, _so is_ a fair woman!...’ Thrice right art thou, Solomon, Sage
of Sages!”
He found in the darkness his cigarette case and lit a cigarette, but,
having taken two deep puffs at it, he let his hand drop,--and fell
asleep so, with the little red glow of the cigarette in his hand. And
again it grew quiet--only the waves glittered, swayed, and noisily
rushed past the ship’s side. The Southern Cross from behind the black
clouds....
But here Chang is deafened by an unexpected thunder peal. He jumps up
in terror. What has happened? Has the steamer again struck against
underwater rocks through the fault of the intoxicated captain, as was
the case three years ago? Has the captain again fired a pistol at his
beautiful and pensive wife? No; this is not night all about them now;
neither are they at sea, nor in Elissavetinskaya Street on a wintry
noonday,--but in a brightly-lit restaurant, filled with noise and
smoke. It is the intoxicated captain, who had struck his fist against
the table, and is now shouting to the artist:
“Bosh, bosh! As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout,--that’s what your
Woman is! ‘I have decked my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved
_works_, with fine linen of Egypt.... Come, let us take our fill of
love ... for the goodman _is_ not at home....’ Bah! Woman! ‘For her
house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead....’ But that
is enough, that is enough, my friend. It is time to go,--they are
closing up this place; come on!”
And a minute later the captain, Chang, and the artist are already in
the street, where the wind and the snow make the street-lamps flicker.
The captain embraces and kisses the artist, and they go in different
directions. Chang, sullen and half asleep, is running sidewise over
the sidewalk after the captain, who walks rapidly and unsteadily....
Again a day has passed,--dream or reality?--and again darkness, cold,
and fatigue reign over the universe.... No, the captain is right, most
assuredly right: life is simply poisonous and malodorous alcohol,
nothing more....
Thus, monotonously, do the days and nights of Chang pass. But suddenly
one morning the universe, like a steamer, runs at full speed against an
underwater reef, hidden from heedless eyes. Awaking on a certain wintry
morning, Chang is struck by the great silence reigning in the room. He
quickly jumps up from his place, rushes toward the captain’s bed,--and
sees that the captain is lying with his head convulsively thrown back,
with his face grown pallid and chill, with his eyelashes half-open
and unmoving. And, upon seeing these eyelashes, Chang emits a howl as
despairing as if he had been thrown off his feet and cut in two by a
speeding automobile.... Then, when the door of the room has been taken
off its hinges, when people enter, depart, and arrive again, speaking
loudly,--the most diversified people: porters, police-men, the artist
in the high silk hat, and all sorts of other gentlemen who used to sit
in restaurants with the captain,--then Chang seems to turn to stone....
Oh, how fearfully the captain had said at one time: “On that day the
keepers of the house shall tremble ... and those that look out of the
windows be darkened ... also they shall be afraid of _that which is_
high, and fears shall be in the way ... because man goeth to his long
home, and the mourners go about the streets.... For the pitcher is
broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern....” But
Chang does not feel even terror now. He lies on the floor, his muzzle
toward the corner; he has shut his eyes tight that he might not behold
the universe, might forget it. And the universe murmurs over him dully
and distantly, like the sea over one who descends deeper and deeper
into its abyss.
But when he does come to himself again, it is near the doors of a
chapel, in the porch. He sits near them with drooping head; dull,
half-dead,--only he is all shaking in a chill. And suddenly the chapel
door is flung open,--and a wondrous scene, all mellifluously chanting,
strikes the eyes and the heart of Chang. Before Chang is a semi-dark
Gothic chamber, with the red stars of flames, a whole forest of
tropical plants, a coffin of oak raised high upon a black scaffolding.
There is a black throng of people; there are two women wondrous in
their marble-like beauty and their deep mourning, who seem just like
two sisters of different ages; and, over all this, reverberations,
thunder peals, a choir,--of men sonorously clamorous of some sorrowful
joy of the angels. Solemnity, confusion, pomp,--and chantings not of
this earth, drowning all else in their strains. And Chang’s every hair
stands up on end from anguish and rapture before this sonorous vision.
And the artist, who, with reddened eyes, stepped out of the chapel at
that moment, stops in amazement:
“Chang!” he says in alarm, stooping down to him, “Chang, what is the
matter with you?”
And, laying a hand that has begun to tremble upon Chang’s head, he
stoops still lower,--and their eyes, filled with tears, meet with such
love for each other, that Chang’s entire being cries out inaudibly to
all the universe: “Ah, no, no,--there is upon earth some third truth,
that has not been made known to me!”
That day, having returned from the cemetery, Chang moves into the house
of his third master,--again up aloft, to a garret; but a garret warm,
redolent of cigars, with rugs upon the floor, with antique furniture
placed about it, and hung with brocaded stuffs.... It is growing dark;
the fireplace is filled with glowing, sombrely-scarlet lumps of heat;
Chang’s new master is seated in a chair. He had not even taken off his
overcoat and his high silk hat upon returning home; he had sat down
with his cigar in a deep chair, and is now smoking and gazing into the
dusk of his _atelier_. As for the fatigued, tortured-out Chang,--he is
lying on a rug near the fireplace, his eyes shut, his muzzle resting on
his front paws. And he dreams, he sees as in a vision:
Some One is lying there, beyond the darkening city, beyond the
enclosure of the cemetery, in that which is called a crypt, a grave.
But this Some One is not the captain,--no. If Chang loves and feels
the captain, if he sees him with the vision of memory,--that divine
thing within him which he does not understand himself,--it means that
the captain is still with him: in that universe, without beginning and
without end, which is inaccessible to Death. In this universe there
must be but one truth,--the third; but what that truth is, is known
only to that last Master to whom Chang must now soon return.
_1916._
A COMPATRIOT
This _moujik_ of Briansk had been brought from the village to Moscow
when he was a little boy; he had run errands at a merchant’s warehouse
in Iliyinka; he used to fly like an arrow to taverns to get hot water
for tea: seizing the tea kettle, he would dash through the galleries
of the Stariya Riyady--the Old Shops--drawing, with a dark jet of
water, the figure eight upon the gray floor.... On a brisk winter day,
perhaps with a light snow falling, the Iliyinka thoroughfare would
be black with people; the horses of the cabbies would be shufflingly
trotting along,--but he, in just his shirt and without a cap (his head
resembling a rusty hedgehog), would jump out of the house, dart off the
sidewalk, and start sliding on his soles upon the ice in the gutter....
Imagine, then, how strange it is to see this _moujik_ in the tropics,
at the equator! He is sitting in his office in an old-fashioned house
of Dutch architecture. Beyond the window lies the white city in
the blaze of the sun; there are naked black rickshaw-men, shops of
Australian wares and of precious stones, hotels filled with tourists
from all the ends of the world; in the warm green water of the harbour
float American and Japanese steamers; beyond the harbour, along the
lowlands of the shores, grow cocoanut groves.... Clad all in white,
tall, knotty, with flaming red hair, with a blueish freckled skin,
pale, energetically exhilarated (or, to put it more simply, just
daft) from the heat, from nervousness, from constant tipsiness and
from business activity,--he is, to look at him, either a Swede or an
Englishman. His desk is all cluttered with papers, with bills. The
air is filled with the crisp rattling of typewriters. An old Hindu,
bare-footed, in robe and turban, noiselessly and rapidly changes with
his dark, exquisite, silver-ringed hands little bottles of cold soda
water, and every minute, with a mysterious expression on his face,
announces the visitors, adding “Sir” at every word. But the “Sir”
is completely absorbed in conversation with his friend from Russia,
before whom he is playing the rôle of the affable lord of this tropical
island. Upon the table are several open boxes of the most expensive
cigars; of Turkish, Egyptian, English and Havana cigarettes. He is a
connoisseur of tobaccos,--as well as of everything else, by the way.
He regales his guest now with this brand, now with the other, saying,
as though in passing: “This, I think isn’t at all bad....” Throwing a
casual glance at some paper submitted to him, he, in the midst of the
conversation, firmly and abruptly dashes off his signature upon it.
Upon seeing a visitor enter, he changes the expression on his face,
disposes of the matter in hand in two or three phrases, and again
renews the interrupted conversation. When receiving some dispatch,
his manner of opening it is especially negligent; for a moment, as he
runs through it, he frowns: “What idiots!” he will say vehemently,
in vexation; and throwing the dispatch to one side, immediately
forgets about it,--or pretends that he does so.... All are idiots
to him. He has already succeeded in astonishing his guest with his
self-assurance, his decisive and sceptical mind, his enormous worldly
experience and his wide acquaintance with people of the most diverse
classes and stations. No matter who among the celebrities of Moscow is
named,--merchants, administrators, physicians, journalists,--he knows
them all, and knows well, besides, the price of each and all. And
what information does he not possess concerning back-stage mysteries,
exceptional careers, and shady histories!
His guest had heard a great deal about him while still at Port Said
from a certain friend of this man; which friend had said, with a
cynical gaiety, that Zotov had gone through fire, water, and brazen
pipes. “Ye-es,” this friend had said, shaking his head with a derisive
and enigmatic smile, “he’s a fine lad!” On the spot the guest came to
know still more, and chiefly through the fragmentary phrases of Zotov
himself. Strangely and unexpectedly do talents manifest themselves in
Russia, and they work miracles when lucky lots fall to their share!
For he had drawn an unusually lucky lot when he had come as an urchin
to Moscow. He had an uncle there; a well-fed, clever _moujik_, who
had already attained to a competence and a consciousness of his own
worth; who knew how, adroitly, without lowering himself, to do a good
turn for any decent gentleman. This uncle worked in the Sandunovskiya
baths, and many of those whom he enveloped in clouds of hot and
fragrant soapy foam called him by name and liked to chat with him. And
one of these was Nechaev, a liberal, educated Crœsus, a large-built,
stout merchant in gold spectacles. Was it a hard thing, having thrown
a fine, slippery sheet over the pink, steamed body, to put in a word
about his urchin nephew? And this urchin did not get to twisting waxen
thread, nor to blowing up the fire under sad-irons, but got into a
sombre, clean and quiet warehouse on the Iliyinka. All the rest was
a matter of his personal liveliness and aptitude. Everyone knows how
these lucky fellows and born geniuses begin: during the day the urchin
runs errands; of evenings, by his own volition, without any guidance,
he pours by the dim light of a candle-end, learning to read and write;
in the morning, before the clerks get in, he, without understanding,
but stubbornly, overcomes the newspaper, and, let the clerks but open
their mouths, he is right there on the spot, all alert and obedient,
catching every word, every glance.... When he was about twelve this
urchin, who had aroused his employer’s special interest, was taken
into the latter’s home; while in his eighteenth year he was already
in Germany, studying the paper industry, working as hard as any
German,--the foreigners, it would seem, did not want to believe that he
was a Russian. “They often don’t believe it even now, the blockheads!”
said Zotov, roughly and abruptly, as is his wont, throwing away one
cigarette and immediately lighting another.... “But, after all, does he
resemble a European so very greatly?” the guest wonders as he looks at
his host.
He is thirty-seven years of age, but seems older. Yes,--in appearance
he is altogether an Englishman; even his hands are English, the red
hair upon them so thick that they seem to be covered with tow. “But
then,” the guest reflects, “would an Englishman talk so amazingly
much and so animatedly?” Hands really English would not be trembling
at his age, and, moreover, if possessing such strength as Zotov’s, an
Englishman’s face would not be so pale, so uneasy without any visible
cause. Zotov is wearing black spectacles for the second day now,
because one of his eye-brows is injured,--he slipped, so he says, on
a banana peel in a bar; which means that he was rather far gone! And
yet here, on this island, he is a personage because of his position.
His hold on his guest’s curiosity and attention does not flag for a
minute. This man, audacious to the verge of insolence, infects one with
his audacity, his energy,--at times even enraptures. But, listening
to him, wondering at him, one looks upon him and thinks: “But he is
drunk,--he is drunk!” He is always tipsy,--from nervousness, from the
heat, from whiskey; Englishmen drink a great deal, but, of course, not
a single one of them in all this white city drinks as much as Zotov,
nor swallows iced soda water as avidly, nor smokes such a quantity of
cigars and cigarettes, nor speaks so much and so confusedly....
After his training abroad he worked at home and enjoyed the unbounded
trust of the man who had brought him up. But he no longer wanted to
know any mean in his independence, as well as in his expenditures. Sent
into Central Asia, he suddenly, on some trifling pretext, quarrelled
with Nechaev, severing all connections with him,--and, from a man
steadily and surely climbing upward, was transformed into something
very like an adventurer. He had traversed all of Siberia; had been
in Amur, in China, consumed with impatience to found some enterprise
all his own,--let it be something new, let it be something he was not
familiar with, let it even be of a predatory nature,--but an enterprise
such as would quickly lead to riches. Having returned to Russia he had
insinuated himself into a great tea firm, besides having arranged two
other posts for himself,--and it is now the sixth year that he has
been living here in the tropics, clad in no mean powers.... It is a
rare European who would have so easily cancelled his fate, amazing in
its successfulness,--or even his specialty, which had taken so many
years of toil to acquire! No European would have yielded himself to
the whims of chance, or have shouldered not only a governmental post,
but also a steamship agency and a tea business; or have started, along
with all these, certain affairs with pearl-bearing shells; or would
have maintained a black mistress all his own,--a rare beauty, according
to rumour,--to the wonder of the whole city.... He keeps his counsel
very much to himself, but at times he is very tactless; reveals, with
equal force, now great firmness of character, now unrestraint; now
secretiveness, now loquacity. He flaunts his common origin and at the
same time boasts of his acquaintance with people of rank; swears, for
all he is worth, at the Russian Government,--and with evident pride
keeps on his desk a photographic portrait of a Russian Grand Duke,
handsome and rather young, who had personally bestowed this portrait
upon him, with a short signature in autograph. When he is narrating
something that, in his opinion, is humorous, he frequently does not
comprehend that the point of this amusing matter may be interpreted
not at all to his advantage,--for example, it was from no other source
than his own stories that the guest found out that Zotov had appeared
as far too omniscient, almost as a passer-by, to those men of affairs
in Siberia and Manchuria with whom he so rapidly attained to terms of
intimacy, whom he so quickly charmed at first with his obligingness and
sociability, his mannerisms of a man used to living on a grand scale, a
man conversant with what is what, in absolutely all things, beginning
with cigars, wine, women, and culminating with some excavations on
the Philippine Islands, rather lethal, it would seem, on account of an
earthly microbe....
In the evening the guest rides with him beyond the city.
Beyond the city, on the shore of the ocean, stands a small but a very
fashionable restaurant, where the tourists and the residents rest
from the sultriness of the city, drinking tea, brandy, and champagne,
and admiring the sunset from the front piazza of the restaurant. They
come there in tiny rickshaws, following one another, over an endless
road amid age-old vegetation, past bungalows and past the huts of the
savages. And for a whole hour the guest from Russia sees before him
only the naked body of a brown man, carrying him at a run farther and
farther under the green vault of the branches of spreading trees; and
beyond him, beyond this body and black-haired head, the big white
figure of Zotov, sitting high and erect in his little carriage. Halfway
to their destination he suddenly turns around and, raising his stick,
calls out to his guest:
“Would you care to drive in?”
For answer the guest assents,--Zotov had pointed out a small Buddhistic
monastery,--and the savages, breathing heavily, bathed in perspiration,
roll up along the passage way, lying between the cabins, that stand
underneath the palms and all other species of trees.
“Well, isn’t this like a bit of our own; isn’t this Russian?” Zotov is
saying, stepping out of his carriage. “Only in our country is there so
unconscionably much of this verdure, of this forest, so many of these
hovels, so many dirty urchins like these! Just look!” he is saying,
pointing with his stick at the trees, at the huts and their roofs of
leaves and of rushes, at the naked children, and at the natives, young
and old, who have surrounded the little carriages in their curiosity.
“And the evening, too, is like one of our own,--oppressive, and so
wearisome, so wearisome!” he is saying in irritation, going in the
direction of the old idol temple standing on a knoll underneath slender
cocoanut palms, where a priest is already waiting, clad in a yellow
mantle, with his right shoulder bared,--his shaven head is small and
pressed in at the temples, and his eyes are black, almost insane, and
have an intense gaze.
Having entered the dark little sanctuary, the compatriots take off
their helmets, wet with perspiration and cool on the inner side. The
priest points a finger at their heads and shakes his head: as much as
to say that this is not required.
“A lot you know, you fool,” says Zotov in Russian; and for a long
while, with a certain strange gravity, gazes at the fourteen-foot
wooden statue, gilded and painted in red and yellow, lying on its side
beyond a sacrificial altar of black stone, upon which are heaped small
coins and nickel rings, and with the slenderest of brown joss-sticks
sending forth thin jets of aromatic smoke standing upon it.
“And how he is painted and lacquered all over, though!” says Zotov
jerkily. “Every bit just like the wooden bowls and cups sold at our
fairs!”
And he carelessly tosses a heavy gold coin upon the silver plate
extended by the priest....
When they arrive at the restaurant, his face is almost chalky, and it
is a frightful thing to see the black spectacles upon it. “For two
whole hours I have not been poisoning myself with anything, have drunk
nothing, nor have I smoked; and because of all that I have become dead
tired,” he is saying. And just as soon as he is seated at a small table
on the little terrace before the restaurant, over the steep shore,
cumbered below with blue bowlders that eternally bathe in the warm
water of the ocean, he immediately orders champagne.
The wine is very chill, and they both drink it avidly, rapidly growing
tipsy, and contemplate the darkening lilac ocean, the infinitely
distant sunset, turbidly and tenderly roseate. A faint, warm breeze
is stirring; the cicadas are drowsily strumming in the brushwood....
And suddenly Zotov flings his cigarette far from him, quickly lights
another, and again, with the pertinacity of a maniac, begins talking of
the similarity of this island and Russia.
The guest smiles. Zotov, hurriedly and not at all clearly, argues
with him. The matter does not lie, he urges, merely in an outward
resemblance.... And it was not even the resemblance that he had in
view, but rather his reactions.... Perhaps these reactions are not
firm, are unwholesome,--but then, that is another matter.... The devil
himself would go out of his mind in a climate like this,--it is not
a climate to be trifled with.... But now, in a discussion of all the
various dangers of the Far East, people somehow forget entirely about
that fact; messieurs the Aryans, and especially we Russians, ought to
carry out our conquering expeditions into the tropics with extreme
cautiousness, recalling with a greater frequence our forefathers
and their conquest of Hindustan, so significantly terminating in
Buddhism,--when all is said and done, it is we, the Aryans, after
Thibet intruding ourselves into the tropics, who have given birth to
this teaching, with its appallingly inapplicable wisdom! And then he
warmly begins to asseverate that “all the force of the thing” lies in
that he had already seen, had already felt the tropics even before
his arrival here, at some time very remote, perhaps a thousand years
ago,--with the eyes and the soul of his most distant ancestor....
He tells,--with a subtlety, passionateness and an eloquence never to be
expected from him,--that he had experienced extraordinary sensations
on the way over here, on those sultry, starry nights when he had first
beheld the Southern Cross, Canopus, and those first-created starry
mists that are called the Clouds of Magellan; when he had beheld the
Coal Sacks, those funereal fissures into the infinitude of universal
voids; and the awesome magnificence of the Alpha of the Centaur,
glimmering upon the utterly empty horizon, where some immeasurable
Nothingness, unattainable to our reason, seemed to be in its inception.
“Yes, yes!” exclaims he insistently, fixing the guest with his
spectacles: “The horizon was utterly empty about the Alpha! A spectacle
of a new world, of new heavens, was opened before me, but it seemed to
me,--and this sensation was vivid to the verge of terror within me, I
assure you!--it seemed to me that I had seen them before, once upon a
time. All the days and all the nights a smooth, dead swell rocked us
wide on the ocean. We were sailing toward an Eastern monsoon; it blew
sharp and strong, and its ceaseless current of air made the sailyards
hum and blurred the vision, and made our speed seem rapid.... Awaking
at night in the hot darkness of my cabin, I, in order to rest after
the exhausting sleep, would go on the upper decks, out into the wind,
under the stars,--altogether different from those I had seen all my
life, from my very birth, and with which I had already grown intimate;
stars that were altogether, altogether different,--yet at the same not
altogether new, seemingly, but as though they were _dimly recalled_.
Under their dim light hovered the ceaseless noise of the sea, the
steamer rolled slowly from one side to the other, and, like strangled
suicides in gray shrouds, with arms outspread, the long canvas
ventilators swayed and quivered near the funnel, avidly catching with
their orifices the freshness of the monsoon, upon which was already
borne toward us the hot breath of the dread Land of our First Parents.
And at such times I would be seized by such melancholy,--a melancholy
of some infinitely remote recollection,--that one can not express in
human speech even a hundredth part of it!”
A faint, delightful breeze is stirring; there is a drowsy strumming in
the brushwood. The twilight begins to swell as with sap with that faery
orange-aureate colour which always arises in the tropics when some
time had elapsed after the sunset. The surf boils up in orange-aureate
foam; the faces and the white costumes are bathed in an orange-aureate
light....
“How connect that with which he amazed me to-day with what he is
amazing me now?” the guest from Russia is reflecting, almost in fear,
about his astonishing compatriot. But the latter, is looking at him
through his black spectacles and is stubbornly reiterating:
“Yes, yes,--I have already been here.... And, in general, I am a
doomed man.... If you but knew how dreadfully muddled my affairs are!
Even more, it would seem, than my soul and my thoughts.... Oh, well,
there is a way out of everything! Just jerk back the trigger of
your revolver, having thrust its muzzle as far as possible into your
mouth,--and all these affairs, thoughts, and emotions will fly into
pieces to the devil and his dam!”
_1916._
BRETHREN
_Behold brethren, slaying one another!
I would discourse of grief._
SUTHA NIPPATHA.
The road out of Colombo, lying along the ocean, runs through dense
cocoanut groves. To the right, within their sun-dappled shady depths,
under the high canopy of feathery broom-like tree-tops, are scattered
the Senegalese cabins, half-hidden by the pale green laminæ of
bananas, resembling gigantic ears of corn, so small and low are they
in comparison with the tropical forest surrounding them. To the left,
through the dark-ringed trunks, tall and slender, fantastically bent
in all directions, one sees stretches of deep, silky sands, a gleam
of a golden, blazing mirror of smooth water, and, anchored upon it,
as though blending with the tree trunks, are the coarse sails of
primitive pirogues,--frail, cigar-shaped hollowed-out small oaks. Upon
the sand, in paradisaical nudity, are sprawling the coffee-coloured
bodies of black-haired striplings. Many such bodies are also plashing,
with laughter and yells, in the warm transparent water of the stony
coast.... Of what need, one thinks, to these people of the forests,
these direct heirs of the Land of our First Parents, as Ceylon is
styled even now,--of what need to them are cities, cents, rupees?
Do not the forest, ocean, sun give them everything? And yet, upon
attaining the years of maturity, some of them take to trading, others
labour upon the rice and tea plantations, a third lot--in the north of
the island--dive for pearls together with negroes, going down to the
bottom of the ocean and arising thence with bloodshot eyes; a fourth
group replace horses,--they carry Europeans over the towns and their
environs, over dark red footpaths, shaded by enormous vaults of forest
verdure over that very _kabouk_ out of which Adam was created. Horses
bear but illy the sultriness of Ceylon,--even Australian horses; every
wealthy resident who keeps a horse sends it away for the summer to the
mountains, into Candy, into Nurillia.
Upon the rickshaw-man’s left arm, between his shoulder and elbow,
the Englishmen, the present lords of the island, put a badge with a
number. There are ordinary numbers, and there are special ones. To one
old Senegalese rickshaw-man, living in a forest hut near Colombo, had
fallen a special number,--seven. “Wherefore,” the Exalted One might
have said,--“wherefore, monks, did this old man desire to multiply his
earthly sorrows?” “Because,” the monks might have answered, “because,
oh Exalted One, he was moved by earthly love, by that which, from the
start of time, summons all creatures into being,--therefore did this
old man desire to increase his earthly sorrows.” He had a wife, a
son, and many little children, dreading not that “he who hath them,
hath also the care of them.” He was black, very thin and unsightly,
resembling both a stripling and a woman; his long hair, gathered in
a knot at the nape of his neck and anointed with cocoanut oil, had
grown gray; the skin over all his body--or, to put it better, over his
bones--had wrinkled; as he ran, sweat streamed down from his nose,
chin, and the rag tied about his scanty pelvis; his narrow chest drew
breath with whistling and gasping. But strengthening himself with the
headiness of the betel, working up and expectorating a bloody froth
that soiled his moustache and lips, he sped quickly; and the white men
rolling in his black lacquered cart through the sun-scorched city, over
the dark-red pavements, soft from the sun and smelling of naphtha and
the humus of flowers, were satisfied.
Moved by love, not for himself, but for his family, for his son, did he
desire happiness, that which was not destined to be his, that which was
not given to him. He knew English but poorly; he could not make out at
once the names of the places where he was to run to--and frequently ran
at a venture. The rickshaw-man’s carriage is very small; it has a top
that can be thrown back, its wheels are narrow and high, each shaft is
no thicker than an average cane. And lo! A big man, his eyes almost all
whites, all in white, with a white sun helmet, in rough but expensive
footgear, clambers into it, seats himself snugly therein, crosses one
leg over the other, and, restrainedly commanding, deep in his throat,
hoarsely croaks his destination. Seizing his shafts, the old man bends
down to the ground and flies forward like an arrow, scarce touching
the ground with his light feet. The man in the helmet, holding a stick
in his hands covered with tow-like hair, has gone into deep thought
over his affairs, staring vacantly,--when suddenly he rolls his eyes
in wrath: why, the fellow’s rushing in an altogether wrong direction!
To put it shortly, not a few sticks had fallen upon his back, upon his
black shoulder blades, always hunched up in presentiment of a blow. But
also not a few extra cents had he snatched from Englishmen,--checking
himself at full speed at the entrance of some hotel or office and
dropping the shafts, he would so wrinkle his face, so hurriedly throw
out his thin arms, his moist, monkey-like palms cupped, that it was
impossible not to give him something additional.
One day he ran home at an altogether unaccustomed hour in the very
heat of noonday, when those lemon-coloured birds which are called
sun-birds flutter through the forest like golden arrows; when so
gaily and shrilly scream the parrots, darting from the trees and
flashing like rainbows through the dappled boskage of the forests,
through their shade and gleaming light; when, within the enclosures
of ancient Buddhistic sanctuaries, roofed with terra-cotta tiles,
the plum-coloured blossoms of the leafless Tree of Sacrifice, that
resemble little tuberoses, yield such a sweet and heavy odour; when
thick-throated chameleons play with such vivid primary colours as
they flash over smooth-trunked trees, as well as over trees that
are as ringed as an elephant’s trunk; when so many huge, gorgeous
butterflies soar and float without motion in the sun; and when the
hot, fawn-coloured ant-hills swarm and spout, as though with agate
grain. All things in the forests chanted and praised Maru, the God of
Life and Death, the God of the “Thirst of Being”; all creatures were
pursuing one another, rejoicing with a brief joy even as they destroyed
one another; but the old rickshaw-man, no longer athirst for anything
but a cessation of his sufferings, lay down in the stuffy murk of
his mud-hut, under its parched-up roof of leaves arustle with little
red snakes, and toward evening was dead--from icy cramps and watery
dysentery. His life was extinguished together with the sun, that went
down beyond the lilac smoothness of great watery expanses, retreating
toward the west, into the purple, ashes, and gold of the most
magnificent clouds in the universe. And night came,--a night on which,
in the forests near Colombo, all that was left of the rickshaw-man
was only a little contorted corpse, that had lost its number, its
name, even as the river Kellani loses its appellation when it reaches
the ocean. The sun, upon sinking, changes to a wind; but into what
does he that has died change? ... Night was rapidly extinguishing
the roseate and green colours of the fleeting twilight,--colours as
tender as those of some fairy tale; the flying foxes darted noiselessly
underneath the branches, seeking shelter for the night; and the forests
were filling up with a black, warm darkness, were bursting into flame
with myriads of fire-flies, and were mysteriously, languishingly
murmurous with cicadas and with the flowers of which the tiny tree
frogs make their home. In the distant forest idol-temple, before a
little sacred lamp barely glimmering upon a black altar for offerings
that was drenched with cocoanut oil and strewn with rice and withered
flower petals, upon his right side, with one hand laid meekly under
his cheek, reposed the Exalted One,--a giant of sandal-wood, with
a broad gilded face and elongated slanting eyes of sapphires, with
a smile of peaceful sadness upon his thin lips. In the dark cabin,
upon his back, was lying the rickshaw-man, and the suffering of death
distorted his pitiful features,--for that the voice of the Exalted
One had not reached him when it had summoned him to forsake earthly
love; for that beyond the grave a new life of sorrow awaited him, as
a consequence of his previous unrighteous one. The buck-toothed old
woman, sitting at the threshold of the cabin, at the fire under a
cauldron, wept on this night, nourishing her grief with the self-same
unreasoning love and pity. The Exalted One would have likened her
emotions to the copper ear-ring, resembling a little barrel, which hung
in her right ear,--the ear-ring was big and heavy; it had so pulled
down the slit in the lobe of her ear that a considerable hole had
formed. Her short blouse of cotton stuff, put on right over the bare
coffee-coloured body, stood out sharply white in the darkness. Near
by, naked, imp-like children were playing, squealing, pursuing one
another. As for the son, a light-footed youth,--he was standing in the
semi-darkness beyond the fire. He had that evening seen his bride,--a
round-faced, thirteen-year-old girl from a neighbouring settlement. He
was frightened and dumbfounded upon hearing of his father’s death,--he
had not thought that this would come so soon. But, probably, he was too
much aroused by another love, which is stronger than the love men bear
for their fathers. “Forget not,” saith the Exalted One, “forget not, O
Youth, longing to enkindle life with life, even as fire is enkindled
with fire, that all the torments of this universe, where everyone is
either slayer or slain, that all its sorrows and plaints, come from
love.” But love had already crept into the youth in its entirety, even
as a scorpion creeps into its lair. He stood and gazed into the fire.
As with all savages, his legs were disproportionately long. But even
Siva would have envied the beauty of his torso, that was of the colour
of dark cinnamon. The fire made his blue-black hair glisten,--it was as
thick as horse hair, and stretched taut and gathered at the top of his
head; made his eyes glow from under their long lashes,--and their glow
was like the glow of coke near the mouth of a forge.
On the next day the neighbours carried off the dead little old man
into the depths of the forest; laid him in a pit, with his head to
the west, toward the ocean; hurriedly, but trying not to make noise,
cast earth and leaves over him; and hurried away to perform their
cleansing ablutions. The little old man was done with his running;
the brass badge was taken off the thin arm that had grown gray and
wrinkled,--and, admiring it, distending his thin nostrils, the youth
put it upon his own, that was rounded and warm. At first he only
followed the experienced rickshaw-men, trying to catch the destinations
of their passengers, memorizing English words and the names of the
streets; then he began carrying passengers independently, began
earning money himself; he was preparing for a family, for a love of
his own,--the desire for which is a desire for sons, just as the
desire for sons is a desire for property, and desire for property--a
desire for well-being. But one day, having come home, he came upon
other horrible tidings: his bride had vanished,--she had gone to Slave
Island, to purchase something, and had not returned. The bride’s
father, who knew Colombo well, having frequently gone there, searched
for her for three days, and he must have found out something, because
he returned reassured. He sighed and cast down his eyes, expressing his
submission to fate; but he was a great hypocrite, a sly old man, like
all those who have property, who trade in the city. He was corpulent,
with breasts like a woman’s; he had hoary hair, carefully combed, and
ornamented with an expensive comb of tortoise shell; he walked about
bare-footed, but under a sun-shade; he girt his hips with a piece
of gaudy material, of good quality; his blouse was of _piqué_. It
was impossible to get the truth out of him; furthermore, all women,
all maidens, are frail, even as all rivers are full of turnings and
windings; and the young rickshaw-man understood this. After sitting at
home for two days in a daze, without touching food, only chewing betel,
he finally came to himself and again ran off into Colombo. He seemed to
have forgotten entirely about his bride. He ran with the rickshaw, he
covetously hoarded money,--and it was impossible to understand which he
was more in love with: his running, or those circles of silver which
he gathered for it. One Russian seaman had had a photograph taken of
himself and the rickshaw-man, and had presented him with one of these
pictures. For a long time after that the young rickshaw-man joyously
marvelled at his image: he was standing between his shafts, his face
turned toward the imaginary spectators, and everyone could recognize
him immediately,--even the badge on his arm had come out. With all good
fortune, apparently even with happiness, he had laboured thus for about
half a year.
And one morning he was sitting with other rickshaw-men underneath a
many-trunked banyan tree that stood upon that lengthy street which
extends from Slave Island to Victoria Park. The hot sun had just
appeared from behind the trees, from the direction of Maradana. But
the banyan tree had grown high, and there was no longer any shade
about its roots, strewn over with parched leaves. The little carriages
grew hot from the heat, their thin shafts lay upon the dark-red,
heated earth, that smelt both of naphtha and of freshly-ground
coffee. With this odour were blended the pungent sweet odours of the
surrounding, ever-blossoming gardens, the odours of camphor, of musk,
and of that which the rickshaw men were eating,--and they were eating
bananas,--small, warm, tenderly roseate, in aureate skins; they were
eating those orange fruits, with a tang of turpentine, the meat of
which has the appearance of the flesh of children. They were chattering
as they sat on the ground, their knees raised in sharp angles up to
their chins, with their arms on top of the knees, and with their
feminine heads on top of their arms. Suddenly, in the distance, near
the white enclosing walls of a bungalow, dappled by the light and
shade, appeared a man clad in white. He was walking in the middle of
the street with that determined and firm step with which only Europeans
walk. And, jumping up as quick as lightning from the ground, the entire
flock of these naked, long-legged men dashed toward him, racing to
get ahead of one another. They darted upon him from all sides, and he
yelled threateningly, swinging out with his cane. Timid and sensitive,
they checked themselves at full speed, gathering around him. He glanced
at them,--and number seven, with his pitch-black, horse-like hair,
appeared to him stronger than the others. And so his choice fell upon
number seven.
He was short and strong, in gold spectacles, with black eyebrows grown
together over the bridge of his nose, with a short black moustache,
with an olive complexion; the sun of the tropics and liver trouble
had already left their sallow trace upon his face. His helmet was
gray; his eyes, in some strange way, as though they beheld nothing,
looked out of the coal-black darkness of his eyebrows and lashes,
from behind the shining lenses. He sat down like one accustomed to
rickshaws,--immediately finding in the little carriage that spot which
makes it the easiest for the rickshaw-men to run, and glancing at the
little watch in a leathern socket strapped around his wrist,--it was
tattooed, and the hand was powerful and stubby,--called out “York
Street!” His expressionless voice was firm and calm, but his eyes had
a strange look. And the rickshaw-man snatched up the shafts and flew
off at a considerably greater speed than was called for, every moment
clicking the bell that was fastened at the end of the shaft, and
shuffling in and out among pedestrians, tilted _arba_ carts, and other
rickshaws that were running back and forth.
It was the end of March,--the most sultry period. Not even three hours
had passed since the rising of the sun,--yet it already seemed as if
noon were near, so hot and bright was it everywhere, and so thronged
in the neighbourhood of the stores at the farther end of the street.
The earth, the gardens, all that tall, spreading vegetation which was
growing green and blossoming over the bungalows, over their chalky
roofs, and over the old black stores,--all these had cloyed the air
with warmth and fragrance, whereas the rain-trees had curled up tightly
their little cup-like leaves. The rows of shops,--or, rather, of
sheds,--roofed with black tiles, their walls hung about with enormous
bunches of bananas, with dried fish, with sun-cured shark-meat, were
filled with buyers and sellers,--both alike resembling dark-skinned
bath-attendants. The rickshaw-man, bending forward, his long legs
twinkling, was running rapidly, and as yet there was not a single drop
of sweat upon his back, glistening with cocoanut oil, nor upon his
rounded shoulders, between which the slender trunk of his girlish neck
gracefully supported his pitch-black head, upon which the blazing sun
beat down. At the very end of the street, he came to a sudden stop.
Turning his head just the least trifle, he rapidly said something in
his own tongue. The Englishman, his passenger, caught sight of the
tips of his curved eyelashes, caught the word “betel,” and raised his
eyebrows. How? Such a young, strong fellow was already wanting betel,
after having run only some two hundred steps? Without answering, he
struck the rickshaw-man over his shoulder blades with his cane. But the
latter, timorous like all Senegalese but at times also insistent, only
shrugged his shoulders and flew like an arrow diagonally across the
street, toward the shops.
“Betel,” repeated he, turning wrathful eyes upon the Englishman, and
baring his teeth in a dog-like snarl. But the Englishman had already
forgotten about him. And a minute later the rickshaw-man jumped out
of a shop, holding upon his narrow palm a leaf of the pepper tree,
smearing it over with lime and wrapping within it a bit of the _areca_
fruit, resembling a bit of flint. Kill not, steal not, commit no
fornication, lie not, nor become intoxicated with aught, the Exalted
One hath commanded. Yes,--but what did the rickshaw-man know of Him?
Vaguely echoed within him that which had been vaguely accepted by the
countless hearts of his forefathers. In the rainy season of the year he
had gone with his father to the sacred tabernacles; and there, among
the women and the beggars, he had listened to the priests reading in
an ancient tongue forgotten of all, and understanding nothing, only
chiming in in the common joyous acclamation whenever the name of the
Exalted One was uttered. More than once it had happened that his father
had prayed in his presence upon the threshold of the idol temple; he
would bow down before the recumbent statue of wood, muttering its
commandments, lifting his joined palms to his forehead, and then would
lay upon the altar for offerings the smallest and most worn of his
hard-earned coins. But he muttered his prayers with indifference,--for
he was merely afraid of the pictures upon the walls of the idol-temple,
the depictions of the torment of sinners; he bowed down before other
gods as well,--before horrible Hindu statues; in them, too, did he
believe, just as he believed in the power of demons, serpents, stars,
darkness....
Having thrust the betel into his mouth, the rickshaw-man, fitfully
volatile in his emotions, turned amiably smiling eyes upon the
Englishman, seized the shafts, and, starting off with a thrust of
his left foot, began running again. The sun was blinding; it gleamed
on the gold and the lenses of the spectacles whenever the Englishman
raised his head. The sun was scorching his hands and knees; the earth
was breathing heavily,--one could even see that the air was aquiver
above it, as above a brazier,--but he sat immovably, without touching
the hood of the little carriage. Two roads led into the city,--or, as
the residents called it, into the Fort: one, on the right, passed by
the Malay pagoda, over the dam between the lagoons; the other, to the
left, led toward the ocean. The Englishman wanted to go by the latter.
But the rickshaw-man turned around as he ran, showing his bloodied
lips, and pretended that he did not understand what was wanted from
him. And the Englishman again yielded,--he was absent-mindedly looking
about him. The green lagoon, sparkling, warm, filled with turtles and
rotting vegetation, bordered in the distance by a cocoanut grove, lay
on the right. Upon the dam people were walking, riding, running to the
clanging of bells. Rickshaw-men in fezes, white jackets, and short
white pantaloons were now occasionally met with. The Europeans sitting
in the little carriages were pale after the exhausting night; they held
their white shoes high, putting one knee over the other. A two-wheeled
cart, with a gray humped bullock harnessed to it, rolled by....
Beneath its top, in the light, warm shadow, was sitting a Parsee,--a
yellow-faced old man who looked like an eunuch, in a gown and a conical
velvet skull cap, the latter worked with gold. A giant Afghan, in wide
trowsers to his knees, in soft boots with upturned toes, in a white
_casaque_ and an enormous pink turban, was immovably standing, bent
over the lagoon, gazing at the turtles, at the warm water. Long covered
_arba_ carts stretched on endlessly, dragged along by oxen. Under
their narrow arched tops of straw were piled up bales of goods, and,
at times, there would be a whole cluster of the brown bodies of young
labourers. Shrivelled old men, parched by the heat, their feet reddened
from the red dust, looking like the mummies of old women, paced beside
the wheels. There were stone-cutters pacing along, and stalwart black
Tomilas.... “_The Pagoda_,” said the Englishman, referring to a certain
tea-house, when they had come beneath those patriarchal trees that grow
at the entrance into the Fort, beneath the unencompassable canopies of
their verdure, shot with the sun that penetrated through it.
They stopped near the entrance of an old Dutch building, with arcades
on its ground floor. The Englishman glanced at his watch and went off
to drink tea and to smoke a cigar. As for the rickshaw-man, he made
half a turn about the broad, shady street, over the reddishly-lilac
pavement, strewn over with the yellow and scarlet blossom of the
_ketmias_, and dropping the shafts at the roots of a tree, without
checking his impetus, sank down. He raised up his knees and put his
elbows upon them, avidly breathing in the steaming, sweetly odorous
warmth of noonday, and aimlessly letting his eyes follow the Senegalese
and Europeans passing by. Taking a rag from some recess of his apron,
he wiped with it his lips, made bloody by the betel, wiped his face,
the convexities on his thin chest, and, folding it into a bandage, tied
it around his head,--this did not at all look well, giving him the
appearance of a sick man; but then, many rickshaw-men do it. He sat,
and, perhaps, he may have been pondering.... “Our bodies, O Master,
are different,--but then, we all have but one heart,” Ananda had said
to the Exalted One, and, therefore, one can imagine what must be the
thoughts or emotions of a youth who had grown up in the paradisaical
forests near Colombo and who had already tasted the most potent of
poisons,--love for woman; who had already plunged into life,--life,
fleetly flying after joys or fleeing from sorrows. Mara had already
wounded him,--but then, Mara also healeth wounds. Mara snatches out
of the hands of man that which man had seized upon,--but then, Mara
also inflames a man to seize anew that which had been taken away, or to
seize something else that is like that which had been taken away....
Having had his tea, the Englishman wandered through the street,
entering shops, gazing at the show-cases displaying precious stones,
elephants and Buddhas made of ebony wood, all sorts of bright coloured
stuffs, the golden skins of panthers, spotted with black,--while the
rickshaw-man, meditating of something, or, perhaps, merely sentient,
was exchanging bright glances with the other rickshaw-men and followed
the Englishman, dragging his little carriage after him. Exactly at
noon the Englishman gave him a rupee to buy himself some food, while
he himself went into the office of a big European steamship line. The
rickshaw-man bought some cigarettes, started smoking, inhaling deeply,
watching his cigarette, as women do,--and smoked five of them, one
after the other. In a delectable daze he sat in the fretted shade,
opposite the three-story building where the office was, and suddenly,
having raised his eyes, saw that his passenger, and also five other
Europeans, had appeared on the balcony under the white awning. They
were all looking through binoculars at the harbour,--and now, beyond
the roofs of the wharf, appeared two tall, slender masts, slightly
inclined backward. The people on the balcony started waving their
handkerchiefs, while from beyond the roofs, morosely, mightily and
majestically, a whistle began to roar, echoed all over the roadstead
and in the city,--the steamer from far-away Europe that the passenger
of rickshaw number seven had been awaiting had arrived. With English
punctuality did it enter after twenty days’ sail to Colombo,--and that
which the rickshaw-man, still filled with hopes and desires, did not
at all expect--that dinner, so fatal for him, to be held in the house
near the lagoon, at the steamship agent’s home,--was decided upon.
But until dinner, until evening, there still remained much time. And
again this man in spectacles who saw nothing came out into the street.
He said good-bye to the two men who had come out with him and who had
gone in the direction of the white statue of Victoria, toward the
covered wharf; and again the rickshaw-man started ambling through the
street,--this time toward the hotel, where at this time many tourists
and rich residents were eating and drinking in a semi-dark hall,
whose sultry stuffiness was stirred and mixed with the odours of the
food by blades turning near the ceiling. And again, like a dog, the
rickshaw-man squatted down upon the pavement, upon the petals of the
_ketmias_. The fretted shade of trees whose light-green tips were
interlaced spread over the street, and in this shade went past him
the womanish Senegalese, thrusting upon the Europeans coloured postal
cards, tortoise-shell combs, precious stones,--one native was even
dragging after him by a cord a little beast in a coat of long quills,
trying to sell it,--and these half-savages, these rickshaw-men, kept
up their ceaseless racing through this rich European thoroughfare....
In the distance, in the centre of an open square, a woman of heroic
size, in marble,--proud, double-chinned, in crown and royal mantle,
seated on her throne upon a high pedestal of marble,--was blazing
in her whiteness. And those who had just arrived from Europe were
trooping from that direction. Black and dove-coloured servants jumped
out upon the entrance to the hotel; bowing, they snatched the canes
and small baggage from the hands of the arrivals, who were also met
by the bows, restrained and graceful, of a man resplendent with the
parting of his pomatumed hair, with his eyes, his teeth, his cuffs, his
starched linen, his _piqué_ dinner jacket, his _piqué_ trousers, and
his white footgear. “Men are forever going to feasts, to excursions,
to diversions,” saith the Exalted One, Who had at one time visited
this paradisaical corner of the first men who had come to know desire.
“The sight, sounds, taste, and odours of things intoxicate them,” He
had said; “desire entwines them, even as a creeping plant, green,
beautiful, and death-bearing, entwines the tree Shala.” Traces of
fatigue, of exhaustion from heat, from the rocking of the boat at sea
and from maladies, were upon the ashen faces of those going to the
hotel. They all had the appearance of being half-dead, they spoke
without moving their lips; but they all walked on, looking about
them, and one after the other disappeared within the darkness of the
vestibule, in order to go to their rooms, to wash up and refresh
themselves. And then, having intoxicated themselves with food, drink,
cigars and coffee, until their faces flushed crimson, they would roll
away in rickshaws to the shore of the ocean, into the Cinnamon Gardens,
to the Hindu temples and the Buddhistic sanctuaries. Everyone of
them--everyone!--had within his soul that which compels a man to live
and to desire the sweet deception of life! And was not this deception
doubly sweet to the rickshaw-man, born in the land of the first people?
Ladies and gentlemen walked to and fro before him,--elderly, ugly, just
as buck-toothed as his black mother, sitting in the distant forest
hut; but at times young women also went past him,--pleasant to look
upon, in white raiment, in small helmets wound with light veils, and,
arousing desire within him, they looked intently upon his splendid,
upraised eyelashes, upon the rag around his pitch-black head, and upon
his blood stained mouth. But then, was she who had disappeared in the
city inferior to them? The warmth of the tropical sun had made her
grow. She seemed darker on account of her short blouse, white, with
little blue flowers, and her skirt, just as short and of the same
material, both put directly upon her naked body,--just a trifle full,
but strong and small. She had a little rounded head, a convex little
forehead, round shining eyes in which childish timidity was already
being commingled with a joyous curiosity about life, with a hidden
muliebrity, both tender and passionate; there was a coral necklace
upon her rounded neck; her little hands and feet were braceletted with
silver.... Jumping up from his place, the rickshaw-man ran into one
of the nearest by-streets, where, in an old, one-storied house under
brick tiles, with thick wooden pillars, there was a bar for the lower
classes. There he put twenty-five cents on the bar, and for that price
gulped down a whole glass of whiskey. Having mixed this fire with the
betel, he had assured himself of a beatific exaltation almost until the
very evening, until the time when the forests near Colombo, filling
with black, sultry darkness, would begin to resound mysteriously with
murmurings and moanings of countless cicadas and tree toads, and the
thickets of bamboo would be aquiver with myriads of fiery sparks.
The Englishman, too, was intoxicated, as he walked out of the hotel
with a cigar,--his eyes were drowsy, his face, heightened in colour,
seemed to have become fuller. Glancing at his watch from time to time
and thinking of something, apparently not knowing how to kill time, he
stood a while near the hotel in indecision. Then he ordered himself
carried first to the post office, where he dropped three postal cards
into the box, and from the post office to Gordon’s Garden, which he
did not even enter,--he simply glanced in at the gates at the monument
and the pathways; and from the garden he went at random: to Black
Town, to the market place in Black Town, to the Kellani River.... And
then he was whirled on and on, hither and thither, by the intoxicated
rickshaw-man, who was bathed in sweat from head to foot, aroused both
by whiskey and by betel, and by the hope of receiving a whole heap of
pennies, and by certain other dreams that stir the body and soul and
that never forsake a man. At the most oppressive hour of the afternoon
heat and glare, when, after having sat on a bench under a tree for
two minutes one leaves upon it a dark ring of perspiration, he, to
please the Englishman, who did not know what to do until dinner, ran
all over Black Town,--ancient, populous, redolent of spicy odours;
and many naked coloured bodies and many bright stuffs girt about hips
did the sleepy Englishman see; many Parsees, Hindus, yellow faced
Malayans; malodorous Chinese shops, brick-tiled and bamboo-covered
roofs, temples, minarets and idol-temples; sailors from Europe on shore
leave, as well as Buddhistic monks,--shaven, thin, with insane eyes,
clad in canary-coloured toga-like garments, with the right shoulder
bared, and carrying fans made out of the foliage of the sacred palm.
Rapidly, rapidly, did the rickshaw-man and his passenger dash through
this teeming density and dirt of the ancient East, as though they
were escaping from some one. Up to the very river Kellani did they
run,--the narrow, turbid, and deep Kellani, made too warm by the sun,
half-covered with impenetrable green overgrowths that bent low from
its banks; the river beloved of crocodiles, who retreat farther and
farther into the depths of the virgin forests before the barges with
straw-thatched arched covers; barges laden with bales of tea, with
rice, cinnamon, precious stones still in the rough,--barges floating
with especial deliberation in the golden deep glitter of the sun before
evening.... Then the Englishman gave orders to return to the Fort,
by now deserted, with all its offices, agencies and banks closed; he
was shaved in a barber shop and grew unpleasantly younger; he bought
cigars, dropped into an apothecary’s.... The rickshaw-man, grown
thinner, all bathed in sweat, was by now gazing upon him inimically,
with the eyes of a dog that feels attacks of madness coming on....
At six o’clock, having run past the lighthouse at the end of Queen’s
Street, having run through the quiet and clean military streets, he ran
out upon the shore of the ocean, that struck his eyes with its freedom,
with its glaucously aureate sheen from the low-lying sun, and started
running over Gull Face Place toward Slave Island.
“From longing is born the desire for joy,” the Exalted One hath said,
“from happiness is born sorrow; out of joy and sorrow doth fear arise.”
And now within the eyes of the rickshaw-man had already appeared
sorrow, and fear, and malice. He had grown daft from running, had more
than once, with sad weariness, turned around toward his tormentor; he
breathed heavily, putting behind him with his long legs the broad,
well-laid road of the Place. At the setting of the sun this Place is
vast, empty and melancholy. Having done with business, the Englishmen
stroll here before dinner, are driven in costly horse equipages, or
drive their wives, mistresses, and children; play tennis and football;
and admire the ocean and the magnificent beauty of the tropical
sunset,--a sunset not like that of their own land. The rickshaw-man ran
on, looking wildly upon these sinewy, red-haired men in short white
trunks and gay sweaters, who careered over the Place of their own free
will, racing after one another with all their might, jumping up after
the soaring balls and kicking them resoundingly with the rough tips
of their heavy shoes. The sun was sinking; the sky above the setting
sun was growing green; a light, downy cloud, that had been lurking in
the skyey depths, became entirely roseate.... “Carlton Hotel!” in a
lifeless voice said the Englishman, who had all the time been sadly
and drowsily gazing toward the west, upon the ocean, upon its softly
murmurous surge, scattering into heliotrope foam upon the bowlders on
shore.... The rickshaw-man, as he ran, would bare his teeth; by now
he wanted to gnaw this man who had driven him so hard,--but it was
impossible not to run: the Englishman, without changing the expression
of his drowsily sad face, more and more often prodded the rickshaw-man
with the tip of his cane. And besides, the rickshaw’s beatific
exaltation had already passed into something else,--into a tense
submissiveness, into a coma of ceaseless running. All the hotels in the
Fort were filled up, and the Englishman lived in a common one beyond
Slave Island,--and now the rickshaw-man once more ran past the banyan
tree, under which he had sat down this very morning in his greed of
earning money from these merciless and enigmatic white men, in his
obstinate hope of happiness. Once more the familiar gardens, one after
another; the stone enclosures; the Dutch-tile roofs of bungalows,--low,
squat, by comparison with the trees spreading over them.... Having run
into the yard of one such bungalow, the rickshaw-man rested for half an
hour near the terrace, while the Englishman was changing his clothes
for dinner. His heart was pounding like a poisoned man’s, his lips
had blanched, the features of his dark brown face had grown sharper,
his splendid eyes had grown still blacker and wider, the rag upon his
head had become so saturated that he snatched it off and flung it far
from him. The odour of his heated body had become unpleasant,--it was
now the odour of warm tea mixed with cocoanut oil, and some other,
spirituous, ingredient, such as would be produced by taking and rubbing
a cluster of ants in one’s hands.
Meanwhile the sun had set. An elderly maiden was half-lying under
the awning of the terrace in a rocker, reading a prayer-book by the
remaining daylight. Having caught sight of her from the street, there
noiselessly entered the yard a mute Hindu of Madura,--a tall, dark old
man, as thin as a skeleton, with gray hair curling upon his chest and
abdomen, in a beggar’s turban, in a long apron of stuff that had at one
time been red and crossed with yellow stripes. Upon his arm the old man
carried a closed basket of palm-wattle. Walking up to the terrace, he
salaamed subserviently, putting his hand to his forehead, and sat down
upon the ground, lifting up the cover of the basket. Without looking at
him, the woman reclining in the rocker waved him away with her hand.
But he was already taking a bamboo flute out of his belt. And at this
point the rickshaw-man jumped to his feet, and in an inexplicable
fury yelled loudly at him. The old man, too, jumped up, slammed shut
the basket, and, turning about, ran toward the gates. But, for a long
while, the eyes of the rickshaw-man were round,--altogether as with
that fearful creature whom he pictured to himself,--slowly, like a
tightly wound cord, crawling out of the basket and hissingly puffing
out its throat, that glimmered with a blue sheen.
The darkness was falling rapidly,--it was already dark when the
Englishman, freshly laved, came out upon the terrace in his white
dinner jacket, and the rickshaw-man submissively darted toward the
shafts. The Englishman called out briskly the name of the place he was
to run to,--and who knows if his order found no eerie echo in the heart
of the rickshaw-man? It was already night, and an exceptionally hot
one,--as always before the oncoming of the rainy season; a night still
more fragrant than the day. Still denser had grown the warm and cloying
aroma of musk, blended with the odour of the warm earth, pinguid with
the humus of flowers. It was so dark in the gardens through which the
rickshaw-man was running that only by his heavy breathing and by the
scanty light of the little lantern upon the shaft, could one gather
that he was bearing down upon one. Then, beneath the black canopies
of the trees, came the faint glimmering of the rotting lagoon; and
next,--red lights lengthily reflected in it. The big two-storied house
in which the agent lived shone through and through in this tropical
blackness with the openings of its windows. It was dark in the
compound. A large number of rickshaw-men, their bodies blending into
the darkness and their loin cloths showing dimly white, had come into
this compound with those who had been invited. And the large balcony,
open toward the lagoon, was aglow with candles in glass chimneys,
clustered about with countless thrips; it was dazzling with the cover
of the long table, set with china, bottles, and pails of ice, and was
white with the dinner jackets of the people sitting at it, who ate,
drank, and without a moment’s silence, even though restrainedly, spoke
deep down in their throats, as bare-footed corpulent servants, that
looked like wet-nurses, waited upon them, their bare soles rustling.
And an enormous punkah of Chinese matting, attached by one edge to the
ceiling, swayed and swayed over their heads, brought into motion by
Malayans sitting behind a partition that did not reach to the ceiling,
and kept pouring a constant current of air upon the diners, upon their
cold and clammy foreheads. Rickshaw-man number seven dashed up to the
balcony. Those seated at the table greeted the newly arrived guest with
glad murmuring. The guest jumped out of the little carriage and ran up
into the balcony. As for the rickshaw-man, he started off at a gallop
to go round the house, in order to get again to the gates, into the
compound, to the other rickshaws. And, as he was turning the corner
of the house, he suddenly recoiled, as though he had been struck with
a stick: standing near an open and illuminated window on the second
story,--in a small Japanese kimona of red silk, in a triple necklace
of rubies, in broad bracelets of gold upon her round arms,--looking
upon him with round shining eyes was his bride: that very girl-woman
with whom he had agreed, already a half-year back, to exchange balls
of rice! She could not see him below, in the darkness. But he had
recognized her instantly,--and, having staggered back, stood stock
still on the spot.
He did not fall down, his heart did not burst asunder,--it was too
young and strong. Having stood for a minute or so, he sat down on the
ground, under an age-old fig-tree, whose entire top, like a tree of
paradise, burned and flickered with the dust of fiery-green sparks. For
a long time did he gaze upon the dark round little head, upon the red
silk that loosely embraced the little body, and upon the arms, raised
as she patted her hairdress, of her who stood framed in the window. He
squatted on his heels until she had turned about and had gone into the
recesses of the room. And when she had disappeared he instantly jumped
to his feet, caught the shafts that had been lying on the ground, and
flew like a bird through the yard and out of the gates; again did he
start running, on and on,--this time knowing unerringly whither he
was running, and wherefore, and now himself directing his suddenly
liberated will.
“Awake, awake!” clamoured within him the thousands of soundless voices
of his mournful ancestors, mouldered for hundreds of generations in
this paradisaical earth. “Shake off thee the seductions of Mara, the
dream of this brief life! Is sleep for thee,--thou who hast been
empoisoned with venom, pierced through with an arrow! An hundredfold
doth he suffer who hath that which is an hundredfold dear; all
sorrows, all complaints, come from love, from the attachments of the
heart,--therefore, slay thou them! Not for long shalt thou be in the
tranquillity of rest; anew and anew, in a thousand incarnations, shalt
thou be put forth by this thy land of Eden, the shelter of the first
men who had come to know desire. But still this brief rest shall come
to thee, thou that hast too early run forth upon the path of life,
passionately setting out after happiness, and that hast been wounded
by the sharpest of all arrows,--by the yearning for love and for new
inceptions in this ancient universe, where from time out of mind the
conqueror stands with a heavy sole upon the throat of the conquered!”
The lights of the open air stalls of Slave Island appeared under the
canopies of the trees whose tops were interlaced. The rickshaw-man
hungrily ate in one of these stalls a small bowl of rice over-spiced
with pepper, and then darted on. He knew where the old man from
Madura lived, who had an hour ago entered the yard of the hotel: he
dwelt with his nephew, at his large fruit store, in a low house with
wooden columns. The nephew, in a dirty European suit of duck, with an
enormous mane of black twining wool upon his head, was dragging in the
baskets of fruits into the interior of the store, his eyes puckering
from the smoke of a cigarette that had stuck to his lower lip. He
paid no attention to the insane appearance of the perspiring, heated
rickshaw-man. And the rickshaw-man silently hopped up under the shelter
of the awning, among the pillars, went to the left, and with his foot
pushed a small door behind which he hoped to find the old mute. In his
perspiring hand he was clutching a treasured gold-piece, which, while
he was still running, he had taken out of a leather pouch that hung at
his belt, beneath his apron. And the gold-piece speedily did its work.
When the rickshaw-man jumped out again, he bore a large cigar box,
tied with a cord. He had paid a great price for it, but then, it was
not empty: that which it contained was struggling, writhing, knocking
against the lid with its tensed coils, swishingly.
Why did he take the little carriage along with him? For take it along
he did,--and at an even, powerful pace flew for the shore of the ocean,
toward Gull Face Place. The place was empty; darkly did it extend into
the distance under the light of the stars. Beyond it were scattered
the small and infrequent lights of the Fort, and against the sky was
slowly turning the watch-tower of the lighthouse, with its reflectors,
throwing fumid stripes of white light in the direction of the roadstead
only. The rickshaw-man felt a faint cool breeze blowing from the ocean,
whose drowsy murmur was barely audible. Having reached at a run the
shore, the middle of the road, the rickshaw-man for the last time threw
down the slender shafts, into which at such an early age, but not for
long, life had harnessed him, and sat down,--this time not upon the
ground, but on a bench; sat down without fear, as though he were a
white resident.
In giving a whole pound to the Hindu, he had demanded the smallest
and the strongest, the most death-bearing one. And it was,--besides
having a faery beauty, being all in black rings, with green edgings,
with a dark blue rounded head, with an emerald stripe back of its head,
and with a funereal tail,--it was, despite its small size, unusually
powerful and malignant; but now, after it had been coiled up in a
smelly wooden box, it was especially so. It coiled convulsively, like
a steel spring; it writhed, rustled, and knocked against the lid of
the box. And he rapidly untied, unwound the cord.... However, who
knows just how he did it? Were his hands steady, or did they tremble?
Was he rapid, resolute, or no? And did he waver long after untying the
cord? Did he gaze for long at the murmurous dark ocean, upon the faint
starlight, upon the Southern Cross, the Crow, upon Canopus? Did he
bare his teeth in a canine snarl in the direction of the residential
quarter, in the direction of the rich hotel with its entrance shining
in the distance? Most probably, he had at once unhesitatingly opened
the box, and had laid his left hand firmly upon those springy coils,
icy as a dead body, that were writhing in the box; he was bitten right
in the palm.
And that bite is intolerably searing,--it is like the shock of
an electric current, and transpierces a man’s entire body with
untold pain, with such torture that after feeling it even monkeys
cry out piteously and burst into sobs,--childish, passionate,
despairingly-imploring. The rickshaw-man, most probably, did neither
cry out nor burst into sobs; full well did he know what he had set
out to do. But there is no doubt that, having felt this fiery shock,
he turned a pin-wheel on the bench, and that the box flew aside. And
then, instantly, a bottomless darkness spread out beneath him, and
all things darted off somewhere upward, obliquely: the ocean, and the
stars, and the lights of the hotel. The surging of the ocean went
to his head,--and ceased abruptly: a dead faint always occurs after
such a shock. But after such a faint a man always comes quickly to
himself,--seemingly only to be nauseated, until blood comes, and to be
again plunged into non-being. There are several of these death-swoons,
and each one of them, breaking a man, making him gasp, tears away human
life, in parts; thought, memory, vision, hearing, pain, grief, joy,
hatred,--and that ultimate, all-embracing thing which is called love,
the yearning to encompass within one’s heart all the universe, seen and
unseen, and to bestow it anew upon some other.
* * * * *
Some ten days later, on a dark, sultry dusk before a thunder-storm,
two pair of oarsmen were racing in a small boat through the harbour of
Colombo, toward a great Russian steamship that was about to sail for
Suez. The passenger whom rickshaw-man number seven had once carried was
half-reclining in the boat. The steamer was already booming with the
rattling of the rising anchor chain, when, getting near the enormous
iron wall of the ship’s side, he ran up the long trap-ladder to the
deck. The captain at first flatly refused to take him on board: the
steamer carried freight only, he declared; the agent had already gone
away,--the thing was impossible. “But I beg you,--very, very much!”
retorted the Englishman. The captain looked at him with wonder; he was
apparently strong, energetic, but there was the tint of an unwholesome
tan upon his face, while the eyes behind the glistening spectacles were
unmoving, seeming to see nothing, and perturbed. “Wait until the day
after to-morrow,” said the captain; “there will be a German mail-packet
then.” “Yes, but to spend two more nights at Colombo would be very
hard for me,” answered the Englishman. “This climate exhausts me,--my
nerves trouble me. Besides that, the German packet, as is always the
case, will be packed to overflowing, whereas I desire to be alone. I
am done up by these Ceylon nights, by insomnia, and by all that which
a nervous man experiences before thunder-storms at dusk. But just
glance at this darkness, at these clouds that have obscured the horizon
everywhere: the night will again be a horrible one, the rain season
has, properly speaking, already set in....” And, with a shrug of his
shoulders, upon reflection, the captain gave in. And a minute later the
Senegalese, thin as eels, were already dragging up the trap-ladder a
trunk covered with shining black leather, all gay with vari-coloured
labels and marked with red initials.
The surgeon’s vacant cabin, which was put at the disposal of the
Englishman, was very small and stuffy; but the Englishman found it
splendid. Having hurriedly disposed his things about it, he passed
through the dining cabin up to the deck. Everything was rapidly sinking
in the darkness. The ship had already weighed anchor and was heading
for the open sea. To the right, other ships, with lights on their
masts, seemed to be sailing toward them,--these were the lights of the
Fort. To the left, under the high taffrail, the shifting level expanse
of the dark water rushed toward the low shore, toward the mounds of
coal, and the dark density of the groves of slender trunked palms that
were beyond the coal mounds. The water still bounded the darkness
and the mournfulness of the clouds, and its shifting rapidity made
one’s head reel. Constantly veering, constantly increasing, a humid,
nauseatingly-fragrant wind was blowing from somewhere. The taciturn
clouds suddenly burst into such an abysmal pale-blue light, that, lit
up by it, in the very depth of the forest, the trunks of the palms and
bananas, and the Senegalese huts underneath them, flashed upon the
vision. The Englishman blinked in affright; he looked over his shoulder
upon the pallid jetty with the little red light at the end of it, by
now seemingly sailing upon his left; he looked at the leaden-hued ocean
in the distance, beyond the jetty,--and quickly started back for his
cabin.
The old steward, a man irritated with fatigue, needlessly suspicious
and observant, peeped in several times behind the curtain of the
Englishman’s cabin before dinner. The Englishman was sitting on a
folding canvas chair, holding a thick leather-bound note-book on his
knees. He was writing in it with a gold-tipped pen, and his expression,
whenever he raised his face, his spectacles flashing, was dull, and,
at the same time, wondering. Then, having put his pen away, he went
off into a brown study, as though he were listening to the surging
and swishing of the waves, ponderously rushing by on the other side
of the cabin wall. The steward passed by, swinging a clamorous little
bell. The Englishman got up and stripped himself naked. Having sponged
himself off with water and eau-de-cologne from head to foot, he shaved,
clipped evenly his short, bushy moustache, painstakingly smoothed down
with military brushes his straight black hair, parting it at a slant,
put on fresh linen and his dinner jacket, and went to dinner with his
habitual firm, soldierly bearing.
The ship’s personnel, who had long since been seated at table and
had been swearing at him for his lateness, met him with exaggerated
politeness, showing off before one another with their knowledge of
English. He responded with a restrained, but not a lesser, politeness,
and hastened to add that he liked the Russian cuisine very much,
that he had been in Russia, in Siberia.... That, in general, he had
travelled a great deal, and had always borne up splendidly on his
travels, which, however, could not be said of his last stay in India,
in Java and Ceylon; here his liver was affected, his nerves were
upset,--he had even come to eccentricities: such, for example, as that
which he had shown an hour ago when he had so suddenly appeared on
the steamer.... At coffee he regaled the ship’s men with cognac and
_liqueurs_; he fetched a box of thick Egyptian cigarettes and put it
on the table, open, for common use. The captain, a man still young,
with clever and steady eyes, who endeavoured to be a European in all
things, began a conversation about the colonial problems of Europe,
about the Japanese, about the future of the Far East. Listening
attentively, the Englishman objected or agreed. He spoke well, and
not at all with simplicity, but as though he were reading aloud from
a well-written article. And at times he would suddenly grow quiet,
still more attentively trying to catch the swish of the waves beyond
the open door. The thunderstorm had been left behind. Long since the
chain of Colombo’s lights, that for a long while had been playing
like diamonds, had sunk into black velvet. Now the steamer was in
infinite darkness, in the void of ocean and of night. The dining cabin
was situated on deck, under the captain’s bridge, and the darkness
was etched in an intense black within the open doors and windows: it
seemed to be standing and gazing in into the brightly lit dining room.
A humid breeze blew out of this darkness,--the humid, free breath of a
something free since the start of time,--and its freshness, reaching
those seated at table, made them feel the odour of the tobacco smoke,
of the hot coffee, and of the liqueurs. But at times the electric
light would suddenly fail,--the doors and the windows then became
gleaming pale blue quadrangles; the blue abyss of abysses, noiseless
and unutterably expansive, spread out around the steamer; the running
swell of the watery spaces gleamed; the horizons were flooded with a
blackness as of coal,--and thence, like the grievous murmur of the
Creator Himself, still plunged in primordial chaos, came to their ears
the roll of thunder,--muffled, sombre and triumphant, shaking all
things to their foundation. And at such times the Englishman seemed to
be frozen on the spot for a moment.
“This is really frightful!” said he in his lifeless but steady voice
after a flash especially blinding. And, getting up from his place, he
walked up to the door that gaped into the darkness. “Very frightful,”
said he, as though he were talking to himself. “And the most frightful
thing of all is that we do not think, do not feel, and cannot, have
forgotten how to feel the full frightfulness of this.”
“What, precisely?” asked the captain.
“Why, just this for example,” answered the Englishman, “that under
us and around us is that bottomless depth, that shifting trough of
the sea of which the Bible speaks with such awesomeness.... Oh,” said
he sternly, looking intently into the darkness, “both far and near,
everywhere, the furrows of foam flare up, flaming with green, and the
darkness surrounding this foam is lilac-black, the colour of a raven’s
wing.... Is it a very eerie thing to be a captain?” he asked gravely.
“Why no, not at all,” answered the captain with assumed nonchalance.
“It’s a tiresome business, and responsible, but, in reality not very
complicated.... It is all a matter of habit....”
“Better say,--of our callousness,” said the Englishman. “To be standing
there, up on your bridge, at whose sides these two great eyes,--the
green and the red,--look out, blurred, through their thick glass, and
to be sailing somewhere into the darkness of night and water, extending
for thousands of miles around,--it is madness! But, however, it is no
better,” he added, again glancing out of the door, “it is no better, on
the other hand, to be lying below in a cabin, beyond whose exceedingly
thin wall, near your very head, beats and rolls this bottomless
deep.... Yes, yes,--our reason is just as feeble as the reason of a
mole; or, rather, still more feeble, for in the case of a mole, of an
animal, of a savage, instinct, at least, has been preserved; whereas
with us, with Europeans, it has degenerated, is degenerating!”
“However, moles do not navigate over the entire terrestrial globe,”
answered the captain smiling. “Moles do not enjoy the benefits of
steam, of electricity, of wireless telegraphy. Do you wish to hear me
speak with Aden right now? And yet it is a ten days’ sail from here.”
“And that, too, is frightful,” said the Englishman, and cast a stern
glance through his spectacles at one of the engineers who had started
laughing. “Yes, that too is very frightful. For we, in reality, do not
fear anything. We do not fear even death properly: neither life, nor
sacred mysteries, nor the depths that surround us, nor death,--neither
our death nor that of others! I am a colonel of the British Army, a
participant of the Boer War; I, commanding cannons to be fired, used to
kill men in hundreds; and here I am, not only neither suffering nor
going out of my mind because I am a murderer, but never even thinking
of these hundreds.”
“What about the beasts, and the savages,--do they think of such
things?” asked the captain.
“The savages believe that things have to be so, whereas we don’t,” said
the Englishman, and became silent; he started pacing the dining room,
trying to step as firmly as he could in his dancing shoes.
The flashes of the distant thunder storm, gleaming roseately over the
stars, were by now decreasing. The wind blowing through the windows and
doors was stronger and cooler, the impenetrable darkness beyond the
door surged more loudly. A large sea-shell that served as an ash-tray
was sliding upon the table. Under one’s feet, growing unpleasantly
weaker, one felt something gathering force below, lifting one up, then
falling over on one side, spreading out,--and the floor fell deeper
and deeper from under one’s feet. The ship’s men, having finished
their coffee and smoked their fill, sat in silence for several minutes
more, casting glances at their queer passenger; then, wishing him
good-night, they began picking up their caps. The captain alone stayed
on,--he was smoking and following the Englishman with his eyes. The
Englishman, with a cigar, was walking, swayingly, from door to door;
his dark complexion, his spectacles, and his seriousness combined with
absent-mindedness, irritated the old steward, who was clearing the
table.
“Yes, yes,” said the Englishman, “there is only one thing frightful
to us,--that we have forgotten how to feel fear! There is no God, no
religion in Europe, long since; we, with all our business activity and
greed, are as cold as ice both toward life and toward death. Even if
we do fear death, it is with our reason or only with the remnants of
an animal instinct. At times we even try to inspire ourself with that
dread, to exaggerate it,--and still we do not respond, do not feel in
due measure those incomprehensible and horrible things of which the
life of man is full.... Just as I, even I, do not now feel that which
I myself have called fearful,” said he, pointing toward the open door,
beyond which the impenetrable darkness murmured, by now raising high
the prow, and tumbling the ship, all of whose partitions were creaking,
from one side to the other.
“It is Ceylon that has affected you so,” said the captain mechanically.
“Oh, beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt!” agreed the Englishman. “We
all,--commercial men, mechanical engineers, military men, politicians,
colonizers,--we all, fleeing from our own dullness and vanity,
wander all the world over; for you will agree that the number of
travelling Europeans is increasing with a magic rapidity; that the
entire terrestrial globe is plastered over with motley placards and
time-tables. And we try with all our might to be enraptured, now with
the mountains and lakes of Switzerland, now with the pauperism of
Italy,--her pictures and the broken-up fragments of her statues and
columns. Or we wander over the slippery stones which have survived from
some amphitheatres in Sicily, or we gaze with simulated delight upon
the yellow heaps of rubble at the Acropolis in Greece; or attend, as
though it were some show-booth spectacle at a fair, the distribution
of the sacred fire in Jerusalem. We pay sums unheard of in order
to undergo tortures from guides and fleas in the tombs and clay
idol-temples of Egypt. We sail to India, to China, to Japan,--and it
is only here, upon the soil of the most ancient of mankind, in this
Eden which we have forfeited, which we style our colonies and which we
covetously despoil, in the midst of squalor, bubonic plague, cholera,
fevers, and coloured races whom we have turned into cattle,--only
here do we feel, in some slight measure, life, death, godhood. Here,
after having remained indifferent toward all these Osirises, Zeuses,
Appolons, toward Christ, toward Mahomet, have I more than once felt
that I might perhaps have bowed only before them,--these fearful
Gods of this cradle of mankind: before the hundred-armed Brahma;
before Siva; before the Devil; before Buddha, whose word verily rang
forth like the utterance of Methuselah himself, driving nails into
the coffin-lid of the universe.... Yes, thanks only to the East, and
to the diseases contracted in the East; thanks to the fact that in
Africa I slaughtered men by the hundreds; that in India, which is
being despoiled by England, and, therefore, in part by me, I have seen
thousands dying from hunger; that I had bought little girls in Japan to
be my wives for a month; that in China I had beaten defenseless, simian
old men over their heads with a stick; that in Java and Ceylon I had
driven rickshaw-men until I heard the death rattle in their throats;
that I had, in my time, contracted a most cruel fever in Anaradhapore,
and liver trouble on the shore of Malabar,--only thanks to all this do
I still feel and think, after a fashion. Those lands, those countless
peoples, which still either live a life of infantile immediacy,
sentient with all their beings of existence, and death, and the
divine majesty of the universe; or those lands and peoples which have
already traversed a long and arduous path (historical, religious and
philosophical), and who have grown wearied on this path,--such lands
and peoples we, the men of the new age of iron, aspire to enslave, to
divide amongst us, and this we style our colonial problems. And when
this division shall come to an end, then on this world will again be
enthroned the might of some new Tyre or Sidon, a new Rome, English or
German. There will be repeated, inevitably repeated, also that which
had been prophesied by Judæan prophets to Sidon, that, according to
the word of the Bible, had grown to deem itself God; that which had
been prophesied to Rome by the Apocalypse; and to India, to the Aryan
tribes that had enslaved it, by Buddha, who has said, ‘O ye princes,
ye men in power, rich in treasures, who have arrayed your covetousness
against one another, insatiably pandering to your lusts! ...’ Buddha
understood the significance of the life of Individuality in this ‘world
of having been,’ in this universe, whose meaning we cannot attain
to, and he was horrified with a sacred horror. Whereas we exalt our
Individuality above the heavens; we want to centre all the world within
it, no matter what may be said of the coming universal brotherhood and
equality. And so it is only on the ocean, under stars new and foreign
to us, in the midst of the majesty of tropical thunder storms; or in
India, in Ceylon, where history is so immeasurable, where at times one
glimpses life veritably primitive, and where on dark, sultry nights,
in the fevered gloom, one feels man melting, dissolving in this
blackness, in these sounds, scents, in this fearful All-Oneness,--only
there do we in a slight measure grasp the meaning of this our pitiful
Individuality.... Do you know,” said he, halting again, and flashing
his spectacles at the captain, “a certain Buddhistic legend?”
“Which one?” asked the captain, who had already yawned surreptitiously
and had glanced at his watch.
“Why, this: A raven darted after an elephant who was running down
a wooded mountain toward the sea; wrecking all things in his path,
breaking down the overgrowths, the elephant plunged into the
waves,--and the raven, tortured by ‘desire,’ fell after him, and,
having waited until the elephant had swallowed enough water to kill
himself and had floated up on the waves, descended on the carcass with
its great ears; the carcass floated on, putrefying, while the raven
greedily pecked away at it; but when he came to his senses, he saw that
he had been borne far, far from land,--to a distance from which there
is no return even upon the wings of a gull,--and he began cawing in a
piteous voice, that voice for which Death waits so warily.... It is a
terrible legend!”
“Yes, it is very significant,” said the captain, indifferently.
The Englishman lapsed into silence and again began pacing from door to
door. From the surging darkness faintly floated in the sounds of the
second bell, abrupt and, as is always the case on the ocean, plaintive.
The captain, after having sat for five minutes more out of politeness,
got up, shook the Englishman’s hand, and went off to his big, restful
cabin. The Englishman, reflecting upon something, continued pacing. The
steward, having endured for half an hour more in the pantry, entered
and with an angry face began switching off the electricity, leaving
only one bulb lit. The Englishman, when the steward had disappeared,
walked up to the wall and turned off this bulb as well. Darkness
descended at once, the surging of the waves at once appeared louder,
and the starry sky, the masts, the sail-yards at once appeared in
the open windows. The steamer creaked and clambered from one watery
mountain to another. It swung wider and wider, rising and falling,--and
in its rigging Canopus, the Crow, the Southern Cross swayed widely to
and fro, now flying toward the abyss above, now toward the abyss below,
and roseate auroras were still flashing above them.
_1914._
GAUTAMI
This is a tale thrice beautiful in its brevity and unpretentiousness,
its meaning and the manner of its telling; a tale of the love of
Gautami, the saintly and the beatified, who, without knowing it
herself, did come under the sheltering shadow of the Blessed One.
Thus have we heard it told:
In a populous hamlet, in a felicitous region, at the foot of the great
Himalayas, in a family poor but worthy, was Gautami born.
She was tall of stature and rather lean at first sight; swarthy
and pleasant of face was she, and simple and unpretentious of
soul,--therefore did the neighbours bestow an unkind by-name upon her.
“Gautami the Lean” did they nickname her, but she took no offense
thereat. And every order did she obey, and to every order she made such
answer as:
“’Tis well, dear master; I shall do so. ’Tis well, dear mistress, I
shall do so.”
For may plain speech be forgiven us,--not of the wisest among men and
women was Gautami. But neither did she utter anything foolish,--perhaps
because she did not say much, and laboured at something from morning
till night. And the raiment upon her was always poor, and always,
always the same, but always neat. And so one day a youth, truly rich
and handsome, the son of the great king of that region, did behold her
upon a river bank, when she was washing the linen of her sisters and
brothers, and he comprehended that she was sensible and submissive, and
that there was none to take her part,--not even her parents.
Thus did he think:
“‘There is no help for it,’ her parents will say; ‘Gautami is not of
the wisest, Gautami is not pretty to look upon; she does not resemble
a daughter of ours, but rather a servant,--who shall take her to wife?
Sooner or later, she shall submit to some man who may desire her,--for
Gautami is incapable of refusing. Ah, if only this man prove not
without pity, and will give away, to be rightly brought up, the child
that will be born of her!’”
Thus did the king’s son think.
As for Gautami, having washed and rinsed the linen, she squatted down
upon her heels over the water glistening in the sun; having taken off
all her raiment, she did swathe all her body from the arm-pits to the
knees in an old piece of cloth, and, having spread her long black hair,
began to clean her white teeth with a wetted, splintered little stick,
began to wash her swarthy limbs, not knowing that the king’s son was
watching her from behind the clumps of bamboo. And thereupon he did
call out to her, and, walking up to her, told her with a smile, yet not
unkindly:
“Thou art endearing, Gautami, and not at all as lean as they say you
are,--a maid clad in simple raiment, and of tall stature, is often
misjudged. I have heard, Gautami, that thou art submissive. Do not
resist me, therefore; none shall see our caresses at this sultry hour,
near the deserted river.”
And Gautami was abashed before him, before his assurances that his
wishes were righteous, and she did whisper in answer:
“’Tis well, dear master; let it be as thou dost will.”
And the king’s son, having had his joyance of her, saw that she was
better than she had seemed, and that her dark eyes, although they were
not expressive of thought, and somehow seemed always the same, were
never the less full of enchantment. And after that their meetings upon
the bank of the river, within the grove of bamboos, became frequent,
and so it was that, whenever the king’s son would order Gautami to
come to him, she always would come, never disobeying; nor did her
submissiveness and charm change with the intimacy of their bodies; nor
her agreeable manner when their conversation was brief. And when the
ordained time had run, she felt herself heavy with child.
Thereupon did the king’s son take her as one of his concubines,
transferring her with her poor little kit, wherein she kept her modest
belongings, the sorry savings of a maiden who works, into his opulent
palace, and she lived in the palace until her time was come.
And when her day had approached, one of the king’s stewardesses did say
to her:
“Gautami! A wife who is about to become a mother goeth to the house of
her father to give birth, in fulfillment of the custom. But thou art no
wife, but a concubine. Go not therefore to the house of thy parents;
but also do not thou transgress against that which is seemly.”
And Gautami, having salaamed before her, got up, and went out of the
gate of the clay walls that enclosed the palace.
And, having passed over the wooden bridge that spanned a muddy canal,
which was near by, she saw one who sat under a tree, with a bowl in his
hand,--a blind and an ancient beggar, girt only about his middle with
a dirty rag, whereas his arms, his legs, his bosom and his withered,
glistening back he had exposed to the blazing sun and the flies.
And the beggar raised his sightless face, hearkening to her steps, and
he smiled with the tender and poignant smile of the wisdom of old men.
“Gautami!” spake he to her. “I see thee not but I feel thy approach.
Gautami, may thy path be blessed!”
And she kissed the knee of the beggar and went on upon her way; and
upon her way, in the hot, sun-filled groves, among the satin trees, she
did give birth to her child before its time.
And blissfully, having rested with tears of happiness after her sore
travail, she returned with the child in her arms into the palace of the
prince and gave full rein to her ceaseless ecstasy and tender delight,
to an emotion of bodily love for the new-born, to the delectable
disquiet of seeing, scenting, touching, and pressing to her bosom
this growing being, that with every day became more and more awake to
thought and consciousness.
“My soul hath recalled thee!”--these words had not been uttered by the
prince to Gautami when he had become as one with her, even though she
had been dear to him, even though they had borne her to the palace of
the king with music, upon bullocks adorned with ribbands and flowers,
having arrayed her as for a bridal, dressing her black hair smoothly,
putting rouge on her cheeks, and blackening her eye-lashes with kohl.
And Gautami, having given birth to the child, received submissively
the youth’s having grown cold toward her, and removed herself from his
sight, that he might not feel troubled and guilty upon meeting her by
chance.
And, remaining within the enclosure of the palace, she settled in a
simple hut on the banks of the ponds, taking upon herself the duty
of feeding the swans that swam in those ponds among the grasses and
flowers.
And for a time she was happy, preparing, without herself knowing
it, for those great sorrows which were destined to come in ordained
replacement of this happiness, and to put her upon the sole true path,
into the society of the religious brotherhood of those that go clad in
yellow.
Blessed are the meek at heart, who have riven their chain.
In an abode of the highest joy do we dwell, who love nothing in this
universe, and like to a bird are we, that beareth nothing with it but
its wings.
_1919._
THE SON
Mme. Marot had been born and had grown up in Lausanne, in a strict,
honest, and industrious family. She did not marry early, but when she
did, hers was a love match. In the March of 1876, among the passengers
of the old French steamer _Auvergne_, sailing from Marseilles to
Italy, was a newly married couple. The days were calm, cool; the sea,
all silvery mirrors, lost itself in the misty spring distances; the
newly-married couple scarcely ever left the deck. And all admired them,
all beheld their happiness with amiable smiles: he showed his happiness
in an alert, keen glance, in the necessity for motion, in an animated
amiability to all those around him; she, by that joyous interest, with
which she assimilated every trifle.... This newly married pair was the
Marots.
He was some ten years her senior; he was short in height, swarthy of
face, with curly hair; his hand was thin, and his voice sonorous. But
in her one sensed an admixture of some blood other than that of the
Latins. She seemed just the least trifle too tall, although her waist
was splendid; though her hair was dark, her eyes were a grayish blue.
They travelled through Naples, Palermo and Tunis to the Algerian town
of Constantine, where Monsieur Marot had obtained a rather prominent
appointment. And life in Constantine those fourteen years which had
passed since that happy spring, had given them everything with which
people are usually content: a competance, domestic harmony, healthy and
handsome children.
During these fourteen years the Marots had changed very much in
appearance: his face had become as black as an Arab’s, he had grown
gray and dried up from work, from travelling, from tobacco, and from
the sun,--many took him for a native of Algeria; nor would any one have
recognized her as the woman who had been a passenger upon the steamer
_Auvergne_: then, even in the shoes she put outside the door at night,
there had been the enchantment of youth; now she too had glints of
silver in her hair, her skin had grown finer and more aureate, her
hands had become thinner, and in her care of them, in the dressing of
her hair, in her linen, in her apparel, she already betrayed a certain
superfluous nicety. Their relations had changed as well, of course,
although none would have said that it was for the worse. And each one
led an individual existence: his time was taken up with work,--he still
remained as passionate, and, at the same time, as sober a man as he had
been before; she had to take care of him, of the children--two very
pretty girls, of whom the elder was by now almost a young lady,--and
everybody unanimously declared that there was not in all Constantine a
better housekeeper, a better mother, or a more charming person to chat
with in a drawing room, than Mme. Marot.
Their house stood on a quiet and clean street. From the second story,
out of the front rooms, always in semi-darkness on account of the
closed Venetian blinds, could be seen Constantine, famed all over the
world for its picturesqueness: this ancient Arabian stronghold, which
had become a French city, lies upon sloping crags. The windows of
the living rooms, shady and cool, looked out upon the garden,--there,
in a perpetual blaze and glare, dozed age-old eucalypti, sycamores,
palms, behind their enclosures of high walls. The master of the house
frequently absented himself on matters connected with his work. As
for the mistress, she led that confined existence to which, in the
colonies, the wives of all Europeans are condemned. On Sundays she
invariably attended church. On week days she rarely went out and
restricted herself to a small, choice circle. She read, busied herself
with embroidery, chatted with the children or took part in their
lessons; sometimes, putting the dark-eyed Marie, her younger daughter,
on her knees, and playing on the pianoforte with one hand, she would
sing old-fashioned French songs, to make the long African day seem
shorter, while the hot wind entered in a flood from the garden through
the wide-open windows.... Constantine, under the pitiless blaze of the
sun and with all its shutters closed, seemed at these hours a dead
city: only the roller-birds called out behind the walls of the gardens,
and plaintively, with the nostalgia of colonial lands, sounded the
trumpets of the buglers on the knolls beyond the city, where at times
the cannons made the earth shake with a dull rumble, and one saw the
white helmets of the soldiers twinkling.
The days in Constantine passed monotonously, but no one ever remarked
that Mme. Marot was oppressed by this. In her character, exquisite and
chaste, never appeared any heightened sensitiveness, nor any surplus
nervousness. Her health could not be called robust, but it never caused
any alarm to Monsieur Marot. Only one incident had struck him: once,
in Tunis, an Arab magician had put her so rapidly into a profound
sleep, that she had great difficulty in coming back to herself. But
this had been still at the time of their journey from France; since
that time she had not experienced any such sharp declines of will
power, any such unwholesome susceptibility. And Monsieur Marot was
happy, tranquil, and convinced that her soul was undisturbed and like
an open book to him. And so it really was, even during the last--the
fourteenth--year of his domestic life.... But now there appeared in
Constantine a certain Emile du Buys.
Emile du Buys, son of Mme. Bonnet, an old and close friend of the
Marots, was only nineteen years of age. Mme. Bonnet, the widow of an
engineer, had also a daughter, Eliza, besides Emile, who was born of
the first marriage. He had grown up in Paris and was already reading
law; but, above all, he was taken up with the composition of verses
which were comprehensible to him alone, and had attached himself to
a non-existent school of poetry, “The Seekers.” In the May of 1889
Eliza was preparing for the altar, but took sick and died a few days
after. Emile, who had never up to now been in Constantine, had come
for the funeral. It is easy to understand how touched Mme. Marot
was by this death,--this death of a girl who was already trying on
the bridal veil; everyone also knows how under such circumstances
intimacy is established even between people who have scarce come to
know one another. In addition, Emile was in reality only a boy to Mme.
Marot. Shortly after the funeral, Mme. Bonnet went to France, to her
relatives. Emile remained in Constantine, at the suburban county house
of his late stepfather,--at the Villa Hassim, as it was called in the
town,--and began to visit the Marots almost daily. No matter what sort
of a chap he may have been, or whatever he may have pretended to be, he
was, never the less, very young, very sensitive, and had need of people
with whom he might seek shelter for a time. “And isn’t it strange,”
said some, “Mme. Marot has become unrecognizable! How animated she has
become; how she has improved in looks!”
However, these allusions were unfounded. At first all it amounted to
was that her existence became a trifle gayer, and that her girls became
more playful and coquettish, for Emile, every minute forgetting his
grief and that virus with which, as he thought, the _fin de siècle_
had envenomed him, fussed for hours at a time with them, altogether
as their equal. Of course he was, after all, a man, a Parisian, and
not altogether of an ordinary nature; he had participated in that
life which Parisian writers lead, so inaccessible to common mortals;
frequently, with a certain somnambulistic expressiveness, he would read
strange but sonorous verses; and, perhaps, it was precisely thanks to
him that the step of Mme. Marot became lighter and quicker, her house
apparel just the least trifle smarter, and the nuances of her voice
kindlier and more mocking; there may have been, after all, a drop of
purely feminine joy in her soul over the fact that here was a man whom
it was possible to lord it over somewhat, with whom it was possible
to speak with a half jesting sententiousness, with that freedom which
was so naturally permitted by the difference in their years. And also
over the fact that here was one who was so devoted to her entire
household,--where, however, the first person for him (this, of course
was revealed very quickly) was still none other than she. But then, how
commonplace all this is! Yet for the most part he was merely pitiful to
her.
He, who sincerely deemed himself a poet born, wanted to resemble a
poet in appearance as well; he wore his hair long, and tossed back; he
dressed with an artistic sobriety; he had fine brown hair, which went
well with his pale face, just as his black clothes did; but this pallor
was too anæmic, with a yellow tinge; his eyes glittered constantly,
but, because of his enervated face, they seemed feverish; and his chest
was so thin and flat, his legs were so thin, his hands so bony, that
one became somewhat ill at ease when he would grow immoderately lively
and would run through the street or garden, bending somewhat forward,
as though he were sliding, in order to hide his defect,--he had one leg
shorter than the other. In society he was disagreeable, supercilious;
he tried to be enigmatic, negligent; or, at times, exquisitely
impertinent, audacious, at others disdainfully absent-minded and
independent in all things; but only too frequently he did not sustain
his rôles to the end,--he would forget his part and begin speaking with
a certain naïve candour and impulsiveness. And, of course, he could not
manage to hide his feelings for long, to dissemble as an unbeliever in
love and happiness on this earth: the entire house soon knew of his
being in love. He had already begun to bore the master of the house
with his visits; he began to bring, every day, bouquets of the rarest
flowers from his villa, to sit at the Marots’ from morn till night, to
recite verses more and more incomprehensible,--the children heard him,
more than once, adjuring some one to die with him; while at nights
he took to disappearing in the native quarters, in those dives where
the Arabs, wrapped up in their dirty white _bournouses_, avidly watch
stomach dances and drink the most pungent of liquors.... To put it
briefly, not even a month and a half had gone before his inamoration
had passed into God only knows what.
His nerves ceased entirely to serve him. Once he sat through almost an
entire day in silence; then got up, took his hat, and went out,--and
half an hour later was brought in from the street in a dreadful
condition: he was writhing in hysterics; he was sobbing so vehemently
that he frightened both the children and the domestics. But Mme.
Marot, it seemed, did not attach any special significance even to
this transport. She herself was restoring him back to consciousness,
herself hastily untying his cravat and persuading him to be a man, and
she only smiled when he, without any restraint whatsoever before her
husband, caught at her hands, covering them with kisses and vowing his
disinterested devotion. Still, it was necessary to put an end to all
this. And so when Emile, whom the children had soon missed, again made
his appearance several days after the fit, already calmed, even though
he resembled a man who had gone through a severe illness, Mme. Marot
gently told him all that is usually said in such cases.
“My friend, you are really like a son to me,” she had said to him,
uttering for the first time this word, “son,” and really feeling almost
a maternal tenderness toward him. “Do not, then, put me in a ridiculous
and painful position.”
“But I swear to you that you are mistaken!” he exclaimed, with earnest
vehemence. “I am only devoted to you; I only want to see you, and no
more!”
And he suddenly fell down on his knees,--they were in the garden on a
calm, sultry, dusky evening,--impulsively seized her by the hips, on
the verge of fainting from passion.... And gazing upon his hair, upon
his white, slender neck, she, with anguish and rapture, reflected:
“Ah,--yes, yes, I could have had a son almost the same as he!”
Still, from that time until his very departure for France, he committed
no more insane actions. Essentially this was bad; it may have signified
that his passion had become deeper. But outwardly everything had
changed for the better,--only one other time he could not restrain
himself. After dinner one Sunday, in the presence of several strangers,
he said to her, without at all reflecting that this might attract
attention:
“I most earnestly entreat you to grant me one minute....”
She got up and went with him into the empty, half-dark parlour. He
walked up to the window, through which the evening light penetrated
from outside in narrow longitudinal streaks, and, looking her straight
in the face, said:
“To-day is the anniversary of my father’s death. I love you!”
She turned to go away. Frightened, he hastened to add as she was going
away:
“Forgive me,--this is the first time and the last!”
And truly, she heard no new admissions from him. “I was enchanted by
her confusion,” he wrote in his diary that evening, in his choice and
grandiloquent style; “I vowed to violate her peace no more: for am I
not beatified even as it is?” He continued going into the town,--he
only slept at the Villa Hassim; and his behaviour varied, but he always
observed a greater or lesser degree of seemliness. At times he was, as
formerly, inappropriately playful, naïve, romping with the children in
the garden; most frequently of all, however, he sat near her and “drank
in her presence,” read newspapers and novels to her, and “was happy
because she listened to him.” “The children did not interfere with us,”
he wrote of these days, “their voices, laughter, bustle, their very
beings, seemed to serve as the finest of conductors for our emotions;
thanks to them these emotions were still more enchanting; we held the
commonest of every day conversations, but something else could be
heard in them,--our happiness; yes,--yes; she, too was happy, I affirm
this. She liked to hear me declaim; of evenings, from the balcony, we
contemplated Constantine lying at our feet in the blue radiance of the
moon....” Finally, in August, Mme. Marot insisted upon his going away,
returning to his studies,--and won; and _en route_ he entered in his
diary: “I am going away! Going away, empoisoned by the bitter delight
of parting! She has bestowed upon me, in parting, a bit of velvet
ribbon that she had worn about her neck as a girl. When the last minute
came, she gave me her blessing, and I saw a humid sparkle in her eyes
when she said: ‘Farewell, dear son of mine!...’”
Whether he was right in his conjecture that Mme. Marot also was happy
in August, is not known. But that his departure proved painful to
her is beyond a doubt. This word “son,” which had stirred her even
previously, now took on such a sound for her that she could not hear it
in peace. Even formerly, upon meeting friends on her way to church, who
would jestingly say to her: “What should you pray about, Mme. Marot;
you are without sin and happy as it is!” she had, more than once,
replied with a sad smile: “I complain to God because he has deprived
me of a son....” Now the thought of a son, of that happiness which he
would have ceaselessly given her by his mere existence in this world,
never left her. And once, shortly after the departure of Emile, she had
said to her husband:
“Now I have comprehended everything! I now know surely, that every
mother ought to have a son; that every woman who has no son, if she
will but ponder upon herself, will check up her entire life, will see
that she is unhappy. You are a man, you cannot feel this, but it is
so.... Oh, how tenderly and passionately one can love a son!”
She was very kind to her husband that fall. Occasionally, when she
would be left alone with him, she would shyly say to him:
“Hector, listen.... I am ashamed now to ask you about it,--but
still.... Do you ever recall the March of ’seventy-six? ... Ah, if only
you and I had a son!”
“All this confused me very much,” Monsieur Marot would say
subsequently,--“it confused me all the more because she began to grow
very thin. She was growing weaker, was becoming more and more silent
and gentle in manner. She went less and less often to her friends,--she
avoided going to the city unless it were unavoidable.... I do not doubt
that some dreadful and incomprehensible ailment was taking possession
of her soul and body!” While the _bonne_ added that, whenever Mme.
Marot went out of the house that fall, she always put on a thick white
veil,--something she had never done before; that, returning home,
she would immediately raise her veil in front of a mirror and would
intently scrutinize her tired face. It is superfluous to explain
that which went on in her soul at this time. But did she want to see
Emile, did he write to her, and did she reply to him? He presented
two dispatches at court, purporting to be addressed to him, in answer
to his letters. One was dated the tenth of November: “You are driving
me mad. Calm yourself. Let me have immediate news of yourself.” The
other, the twenty-third of December: “No, no, do not come, I implore
you. Think of me, love me, as a mother.” But the certainty of these
dispatches having been sent by her could not be proven, of course. One
thing only is certain,--that from September until January Mme. Marot
led a distressed, troubled, painful existence.
The late autumn of that year in Constantine was cold and rainy. Then,
as is always the case in Algeria, a ravishing spring came on. And an
animation,--that beatific, exquisite headiness which is experienced at
the time of the blossoming of spring by people who have already left
their youth behind them,--again began to return to Mme. Marot. She
again began to go out; rode out a great deal with her children, went
with them to the garden of the deserted Villa Hassim; she contemplated
an excursion to Algiers,--to show her children Blidah, near which, in
the mountains, there is a wooded ravine, a spot beloved of monkeys....
And so things went right up to the seventeenth of January in the year
of 1890. On the seventeenth of January, she awoke from some unusually
joyous and tender emotion, which, so it had seemed to her, had stirred
her all night long. In the large room where she slept alone during the
absence of her husband, who had gone away for a long time on matters
connected with his post, it was almost dark because of the Venetian
blinds and the window curtains. Still, by that blueish pallor which
penetrated from behind them, one could gather that it was still early.
And, in confirmation, the little clock on the night-table pointed
to six. With an enjoyable sense of the morning freshness entering
from the garden, she rolled up in a light blanket and turned to the
wall.... “Why do I feel so fine?” she thought, dozing off. And, like
dim, beautiful visions, pictures of Italy, of Sicily, began to appear
before her, pictures of that distant spring when she was sailing in a
cabin whose windows looked out on deck, upon the chill silvery shimmer
of the sea; a cabin with portieres of red silk, shrivelled and faded
by time, and with a high threshold glittering with brass that had been
worn down by many years of cleaning.... Then she saw the limitless bays
of the sea; lagoons; lowlands; a great Arabian town, all white, with
flat roofs, and with undulating mistily blue knolls and foot-hills
beyond it. This was Tunis, in which she had been but once, on that
very same spring when she had been in Naples, and in Palermo.... But
here a wave of cold seemed to go through her,--and, with a shiver, she
opened her eyes. It was already going on nine o’clock; one could hear
the voices of the children, the voice of their _bonne_. She arose,
threw on a _peignoir_, and, stepping out on the balcony, descended
into the garden and sat down on a rocker, standing in the sand near
a round table underneath a mimosa in blossom, spreading its golden
canopy overhead, its fragrance heavy in the sun. The maid brought her
coffee. She again began to think of Tunis, and recalled that strange
experience she had gone through, that sweet fear and that beatific
abnegation of her will which was like that of pre-mortal moments,--an
experience she had undergone in that pale blue city in the warm, rosy
dusk, half-reclining in a rocker on the roof of a house, vaguely seeing
the dark face of the Arab hypnotist and magician who was squatting on
his heels before her, lulling her to sleep with his barely audible,
monotonous sing-song, and the slow movements of his thin hands. And
suddenly, even as she was thinking thus and mechanically gazing with
eyes wide-open upon a bright silvery spark with which a teaspoon in a
glass of water was aflame, she suddenly lost conscience. And when she
came to with a start, Emile was standing over her. All that took place
subsequent to this unexpected meeting is known from the words of Emile
himself,--from his story, from his answers to interrogations. “Yes, I
dropped into Constantine as though from heaven!” he had said. “I had
come because I had comprehended that the powers of heaven itself could
not stop me. On the morning of the seventeenth of January, straight
from the station, without any word of warning, I appeared at the house
of Monsieur Marot and ran into the garden. I was dumbfounded by that
which met my eyes; but I had scarce made a step when she came to.
She, it seemed, was also amazed, both by the unexpectedness of my
appearance, and that which she had just been through; but she did
not even emit an exclamation. Having looked at me, like a person just
awakened from a deep sleep, she got up from her seat, putting her hair
in order.
“‘That’s the very presentiment I had,’ she said, somehow without any
expression. ‘You did not obey me!’
“And with an accustomed gesture, having buttoned the _peignoir_ at her
breast, she took my head in both her hands and kissed me twice on the
forehead.
“I lost my head from rapture and passion, but she gently put me aside
and said:
“‘Let us go; I am not dressed,--I shall return at once, go to the
children....’
“‘But, for God’s sake, what was the matter with you?’ I asked,
ascending after her to the balcony.
“‘Oh, a mere nothing--a slight trance. I had gazed too long at a
glittering tea-spoon,’ she was answering, getting control of herself,
and beginning to speak with more animation. ‘But what have you done,
what have you done!’
“I did not find the children anywhere; the house was empty and quiet;
I sat down in the parlour. Suddenly I heard her begin singing in a
distant room in a strong, sonorous voice, but I did not then comprehend
all the horror of that sound, because I was all atremble with a nervous
ague. I had not slept all night; I had counted the minutes as the train
had sped me toward Constantine; I jumped into the first _fiacre_ I had
met upon running out of the depot; I did not expect to reach the height
of the city.... I knew, I, too, had a premonition, that my arrival
would be fatal for us; but still I could not expect that which I had
seen in the garden, this mystical meeting, and such a sharp change in
her attitude toward me! After ten minutes, she came out with her hair
dressed, in a light-gray dress of an iris tint.
“‘Ah,’ said she, as I was kissing her hand, ‘but I had forgotten that
to-day is Sunday, and that the children are in church; but then, I
have over-slept.... The children will go to the pine grove after
church,--were you ever there?’
“And, without waiting for my answer, she rang, ordered some coffee to
be served to me, and, sitting down, began to look at me intently, and,
without listening, began to question me as to how I had lived, what I
had been doing. She started to speak about herself, of the fact that
after two or three months, which had been very bad for her, during
which she had aged dreadfully,--these words were uttered with sort
of incomprehensible smile,--she was feeling well, as young as never
before.... I replied, I listened, but did not understand a great deal;
both of us said anything but that which we wanted to say; my hands
grew chill from the nearness of that other fearful, inevitable hour.
I do not deny that I was struck as if by lightning when she had said
‘I have aged....’ I suddenly saw that she was right: in the thinness
of her hands, and of the faded, even though really rejuvenated face,
in the slenderness of certain outlines of the body, I caught certain
signs of that which compels our hearts to contract so painfully, and
even somehow awkwardly,--yet all the more passionately,--at the sight
of an aging woman. ‘Ah, yes, how rapidly and sharply she had changed!’
I reflected. But she was beautiful, never the less. I was growing
intoxicated as I gazed upon her. I had grown accustomed to dreaming of
her without end; I had not forgotten that moment, when on the evening
of the eleventh of July, I had first embraced her knees. Her hands,
too, were slightly trembling, when she was putting her _coiffure_ in
order, smiling, and gazing at me; and suddenly--you will understand
all the catastrophic force of this moment!--suddenly, this smile was
distorted, somehow; and, with difficulty, but firmly, she uttered:
“‘Still, you ought to go home, to rest up from the journey; your
appearance is dreadful; you have such suffering, fearful eyes and such
burning lips, that I no longer have the strength to see them.... Do you
wish me to?--I shall go there in your company....’
“And, without letting me answer, she got up and went away to get her
hat and cloak....
“We arrived quickly at the Villa Hassim. I lingered near the entrance,
in order to pluck some flowers. She did not wait for me, opening the
door herself. I had no servants; there was only the caretaker,--he
did not see us. When I stepped into the ante-room, hot and half dark
because of the closed Venetian blinds, and offered her the flowers,
she kissed them, then embracing me with one hand, she kissed me. From
emotion her lips were hot, but her voice was clear.
“‘But listen ... how shall we ... have you anything with you?’ she
asked.
“I did not at first understand her,--so had this first kiss, this first
familiar ‘you’ overwhelmed me,--and I mumbled:
“‘What do you want to say?’
“She took a step back.
“‘What!’ she said in astonishment, almost sternly. ‘Can you possibly
have thought that I ... that we can live after this? Have you anything
with you that we may die?’
“I recovered my wits and hastened to show her a revolver loaded with
five bullets, with which I never parted.
“She rapidly went on, from room to room. The semi-darkness was
everywhere. Hearing only the rustle of her silken skirts, I followed
after her, with that confusion of all the senses with which a naked man
goes on a sultry day into the sea. Finally we arrived at the end of our
journey; she threw off her cloak and began to untie the ribbons of her
hat. Her hands were still trembling, and once more I remarked through
the dusk something pitiful and tired in her face....
“But she died without wavering. During the last moments she became
transformed. Kissing me, and leaning back in order to see my face, she
told me, in a whisper, a few words so tender and touching that I have
not the strength to repeat them.
“I wanted to go to pluck some more flowers, in order to strew our
funeral couch with them. She did not let me, she was hurried, she was
saying: ‘No, no, it is not necessary ... there are plenty of flowers
... here are your flowers’--and she kept on repeating:
“‘And so, I charge you, by all that you hold sacred, that you kill me!’
“‘Yes, and then myself,’ said I, not for a second doubting my
resolution.
“‘Oh, I believe you, I believe you!’ she answered, by now as if in a
trance....
“A minute before her death she said, very quietly, but simply: ‘My God,
this is a deed without a name!’
“And again:
“‘Where are the flowers you gave me? Kiss me--for the last time.’
“She herself put the muzzle of the revolver up to her temple. I wanted
to shoot, but she stopped me:
“‘No, that isn’t right,--let me show you the right way. Here, so, my
child.... And _afterward_ make the sign of the cross over me, and lay
the flowers upon my breast....’
“When I fired, she moved her lips slightly. I fired once more....
“She lay there, calm; in her extinguished gaze there was some bitter
beatitude. Her hair was spread out; a tortoise shell comb was thrown
upon the floor. Swaying, I got up, to put an end to myself. But,
despite the Venetian blinds, it was light in the room; and in this
light, and amid this quiet which had suddenly arisen all about me, I
distinctly saw her face, already grown pallid.... And here a sudden
madness possessed me,--I dashed to the window, throwing apart, flinging
open the shutters, and began to shout, and to shoot into the air....
The rest you know....”
* * * * *
In the spring, five years ago, travelling over Algeria, the writer of
these lines visited Constantine. He often recalls now those evenings,
rainy and chill, but spring evenings never the less, which he passed
by the fireplace in the reading room of a certain old and homelike
French hotel. Upon the heavy, elaborate _étagères_ there lay tattered
illustrated journals--in them one could find some faded portraits of
Mme. Marot, at different ages,--among them, one taken in Lausanne,
when she was a girl.... Her story is told here again, through a strong
desire of telling it in my own way.
_1916._
LIGHT BREATHING
In the graveyard, over the fresh clayey mound, stands a new cross
of oak,--strong, heavy, smooth,--of the sort that is pleasant to
contemplate.
It is April, but the days are raw; the monuments of the graveyard--a
spacious, truly provincial one,--can be seen through the bare trees
even from afar, and the chill wind makes the porcelain wreath at the
foot of the cross tinkle again and again.
As for the cross itself,--a rather large bronze medallion has been set
into it; while in the medallion is a photographic portrait of a well
dressed and alluring high-school girl, with eyes joyous, strikingly
alive.
This is Olliya Meshcherskaya.
As a girl she did not in any way stand out among that noisy crowd of
short brown dresses which so discordantly and youthfully hums in the
corridors and class-rooms; what could be said of her save that she was
one of a number of rather pretty, wealthy, and happy girls, that she
was bright, but mischievous and very much unconcerned about whatever
admonitions were made to her by an instructress? Then she began to
blossom out, to develop, not by the day but by the hour. At fourteen,
while her waist was slender and her little feet graceful, she already
had well-defined breasts and all those contours, the enchantment of
which human speech has never yet expressed; at fifteen she was famed
as a beauty. How painstakingly did certain of her mates dress their
hair, how meticulous about their persons they were, how carefully
watchful of their restrained motions! But she feared nothing,--neither
ink spots on her fingers, nor a flushed face, nor disheveled hair,
nor a knee bared in a running fall. Without any cares or efforts
on her part, and somehow imperceptibly, to her came all that which
distinguished her from all the rest of the high-school during her last
two years there,--elegance, good taste in dress, cleverness, a radiant,
yet an understanding sparkle in her eyes. No one danced like Olliya
Meshcherskaya; no one raced on skates as well as she did; no one was
sought after at balls as much as she; and, for some reason, no one was
so liked by the lower grades as she was. Imperceptibly, she became a
young lady, and imperceptibly her fame in school became secure; and
there were already rumours that she was inconstant, that she could
not live without admirers; that Shenshin, a student in the boys’
high-school, was madly in love with her; that apparently she was also
in love with him, but so changeable in her treatment of him that he had
made attempts at suicide....
During her last winter, Olliya Meshcherskaya lost her head entirely
from her pursuit of pleasure,--so they said in the high-school. The
winter was snowy, sunny, frosty; the sun sank early behind the tall fir
grove of the snow-covered school garden, but it was invariably serene,
many-rayed, holding forth a promise of both frost and sunlight for the
morrow as well; to say nothing of strolling through Cathedral Street,
of skating at the rink in the city park on a rose-tinged evening, to
music, and amid this throng gliding in all directions, among which
Olliya Meshcherskaya seemed the best dressed, the freest from care,
the happiest. And then one day, during the main interval, as she was
careering like a whirlwind through the assembly hall escaping from the
little girls of the first grade who were pursuing her and squealing
for joy, she was unexpectedly summoned to the directress. She stopped
in full career; giving a single deep sigh, with a rapid and by now
accustomed movement she put her hair in order, hitched up the little
corners of her apron at the shoulders, and, her eyes radiant, ran
upstairs. The directress, a small woman, young looking but gray haired,
was calmly sitting with some knitting in her hands, at a writing table
underneath a portrait of the Tsar.
“How do you do, Mlle. Meshcherskaya,” she said in French, without
raising her eyes from the knitting. “It is to be regretted that this is
not the first time I am compelled to summon you here, in order to speak
to you about your conduct.”
“I am listening, Madame,” answered Meshcherskaya, approaching the
table, looking at her radiantly and in animation, but without any
expression on her face, and she sat down with that lightness and grace
of which only she was mistress.
“You will listen but badly to me,--I have, it is to be regretted,
become convinced of that,” said the directress, and drawing a thread
and making the ball of wool roll over the polished floor, upon which
Meshcherskaya had cast a glance of curiosity, she raised her eyes: “I
shall not repeat myself; I shall not speak at length,” she said.
Meshcherskaya liked very much this unusually tidy and large study;
on frosty days its atmosphere was so cozy from the warmth of the
glistening Dutch stove, and the freshness of the lilies-of-the-valley
upon the writing table. She glanced at the young Tsar, drawn at full
length in the midst of some resplendently glittering hall; at the
straight parting of the milky, neatly waved hair of the directress, and
kept an expectant silence.
“You are no longer a little girl,” said the directress with much
significance, secretly beginning to grow irritated.
“Yes, Madame,” answered Meshcherskaya simply, almost gaily.
“But not yet a woman,” said the directress with still greater
significance, and her dull-coloured face began to glow slightly. “First
of all,--what sort of a coiffure is that? That is a woman’s coiffure!”
“Madame, I am not to blame if I have nice hair,” answered
Meshcherskaya, giving the slightest of pats with both hands to her
attractively dressed head.
“Ah, so that is it,--you are not to blame!” said the directress. “You
are not to blame for your coiffure, nor to blame for these expensive
combs, nor to blame for ruining your parents with buying little
slippers at twenty roubles![1] But, I repeat to you, you lose sight of
the fact that as yet you are only a high-school girl....”
[1] A rouble, before the revolution, was equal to about half an
American dollar. _Trans._
And at this point, Meshcherskaya, without losing her simplicity and
calmness, suddenly interrupted her with politeness:
“Pardon me, Madame, you are making a mistake: I am a woman. And--do you
know who is responsible for this? Papa’s friend and neighbour, and also
your brother, Alexei Mikhailovich Maliutin. This happened last summer
in the country....”
* * * * *
And a month after this conversation an officer of the Cossacks, homely
and of plebeian appearance, having absolutely nothing in common with
that circle to which Meshcherskaya belonged, shot her on the platform
of a railroad station, among a large crowd which had just arrived with
the train. And the incredible confession of Olliya Meshcherskaya, which
had dumbfounded the directress, was fully confirmed; the officer had
declared to the examining magistrate that Meshcherskaya had enticed
him, had had a _liaison_ with him, had sworn to be his wife; but at
the depot, on the day of the murder, when she was seeing him off to
Novocherkassk, she had suddenly told him that she had never even as
much as thought of loving him, that their talks about marriage were all
merely a mockery of him, and she let him read that page in her diary
which dealt with Maliutin.
“I ran over these lines, went out on the platform where she was
promenading, waiting till I should finish reading, and shot her,” said
the officer. “The diary remained in the pocket of my uniform coat; just
glance at what was written on it on the tenth of July of last year.”
And the examining magistrate read something approximately as follows:
“It is now two o’clock at night. I had fallen fast asleep, but had
immediately awakened.... This day I have become a woman! Papa, mamma,
and Tolliya had all gone to the city, and I was left alone. I cannot
express how happy I was over being alone! In the morning I strolled by
myself in the garden, in the fields; I was in the forest,--it seemed
to me that I was all alone in the entire universe, and my thoughts
were more pleasant than they have ever before been in my life. I even
dined alone, then I played for a whole hour; to the sounds of the music
I felt as if I would live without end and would be as happy as never
before! Then I fell asleep in papa’s study. And at four Katiya woke me
up, saying that Alexei Mikhailovich had arrived. I was very glad he
had come; it was so pleasant for me to receive and entertain him. He
had driven up on his pair of very handsome horses, of a special small
breed, and they stood all the time near the steps; but he remained,
because it had been raining, and he wanted the ground to be dry toward
evening. He was very sorry that he had not caught father in, was
very animated, and bore himself like a gallant toward me; he joked a
lot about having been in love with me for a long time. When we were
strolling before tea in the garden, the weather was splendid again, the
sun glistened through the entire wet garden, although it had become
really downright chilly, and he walked about with my arm through his,
and said that he was Faust with Marguerite. He is fifty-six, but he is
still very handsome, and always very well dressed,--the only thing I
did not like was that he had come in a kind of cape; he is all scented
with English eau-de-cologne, and his eyes are altogether young,--and
black; and his beard is attractively divided in two long parts and is
perfectly silvery. At tea we sat in the glass enclosed veranda; I felt
somehow unwell and laid down upon a low couch, while he smoked; then he
changed his seat to where I was, and again began telling me some nice
things; then to examine and kiss my hand. I covered my face with a
silk handkerchief, and he kissed me several times on the lips through
the handkerchief.... I cannot understand how it could have, happened; I
lost my mind, I never thought that I was that kind! Now there is only
one way out for me.... I feel such loathing for him, that I cannot live
through this!...”
The town during these April days has become clean, dry, its stones
have grown white, and it is easy and pleasant to walk over them. Every
Sunday, after mass, a little woman in mourning, in black kid gloves,
with an ebony umbrella, starts out walking through Cathedral Street,
which leads to the city gates. She passes by the engine house, crosses,
by means of a paved road, the dirty square where there are many sooty
smithies, and the air from the fields is blowing fresher; farther on,
between the monastery and the jail, the cloudy horizon shows white, and
the spring fields gray; and then, when one has treaded his way among
the puddles under the wall of the monastery and turns to the left,
one sees something like a large, low garden, surrounded by a white
enclosure, above the gates of which enclosure is painted the Assumption
of the Mother of God. The little woman rapidly makes a sign of the
cross several times, and like one who knows the way walks through the
main path. Having reached the bench opposite the cross of oak, she sits
in the wind and the spring chillness, for an hour, for two hours, until
her feet in their light shoes and her hands in their tight kid gloves
grow entirely benumbed. Listening to the birds of spring, sweetly
singing even in the cold, listening to the tinkling of the wind through
the porcelain wreath, she thinks at times that she would give half
her life, if only that dead wreath might not be before her eyes. The
thought that it was Olliya Meshcherskaya whom they had buried here, in
this very clay, throws her into astonishment verging on stupefaction:
how can one associate that sixteen year old school girl, who only some
two or three months ago was so full of life, enchantment, gaiety,
with this clayey hummock, and this oaken cross? Can it be possible
that underneath it is the same girl whose eyes shine so deathlessly
out of this bronze medallion, and how reconcile with this pure gaze
that dreadful thing which is connected now with the name of Olliya
Meshcherskaya? But deep in her soul the little woman is happy, as all
people in love, or devoted to some passionate idea in general, always
are.
This woman is a teacher of Olliya Meshcherskaya, a girl of over thirty,
who has long lived upon some fiction or other that supplants her actual
life. At first her brother, a poor ensign and in no way remarkable,
was such a fiction,--all her soul was bound up with him, with his
future, which for some reason appeared to her brilliant, and she lived
in a strange expectancy, that her fate would somehow change magically,
thanks to him. Later, when he was killed at Mukden, she assured
herself, that she, to her great good fortune, it would seem, was not
like others; that the lack of beauty and femininity were in her case
compensated for by brains and higher interests; that she was a toiler
in the world of ideas. The death of Olliya Meshcherskaya captivated
her with a new dream. Now Olliya Meshcherskaya is an object of her
ceaseless thoughts, of rapture, of joy. She goes to Olliya’s grave on
every holiday,--she had formed the habit of going to the graveyard and
of wearing mourning since the death of her brother. For hours she does
not take her eyes off the oaken cross; she recalls the pale little face
of Olliya Meshcherskaya in her coffin, among the flowers--and also that
which she had once happened to overhear: once, during the main recess,
strolling through the school garden, Olliya Meshcherskaya was saying,
all in one breath, to her favourite mate,--the stout, tall Subottina:
“In one of papa’s books,--he has a lot of old-fashioned funny books,--I
read what sort of beauty a woman ought to have ... you understand,
there is so much said there that one can’t remember everything: well,
of course, black eyes, like boiling pitch,--honest to God, it is
written just so!--like boiling pitch,--eye-lashes as black as night;
a softly mantling blush, a slender waist, a hand longer than the
ordinary,--you understand, longer than the ordinary!--a little foot, a
moderately large bosom, a regularly rounded calf, a knee the colour of
a sea-shell, sloping--but high--shoulders.... I learned most of this
by heart, that’s how true all this is! But do you know what the chief
thing is?--Light breathing!... But then, I have it,--you just listen
how I sigh,--really, haven’t I got it?”
Now this light breathing has been scattered anew upon the universe,
upon this cloud-covered sky, upon this chill spring wind....
_1916._
AN EVENING IN SPRING
On St. Thomas’ week, on a clear evening barely tinged with rose, at
that enchanting time when the earth has just been freed from the snow,
when, in the little hollows upon the steppes, underneath the young bare
oaks, some gray, hardened snow still lingers, an old beggar was going
from house to house in a certain village in the Eletz province,--of
course, he had no hat, and there was a long linen wallet slung over his
shoulder.
This village was a large one, but quiet, lying far out among the
fields. And besides, it happened to be a quiet evening. There was
nobody near the flooded, clayey pond, that one could not see the
limits of; nor upon the level common where, in the shade of the huts
and hayricks, this old man was walking. His head was bald, yet still
black-haired; he held a long walnut staff in his hand, and looked like
a primitive bishop. The common was of a clear, vivid green; the air was
freshening; the pond, concavely-full, its tone that of a flashing flesh
colour, was slightly crimson, and there was a certain beauty about
it, despite a bottle-green block of ice, covered with rusty manure,
that still floated about in it. Somewheres on the other side, warmly
and caressingly lit up against the low-lying sun,--somewhere far-off,
it seemed,--a child, strayed behind some corn-kiln or storehouse, was
crying, and its plaintive, monotonous wailing was not unpleasant to the
ear in the evening glow.... But the folk thereabouts were none too
generous of alms.
There, at the entrance to the village, near an old, well-to-do farm,
where age-old oaks covered with the nests of rooks stood beyond the
three-roomed _izba_ of dark-red brick, a young gray-eyed married woman
had given something, but even that had been a trifle. She had been
standing near the stone threshold amid the drying spring mire upon a
hard-beaten path, holding a pretty little girl, whose little eyes did
not show any glimmer of intelligence, perched in her arms; the child
had on a little patchwork cap, and, pressing her close against her,
the woman was dancing, stamping her bare feet, and, as she turned, her
cotton skirt would swell out.
“There’s an old man; I’ll give you to him to put in his little wallet,”
she was saying through her teeth, her lips feasting on the little
girl’s cheeks:
“I’m a-goin’ to dance
So’s the floor will creak....”
And, turning, completely around, she changed her voice to a ringing,
coquettish tone, evidently imitative of some one:
“Old man, old man,--don’t you need a little girl?”
The girl was not a bit frightened; she was calmly sucking a round
cracknel, and the mother began coaxing the little girl, in all sorts of
ways, to give it to the smiling beggar who had come up:
“Give it to him, my little babe, give it to him; for you and I are all,
all alone on this whole farm; so we have nothing to give alms with....”
And the little girl stolidly stretched out her short little arm,
with the saliva-moistened cookie clenched in her little fist. And the
beggar, smilingly shaking his head at other folks’ happiness, took it
and munched it as he went on his way.
He held his stick lightly, in readiness, as he went; now it would be
a wicked, snarling watch-dog that would roll up in a ball underneath
your feet,--and having rolled right up to you, would suddenly become
quiet; or else a yellow, downy hound would ferociously tear the ground
and throw it up with his hind feet, standing near a hay rick and
growling, growling and gasping, with fiery eyes.... Upon approaching
the little window of a hut, the beggar would make a humble bow and
would tap lightly against the frame with his staff. But often no one
would respond to this tap; many were still finishing up their sowing,
finishing up their plowing, many were out in the fields. And his
soul, the soul of a peasant from of old, even rejoiced in secret: the
folks are out in the field ... this is the time that feeds the whole
year ... no time for beggars.... And at times, on the other side of
the panes upon which the beggar tapped, a fair-faced peasant woman
carrying a child at breast in her arms, would lean over as she sat on
a bench. Through the sorry little window, she appeared very big. Not
at all abashed because the beggar could see her soft breast, as white
as wheat-flour, she would wave him away with her large hand, covered
with silver rings, while the infant, without letting the sweet nipple
out of its mouth, lay back and looked up at her with its dark, clear
eyes, scratching hard its bare little outspread legs, all dotted with
pink from flea-bites. “God will give you alms,--don’t be angry with
us,” the peasant woman would say calmly. As for the old women, each
one of them would wrinkle up her face painfully, inevitably leaning out
and complaining for a long time, constantly re-iterating that she’d
be glad as glad could be to give alms, but there wasn’t anything ...
everybody was out in the fields ... and to give without asking she was
afraid,--she, being an old woman, had had her head bitten off long
ago, as it was.... The beggar would agree with her, would say, “Well,
forgive me, for the love of God,” and would go on farther.
He had done thirty versts[2] that day, and was not a bit fatigued;
only his legs had grown benumbed, dulled, and had begun to wobble. His
long bag was half-filled with crusts and some odds and ends; while
under the patched long coat, narrow belted and long skirted, under the
sheepskin jacket and the much worn blouse, under the shirt next his
skin, there had long been hanging upon his crucifix an amulet wherein
were sewn ninety-two roubles in bills. And his soul was at rest. Of
course, he was old, thin, all weather-beaten,--his mouth contracted,
parched, until it was all black; his nose was like a bone; his neck
all in wrinkles resembling cracks, criss-crossing one another, as
though his neck were made of cork. But he was still spry. His eyes,
which once upon a time had been black, were now rheumy and dimmed by
thin cataracts; but still they could see not only the full-flooded
pond, but, as well, the roseate tint upon its farther side, and even
the clear, pale sky. The air was getting fresher; more loudly, but
seemingly from a still greater distance, came the receding cry of the
child; there was a scent of the chilling grass in the air.... Two
pigeons soared together over the roofs, fell to the clayey little bank
of the pond, and, raising their little heads, began to drink.... Just
a little before, in a lonely farm near the great road, some women had
grown generous and had given him a big piece of calico and a pair of
good trousers,--oh, good as new, you might say; a young fellow that
belonged to their farm had made them for himself, but he had been
crushed in a pit, in the quarry where the _moujiks_ had been digging
for clay. Now the beggar was walking along and deliberating: should he
dispose of them, or put them on himself, and throw away those he had
on--which, by now, were really none too presentable,--near the edge of
some field?
[2] A verst is about two-thirds of a mile. _Trans._
Having come to the end of the village, he entered a short little lane
that led out into the steppe. And into his eyes glanced the many-rayed,
fair-weather sun of April, sinking far beyond the plain, beyond the
gray fallow-lands and the newly tilled fields of spring-corn. At the
very end of the village, at a turn of the well-beaten, glistening
road, leading to that distant, humble hamlet where the beggar was
thinking of passing the night, stood a new hut, not large, well-roofed
with new thatch, which was lemon-coloured and resembled a well-combed
head. Keeping aloof from everybody, a man and his wife had settled
here a year ago,--there were shavings and chips still knocking about
here and there. They were a thrifty, hard-working, agreeable couple,
and sold vodka on the sly. And so the beggar went straight toward
this hut,--there was a possibility of selling the new trousers to its
owner,--and besides, he liked just to enter it; he liked it because
it seemed to be living some especial life, all its own, quiet and
steadfast, standing at the end leading out of the village and gazing
with its clear little windows upon the setting of the sun, while the
sky-larks were finishing their song in the chilling air. Near the blind
wall that gave out upon the by-lane lay a shadow, but its front wall
was gay. Last fall its owner had planted three acacia bushes beneath
the little windows. Now they had taken root and were already downy with
a yellowish verdure tender as that of a willow. Having skirted them,
the beggar walked in through the entry into the main room.
At first, after the sunlight, he could not see anything, although the
sun was looking in here as well, lighting up the blue transparent smoke
floating over the table, that stood underneath a hanging tin lamp. To
gain time while his eyes grew accustomed, he bowed and crossed himself
for a long time in the direction of the new tinselled icon hanging in a
corner. Then he laid down his bag and his staff on the floor near the
door, and made out a large-bodied _moujik_ in bast shoes and a tattered
short sheepskin coat, sitting with his back to the door, on a stool
near the table; the well-dressed mistress he saw sitting on a bench.
“The Lord’s blessing be with you,” said he, in a low voice, bowing once
more. “Greetings of the holiday just past.”
He wanted to sing the paschal _Christ Is Risen_, but felt that it would
be out of place, and reflected:
“Well, I guess the master is not at home.... What a pity.”
The mistress was not at all bad-looking, with a very shapely waist,
with white hands,--just as though she were no mere peasant woman. She
was in a gala-dress, as always; in a pearl necklace, in a blouse of
coarse calico, with thin puffed-out sleeves, with an apron broidered in
red and blue, in a skirt of indigo wool with terra-cotta checks, and in
half-boots, rough but well-sown and made to fit the foot, their heels
shod with steel. With her neat head and clear face bent down, she was
embroidering a blouse for her husband. When the beggar had greeted her,
she raised her steady but unglittering eyes, threw an intent glance
upon him, and nodded amiably. Then, with a light sigh, she laid her
work aside, deftly stuck her needle in it, went toward the oven, her
half-boots clacking over the wooden floor and her flanks swaying, and
took a small bottle of vodka and a thick cup with blue stripes out of a
little cupboard.
“I have gotten tired, though ...” said the beggar, as if he were
talking to himself,--both in apology for the vodka and because he was
confused by the silence of the _moujik_, who had not turned around
toward him.
Stepping softly in his bast-shoes, humbly walking around him, the
beggar sat down upon another stool, at an opposite corner of the table.
As for the mistress, she put the cup and the small bottle before him,
and went back to her work. Then this stalwart, tattered son of the
steppes raised his head heavily,--there was a whole greenish demijohn
standing before him,--and, narrowing his eyes, he fixed his gaze upon
his humble bottle-companion. He may have been pretending just a trifle;
but still, his face was inflamed; his eyes were drunken, filled with
the dull glitter of tipsiness; the lips, grown soft and flabby, were
half-open, as in a fever,--evidently, this was not the first day of
his spree. And the beggar grew a little more wary, and carefully
began filling his cup. “After all, now, he’ll drink his and I’ll
drink mine.... This is a tavern, and we don’t bother one another,”
he was thinking. He raised his head, and his mistily-black eyes, the
colour of ripe sloe-thorn, as well as his whole visage, made rough and
weather-beaten by the steppe, were void of all expression.
“Where was you tramping?” asked the _moujik_, roughly and crazily.
“Have you come to steal, seeing as how all the folks are out in the
fields?”
“Why should I be stealing?” the beggar replied, evenly and meekly.
“I’ve had six children of my own, and my own house and goods....”
“You’re blind and you’re blind, but, never fear, many’s the feather and
the twig you’ve carried to your nest!”
“Why should you be saying that? I’ve worked hard as could be for ten
years in the quartz mines....”
“That ain’t work. That’s....”
“Don’t you be saying anything out of the way,” said the mistress,
without elevating her voice, without raising her lashes, and bit off
the thread. “I don’t listen to anything unseemly. I ain’t heard it from
my husband yet.”
“Well, that will do; I won’t do it any more ... lady!” said the
_moujik_. “’Scuse me ... I’m after asking you,” said he to the beggar,
frowningly, “what can you get out of the ground, now, when it ain’t
been ploughed nor sown?”
“Well, now, of course.... Whoever has the land, for example....”
“Wait,--I’m smarter than you be!” said the _moujik_ slapping the table
with his palm. “Answer what you’re asked; did you serve for a soldier?”
“I was a non-commissioned officer of the Tenth Grenadiers Regiment of
Little Russia, under Count Rumiyant-zev-Zadunaisky.... What else should
I be doing but serving for a soldier?”
“Keep still, don’t gabble more’n you’re asked! What year was you took?”
“In ’seventy six, in the month of November.”
“Wasn’t you ever at fault?”
“Never.”
“Did you obey the officers?”
“There was no way of my doing otherwise. I had taken an oath.”
“But what’s that scar doing on your neck? Do you understand what
I’m driving at now? I am testing him,” said the _moujik_, with his
eye-brows working surlily, but changing his commanding voice for a more
simple one, and turning toward the mistress his crazed face, aureately
illumined through the tobacco smoke by the sunset; “I may be poor, all
right, but I’ve caught more than one fellow like that! I know enough to
come in out of the rain!”
And again he put on a frown, looking at the beggar:
“Did you bow down before the Holy Cross and the Gospel?”
“That I have,” answered the beggar, who had managed to take a drink, to
wipe his mouth with his sleeve, to sit up straight again, and to impart
to his face and his misty eyes a dispassionate expression.
The _moujik_ surveyed him with glazed eyes.
“Stand up before me!”
“Don’t raise any fuss. Am I talking to you, or am I not?” the mistress
quietly intervened.
“Wait, for the love of God,” the _moujik_ waved her away in vexation.
“Stand up before me!”
“Honest to God, what are you up to....” the beggar began to mumble.
“Stand up, I’m telling you!” yelled the _moujik_. “I’m a-going to
examine you.”
The beggar stood up and shifted from foot to foot.
“Hands at the sides! So. Got a passport?”
“But are you an inspector, or something?”
“Keep still,--don’t you dare to jaw back at me like that! I’m smarter
than you be! I went all through this myself. Show it to me this minute!”
Hastily unhooking his long overcoat, then his sheepskin jacket, the
beggar submissively rummaged within the bosom of his shirt for a long
time. Finally he pulled out a paper wrapped up in a red handkerchief.
“Give it here,” said the _moujik_ abruptly.
And, unwrapping the little handkerchief, the beggar handed him a small
frayed gray book, with a large wax seal. The _moujik_ awkwardly opened
it with his gnarled fingers and pretended to read it, putting it at
a distance from him, leaning back, and looking at it for a long time
through the tobacco smoke and the red light of the evening glow.
“So. I see now. Everything ship-shape. Take it back,” he said, his
parched lips moving with difficulty. “I am poor as poor can be; it’s
the second spring, you might say, that I’m neither ploughing nor
sowing; folks have done for me.... I fell down at his feet, the dog
that he is.... And yet I’m beyond a price, you might say.... But you
just tell me all that you’ve stolen, or else I’ll kill you right off!”
he yelled ferociously. “I know everything; I’ve gone through all sorts
of things.... I’ve been boiled in pitch, you might say,--that’s how
I’ve suffered.... It is the Lord that gives us life, but any vermin can
take it away.... Give the bag here, and that’s all there is to it!”
The mistress merely shook her head, and leaned back from her
embroidery, contemplating it. The beggar went toward the door and
gave the _moujik_ the bag, just as he had given him the passport. The
_moujik_ took it, and, as he laid it near him on the stool, he said:
“That’s right. Now sit down,--let’s chat a bit. I’ll get to the bottom
of all this here. I’ll make an inspection of my own, don’t you fret!”
And he became silent, staring at the table.
“Spring...” he muttered. “Ah, but what a sorrowful sabbath-day it is,
that a man may not work in the fields.... Go on!” he cried out to some
imagined person, trying to snap his fingers:
“Oh, the lady starts to dance,
And her fingers is all blue....”
And he relapsed into silence. The mistress was smoothing down the
embroidery with her thimble.
“I’m going out to milk the cow,” said she, getting up from her seat.
“Don’t blow up the fire whilst I am out, or else you’ll burn us out in
your drunkenness.”
The _moujik_ came to with a start.
“Lordy!” he exclaimed, in hurt tones. “Little mistress! How can youse
say that.... You’ve grown aweary for your husband, never fear?”
“That’s none of your worry,” said the mistress. “He’s in town, on
business.... He don’t go traipsing around no inns.”
“You’d go traipsing, too!” said the _moujik_. “Well, what would you
have me do, now,--go out on the wayside, or what? You rich devils are
all right....”
The mistress, picking up a milk-pail, went out. It was growing dark in
the hut; everything was quiet, and the roseate light was suffused in
the soft, spring obscurity. The _moujik_, with his elbows on the table,
was dozing, as he pulled at an extinguished, crudely made cigarette.
The beggar was sitting peacefully, with never a sound, leaning against
the dark partition, and his face was almost invisible.
“Do you drink beer?” asked the _moujik_.
“I do,” came the low answer out of the dusk.
The _moujik_ was silent for a while.
“We are vagabones, you and me” said he, morosely and meditatively.
“Poor wayside rubbish.... Beggarmen.... I feel weary in your company!”
“That’s right....”
“But as for beer,--I like it,” said the _moujik_ loudly, after another
silence. “She don’t keep it, the carrion! Otherwise I would have drunk
some beer ... and would have had a snack of something.... My tongue’s
all soaked,--I want to eat.... I would have had a snack and drunk
something.... Yes.... But she, the mistress, ain’t got such a bad face!
If I was harnessed up with one like her, I would.... All right, never
mind, sit down, sit down ... I got respect for the blind. Whenever a
grand holiday used to come around, I would take twenty of these here
blind men, now, and seat them at table,--you would have had to look and
look to find another household like ours! And they would sing a stave
for me, and make me a bow to boot.... Do you know how to sing staves?
About Alexei, the Man of God? I do take to that stave. Pick up your
cup,--I’ll treat you to some of mine.”
Having taken the cup from the beggar’s hands, he held it up to the
faint light of the evening glow and half-filled it. The beggar got up,
made a low bow, drained the cup to the bottom, and again sat down. The
_moujik_ dragged the beggar’s bag upon his knees, and, untying it,
began to mutter:
“I sized you up at once ... I’ve got enough money of my own, brother;
you’re no mate for me.... I go through my money in cold blood ... I
drink it away ... I drink away a horse a year, and send a good ram up
in smoke.... Aha! So you’ve run up against a bit of a _moujik_,--do you
understand who I am? But still, I feel sorry for you. I understand!
There’s thousands of the likes of you roaming about in springtime....
There’s mire, and sloughs, and never a path or a road,--but you’ve
got to keep on going, bowing before everybody.... And you can’t never
tell whether they’ll give you anything or no.... Eh, brother! Don’t I
understand you?” asked the _moujik_ with bitter sorrow, and his eyes
filled with tears.
“No, this time of the year is not so bad, it’s all right,” said the
beggar quietly. “You walk along a field, over a big, abandoned tract
that had once been planned for a road.... All alone, with never
another soul nigh.... Then, too, there’s the dear sun, and the warm
weather.... True, there’s many a thousand of the likes of me roaming
about. Half of Russia is roaming so.”
“I’ve drunk away two horses,” said the _moujik_, raking the crusts out
of the bag, pulling out a waist-coat, the calico, the trousers, and a
bast shoe. “I’m goin’ to go all through all your miserable pickings,
and old rags.... Hold on! Pants! I must buy them from you, soon as I
come into a little money.... How much?”
The beggar thought for a while.
“Why, I’d let it go for two....”
“I’ll give you three!” said the _moujik_, getting up, placing the
trousers under him, and sitting down upon them. “They’re mine! But
where’s the other shoe? It will pass for new,--that means you must have
stolen it, for sure. But then, it’s better to be thieving, than to be
grieving your heart out in the springtime, the way I am a-doing now; to
be perishing from hunger, to be coming to the end of your rope,--when
you take the very least of the shepherds, and you’ll find him at
work.... I have drunk a horse away,--but a beastie like that is worth
more nor any man.... But am I no ploughman, no reaper? ... And now you
sing a stave, or I’ll kill you right off!” he cried out. “I feel weary
in your company!”
In a quavering, modest, but a practiced voice the beggar began to sing
out of the obscurity:
“Once upon a time there lived and were two brethren--
Two blood-brethren, two brethren in God and Christ....”
“Eh, two brethren in God and Christ!” the _moujik_ chimed in, in a
high-pitched and piteous tone, straining his voice.
The beggar, with even churchly chanting, continued:
“One dwelt in cold and poverty,
Rotting in his leprosy....”
“And the o-other was rich!” out of tune, drowning out the beggar, with
tears in his voice, the _moujik_ caught up the song. “Put more heart
in it!” he cried out, as his voice broke. “Grief has swallowed me up;
all men are having a holiday, all men are sowing,--but here I be,
biting the earth; it’s the second spring that my mother earth has been
barren.... Let me have your cup, or I’ll kill you right off! Open the
window for me!”
And again the beggar submissively gave him his cup. Then he started
to open the window. Being new, it had swollen and would not yield for
a long while. Finally it did yield, and flew open. A fresh, pleasant
odour of the fields floated in. It was completely dark out there now,
the roseate night glow had become extinguished, barely shimmering over
the soft darkness of the quiet, joyous, fecundated field. One could
hear the half-drowsy sky-larks finishing their very last songs.
“Sing, Lazarus,--sing, my own brother!” said the _moujik_, extending a
full cup to the beggar. “We’re two of a kind, you and me.... Only what
are you alongside of me? A vagabone! Whereas I am a working man, that
gives food and drink to all those that suffer....”
He sat down suddenly, losing his balance, and again dug into the bag.
“And what might you have here?” he asked, examining the calico, which
had turned the faintest pink in the barely perceptible light of the
evening glow.
“Oh, that’s just so.... Some women gave it to me,” said the beggar
quietly, feeling everything floating before him from tipsiness, and
that it was time to be going, and that it was necessary to extricate
the trousers from underneath the _moujik_ somehow.
“How can that be! You lie!” cried out the _moujik_, banging the table
with his fist. “It’s a shroud,--I can see! It’s a grave-shroud!”
he cried out with tears in his voice, and was silent for a while,
hearkening to the abating songs of the sky-larks. Then he shoved the
bag away from him, and, shaking his tousled head, began to cry: “I have
risen in my pride against God!” said he bitterly, weeping.
And then, straining himself, he began to sing loudly, keeping good time:
“Oh my mother gave me birth and she guarded me,
Though I now a sinner be, unforgivable!
All the torments have I borne,
All the sorrows have I borne,--
Nowheres found I joy for me.
Oh, my mother spoke to me
And she cautioned me;
If she only knew, if she only saw,
She could never bear
Such calamity....”
“Oh, my soul is a sinner and a creeping thing!” he cried out wildly,
weeping, and suddenly started clapping his palms with an elderitch
laughter: “Beggar-man, give me your money! I know you through and
through; I feel you through and through,--give it to me! I know you
have it! It can’t be otherwise,--give it to me for love of the Lord God
Himself!”
And, swaying, he arose, and the beggar, who had also arisen, felt his
legs giving away from fear, felt a dull ache start in his thighs. The
tear-stained face of the _moujik_, barely discernible in the twilight,
was insane.
“Give it to me!” he repeated, in a voice suddenly grown hoarse. “Give
it to me, for the Love of the Queen of Heaven! I can see, I can
see,--you’re grabbing at your bosom, at your undershirt; that means
you’ve got it,--all your kind has! Give it to me,--it ain’t of no use
to you, anyway, whereas it will set me on my feet forever! Give it to
me of your own will,--brother, don’t lead me into sin!”
“Can’t do it,” said the beggar, quietly and dispassionately.
“What?”
“Can’t do it. I’ve been saving for twenty years. Can’t bring myself to
do it.”
“You ain’t goin’ to give it to me?” asked the _moujik_ hoarsely.
“No ...” said the beggar, barely audible but unshaken.
The _moujik_ was silent for a long while. The beating of their hearts
could be heard in the darkness.
“Very well,” said the _moujik_, with an insane submissiveness. “I will
kill you; I’ll go and find me a stone and then kill you.”
And, swaying, he went toward the threshold.
The beggar, standing erect in the darkness, made a sweeping and slow
sign of the cross. As for the _moujik_, he, with his head lowered like
a bull, was already walking about under the windows.
Then there came a crunching sound,--evidently he was pulling a stone
out of the foundation.
And a minute later the door slammed again,--and the beggar drew himself
up still more.
“For the last time I’m a-telling you ...” the _moujik_ mumbled out
with his cracked lips, walking up to him with a big white stone in his
hands. “Brother....”
The beggar was silent. His fate could not be seen. Swinging back with
his left arm and catching the beggar by his neck, the _moujik_ struck
hard his shrinking face with the chill stone. The beggar tore away,
backward, and, as he fell, catching the table with his bast-shoe, he
struck the back of his head against a stool, and then against the
floor. And falling upon him, the _moujik_, squeezing the breath out of
his chest, frenziedly began to batter in his throat with the stone.
Ten minutes later he was already far out in the dark, even field. There
were many stars out; the air was fresh; the earth gave forth a metallic
odour. Completely sobered up, he was walking so rapidly and lightly
that he seemed capable of covering a hundred versts more. The amulet,
torn off the beggar’s crucifix, he was holding tightly clenched in his
hand. Later, he flung it from him into a dark, freshly ploughed field.
His eyes were staring fixedly like an owl’s; his teeth were tightly
clenched, like a lobster’s claws. Although he had looked for his cap
for a long while, he had been unable to find it in the darkness; the
chillness beat upon his bared head. His head seemed to him to be of
stone.
_1914._
THE SACRIFICE
Simon Novicov, who was living in Oats Ford with his brother
Nicon,--Nicon of the withered arm,--was burned out in midsummer, about
the fast of St. Peter. The brothers decided to divide their property,
and Simon, intending to leave the Ford, was putting up a hut for
himself near the great highway.
On the evening before Elijah’s Day the carpenters had asked for leave
to go home. After supping with the large family of his brother, in the
midst of flies and the clamour of children, he lit his pipe, put on his
short sheepskin coat, and said to his folks:
“It’s stuffy in here. I’m going to the building,--I’ll sleep the night
there. I’m afraid the tools might be stole.”
“You ought to take the dogs with you, at least,” one of the women
counselled him.
“Get along with ye!” said Simon, and went out.
There was a full moon out that night. What with his thoughts of his
future household, Simon did not even notice how he had climbed up hill
by the broad path to the pasture lands that led out of the village,
and, after putting about a verst behind him on the big road, had come
right up to his hut, which had a ceiling but was, as yet, unroofed.
It stood at the edge of the fields of grain, in the midst of an empty
field. Its sashless windows gaped blackly, and it was dully glistening
against the light of the moon with the ends of its new corner-beams,
with the tow sticking out of its joints, and the sticks and shavings
about its threshold. The aureate July moon, which had risen far
beyond the ravines of the Ford, hung low and was turbid. Its warm
glow was diffused over everything. The ripe grain glimmered whitely
ahead,--dully, sombrely, like stretches of sand. But toward the north
the sky was altogether overcast,--a cloud was gathering there. A soft
breeze, blowing from all sides, would at times gather strength and
run fitfully over the rye and oats,--and they would rustle crisply,
disquietingly. The cloud toward the north appeared immovable, but it
was frequently shot with an eerie, fleeting, golden sheen.
Simon, stooping at the threshold through habit, entered the hut. It
was dark and stuffy within it. The yellow moonlight, looking in at the
unglazed windows, did not blend with the darkness, but only intensified
it. Simon threw down his short sheepskin coat upon the shavings in the
middle of the hut, directly in the path of one of the rows of light,
and lay down on his back. After drawing at his extinguished pipe for a
space, he put it in his pocket, and, after thinking for a little while
longer, fell asleep.
But now the wind began blowing in at the windows, and, by way of the
entry, through the door. The thunder began muttering dully in the
distance. Simon sat up. The wind increased--it was now running over the
feverishly murmuring grain without cease, and the light of the moon
had become still dimmer. Simon walked out of the hut, and, turning the
corner, was among the crisp and sultry swishing of the oats, which
were as pallid as a shroud. He glanced at the cloud,--the colour of
dark slate, it had taken up half the heavens. The wind was blowing
straight in his face, tugging at his hair and tangling it, interfering
with his vision. The flashes of lightning, too, interfered with his
vision and blinded it, as they flared up, more and more ominous and
fiery. Simon, making the sign of the cross, got down on his knees: in
the distance, in the midst of the sea of oats, standing out against
the bank of the cloud, a small throng was advancing toward him. Their
heads were bared; in white girdles, in new short sheepskin coats, they
were with difficulty bearing a seven-foot altar-piece, painted by some
ancient master. The throng was mistily-spectral, but the image was very
plain,--an awesome, severe countenance, showing red upon a black panel,
which was burnt by candles, dripped over by wax, and bound at the edges
by old, blue-coloured silver.
The wind had parted the hair upon Simon’s brow, pleasantly blowing it
back, and Simon, in fear and joy, bowed down to the ground before the
image. When he finally did raise his head, he saw that the crowd had
halted, awkwardly supporting the image, which was majestically leaning
backward; while upon the cloud was limned, as in a church picture, a
towering, enormous visage: the mighty, hoary-bearded Elijah himself,
clad in chitons of fire, and sitting, like God-Sabbaoth, upon the
lifelessly-blueish tiers of the lower clouds, while two greenish-orange
rainbows were flaming above him, against the slate-coloured background.
And, flashing his lightning-like orbs, blending his voice with the
distant rumble of the thunder, Elijah spake to Simon:
“Stand up straight, Simon Novicov. Hearken, ye princes and peasants!
I am about to judge him, Simon Novicov,--a peasant tenant of the Eletz
province, of the Predtechev District, of the little village of Oats
Ford.”
And the entire field, glimmering as white as sand all around, with all
its ears of grain together with the tares darted forward, bowing down
before Elijah, and amidst their murmur Elijah began to speak:
“I was wroth with thee, Simon Novicov,--I wanted to punish thee.”
“Wherefore, Father?” questioned Simon.
“It is no fitting thing for thee, Simon Novicov, to be questioning me,
Elijah. Thou art the one to make answer.”
“Well, forgive me; let it be as thou dost will,” said Simon.
“Summer before last I did kill Pantelei, thy eldest son, with a stroke
of lightning; wherefore didst thou bury him in the ground up to his
waist, bringing him back to life through black magic?”
“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing, “I felt sorry for the young
lad. Judge for thyself,--why, he would be the one to give me food and
drink in my old age.”
“Last summer I did mow, I did trample down thy rye with hail and with
whirl-winds: why didst thou get knowledge of it beforehand, and sell
this rye while it yet stood uncut?”
“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing. “My heart felt a forewarning;
need did force me to it.”
“Well, was it not I that burned thee out but just now, at St. Peter’s
fast? Wherefore dost thou hasten to build anew, to divide thy goods
with thy brother?”
“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing. “My brother of the withered
hand is unlucky; I thought all the misfortunes were coming from him.”
“Shut thy eyes. We shall ponder, we shall take counsel, as to thy
punishment.”
Simon shut his eyes; he bowed down his head. The wind was noisy,--under
cover of its noise he was trying to eavesdrop, on the sly, what Elijah
and the peasants were whispering together about. But there came a heavy
peal of thunder near at hand,--not a thing could he hear.
“No, we can’t think of anything,” said Elijah with all his voice. “Thou
thyself must counsel me.”
“And may I open my eyes?” asked Simon.
“There is no need of that. A blind man thinks all the surer.”
“Thou art a queer fellow, Father,” Simon smiled thoughtfully. “Well,
what is there to think about? I shall place a three-rouble candle
before thee....”
“Thou hast not the wherewithal. Thou hast spent everything on building.”
“Well, in that case I shall go on a pilgrimage to Kiev, or to
Belgorod,” said Simon, irresolutely.
“That’s just loafing, and a waste of shoe-leather. Who’s going to take
care of the household?”
Simon went into deep thought.
“Well, then, slay my little girl Anphiska. She’s just going on three.
The girl, to tell the truth, is a kind-hearted, endearing little
creature,--we will all feel sorry for her; but then, there’s no help
for it.... One can’t get everything with just a little!”
“Lend ear, ye faithful,” said Elijah loudly. “I agree.”
And the cloud was rent by such a flame that Simon’s lids almost caught
fire, and the heavens were split by such a peal that all the earth
quivered beneath him.
“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God-Sabbaoth!” whispered Simon. “Heaven
defend us!”
When he came to, opening his eyes, Simon beheld only the dust-laden
cloud, the deserted, agitated grain, and himself, standing on his knees
in the midst of its ears. The wind was whirling in a pillar over the
road, and the moon had grown entirely dimmed.
Simon jumped up on his feet. Forgetting all about his short coat, about
the axes and the planes, he started off for home, for the village,
braving the whirl-winds. The heavy rain caught him out on the common.
The dark clouds had piled up above the darkened ravines. The red moon
was sinking beyond them. The village was in heavy slumber, but the
cattle in the yards were stirring uneasily, the roosters were crowing
in alarm. And, running up to his old, half-burned-down hut, Simon heard
the wailing of women within. Nicon of the withered arm was standing at
the threshold, in his sheepskin coat and without a hat; scrawny and
wrinkled beyond his years, he was looking about dully and confusedly.
“There’s been a calamity at your house,” he said, and one could tell by
his voice that he was not yet thoroughly awake.
Simon ran into the hut. The women-folk were running about in the
darkness, screaming, looking for the sulphur matches. Simon snatched
a small box of them out from behind the image, and lit a tallow-wick.
The cradle, which was hung near the oven, was swinging from side to
side,--the women had been striking against it when they were running
about. And within it lay the little girl, dead. She had turned all
livid, and a quilt work cap was smouldering on her head.
Simon has been living happily, ever since.
_1913._
AGLAIA
In that community, in that forest village where Aglaia was born and had
grown up, she was called Anna.
She was bereaved of her father and mother at an early age. The
small-pox visited the village one winter, and many of those who had
gone to their rest were carted off then to the churchyard in the
settlement beyond Sviyat-Oziero.[3] Two coffins in one day stood in the
hut of the Skuratovs as well. The little girl had experienced neither
fear nor pity; she had only come to remember forever that odour which
emanated from them, which is like nothing else on earth and is unknown
and oppressive to the living, and that winter freshness, that cold of
the Lenten thaw before Easter, which had been let into the hut by the
peasants who were carrying the coffins out to the wide sledge standing
under the windows.
[3] Holy Lake. _Trans._
In that forest-covered region the villages are few and small; their
crude, log-enclosed yards are scattered without any order, just as the
clayey hummocks permit and as near as possible to the little rivers, to
the lakes. The folk thereabouts are not so very poor and watch after
their goods, their ancient way of living,--notwithstanding the fact
that they have been going out to hire since time out of mind, leaving
the women to plough the stepmotherly earth, where it is free of the
forest; to mow the grasses in the forest; and in winter to whirr at
the weaving loom. Toward that way of living did Anna’s heart incline in
her childhood; endeared to her were both the black hut and the burning
rush light in its cresset.
Katherine, her sister, had long been married. She it was who managed
the house,--at first together with her husband, who had been taken into
the household; and later, when he began going away for a whole year
at a time, all by herself. Under her eyes the girl grew, steadily and
rapidly; never did she cry, never did she complain of aught; only she
had constant fits of pensiveness. If Katherine called to her, asking
what the matter with her was, she would answer simply, saying that her
neck was creaking, and that she was listening to it. “There,” she would
say, turning her neck, and her fair little face, “do you hear it?” “And
what are you thinking of?” “Oh, just so. I don’t know.” During her
childhood she never had anything to do with girls of her own age, and
never did she go anywheres,--only once had she gone with her sister
to that old settlement beyond Sviyat-Oziero, where in the churchyard,
under pine trees, crosses of pine wood stick up out of the ground, and
where stands a little church of logs, roofed with blackened tiles of
wood that look like scales. That was the first time that she had been
dressed up in bast slippers and a _sarafan_ of bright coloured linen,
and that a necklace and a yellow kerchief had been bought for her.
Katherine grieved about her husband and wept; wept, too, about her
childlessness. But, having shed all her tears, she gave a vow to have
no more knowledge of her husband. When her husband would come, she
would meet him joyously, speaking with him cheerily, painstakingly
looked over his shirts, mending all that stood in need of mending;
she bustled about the oven, and was pleased when he liked anything;
but they slept apart, like strangers. And when he would go away, she
would again become wearied and quiet. More and more frequently did she
leave the house, staying at a near-by nunnery, visiting the holy old
man Rodion, who was striving for his soul in a hut within a forest
that was beyond that nunnery. She was perseveringly learning to read,
bringing saintly books from the nunnery, and would read them aloud;
not in her usual voice, but pitching it in high sing-song. She would
be sitting at a table, her eyes cast-down, holding the book with both
hands, while the girl stood near by, listening and picking a splinter
from the table, looking all about the hut, which was always in the best
of order. Drinking in the sounds of her own voice, Katherine read on of
saints, of martyrs, who had contemned the dark things of our earth for
things heavenly, desirous of crucifying their flesh with its lusts and
its passions. Anna listened attentively to the reading, as to a chant
in an unknown tongue. But as soon as Katherine would shut the book, she
would never ask her to read some more: the book was always beyond her
understanding.
In adolescence she grew not by days, but by hours. When she was about
thirteen, she became exquisitely slender, tall, and strong. She was
gentle, fair of face, blue-eyed, but the work she liked was of the
commonest, of the roughest. When summer came on, when Katherine’s
husband returned, when the entire village went to the mowing, Anna,
too, went with her people and worked like a grown-up. Only, there
is not a great deal of summer work in that region. And once more the
sisters would be soon left alone, once more they would return to their
placid existence; and, once more, having done for the day with the live
stock, with the oven, Anna would be sitting at her sewing, or the loom,
the while Katherine read aloud: of seas, of deserts, of the city of
Rome, of Byzantium, of the miracles and deeds of the first Christians.
In the black hut in the forest sounded then words that enchanted the
ear: “In the land of Cappadocia, in the reign of the devout Byzantian
emperor, Leo the Great ... In the days of the patriarchship of the
most holy Joachhim of Alexandria, in Æthiopia, which is most distant
from us....” Thus did Anna come to know of the virgins and youths,
torn to pieces by wild beasts at pagan circuses; of the heavenly
beauty of Barbara, beheaded by her cruel, ferocious, unnatural parent;
of the relics of saints, guarded by angels on the Mount of Sinai; of
the warrior Eustacius, converted to the true God by the call of the
Crucified Himself, who burst out like a refulgent sun between the horns
of a deer that he, Eustacius, had been pursuing in the chase; of the
labours of Sabbas the Sainted, that dwelt in the Vale of Fires; and of
many, many others, who had spent their bitter days nigh desert springs,
in crypts, and in mountain cenobies.... During her adolescence she
had beheld herself in a dream, clad in a long linen shift and with a
crown of iron on her head. And Katherine had told her: “That stands for
dying, sister,--for an early death.”
And when she was going on fifteen, she became altogether maidenly,
and folks marvelled at her loveliness; the aureately-white colour of
her face was just the least bit tinged with a delicate blush; her
eyebrows were bushy, of a light flaxen colour, her eyes blue; she was
light, well-made,--unless it were that she was disproportionately
tall, slender, and long of arm; quietly and beautifully did she raise
her lashes. The winter that year was a rigorous one. The forests,
the lakes, were snowed under; the openings in the ice were thickly
frozen over; the frosty wind burned; and of dawns, two mirror-like,
rainbow-tinged suns were flashing at the same time. Before the
Christmas holidays Katherine ate bread-and-_kvass_ pudding, and dried
oatmeal; but Anna would nourish herself only with bread: “I want to
fast till I get another prophetic dream,” she had told her sister.
And toward the New Year again did she have a dream: she saw an early,
frosty morning; the blinding, icy sun seemed to have just rolled out
from beyond the snow-drifts, and a cutting wind was making her catch
her breath; she was flying upon skiis against the wind, toward the sun,
over the white plains, in pursuit of some wondrous ermine,--but she
suddenly tumbled off into some abyss, and was blinded, stiffed in the
cloud of snow dust swirling up at the edge of the precipice from under
the skiis.
She could understand nothing of this dream; but Anna, during all New
Year’s day, did not once look into her sister’s face. The priests were
going through the village; when they came to see the Skuratovs in
their turn, she hid behind the curtains of the sleeping place above
the big oven. During that winter, not having yet become settled in her
intentions, she was frequently dreamy, and Katherine would say to her:
“I have long been calling you, to go to Father Rodion,--he would ease
you of all your worries!”
She read to her that winter of Alexis, the Man of God; and of John, who
dwelt in a hut of branches,--both had died in poverty at the gates of
their well-born parents; she read of Simeon Stylites, who had rotted
alive while standing upon a pillar of stone. Anna asked her: “But why
doesn’t Father Rodion stand on a pillar?” And she answered, that the
tasks of holy people are varied, that our Russian martyrs had sought
salvation, for the most part, in the caverns of Kiev,--and, later on,
within impassable forests; or else had attained the Kingdom of Heaven
as naked, useless innocents. During that winter did Anna find out
about the Russian saints as well,--her spiritual forefathers: about
Matthew the Clear-Seeing, upon whom was bestowed the gift of seeing
only the dark and base things of this world, of penetrating into the
innermost hidden recesses of filth in the hearts of men, of beholding
clairvoyantly the visages of underground devils and of hearing their
impious counsellings. She heard of Mark the Grave Digger, who had
dedicated himself to the burial of the dead, and who through his
incessant proximity to Death had gained such sway over it that it
trembled at the sound of his voice; she heard of Isaac the Anchorite,
who had clad his body in the undressed hide of a goat which had grown
to his skin forever, and who gave himself up to mad dances with evil
spirits, that enticed him of nights into skipping and reeling to their
noisy calls, reeds, tympani and dulcimers.... “From him, from Isaac,
started all these innocents,” Katherine had told her. “And how many
there were of them afterward, none can reckon up! Father Rodion said
thus: ‘There have been none of them in any other land save ours; only
to us did the Lord send them as a visitation for our great sins,
and through His great grace.’” And she added what she had heard in
the nunnery,--the grievous tale of how Russia had retreated out of
Kiev into impassable forests and morasses, into its little towns of
bast, under the cruel rule of the princes of Muscovy; what Russia had
endured from seditions, from internicine wars, from ferocious Tartar
hordes and from other chastisements of God: from plague and famine,
from fire and heavenly portents. There was then, said she, such a vast
multitude of the folks of God, suffering and acting the innocent for
the sake of Christ, that the holy songs were not to be heard for their
squealing and clamouring in the churches. And a considerable number
among them, said she, were canonized among the heavenly throng. There
was Simon, from the forests of the Volga regions, who wandered over
desert waste lands, hiding himself from the sight of man, clad only
in a torn shift, and afterward, dwelling in a city, he was castigated
every day by its citizens for his uselessness, and expired from the
wounds inflicted during such castigations. There was Procopius, who
took upon himself ceaseless tortures in the town of Viatka, for that he
would, in the night-time, clamber up into belfries and ring the bells
in quick alarum, as though there were a fiery conflagration. There is
a Procopius that was born in the region of Ziryan, amongst savages,
amongst hunters after beasts; all his life did he go about with three
coal-rakes in his hands; he did adore the desert places, the mournful
wooded banks of the Sukhona, where, perched upon a little bowlder, he
did with tears pray for those that sailed upon it. There was Jacob the
Beatified, who sailed in an oaken log, hollowed out into a coffin, upon
an ice block, down the river Msta to the benighted dwellers of that
poor region; there is John the Hairy, from near Rostov-the-Greater,
whose hair was so unruly that it threw into a panic all whosoever might
behold it; there was John of Vologda, called Big Cap, small of stature,
wrinkled of face, all hung over with crosses,--until his very death he
never took off his head covering, that was like to a pot of cast-iron;
there was Basil, that went about naked, who wore for apparel, in winter
cold and summer heat, only iron chains and a little handkerchief that
he bore in his hand.... “Now, sister,” Katherine had said, “they are
standing before the face of the Lord, rejoicing among the throng of His
Saints; as for their imperishable relics, they repose within shrines
of cypress and of silver, in the holiest of cathedrals, by the side of
kings and prelates!”
“But why doesn’t Father Rodion be an innocent?” again asked Anna.
And Katherine answered that he had followed in the steps of those
who imitated not Isaac, but Sergius of Radonezh; he had followed in
the steps of the men who had founded monasteries in forests. Father
Rodion, said she, had at first sought salvation in an ancient and famed
desert place, located in the same regions where, in the midst of a
dreary forest, in the hollow trunk of an oak, three centuries old, a
great saint had once dwelt. There had Father Rodion served a strict
novitiate and taken the habit; had merited through the tears of his
repentance, and through his mercilessness toward the flesh, a sight
of the countenance of the Queen of Heaven Herself; he had fulfilled
his vow of seven years’ seclusion and seven years’ silence, but he was
not satisfied with that,--he left the monastery, and had come,--it was
now many, many years ago,--into these forests. He had put on shoes of
bast, a white robe of sack-cloth, a black stole with an eight-pointed
cross upon it, with a depiction of the skull and bones of Adam; he
subsists only upon water and uncooked swamp-grass; he has barred the
little window of his cabin with a holy icon; he sleeps in a coffin,
under an ever-lit holy lamp, and at the hour of every midnight he is
incessantly beset by howling beasts, by throngs of ravening dead men,
and by devils....
On her fifteenth birthday, at that very age when a maid ought to become
a bride, Anna forsook the world forever.
Spring that year came early and was a warm one. The berries ripened
in the woods beyond number; the grasses were waist-high, and at the
beginning of the Fast of St. Peter[4] the entire village went out to
mow them. Anna worked with a will; became sunburned among the grasses
and the flowers; the blush flamed darker upon her face; the kerchief,
pushed lower over the forehead, hid her warm glance. But once, in the
meadow, a great glistening snake with an emerald head wound itself
around her bare foot. Seizing the snake with her slim and long hand,
tearing away its icy and slippery plait, Anna cast it far from her
without even lifting her face. But she was very much scared,--she had
become whiter than linen. And Katherine said to her: “This, sister, is
the third sign for thee: dread the Arch-Tempter, a dangerous time is
coming for thee!” And it may have been the fright, or it might have
been these words,--but for a week after that the deathly pallor did not
depart from Anna’s face. And just before St. Peter’s Day, suddenly and
unexpectedly, she begged to go to the nunnery to hear the all-night
mass,--and did go, and did spend the night there, and in the morning
was found worthy of staying in the crowd of humble folk near the
threshold of the recluse. And a great grace did he show to her: out
of all the crowd did he remark her and did beckon her to him. And she
came out of his cabin with her head bent low, covering half her face
with her kerchief, having pushed it down over the fire of her flaming
cheeks, and in the confusion of her emotions did not see the ground
beneath her. And a chosen vessel, a sacrifice to God, had he called
her; had lit two little wax tapers, and, taking one himself and giving
the other to her, had stood a long while in prayer before an image. And
afterwards he had ordered her to kiss that image,--and had given her
his blessing to enter the nunnery for a novitiate within a short while.
“My joy,--thou simple sacrifice!” he had said to her. “Be thou a bride
not of this earth but of heaven! I know, full well, thy sister hath
prepared thee. I shall concern myself with this also, sinner that I am.”
[4] In midsummer. _Trans._
In the nunnery, in the monastic atmosphere, abandoning the world and
her own will for the sake of her spiritual godfather, Anna, who has
been named Aglaia upon taking the veil, passed three and thirty months.
And when the thirty-third month was almost run, she did depart this
life.
How she had lived there, how she had sought her salvation, is known to
none, for the remoteness of time. But still some things have remained
in the memory of the people. Once upon a time, some peasant pilgrim
women, from various and distant places, were bound for that wooded
region where Anna had been born. Near a small river which they had
to cross, they met the usual wanderer over holy places, in appearance
ill-favoured, tattered,--even, to put it plainly, queer, for the reason
that his eyes, underneath a derby that had once been high in the world,
were bandaged with a kerchief. The women began questioning him about
the ways, the roads to the nunnery; about Father Rodion himself, and
about Anna. He, in answering them, spoke a bit about himself at first:
“I, now, little sisters, don’t know such a terrible lot, myself;
however, I can chat a bit with you, for I am returning from those very
parts. You,” he said, “must feel uncanny in my company, and I don’t
wonder at it: I’m not a sweet sight to many; whoever I meet, whether he
be afoot or on horseback, seeing a little old pilgrim going through a
forest, hobbling along all by his lonesome with a white kerchief over
his eyes, and, to boot, chanting psalms to God,--of course, he’s taken
aback. But then, for my sins, far too greedy and quick are my eyes; my
sight is so rare and penetrating, that I can see even at night, like
a cat; and being in general sharp-sighted beyond measure, because I
don’t travel with other folk but keep to myself,--well, for that reason
have I resolved to curb a little my corporeal sight....” Then he began
telling them how great a distance, by his reckoning, the pilgrim women
had left to go; toward what regions they should direct their way; where
they might have lodgings and rest; and what sort of a place the nunnery
was.
“First,” said he, “will come the settlement near Sviyat-Oziero; then
that very village where Anna was born; and then you’ll see another
lake, belonging to the convent, which lake, though shallow, is of a
decent size, and you’ll have to sail over this lake in a boat. And, as
soon as you get out of the boat, right there is the convent itself, so
near you might almost reach it with your hand. Of course, there’s no
end of woods on the other shore as well, and through the trees you can
see, as always, the walls of the convents, the domes of chapels, the
cells, the hostels....”
Then, for a long while, he related to them the life of Rodion, the
childhood and adolescence of Anna, and, in the end, he told them of her
stay in the nunnery:
“Oh, her stay was not a long one,” said he. “It is a pity you say,
with such beauty and youth? Of course, to such fools as we, it would
be a piteous thing. But it’s plain to be seen Father Rodion knew well
what he was about. For he was that way with everybody,--kindly, and
meek, and gladsome, yet set on having his way, unto mercilessness;
but he was especially so with Aglaia. I, my little ones, have been at
the spot where she is resting.... A long little grave, beautiful, all
grown over with grass, all green.... And I won’t hide anything,--I
won’t hide that it was there, at her grave, that I thought of tying
up my eyes; it was Aglaia’s example that gave me the idea; for she, I
must tell you, during all her stay in the nunnery, did not for a single
hour raise her eyes; even as she had pushed the veil down over them,
so did it remain, and she was so sparing of her speech, so evasive,
that even Father Rodion himself wondered at her. And yet, come to think
of it, it was no easy matter for her to bear her task--to bid eternal
farewell to the world, to the face of mankind! And her work in the
nunnery was the very hardest that she could find, while her nights she
spent standing in prayer. But then, how Father Rodion had come to love
her! He marked her out from all the rest, let her come every day into
his little cabin; held long converse with her about the future fame of
the nunnery; even revealed his visions to her,--with a strict order of
silence. Well, and so she burned out, like a candle, in the briefest
time.... Again do you sigh, being sorry? I do agree with you, it is a
sad thing! But I will tell you something far greater; for her great
humility, for her disregard of this world, for her silence and for her
toiling beyond her strength, he wrought a thing unheard of: toward the
end of the third year of her striving, he invested her with the habit,
and afterward, after prayer and holy meditation, he did summon her to
him on a certain fearsome hour and commanded her to her end. Yes, that
is just the way he spoke to her: ‘My joy, thy time has come! Remain
thou in my memory just as glorious as thou now art, standing before
me in this hour; depart to God!’ And what think ye? Within four and
twenty hours she did forsake this life. She lay down, burning as with
a fire,--and passed out. True, he did console her,--he confided to her
before her end that by reason of her not having been able, during the
first days of her novitiate, to keep just a few things of his secret
discourses, only her lips would be rotted. He offered up silver coins
for her funeral, and coppers to be given out at her burial; a bundle
of candles for a forty days’ mass for her; a yellow candle worth a
whole rouble for her coffin; and the coffin itself,--rounded out, of
oak, hollowed out of one piece. And he blessed her as she was laid
out, slender and just a trifle too tall, within that coffin, with her
hair all let out, in two shroud-shifts. She was in an under-cassock
of white, with a black selvage all around, and in a black mantle with
white crosses on top of it; upon her little head they put a green
little cap of velvet, broidered with gold; on top of the cap a small
skull cap; and after that they tied a blue shawl with tassels upon her
head, and then they put a leathern rosary into her dear hands.... Oh,
I can’t tell how fine they arrayed her. And yet, little ones, there
is a spiteful rumour which is of the devil, that she did not want to
die,--oh, how she didn’t want to!
“Departing in such youth and in such beauty, she took her farewell of
everybody, so they say, with tears, saying to all, in a loud voice,
‘Forgive me!’ And at the very last she closed her eyes and said
distinctly: ‘And against thee, Mother-Earth, have I sinned in body
and soul,--wilt thou forgive me?’ And those words are fearful words:
touching their foreheads to the earth, men uttered them in the prayer
for repentance throughout ancient Russia, before Whitsuntide, before
the heathen day of the water nixies.”
_1916._
THE GRAMMAR OF LOVE
A certain Ivlev was once travelling, in the beginning of June, to a
distant region of his provence.
The _tarantass_, with its dusty top all awry, had been given him by
his brother-in-law, at whose estate he was passing the summer. The
_troika_[5] of small but well-broken horses, with thick matted manes,
he had hired in the village, from a wealthy _moujik_. They were driven
by a son of that _moujik_, a lad of eighteen,--a plodding fellow, a
good husbandman. He was all the time cogitating about something with
displeasure, seemed to be offended at something, could not take a
joke. And, having become convinced that there was no possibility of
getting into talk with him, Ivlev yielded to that peaceful and aimless
observation, which chimes in so well with the beat of hoofs and the
jangling of little bells.
[5] Three horses, harnessed abreast. _Trans._
The drive was very pleasant at first: the day was warm, grayish: the
road a much travelled one; the meadowlands were full of flowers and
sky-larks; from the grain-fields, from the dove-coloured fields of
rye, spreading onward as far as the eye could see, a pleasant little
breeze was blowing, bearing flower pollen over slanting masses of the
grain and rye, at times making this pollen dust swirl like smoke,--and
the distance even seemed misty from it. The lad, in a new cap and a
clumsy jacket made of lustrine, was sitting upright; the fact that the
horses were completely entrusted to him, and that he was wearing his
best clothes, made him especially serious. As for the horses, they
coughed and ran along without hurrying; the off-horse at times made
the whiffle-tree scrape against the wheel, at others strained in his
harness, and one horse-shoe was constantly flashing under him with its
white steel.
“Will we stop at the count’s?” asked the lad, without turning around,
when a village came into view ahead of them, enclosing the horizon with
its hedges and garden.
“What for?” said Ivlev.
The lad was silent for a time, and having knocked off with a whip a
large gadfly that had stuck to a horse, answered sombrely:
“Why, to drink tea....”
“It isn’t tea you’ve got on your mind,” said Ivlev, “you’re always
trying to save the horses.”
“It isn’t travelling that worries a horse,--it’s food,” answered the
lad with conviction.
Ivlev looked about him: the weather had turned bleaker, discoloured
clouds had gathered from all sides, and drops of rain were already
falling,--these unassuming days always wind up with a downpour.... An
old man in spectacles, who was ploughing near the village, said that
only the young countess was at home, but they drove up never the less.
The young fellow pulled a long coat over his shoulders, and satisfied
with the fact that the horses were resting, was calmly getting soaked
under the rain upon the driver’s seat of the _tarantass_, which had
been drawn up in the middle of the dirty yard, near a stone trough that
had sunk into the ground, which ground was all trampled over by the
hoofs of cattle. He was inspecting his boots, was adjusting with his
whip-stock the breech-band of the shaft-horse; while Ivlev sat in the
drawing room, which was darkening from the rain. He was chatting with
the countess and awaiting tea. There was already a smell of shavings
burning; the thick green smoke of the samovar, which a barefooted wench
on the steps was stuffing with bundles of brightly burning sticks,
pouring kerosene over them, floated past the window. The countess was
in a capacious pink dressing gown, which showed her powdered bosom;
she smoked, inhaling deeply; she patted her hair frequently, baring
her firm and rounded arms to the shoulders; inhaling the smoke and
laughing, she kept on leading the talk around to love, and, among other
things told him about her near neighbour, the land-owner Khvoshchinsky,
who, as Ivlev had known ever since childhood, had all his life long
been a maniac over his love for his chambermaid Lushka, who had died in
early youth. “Ah, this legendary Lushka!” Ivlev had remarked jestingly,
slightly confused over his confession. “Because this queer fellow had
made a divinity of her, had dedicated all his life to insane dreams
of her, I, in my youth, was almost in love with her: I fancied, in
thinking of her, God knows what; although, they do say, she was not
at all good-looking.” “Yes?” said the countess, without listening.
“Why, he died this winter, you know. And Pisarev,--the only one whose
visits he tolerated, because of their old friendship,--affirms that in
everything else he was not in the least insane, and I believe it,--he
was simply different from the run of the men of to-day....” Finally the
barefooted wench with unusual carefullness served him with a glass of
strong gray tea out of a teapot, and with a small basket of fly-specked
tea cookies.
When they started off again, the rain had set in in earnest. It was
necessary to raise the top, to cover up with the calcined, shrunken
apron, to sit all hunched up. The horses clattered their muffled bells;
little streams ran over their dark and glistening haunches; the grasses
swished succulently under their wheels as they passed some boundary
or other, among the fields of grain, through which the young fellow
had driven in the hope of shortening the way; the warm rye-scented
air gathered underneath the top, blending with the odour of the old
_tarantass_.... “So that’s how things are,--Khvoshchinsky has died,”
Ivlev was thinking. “I absolutely must drive up, just to have a glance
at this deserted sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka.... But what sort
of a man was this Khvoshchinsky? A madman, or simply some sort of an
overwhelmed soul, all centred in one thing?” To judge by the stories
of old land-owners, who were of the same age as Khvoshchinsky, he
had at one time passed for an extraordinarily clever fellow in this
province. And suddenly there fell upon him this love, this Lushka; then
her unexpected death came,--and everything went to rack and ruin. He
locked himself up in the house, in that room where Lushka had lived and
died, and had sat there through more than twenty years,--not only not
going out anywhere, but not showing himself to anybody even on his own
estate. He had sat a hole through and through the mattress on Lushka’s
bed, and ascribed literally everything that took place in the world to
Lushka’s influence: if there were a thunderstorm,--it was Lushka who
sent it; if a war were declared,--it meant that Lushka had so decided;
if the harvest happened to be bad,--the peasants had not succeeded in
pleasing Lushka....
“You’re driving to Khvoshchinsky’s, aren’t you?” called out Ivlev,
putting his head out in the rain.
“To Khvoshchinsky’s,” came from the lad, indistinctly through the noise
of the rain; water was running down from his drooping cap by this time.
“Going up Pisarev’s hill....”
Ivlev did not know any such road. The settlements were constantly
becoming poorer and farther away from the world. The boundary came to
an end, the horses were going at a walk, and brought the careening
_tarantass_ through a washed-out hollow to the bottom of a little
hill, into some still unmown meadows, the green declivities of which
stood out mournfully against the low-lying clouds. Then the road, now
disappearing, now finding itself anew, began to wind in and out, along
the bottoms of gullies, through ravines filled with alder bushes and
branching osiers. They came upon somebody’s little apiary--several
small logs standing upon a slope, among tall grass with wild
strawberries glimmering red through it.... They made a detour of some
old dam, sunk among nettles, and a pond long since dried up--a deep
hollow, grown over with burdocks taller than a man in height.... A pair
of black snipe with a mournful cry darted out of them towards the rainy
sky.... But upon the dam, amidst the nettles, an old, big bush was
blossoming out with little pale pink flowers,--that charming little
tree which is called God’s Own Tree,[6]--and Ivlev suddenly recalled
the localities, recalled that he had ridden through here more than once
on horseback in his youth, with a gun slung over his shoulders....
[6] Abrotanum; southern wood. _Trans._
“They do say that she drowned herself right here,” said the young
fellow unexpectedly.
“You’re talking about the mistress of Khvoshchinsky, aren’t you?” asked
Ivlev. “That isn’t so; she didn’t even think of drowning.”
“No,--she did drown herself,” said the lad, “only, they think that he
went mad from his poverty, most likely, and not on account of her....”
And after a silence, he roughly added:
“Well, we ought to be driving on again.... For this same Khvoshchinskoë
now.... Look at how petered out them horses be!”
“Suit yourself,” said Ivlev.
Upon the hillock whither the road (now lead-coloured from the rain)
led, upon a clearing from which the trees had been carried away,
among the wet, rotting chips and leaves, among the stumps and young
aspen growths, with their bitter and fresh scent, a solitary hut
was standing. There was never a soul around,--only the singing
green-finches, sitting under the rain upon tall flowers, rang
through the entire thin forest that stretched upward beyond the
hut. But when the _troika_, splashing through the mud, had come
abreast of its threshold, a whole pack of huge hounds dashed out from
somewhere,--black, chocolate, and smoke-coloured,--and with ferocious
baying swirled around the horses, jumping up to their very muzzles,
turning head over heels as they ran, and even spinning up to the very
top of the _tarantass_. At the same time, and just as unexpectedly,
the sky over the _tarantass_ was split by a deafening peal of thunder,
which had not sounded once during the day, while the young fellow began
in a rage to lash the dogs with his whip, and the horses dashed away at
a gallop among the aspen trunks that began flashing before the eyes....
The village of Khvoshchinskoë could already be seen beyond the forest.
The hounds lost ground and at once grew quiet, trotting back in a
business-like manner; the forest gave way and again fields opened up
ahead. Evening was coming on, and one could not determine now whether
the storm-clouds, on three sides, were dispersing or encroaching. On
the left was one almost black, with blue openings through which light
showed; on the right, a hoary one, rumbling with ceaseless thunder;
while toward the west, from Khvoshchinsky’s estate, from beyond the
sloping hills over the river valley, was a turbidly blue one, with
dusty streaks of rain through which could be seen the roseate mountains
of clouds piled in the distance. But the rain was abating about the
_tarantass_, and Ivlev, standing up, all bespattered with mud, threw
back with pleasure the top, now grown heavy, and freely breathed in the
fragrant dampness of the field.
He was looking at the approaching estate, was beholding, at last, that
of which he had heard so much; but, even as formerly, it seemed to
him that Lushka had lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost
in times immemorial. Looking out over the bottom-land, all trace of
the shallow little river was lost in the lush vegetation, over which
a white king-fisher was soaring. Further on, on a mound, lay rows of
hay, grown dark from the rain; among them, far apart from one another,
were spread out ancient silvery poplars. The house, rather a large one
and at one time white, with its wet roof glistening, stood upon an
absolutely bare spot. There was neither garden, nor any outbuildings
around it,--only two pillars of brick in lieu of gates, and with
burdocks growing in the ditches. When the horses had crossed the little
river by a ford and had gone up the hill, some woman, in a man’s summer
overcoat with its pockets hanging down, was driving a few turkey hens
through the burdocks. The _façade_ of the house was unusually bleak;
it had few windows, and all of them were small, and set within thick
walls. But then, the sombre front entrances were enormous. From one of
them a young man in the gray blouse of a high-school student, belted
with a broad strap, was looking with wonder at the arrivals; he was
black-haired, with handsome eyes, and of very pleasing appearance,
although his face was pale, and as spotted with freckles as a bird’s
egg.
It was necessary to explain the visit in some way. Having climbed up to
the entrance and given his name, Ivlev said that he wanted to see, and
perhaps to buy, the library that, so the countess had said, had been
left by the deceased. And the young man, flushing deeply and pulling
down his blouse from behind, at once led him into the house. “So this,
then, is the son of the famous Lushka!” reflected Ivlev, throwing a
rapid glance at everything that met his eyes. He looked back frequently
and said anything that came to mind first, just so as to have an
additional glance at the master of the house, who appeared too youthful
for his years. The latter answered hurriedly, but monosyllabically; he
was evidently confused both by his bashfulness and his greed. That he
was fearfully glad over the possibility of selling the books, and that
he had conceived the notion of not parting with them at a cheap price,
was apparent from his very first words, from that awkward hastiness
with which he announced that books such as those in his possession
could not be gotten for any amount of money. Through the half-dark
entry, which was spread with straw rusty from dampness, he led Ivlev
into a large ante-room.
“So this is where your father lived?” asked Ivlev, entering and taking
off his hat.
“Yes, yes,--here,” the young man hastened to answer. “That is, of
course, not just here ... for they used to sit in the bedroom most of
all ... but, of course, they came here also....”
“Yes, I know,--for he was ill,” said Ivlev.
The young man flared up.
“That is, ill in what way?” he said, and manlier notes sounded in his
voice. “That’s all gossip; he was not at all ailing mentally.... he
simply read all the time, and did not go out anywhere, that is all....
But no, don’t you take your hat off, please,--it’s very cold here, for
we don’t live in this half of the building....”
True, it was far chillier in the house than it was out in the air. In
the dismal ante-room, its walls pasted with newspapers, upon the sill
of a window, dismal from the storm clouds, was standing a quail cage
made out of bast. A little gray bag was hopping over the floor of its
own volition. Bending down, the young man captured it and put it down
on a bench, and Ivlev understood that there was a quail imprisoned in
the little bag. They next entered the parlour. This room, with its
windows toward the west and toward the north, took up almost half the
entire house. Through one window, against the gold of the evening glow
that showed through the clearing clouds, could be seen a century-old
weeping birch tree, all black; through the remaining window, a tall,
withering acacia tree. The front corner was taken up by a shrine
without glass, with images standing and hanging within it; among them
stood out, both by its great size and its antiquity, one trimmed with
silver, and upon this image, their wax gleaming yellow like dead flesh,
were lying wedding candles tied with pale-green bows.
“Pardon me, please,” Ivlev was about to ask, overcoming his scruples,
“but, did your father really....”
“No, that’s just so,” mumbled the young man, instantly grasping his
meaning. “He bought these candles after her death already.... And he
even wore a wedding ring all the time.”
The furniture in this parlour was crude. But then, in the spaces
between the windows stood exquisite what-nots, crowded from top to
bottom with porcelain knick-knacks, crystal, tea china, and goblets
rimmed with gold. As for the floor, it was entirely strewn over with
dead bees, that crackled under foot. The empty parlour, as well,
was strewed with the bees. Having traversed it, and also some other
sombre room with a sleeping ledge built against the side of a stove,
the young man came to a stop before a low little door and took a big
key out of his trousers’-pocket. Having turned it with difficulty in
the rusty key-hole, he threw open the door, mumbling something,--and
Ivlev saw a cubby-hole with two windows: against one wall stood a bare
iron cot without any bedding; against another--two little bookcases of
bird’s-eye birch.
“So this is the library?” asked Ivlev, walking up to one of these.
And the young man, having hastened to answer in the affirmative,
helped him to open the little book-case, and began to follow his hands
covetously.
The strangest of books did this library consist of! Ivlev would open
the thick bindings, would turn over a rough, gray page, and would read:
_The Forbidden Ground_.... _The Morning Star and Fight Dæmons_....
_Reflections on the Mysteries of Creation_.... _A Marvellous Journey
into a Magick Region_.... _The Latest Dream Book_.... And yet his hands
would persist in trembling slightly. So this was what that lonely
soul, which had secluded itself forever from the world in this little
room and had but lately quitted it, had nurtured itself upon? ... But
perhaps this soul had not really been insane, after all?
“‘There is a state....’” The lines of Baratynsky came into Ivlev’s mind:
There is a state,--
But what name shall it be given?
’Tis neither dream nor waking, wavering twixt both;
And comprehending it within him, man
To frenzy’s verge is driven....
It had cleared up in the west; gold was peeping out from behind the
beautiful lavender-coloured clouds and strangely illumined this humble
sanctuary of love,--a love beyond understanding, which had transformed
into some ecstatic existence a whole life that perhaps was destined
to be a most commonplace one had there not happened to be a certain
Lushka, mysterious in her enchantment....
Taking a little foot-stool from under the cot, Ivlev sat down before
the cabinet and took out his cigarettes, imperceptibly scrutinizing and
memorizing the room.
“Do you smoke?” he asked the young man who was bending over him.
The latter again blushed. “I do,” he mumbled, and tried to smile. “That
is, I don’t exactly smoke,--rather, I try to jolly myself.... But,
however, if I may,--very much obliged to you....”
And, having clumsily taken a cigarette, he lit it with his hands
trembling, walked over to the window-sill and sat down upon it, barring
out the yellow light of the evening glow.
“And what is this?” asked Ivlev, bending down to the third shelf, upon
which lay only a single volume, very small, resembling a prayer-book,
and where also stood a casket whose corners were trimmed with silver,
grown black with time.
“That’s just ... the necklace of my late mother,” answered the young
man, after a confused hesitation, but trying to speak negligently.
“May I have a look?”
“If you please ... although it really is very simple ... it won’t
interest you....”
And opening the casket, Ivlev saw a much worn bit of cord, a string of
very cheap little round blue globules, resembling stone ones. And such
emotion possessed him upon glancing at these globules, which had at one
time lain upon the neck of her whose lot it was to be so beloved, and
whose dim image could no longer be anything but beautiful, that his
eyes grew dim from the beating of his heart.... Having looked his fill,
Ivlev carefully put the casket back in its place; he then took up the
little book. This was a tiny, beautifully made _Grammar of Love, or the
Art of Loving and of Being Loved in Return_, published almost a hundred
years ago.
“This book, to my regret, I cannot sell,” said the young man with
difficulty. “It’s very valuable.... He even put it under his pillow.”
“But perhaps you will let me have just a look at it?” said Ivlev.
“If you please,” said the young man in a whisper.
And, overcoming his compunctions, vaguely oppressed by the young man’s
gaze, Ivlev began slowly turning the leaves of _The Grammar of Love_.
It was all divided into short chapters: _Of Beauty_, _Of the Heart_,
_Of the Mind_, _Of Deportment_, _Of Love’s Signs_, _Of Attack and
Defense_, _Of Falling Out and Reconciliation_, _Of Platonic Love_....
Each chapter consisted of very brief, elegant, at times very subtle,
sentences, and some of them were very lightly marked by a pen in red
ink. “Love is not a mere episode in our Life,” Ivlev read. “Our Reason
contradicts the Heart and doth not convince the latter.” “Women are
never so strong as when they arm themselves with Weakness.” “We adore
Woman because she holds sovereign sway over our Ideal Dream.” “Vanity
chooses; True Love,--never.” “A Woman of Beauty must take second place;
the first belongs to the Woman of Charm. It is the latter that becomes
the Sovereign of our Heart: before we have rendered our Heart an
account of Her, our Heart becomes a Captive to Love for Eternity....”
Then followed _An Explanation of the Language of Flowers_, and again
here and there were marked passages:
_Wild Poppy_--Sadness.
_Priest’s Cap_--Thy alluring beauty is imprinted on my heart.
_Periwinkle_--Sweet Remembrances.
_The Mournful Geranium_--Melancholy.
_Worm-wood_--Eternal Bitterness.
While upon a blank page at the very end, in tiny, bead-like characters,
was a stanza of eight lines, written in the same ink. The young man
stretched out his neck as he peeped into _The Grammar of Love_, and
said with a forced smile:
“He wrote that himself.”
Half an hour later, Ivlev bade him good-bye with relief. Out of all
the books he had bought only this small volume at a high price. The
turbidly-golden evening glow was fading in the clouds beyond the
fields, yellowly reflected in the puddles; the fields were wet and
green. The lad was not in any hurry, but Ivlev did not spur him on.
The young fellow was saying that that woman who had been driving the
turkey hens through the burdocks before was the deacon’s wife; that
young Khvoshchinsky has been living with her for a long time now, that
he already has children. Ivlev was not listening. He was constantly
thinking of Lushka; of her necklace, which had left a complex feeling
within him, resembling that which he had once experienced in a little
Italian town upon beholding the relics of a female saint. “She has come
into my life forever!” he reflected. And, taking _The Grammar of Love_
out of his pocket, he slowly read over, by the light of the evening
glow, the verses written upon its last page:
We were assigned a thorny wreath
In this world, where all evils be;
The love I bore was unto death,--
It died with me.
But--“Live thou in legends of Love’s bliss!”
Shall greet it hearts that with Love strove;
And to their grandchildren shall show this
_Grammar of Love_.
_1915._
A NIGHT CONVERSATION
I
The sky had been silvery with stars all night long, the fields
beyond the garden and the threshing floor was darkling evenly, and
the wind-mill, with the two horns of its wings, showed sharply black
against the clear horizon. But the stars gave out sparks, trembling,
frequently cutting the sky with narrow green streaks; the garden was
fitfully murmurous, and already chill autumn could be heard in its
murmurings. From the direction of the mill, from the sloping plain,
from the desolated stubble-field, a strong wind was blowing.
The farm hands had sated themselves at supper,--it was the holiday of
the Assumption of the Holy Virgin,--and had avidly smoked their fill on
their way through the garden to the threshing barn. Having thrown on
their long great coats, tight at the waist, and falling in folds over
their short sheepskin coats, they were going there to sleep, to guard
the heaps of grain. Following behind the farm hands, dragging a pillow,
walked the master’s son, a tall high-school student, with three white
_borzoi_ hounds running at his heels. Upon the threshing floor, in the
fresh wind, there was a pleasant smell of chaff, of new rye straw.
They all lay down comfortably in it, in the very biggest stack of all,
as near as possible to the piles of grain and the corn kiln. The dogs
fussed about, rustled for a while at the feet of the workers, and also
quieted down.
Over the heads of the recumbent men the broad Milky Way, dividing into
two smokily-translucent branches, glimmered whitely and faintly, filled
with the fine star dust suspended within them. It was quiet and warm in
the straw. But a north-east wind, again and again, ran disquietingly
through the brushwood that was darkling along the ditch to the left,
with its rampart of earth; and increasing, it neared with an inimical
noise. Then a cool breath would reach the face, the hands, together
with a bad odour from the lanes between the heaps of grain. And over
the horizon, beyond the irregular black blotches of the brushwood, icy
diamonds vividly flared up; the Capella was bursting into vari-coloured
fires.
Having settled down, they all shut their eyes, after a yawning spell.
The wind was dreamily rustling the prickling straws that stuck out
above their heads. But its coolness reached their faces, and they all
felt that they did not want to sleep as yet,--they had slept their
fill after dinner. The high-school student alone was languishing from
a sweet longing for sleep. But the fleas would not let him sleep. He
started scratching, let his thoughts run on wenches, on the widow
through whom he, with the help of the farm hand Pashka, had lost his
innocence that very summer, and he also became broad awake.
This student was a thin, awkward stripling with an unusually soft
colouring--his face was so white that even sunburn had no effect upon
it; he was blue-eyed, with outrageously big hands and feet, with a
big Adam’s-apple. He had not parted company with the farm hands all
summer,--at first he had carted manure, then the sheaves; he put in
order the piles of grain, he smoked an atrocious cheap tobacco, he
imitated the _moujiks_ in speech and in his roughness with wenches, who
always started laughing at him in chorus, greeting him with catcalls
and cries of “Veretenkin! Veretenkin!”[7]--a stupid nickname invented
by Ivan, who was a helper at the threshing machine. He passed his
nights now at the threshing floor, now in the horse stable; he did not
change his linen and his canvas clothes for weeks at a time, nor would
he take off his tarred boots; he raised blood-blisters on his feet,
unaccustomed to coarse foot-cloths; he lost all the buttons on his
summer uniform overcoat, which had been soiled by wheels and manure,
had broken the letters and the little silver leaves on his uniform cap.
[7] “Spindle-Shanks! Spindle-Shanks!” _Trans._
“He has broken away from the house entirely!” his mother would say of
him, with a caressing, kindly regret, enraptured even by his defects.
“Of course, he’ll pick up, become stronger,--but just look what a
matted choate he is,--he doesn’t even wash his neck!” she would say,
smiling to her guests and pulling his soft, chestnut locks, trying to
get at the soft little spiral, curling like a girl’s, at the nape of
his neck,--dark, contrasting with the childishly white flesh visible
under the blouse that buttoned at the side, contrasting with the large
vertebræ under the fine, smooth skin. But he would sulkily turn his
head away from under her caressing hand, frowning and blushing. He grew
not by the day but by the hour, and as he walked he stooped, whistling
meditatively, angularly lumbering from side to side. He still ate
linden blossoms and the gum of cherry trees; he carried, although by
now secretly, a sling shot to shoot sparrows with, but he would have
been consumed with shame had this been revealed, and he constantly
kept his hands in his pockets. Only last winter he had played Redskins
with his little sister Lily. But in the spring, when through all the
streets of the town streams were running and shimmering with a blinding
dazzle; when the white window-sills in the class-rooms were aflame with
the sun; when the teacher’s room was shot through and through with
the sun, and the principal’s cat was lying in ambush for the first
finches in the high-school garden, still filled with silvery snow,--in
the spring he had gotten the notion that he had fallen in love with
the slender little Youshkova, a bookish, serious-minded high-school
girl; he had struck up a close friendship with Simashko, a spectacled
six-termer, and had determined to dedicate his entire summer vacation
to self-culture. But in the summer his dreams about self-culture were
already forgotten; a new resolve was taken,--to study the common
people; which resolve had soon passed into a passionate infatuation
with the _moujiks_.
On the evening before the Assumption, the high-school boy was heavy
with sleep while still at supper. Toward the end of every day, when
his head would grow heavy and fall down on his chest,--from fatigue,
from talking with the farm hands, from his rôle of a grown-up,--his
boyishness returned: he wanted to play a bit with Lily, to have a brief
reverie, before falling asleep, of some distant and unknown lands,
of extraordinary manifestations of passion and self-sacrifice, of
the lives of Livingston and Baker, and not of the _moujiks_ written
about by Naumov and Nephedov, whom he had given his word of honour to
Simashko to read; he wanted to sleep, for at least one night, at home,
instead of getting up before the sun, in the cold morning light, when
even dogs yawn and stretch so languorously.... But the maid entered,
saying that the farm hands had already gone to the threshing floor.
Without listening to his mother’s calls, the high-school lad threw his
uniform overcoat with its bobbing belt over his shoulders, and put on
his cap; grabbing the pillow out of the maid’s hands, he caught up with
the farm hands in the lane. He staggered from drowsiness as he walked,
dragging the pillow by a corner, and, as soon as he had stumbled up to
the heap of straw and had crawled under an old raccoon overcoat lying
there, he sailed off into some sweet, black darkness. But the tiny
dog-fleas began to burn him as with fire; the farm hands began talking
among themselves....
There were five of them: Khomut,[8] a kindly, shaggy old man;
Kiriushka, a lame, white-eyed, irresponsible lad, who gave himself up
to a childish vice, which fact everybody knew and which made Kiriushka
still more irresponsible, making him bear in silence all sorts of
jeers about his short leg, twisted at the knee; Pashka, a good-looking
_moujik_ of twenty-four and recently married; Theodot, an elderly
_moujik_, from another region, somewhere near Liebedyana, nick-named
Postnii;[9] and Ivan,--a very stupid fellow, but one who deemed himself
an amazingly clever, cunning, and mercilessly-scoffing man. This last
held in contempt all work, save work with agricultural machines; he
wore a blue blouse and had impressed everybody with the idea that he
was a born machinist, although everybody knew that he did not know a
blamed thing about the construction of even a simple winnowing machine.
He was always narrowing his morosely-ironic little eyes and pursing
up his thin lips, never letting a pipe out of his teeth. He generally
kept a portentous silence; but whenever he did speak, it was only to
annihilate somebody or something with a comment or a nick-name. He
scoffed at absolutely everything: at sense and folly, at simplicity and
slyness, at despondency and laughter; at God and his own mother, at
the gentry and the _moujiks_. The nick-names he bestowed were absurd
and incomprehensible, but he uttered them with such an enigmatic air
that it seemed to everybody that they had both a meaning and a caustic
aptness. He had not spared even himself, and had given himself a
nick-name: “Rogojkin,”[10] he had said once in reference to himself,
hinting at something so weightily, so maliciously, that everybody
rolled from laughter, and afterwards he was never known as anything but
Rogojkin. He had christened the high-school student as well, had said
something nonsensical about him as well: “Veretenkin.”
[8] “Horse-collar.” _Trans._
[9] “Lenten.” _Trans._
[10] “Made out of matting.” _Trans._
The school-boy,--so he thought,--had come to know these people
well during the summer, had become attached to all of them in
different ways,--even to Ivan, who unmercifully made fun of him.
He was learning one thing or another from them, was adapting their
pronunciation,--absolutely, as it proved, unlike the speech of the
_moujiks_ in books; adopting their unexpected, absurd, but unshakable
conclusions, the uniformity of their ready wisdom, their coarseness
and indifference, their capacity for work and their dislike of it. And,
had he gone to the city after the vacation, without reverting to his
infatuation for the life of the _moujiks_ during the next summer, he
would all his life have thought that he had observed the common people
of Russia very well,--if, by accident, a lengthy, frank conversation
had not sprung up among the farm hands on this night.
It was started by the old man who was lying alongside of the school-boy
and who was scratching more than anybody else.
“Pestering the life out of you, young master, hey? They’re nothing but
a misery, Khomut!” said he,--the word “Khomut” he used to characterize
not only his entire existence, but also all its weariness, all its
unpleasantness.
“Can’t stand it,” replied the school-boy. “The women and wenches now,
the devil take them, they won’t touch. But who would you think they
ought to be biting if not them?”
“Main thing is, whether a body wear drawers or no, it makes no
difference to them fleas,” indifferently agreed the old man, giving
off, as he tossed about, a strong odour,--of a body long unwashed, and
of a worn peasant’s coat that had become permeated with the smoke of a
chimneyless hut.
The others kept silence. Usually, they were jocose before falling
asleep, questioning Pashka about his conjugal life, while he answered
them with such unperturbed and gay shamelessness that even the
school-boy, who was constantly entranced by him, never taking his eyes
off his intelligent and animated face, was vexed over any one’s being
able to speak so of one’s own young wife. Now no one seemed about to
begin questioning, and the student wanted to do so himself, in order to
excite his imagination, forever empoisoned by the widow, and to hear
the self-assured voice of Pashka,--when the latter stretched himself,
sat up, and began rolling a crude cigarette. The old man raised up his
head, covered with a cap, and shook it.
“Eh, but you’ll burn this place down some day, young fellow!” said he.
“Watch out. It don’t take much to bring on trouble.”
“Well, I’ll get out of it by blamin’ the young master,” answered
Pashka, a trifle hoarse from a cold; and, having cleared his throat, he
started laughing. “He’s smoking all the time himself. Wonderful night
to-night, young master,” said he, changing his tone to a serious one
and turning around to the school-boy. “What’s the only thing lacking on
this night, you might say? Why, the moon.”
They all felt that he wanted to tell something. And, truly, having kept
silent for a while, without eliciting any reply, he suddenly added:
“Are you asleep, young master? What hour might it be now?”
The school-boy raised himself up, pulled his silver watch out of his
trousers’-pocket, and began inspecting it by the light of the stars.
“Half-past ten,” said he, bending over.
“Well, now, I just knew it was that,” concurred Pashka, gaily and
self-assuredly, lighting his cigarette, which was rolled somewhat in
the form of a pipe; it was gripped in one corner of his mouth between
his teeth, and he lit it with a stinking sulphur match flaming within
his cupped hands. “Just exactly at this time last year I killed a man.”
And the school-boy at once straightened up, letting his hands
drop,--and he seemed to be turned to stone during all the time that the
others talked. At rare intervals he would put in a word, but it was as
though it were not he, but some other who was talking in his stead.
Then everything within him began to shiver in an icy ague fit inducive
of senseless laughter, and his face began to burn, as though it were
aflame.
II
Ivan, as always, maintained a portentous silence. Kiriushka was not at
all interested in whatever they were talking about; he lay thinking
his own thoughts,--mostly about an accordeon, the purchase of which
was his most cherished dream. Theodot, too, who lay leaning upon his
elbow, was silent for a long while. He was a strong, flat-chested
_moujik_, who at the beginning of the summer had not been considered
by the farm hands as one of them, because he wore a short sheepskin
coat, without a waistline and without folds in its skirts,--which was
the kind worn by the Tartars of Kazan. He had seemed a stranger to the
school-boy as well. Just as he liked the cheerful composure of Pashka,
the smoothness of his mannerisms, his sun-burned face, so he was not
disposed to intimacy by the face of Theodot, also calm but devoid of
any expression, large, ashen-gray, wrinkled, with sparse moustaches,
always wet from the slavering caused by his pipe; his whitish,
weather-beaten lips were turned considerably outward. Theodot was
listening attentively, but did not put in a single word during Pashka’s
narrative,--only now and then he would give a consumptive cough and
spit into the straw. And at first the conversation was sustained only
by the dumbfounded school-boy and the old man.
“What are you lyin’ about nothin’ at all for?” said the old man
indifferently, upon hearing the boastful declaration of Pashka. “What
sort of a man could you have killed? Where?”
“Bust my eyes if I’m lyin’!” responded Pashka warmly, turning in the
old man’s direction. “Last year, on Assumption. Not only was it wrote
up in all the papers,--it was even in the order sent to the regiment.”
“Well, where was it you killed him?”
“Why, in the Caucasus, in the Zukhdens. Honest to God! Of course, I
ain’t agoin’ to lie about it; I didn’t do it all single-handed,--Koslov
also fired a shot; he’s also one of ours, from the Eletzkaya province.
I wasn’t the only one that got the thanks for it; the division
commander thanked him too, in front of all the men lined up, and
rewarded us with a rouble each, right off; but then, I know without any
mistake that it was me that winged him.”
“What him?” asked the high-school student.
“Why, a convict; this Cheorchian, now.”
“Hold on,” the old man interrupted him. “You just tell the whole thing
sensibly. Where was you stationed?”
“There he goes again!” said Pashka with assumed vexation. “There’s a
queer fellow,--won’t believe nothing. We was stationed at these New
Ceniyaks, now....”
“I know the place,” said the old man. “We, too, was stationed there for
eighteen days.”
“There, you see now,--that means I ain’t just making it up as I go
along, for I can tell you how this happened, just about. We wasn’t
stationed for no eighteen days then, brother, but for a whole year
and seven months; as for these here convicts, we was in duty bound to
escort them up to the very Zukhdens. These here convicts, now, was the
most important criminals what could possibly be,--rebels, they was. So
then, ten of them in all was caught in the mountains and put in our
keeping....”
“Hold on,” interrupted the high-school student, imitating the old man,
and feeling his hands turning to ice; “but how was it you told me that
you’d never get to shooting any rebels,--that you’d liefer shoot any
officer who might order you to fire at them?”
“Well, I wouldn’t let my own father off, when need be,” answered
Pashka, throwing a furtive glance at the student, and again turning
to the old man. “Maybe I’d never have laid a finger on him, even, if
he hadn’t taken it into his head to ruin us all; but no, he went in
for foxiness and we might all have been sentenced to hard labour for
a whole year. But as it turned out, it was all for the best; we got
thanks and turned out to be a bit smarter than him. Just you listen,
now,” he said, pretending that he was addressing the old man only. “We
was leading them along, all fair and square. We didn’t have any of
these carryings on, like beating them, now, for example, or urging
them on with the butt-end of a gun.... But one of them,--a sort of a
skinny fellow, short of stature,--was walking along and complaining
about his stomach all the time, asking us all the while to let him do
something.... He just barely managed to tinkle along in his leg-irons.
Then, at last, he approaches the superior officer: ‘Let me lie down in
the cart.’ Well, he was allowed to do so, like he was real sick. Only
by now we come to the Zukhdens. And the night’s as black as pitch, and
it’s raining cats and dogs. We made ’em sit down on the front entrance,
and watched ’em; each one of the soldiers had a little lantern in his
hands, of course, while the superior officer went off into the room,
to try the bars at the windows to see if they was all right, now, and
hadn’t been filed away by some hidden file.”
“Absolutely,” said the old man. “According to law he’s got to take over
everything in good shape.”
“That’s just what I’m talkin’ about,” confirmed Pashka, again hastily
hiding a lit sulphur match in his cupped hands. “You know all this
business, now, and that makes it interestin’ to be telling you about
it. Well, the superior officer had gone off,” he went on, squeezing out
the match and letting the smoke out of his nostrils, “he’d gone off,
inspecting things, while we stand around, nodding our heads,--we wanted
to sleep something dreadful,--when this here Cheorchian suddenly jumps
up, and off ’round the corner with him! That means, you understand,
that he had all this business figured out, while he was still in the
cart; he had cut the strap around his legs that held the shackles,
with the first thing that had come to his hand; had loosened them upon
him, then picked ’em up in his hand, so,--” Pashka bent over and,
spreading his legs, demonstrated how the prisoner had grabbed up the
shackles, “and then had taken to his heels! But me and Koslov was no
fools; we dropped our lanterns and took after him: Koslov ran around
the corner too, whilst I went straight ahead to cut him off. I keep
on running, but all the time I’m trying to catch the clink,--where
his chains might be clanking, that is. It ain’t even worthwhile to be
shootin’ at haphazard, thinks I. At last, I catch the sound,--and bang!
I feel it go past him. I fire another shot,--again I hear it go by
him. But Koslov is popping away right and left; like as not to get me
any minute.... Then I got riled: ‘Ah,’ thinks I, ‘may your eyes bust
out!’ I put the gun to my shoulder and I let’er go: glory be to the
Lord, I got him,--I hear by the sound that he must have fallen down.
I let out two more shots toward the same spot, and ran; and there he
was sitting on his bottom on the ground. He’s sitting down, propped up
with his hands in the dirt; his teeth are bared, and he’s rattlin’:
‘Quick,’ says he, ‘quick, Russ, stick your bayonet into me right
here....’ Meaning his chest, that is. I charged with my bayonet on a
run,--straight through his heart.... Why, the bayonet went right out at
his back!”
“Good work!” said the old man. “Let’s have just one good puff.... Well,
and where was Koslov at now?”
Pashka inhaled some smoke, deeply and quickly, and thrust the fag-end
into the old man’s hand.
“Why, Koslov,” he answered, hurriedly and gaily, flattered by the
praise, “why, Koslov is running, yelling with all his might: ‘Did you
do for him?’ ‘I’ve done for him,’ says I, ‘let’s drag the carcass
away....’ We took him by the shackles at once and dragged him back, to
the porch.... I cut him down like a weed,” said he, changing his tone
to a calmer and more self-satisfied one.
The old man cogitated for a while.
“And you say the officer rewarded you with a rouble each?”
“That’s straight,” answered Pashka. “He gave it to us right out of his
own hands, with all the battalion lined up on parade.”
The old man, shaking his cap-covered head, spat into his palm and
extinguished the cigarette end in the spittle.
Ivan, leisurely, through his teeth, drawled out:
“Well, it’s plain to be seen there’s lots of fools among the soldiers
too.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Why, here’s how,” said Ivan, “you durn fool! What should you have
done? You oughtn’t to have dragged him, but should have sent your mate
with a report, and stood guard with a gun over the dead body. D’you
understand now, or don’t you?”
III
Theodot began speaking even more plainly, after a general silence and a
muttering of: “Ye-es ... well done....”
“Well, now,” he began slowly, lying back on his elbow and casting an
occasional glance at the dark figure of the student, motionlessly stuck
before him against the background of the starry sky; “well, now, I
sinned absolutely over nothing. I killed a man over a mere trifle, you
might say; all on account of a she-goat I had.”
“What do you mean,--over a she-goat?” the old man, Pashka, and the
school-boy interrupted him in unison.
“Honest to God, that’s the truth,” answered Theodot. “But you just
listen a while to what sort of bane this she-goat was....”
The old man and Pashka again lighted cigarettes and began to stamp down
the straw, in preparation to listening. The student, too, wanted to
light up, but his icy hands would not stir, would not come out of his
pockets. As for Theodot, he continued seriously and calmly:
“The whole trouble was just on account of her. I didn’t do the murder
on purpose, of course.... He was the first to beat me up.... And there
was quarrelling, going to court.... He came, drunk, whilst I jumped
out, all heated up, and hit him with a whet-stone.... But what’s the
sense of talkin’ about it; as it was, I done penance for half a year
at a monastery on account of him; but if there hadn’t been this here
she-goat, nothing at all would have happened. Main thing was, none
of us had ever kept these here goats; they ain’t in the _moujik’s_
line, and we can’t understand the handling of them; and then, to top
it all, the goat turned out to be a bad one, and frisky. What carrion
she was,--the Lord save me from such another! Just the same as a
little _borzoi_ bitch, she was. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to get
her,--everybody was laughing, talking me out of it as it was; but I was
downright forced to it by need. We ain’t got any large, well-managed
farms, nor any sort of free land or forests.... We ain’t had a common
pasture land, of our own from time out of mind, and as to what small
live-stock we might have, it simply has to find forage on the
waste-lands. As for large cattle,--we used to put the cows into the big
owner’s grounds, and for all that sort of thing us little fellers was
supposed to mow, and bind in sheaves, two acres of grain, and plough
two acres of fallow-land; and put in three days with the old woman at
mowing, and three days at threshing.... Count it up,--and what don’t it
come to?”
“The Lord deliver us!” the old man supported him sympathetically.
“Whereas to buy a she-goat,” Theodot went on, “well, that meant
scraping off seven, or say eight, roubles to give away for her; on the
other hand, if she tried hard, she’d yield four bottles, no less, of
milk, and the milk she’d give was thicker and sweeter nor cow milk. The
hard part about her was, of course, that you couldn’t keep her together
with the sheep; a she-goat fights with them a lot, when she’s carrying
a kid, and once she starts in she gets fiercer’n a dog,--just can’t
bear to look at them. And what a creature she was for climbing,--it
didn’t mean nothin’ to her to get up on top of a hut, or a clump of
willows. Wherever there was a willow, she was dead sure to strip it
bare, would strip off all its tender bark--there was nothing she liked
better’n that!”
“But you wanted to tell us how you killed a man,” the school-boy
uttered with difficulty, looking all the while at Pashka, at Pashka’s
face, indistinct in the light of the stars; he was incredulous that
this very Pashka was a murderer, and he was picturing to himself a
small, dead Georgian, whom two soldiers were dragging along by his
chains, through the mud, surrounded by a dark rainy night.
“Well, and what else was I talking about?” answered Theodot, somewhat
rudely, and began speaking a trifle livelier. “You can’t understand
this business, you ain’t tried yet to live on your own; but to live
at home with mamma is a thing any one can do. That’s just what I was
talking about,--that a sin like that came about through just nothing
at all. I slaughtered three sheep all on account of her,” said he,
addressing the old man. “I took in nine and a half for the sheep, and
paid eight for her. She didn’t cost me cheap, at that.... And for
another thing, I started having rows with my old woman almost every
day. Well, as I was saying, I got a triflin’ sum, gave away eight for
the she-goat; then, too, I bought a thing or two for the household, a
matter here and there, got some little whistles for the youngsters,
and started off for home. I pegged along and pegged along, and came
home toward morning. I look,--and I am shy a half; that meant that I
must have shoved it in my pocket and sown it as I went. The old woman
started counting the money. ‘Where,’ says she, ‘is the half? Did you
swallow it? I told you, you fool, to sell the sheep as carcasses, and
to keep the skins for yourself....’ One word led to another, and then
a row began,--may the Lord save me from such another! My old woman, to
tell the truth, is such a dog as you’d have to look through all the
county to find the like of....”
“That goes without saying,” Pashka put it in a business-like manner.
“The more you beat ’em, the better they be.”
“That’s understood,” said Theodot. “Well, she came to her senses and
gave in. And when she had milked the she-goat, she became downright
glad: the goat turned out to be a good milker, and the milk was fine.
So we started in rejoicing. We drove it into the flock. I gave the
little shepherd boys something for tobacco, treated them to a cup of
vodka each.... Otherwise they would train her to butt the sheep in
the belly, the sons of bitches.... Only when the flock comes back at
evening,--I look, and my goat ain’t there. I ask the shepherd: ‘How is
it our she-goat ain’t here?’ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘we drove the herd to the
waste-land near the woods; your goat started playing with the cows,
and tackled the bull; she’d back away from him, get one good running
start, and then let herself fly straight between his eyes! He got so
petered out on account of her that he began hiding from her behind the
cows, and when we’d go for her to chase her off, she’d scoot into the
oats.... She just knocked us off our feet! And then she ran away: the
helper ran after her; he ran all through the forest, couldn’t find her
nowhere,--just like she’d fallen through the earth....’”
“Well, right you were ’bout that goat being poison!” remarked the old
man.
“A-a!” said Theodot, malignantly. “Why this ain’t nothin’ at all,--you
just listen to what’s coming! When this same she-goat had disappeared,
me and the old woman plumb lost our heads. Well, now, thinks we, it’s
bye-bye; there goes our good money; she sure will make a mouthful for
some wolf. But, of course, we don’t reckon at all on the fact that it
would be far better if she was to go to all the devils. Soon as day
came we ran for the forest; we left nary a likely place untouched, I
don’t think; we beat up the entire forest to the last twig,--she wasn’t
nowheres, and that’s all there was to it! Gawd knows how I grieved;
however I went to ploughing,--it was just ploughing time then. I took
a bit of bread with me, wrapped up in a kerchief, laying it down near
the edge of the field where I was working. Now, on another mound, there
was one of our village lads ploughing,--suddenly, I hear him shouting
something, pointing with his hand. I look around and just gasp: there
was the she-goat! She had dragged out the little bundle, seizing it in
her teeth; she had shaken it loose and was standing, jerking her beard,
and eating the bread.... I dropped my plough as fast as I could and
went for her. I go after her, and she goes away from me. I go after
her, and she goes away from me,--she’d run a little ways, and stop,
and munch the bread,--a lot she cared! And such a happy and a clever
carcass she was,--she watched every move I made. I had my heart set on
her, I sure wanted to catch her. I just could have smashed her to bits,
it seems! She gobbled down the bread and went off; she’d turn around
and give me a look, shaking her tail,--well, just making fun of me!”
“No use talking,--it’s a carefree creature!” said the old man.
“That’s just what I’m saying!” exclaimed Theodot, encouraged by the
sympathy. “That’s just what I’m talking about,--that she downright
ruined us! There hadn’t even a week passed, when everybody had it in
for me: ‘Your goat,’ says they, ‘as good as lives amongst our grain.’
She trampled down a whole eighth of an acre of my own, tearing down all
the ears of oats. Then one day a thunder-storm came up; the lightning
started in flashing, and the rain poured down,--I looked and I see my
white she-goat sailing along with all her might straight toward our
place, bleating like she was scared out of her own voice--and then she
pops straight into our doorway. I started off as fast as my legs would
carry me after her; I got her into a tight corner, drew a cord that I
used for a belt over her horns, and began letting her have it.... The
thunder rumbles, the lightning flashes, but I keep on lambasting her,
I keep on lambasting her! I must have beat her for more than an hour,
without lying. Then I put her up on the brewing vat, tied her up with
the rope girdle ... but who knows whether the girdle was rotted, or
whether it was something else,--only when we look in the morning, the
goat’s gone again! Then--would you believe it?--I was so vexed, that I
just burst into tears!”
IV
Theodot’s tone had become so simple, so sincere, so filled with
the tones of husbandry aggrieved, that it would never have entered
anybody’s head that here was a murderer, confessing his sin. Then, too,
he was listened to in a spirit of simplicity. Kiriushka was lying flat
on his belly, his head covered with his great coat; his feet, in big
bast sandals and thickly wrapped in foot cloths, were sticking out.
Ivan, with his cap shoved down over his forehead, his hands tucked
into his sleeves, was lying on his side, also without moving; as for
his stern and serious silence, he maintained it because he deemed
it beneath his dignity to be interested in fools. He was so little
concerned, whether those before him were murderers or not, that he had
even called out once:
“Time to sleep! Finish that gabbing to-morrow!”
As for Pashka and the old man, both half-reclining and biting little
straws, they merely shook their heads and grinned occasionally, as if
to say: “Well, Theodot sure has known his fill of trouble with that
she-goat!” And Theodot, evidently deeming himself already vindicated
by this sympathy for his ridiculous and hard situation, lost entirely
his diffidence about digressions. And the high-school boy, gritting
his teeth both from the wind and from the inner cold, would at times
look about him wildly: Where was he, and what queer night was this? But
it was still the same simple, familiar country night, of which there
had been many. The field was dark, the corn-kiln stood out in a sharp
triangle against the starry sky; through the underbrush, beyond which
the stars flared up and fell, a wind was blowing; its cool breath, with
the pleasant scent of the chaff, reached the face and hands, rustled in
the straw, and again grew still, dying away.... The hounds--white balls
sunk in the straw--were fast asleep.... And all the horror lay only
in that it was late, that a small cluster of silver stars had risen
high in the north-east, that the dark mass of the slumbrous garden was
murmuring in the distance, dully, autumn-wise; that the eyes in the
faces of those conversing were sparkling in the starlight.
“Yes, little brother of mine,” Theodot was saying, laughing over his
own ridiculous and sad predicament, “nobody can’t say it weren’t a
misfortune! At last they tell me, now, that a _moujik_ in the Prilepakh
had driven my she-goat to his place. I start out to get her back; no
help for it,--such seemed to be my lot. I come to the village; there’s
nobody around, wherever I look,--everybody’s out in the fields. A
lad is riding off for water; I ask him,--‘Where’s Bockhov’s house?’
‘Why,’ says he ‘right there, where the old woman in the red petticoat
is sitting under a bush.’ I walk up: ‘Is this Bochkov’s place?’ The old
woman waves her hand at me, pointing to a little yard in the blazing
sun....”
“Must have gone daft from old age,” put in Pashka, starting to laugh
so pleasantly that the student looked around at him with amazement and
fear, reflecting: “Why no,--it can’t be true; he must have told lies
about himself!”
“She was gone daft,” confirmed Theodot. “Just kept on waving her hand.
But I had already been hearing a hog grunting in the little yard. I
open the door to a sty, a corner fenced off with plaited willow, where
this same pig was kept. I see a big sow pulling a woman around; the
woman’s thrown her weight upon it, holding it with both hands, pouring
out of a pail upon it with the other. And the sow is all black from
mud, lugging the woman, dragging her along,--the woman can’t manage her
nohow, and her clothes is pulled up to her belly. It was both to sin
and to grin! Soon as she saw me, she pulls down her skirt,--her legs,
her hands was all in manure.... ‘What d’you want?’ ‘What do I want? I’m
here on business. You drove my she-goat up here; you’re keeping strayed
cattle, but ain’t giving out no notice of it.’ ‘We ain’t keeping any
she-goat of yours,’ says she. ‘We let her go. We drove her into the
owner’s place.’ And she laughs at something. ‘So-o,’ thinks I, ‘that
means I’m in hot water again: well, just you wait!’ I went out and kept
on; I had just gone past the next farm, had turned up a path through
some flax, when a red-haired little fellow bobs up from somewheres
right in my way. ‘Did you come for the goat?’ ‘For the goat,--but why?’
Suddenly I hear a woman yelling beyond the hut: ‘Where you gone to,
Kuzka, damn your eyes!’ ‘Run quick,’ I says, ‘here’s your mother comin’
with some stinging nettles.’ And there she was, right on the spot; she
sees him and runs: ‘Didn’t I tell you to look after the little one? But
where did you go off to, you so-and-so?’ And then she pounces on me!
‘Where you from?’ ‘And what business of yours may that be now?’ ‘Oh,
no, you tell me where you’re from!’ ‘I’m the man in the moon. What are
you yelling about? I’m looking for my she-goat.’ ‘Oh, so it’s you, is
it, damn your eyes, that don’t give any peace to the village with your
goat!’ And suddenly I see a tall _moujik_ rushing toward me from the
corn kiln,--without a cap, beltless, in boots. He ran on me at full
speed. ‘Your goat?’ ‘Mine....’ He unwraps himself, swings back, and
lets fly one in my ear.”
“Good work!” exclaimed the old man and Pashka in the same breath; as
for the school-boy, he even let out a little squeal: this, then, was
the most horrible part of all! But Theodot calmly pulled out the skirt
of his short coat from under him, and calmly continued:
“Oh, yes, he warmed me up so that my head just begun to hum. I grab him
by his hands, and ask him, what that was for? And by now people was
running up.... Right in front of everybody, I ask them to be witnesses
of this here matter; again I ask what it was my goat had gone and done?
It turns out that she had knocked a child off its feet, had broken its
head, making it bleed; had chewn up a shirt, and had trampled some
rye. Very well,--complain to the court about it; there I’ll be called
to account and you won’t be let off either. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘you ain’t
a-goin’ to get a durn thing off me!’ I put on my cap and went as fast
as I could to the owner’s yard. I grew a trifle cheerier: the goat,
thinks I, won’t get away from me now; and you can’t sue me now,--you
should have waited before you started in fighting with me. I draw near
and I see, on a pony with a clipped tail, a lad in a satin cap, his
legs and arms bare,--a jockey, they calls it. The horse is playful,
and he flicks it with a little whip. ‘How do you do, now; allow me to
ask,--has your grace got my she-goat?’ ‘And who may you be?’ ‘I’m the
owner of that there goat.’ ‘Well, now, my daddy ordered it to be driven
in.’ Things are going along fine; I go on farther and meet a beggar,
from whom I lay in some bread,--for the hounds in the owner’s yard are
pretty big. I enter the yard and see a four-horse carriage standing
on the gravelled drive near the house,--the horses are well-fed,
spirited. There’s a flunky at the grand entrance, his beard parted in
two. A grown-up young lady walks out in a hat trimmed with ribbons,
her face all covered up with muslin. ‘Dasha!’ she yells to the maid in
the house, ‘ask the master to come as soon as possible. He’s at the
riding-ground.’ I start for the riding-ground. There I see the owner
himself standing, in a uniform frock with a green collar; he wears a
medal and carries his cap in his hand; his bald head simply blazes in
the sun, his belly is all in creases, and he’s all red himself. And
there’s a little lad perched up on the roof, his arm plunged in under
the roofing, looking for something,--must be for starlings, thinks I to
myself. But no,--he was taken up with sparrows. The owner looks on,
yelling: ‘Catch them, catch, them, the sons of bitches!’ And the little
boy catches the young sparrows, pulls them out, and knocks them against
the ground. The owner catches sight of me: ‘What do you want?’ ‘Why,
now,’ says I, ‘your gardener caught my she-goat at the strawberries.
Allow me to take her away, so’s I may kill her.’ ‘This isn’t the first
time, now,’ says he, ‘I shall fine you two roubles.’ ‘I agree with
you,’ I says, ‘I’m at fault, and I admit it. What hard luck!’ I says,
‘I always have two wenches watching it; but yesterday, as though for
spite,--the deuce knows whether they ate too many raw mushrooms, or
what it was,--they was rolling around, spewing up; and as for my wife,
she also didn’t watch out, to tell the truth,--she was lying in the
barn, yelling with all her might,--her hand had all swollen up....’
A man’s got to excuse himself somehow. I tell him all about what a
baneful creature my she-goat is, how I was given one in the ear for
her,--he laughs and grows good-natured. ‘No matter how I chase her,’
says I, ‘I can’t catch her nohow; and I so wanted to ask your grace for
a little gunpowder and to borrow a gun from the truck gardener, so’s to
shoot her with it. Well, of course, he softened a lot, allowed me to
take her, and I done for her on the spot.”
“You done for her?” asked the old man.
“Absolutely,” said Theodot. “‘Well, take it,’ says he, ‘only watch
out, don’t mix it up with mine.’ ‘That won’t happen, nohow,’ says I,
‘I’d know her amongst a thousand.’ We went out to the fold, taking
Pakhomka the shepherd along with us. I give one look,--and at once
notice her behind the sheep; she was standing, looking at me sharply
for some reason, eyeing me askance. Me and Pakhomka got the sheep
into a corner as tight as we could, and I began to walk up to her. I
make two steps,--she gives one jump over a ram! And again she stands,
looking. Again I start for her.... And then, she points her head with
its horns toward the ground and makes one dash for the sheep, and they
all just rush away from her,--they parted like water! Then I got mad.
Says I to Pakhomka: ‘You just drive her up as easy as you can, the
whilst I climb up on the shed, where it’s darker, and grab her by the
horns.’ And it’s awful how much manure there was in that yard, right up
to the very sheds in some places. I climbed up on the shed, laid down,
grabbed a beam as hard as I could, whilst Pakhomka kept on scaring her
on toward me. I waited and waited, until finally she came under the
very shed,--and then I made a grab for her horns! And then she starts
in bleating. I even got scared! I fall off the shed; I dig my feet in,
holding on to the horns, while she dashes with me all over the yard,
drags me up to a pit; then she squirms out, scraping me with her horn
over the beard, over the nose,--till everything turned black.... When
I look up, she’s already up on the roof: she’d jumped up on the pile
of manure, from the manure on to the roof, from the roof into the tall
grass.... We could hear the dogs getting noisy in the yard; the other
dogs picked it up, raising a racket in the village. We, of course,
jumped out after her. But she’s flying along with all her might, and
straight for the last hut: there was a new hut being built there; the
windows was still boarded up and there was no entry yet, while there
was just bare poles laid aslant for the roof. So she clambered up them
up to the very ridge--a power like a whirlwind must have carried her up
there! We ran up as fast as we could; as for her, she must have felt
her death coming,--she was bleating for all she was worth, all scared.
I picked up a hefty brick, took aim,--and caught her so neat that she
just jumped up in the air, and then started with a swish down the roof!
We ran up, but she was just lying there, her tongue jerking in the
dust.... She’d take a breath and then rattle, take a breath and rattle
again,--till the dust rose up near her nose. And her tongue was long,
just like a snake.... Well, of course, after half an hour or so, she
had croaked.”
V
There was a silence. Theodot raised himself up to a sitting posture,
and, bending down, spreading his hands, began slowly to unwind the
cords with which his old, constantly falling foot-cloths were tied
up. And a minute later the school-boy with horror and repulsion saw
that which he had seen so many times before with perfect calmness: a
_moujik’s_ bare foot, dead-white, enormous, flat, with a monstrously
grown great toe lying crookedly on top of the others, and the thin,
hairy skin, which Theodot, having unwound and dropped the foot-cloth,
began to scratch hard in a delectable fury, tearing it with his nails,
as strong as those of a beast. Having scratched his fill and wriggled
his toes, he took the foot-cloth with both hands,--it was hardened,
bent, and blackened at the heel and sole, just as though it had been
rubbed with black wax,--and shook it out, spreading an unbearable
stench upon the fresh breeze. “Yes, murder means nothing to him!”
reflected the student, shivering. “That is the foot of a real murderer!
How horribly he killed this beautiful she-goat! And the man that he
killed with a whet-stone ... he must have been sharpening a scythe ...
and must have struck him straight in the temple, killing him on the
stop.... But Pashka! ... Pashka! ... How could he tell about it so
gaily and with such enjoyment, too! ‘It came right out at his back!’”
Suddenly, without raising his head, Ivan began speaking morosely:
“Fools are beaten even at the altar. Why, Postnii, it wouldn’t be
half-enough to beat you to death for this here she-goat. What did
you go and kill her for? You should have sold it. What sort of a
husbandman do you call yourself after that, you durn ninny, when you
don’t understand that a _moujik_ can’t get along without live-stock? It
should be valued. If I only had a she-goat, now....”
He didn’t finish his sentence, was silent for a while, then suddenly
grinned.
“There was an affair in Stanova, now; well that really was
something.... It wasn’t worse than your goat, now; a land-owner by the
name of Mussin was keeping a wild bull. This bull just wouldn’t let
anybody pass; he gored two young cowherds to death. They’d fasten him
up with a chain, but still he’d tear loose and go off. Just the very
same way, too, like your goat, he’d trample the peasants’ grain; but
no one dared to chase him off: they were afraid, and would walk a mile
around him. Well, of course, they sawed off his horns, gelded him....
He quieted down a bit. Only the _moujiks_ scored up everything against
him. When these here riots began, here’s what they did: they caught
him in the field, tied him up with ropes, threw him off his feet....
They didn’t beat him at all, but just took and stripped him to the last
hair. So, all bare, he dashed into the owner’s yard,--he ran in at full
speed, fell all in a heap, and died right on the spot,--losing all his
blood.”
“How?” asked the school-boy; “they took his hide off? While he was
alive?”
“No, while he was cooked,” mumbled Ivan. “Oh you Moscow city feller!”
Everybody started laughing; while Pashka, laughing more than all of
them, quickly picked up the conversation.
“Well, there’s a lot of murderers for you! And you was saying, just
like that, that we ought to be treated kindly. No brother, guess you
can’t get along here without us marching soldiers! When after the
Seniyaks we was stationed at Kursk, now, we was also restoring order
in a certain settlement. The _moujiks_ had gotten it into their head
to ruinate an owner.... And the owner, they do say, was a good sort,
at that.... Well, the whole settlement went for him, and, naturally,
the women tagged along. The watchmen came out to meet the villagers.
The peasants went for them with stakes and scythes. The guards fired
one volley, and then, of course, took to their heels: what the devil
sort of strength can you expect from those dunderheads!--but one bullet
did get a baby in a woman’s arms. The woman was left alive, but he,
of course, didn’t even let out a squeak,--just gave one jerk with
his little legs. So, good Lord!” said Pashka, tossing his head from
laughter and seating himself more comfortably, “what only didn’t the
_moujiks_ do! They broke everything to smash and smithereens; chased
this same owner into a corner, trampling him down, while this _moujik_,
the father of this here child, ran up to that very spot with this same
baby; he was all gasping and crazed from grief, and he starts in to
beat the owner over his head with this dead baby! Grabbed him by the
little legs and starts in lambasting the owner. And then the others
fall upon him, and, of course, all for one and one for all, they
finished him. We were rushed up, but he was already beginning to rot
when we got there.”
“Well, what are you laughing about, you fool!” the school-boy wanted to
cry out, suddenly feeling a ferocious hatred for Pashka’s laughter, for
Pashka’s voice. But here Kiriushka suddenly stirred, and, raising his
head, said with childish naïveness:
“But that which took place when Kochergin the land-owner was bein’
wrecked,--_that_ was something awful! I was then living with him as
one of his shepherds.... So all their mirrors was thrown into the
pond.... Afterwards, people from the village would come over for a
swim, and would always be pulling them out of the slime.... You’d dive,
stand up,--and then your foot would just slide over a mirror.... And
this, now ... how do you call it ... fortopianner was dragged into
the rye.... We used to come ...” Kiriushka raised himself up, and,
laughing, leant back on his elbows; “we would come and there it would
be standing.... You’d take a club, and start banging upon it,--upon its
keys, that is.... From one end to the other.... Why, it would play
better nor any accordeon!”
Everybody laughed once more. Theodot had adjusted his foot-gear, had
again criss-crossed his foot-cloths accurately with the cords, and,
having set himself to rights, had resumed his former position. And,
having waited for a moment of silence, he began to finish his story in
measured tones:
“Yes, he gave me one on the ear, and yet put in a suit as well.... For
all these, now, losses and damages, for the forage, that is. He was
called Andrei Bogdanov,--Andrei Ivannov Bogdanov. A tall _moujik_,
he was,--red-faced, thin, always evil-tempered, always drunk. Well,
now, so he started a suit. It was he that had warmed my ear, and he
it was that was suing me to boot. Here the busiest time of the year
came along, with nary a breathing space; but I’ve got to be hiking off
fifteen miles away.... I guess that’s just what the Lord must have
punished him for....”
As he gazed at the straw, stifling his cough and wiping his flat lips
with the palm of his hand, Theodot’s speech was becoming more and more
sombre, more and more expressive. Having said “The Lord must have
punished him,” he was silent for a while, and then went on:
“The suit, of course, came to nothing. A peace was patched up between
us. We was both at fault, that is. But only he wasn’t content with
that. He made up with me, but right after he walked away, drank till
he was blind-drunk, started threatening to kill me. He yells before
everybody: ‘Wait,’ says he, ‘wait, I ain’t drunk yet, now; but when
I’ve drunk enough I’ll settle your hash.’ I wanted to get away from the
mixup,--it made me feel sick in the stomach.... Then he took to coming
to our village: he’d come under my windows, drunk as drunk could be,
and would start in to curse me out, saying things about my mother. And
I have a grown-up daughter....”
“That weren’t right,” sympathetically grunted out the old man, and
yawned.
“Oh, it was a grand story!” said Theodot. “Well, now, so he comes on an
evening before the Kiriki. I hear him making a hubbub in the street.
I got up, without saying a word, went out into the yard, sat down on
a harrow, and started sharpening a scythe. But I was taken with such
a rage that I saw red before my eyes. Then I hear him walking up to
the hut, raising a rumpus. Must be wanting to break the panes, thinks
I to myself. But no; he just made a lot of noise and was already
going somewhere else. That would have been the end of it perhaps,--if
only Ollka, my daughter, hadn’t jumped out ... And then she starts in
yelling, with a voice not her own: ‘Help, father, Andrushka is beating
me!’ I dashed out with the scythe whet-stone in my hand,--and, all in
a passion, hit him once right over his head! He just hit the ground.
Folks ran up, started dousing him with water ... but he lies there, and
by now he’s only hiccoughing.... Maybe something might have been done
then.... Like putting a cold pack on him, or something like that.... He
ought to have been carried off to a hospital as fast as possible, and a
tenner should have been handed to the doctor.... But where was a tenner
to be gotten? Well, so he hiccoughed and he hiccoughed, and he passed
away toward night. He threshed about and threshed about; then turned
over on his back, stretched himself out, and there he was, all ready.
And the folks were standing around, looking, all silent. And the lights
was already lit by that time.”
All atremble with a quick shivering, his face flaming, the high-school
student got up, and, sinking in the straw up to his waist, started
climbing down the stack. A _borzoi_ bitch, frightened by him, suddenly
jumped up and gave a jerky bark. The student drew back sharply, falling
into the straw, and stood stock still. The chill wind was rustling;
a cluster of chill autumn stars showed white above his very head,
while from beyond the hillock of rustling straw came the measured,
low-pitched voice of Theodot.
“I sat in the barn for two days under guard, and saw the whole thing
through a little window.... How they cut him up, that is. The people
flocked in from all the villages, to have a look at this murdered
man,--and me too, for that matter. They used to shove their way right
up to the very barn. Two benches was carried out on the common, placed
right near the barn, and the murdered man put upon them. A log of wood
was put under his head; chairs and a table were brought out for the
coroner and the sawbones. The sawbones walks up to him; he tears off
his shirt, tears off his drawers,--and I see a corpse lying all naked,
already stiff; yellow here and green there, while his face was all like
wax; the red beard had become thin, and simply stood out. The sawbones
put a burdock over you know what place. Right at hand, as usual, there
was a box with all sorts of contraptions. The sawbones walks up, parts
his hair from ear to ear, makes a cut, and begins to take off the scalp
together with the hair, in halves. Where it was thin, he scraped with
a little knife. He tore away a half to either side,--soon as he gets
one piece off, he pulls it down over the eye. The whole skull became
visible,--like some kind of a little pot, it was.... And there’s a
black spot on it, near the right ear,--black clotted blood; where the
blow had come, that is. The sawbones says something to the coroner,
and the coroner writes: ‘Three cracks on such and such parts.’ Then
the sawbones starts in sawing through the skull all around. The saw
don’t work, so he takes a little hammer and a small chisel, see, and
goes over the marks that he’d made with the saw, breaking through with
the little chisel. And the top of the skull just fell away, like a
cup,--the brain was all plain to be seen....”
“What don’t they do, the murdering cut-throats!” hoarsely remarked the
old man, who had just dozed off.
But Theodot was firmly finishing his say:
“Then he took out a heavy knife, and starts cutting the chest, right
through the gristle. He hacks out a three cornered piece, and starts
pulling it away,--it even started cracking.... All the stomach came to
view, and the blue lungs, and all the innards....”
Deafened by the beating of his own heart, the student got up on his
feet, standing up to the full of his great height,--in his cap, shoved
back on the nape of his neck, in his light uniform overcoat, which
was already too short for him. Gray, huge, dreadful in his Mongolian
calmness, Theodot was speaking in measured tones, his pipe gripped
between his teeth; but the student was no longer listening to him. With
all his eyes he was looking at all these men--so familiar and yet so
unknown, so incomprehensible,--who had made his whole soul so sick on
this night. Pitiful in his vice and his meekness, in all his pastoral
primitiveness, Kiriushka was sleeping, covered with his great coat,
one thick leg, swathed in white foot-cloths, and twisted at the knee,
sticking out from underneath it. Ivan, too, was sleeping; Ivan of the
morose, disdainful face, whose mother, a horrible, black old woman, had
been dying for three years now, in his black mud hut, standing near the
ditches at the edge of the bare village, in the darkness and the dirt,
underneath the low ceiling, underneath the low roof of sods, and yet
cannot in anyway die, to her grief; while his buck-toothed thin wife
feeds at her dark-yellow, hanging dry breast a bare-bellied, clear-eyed
child, with its nose running, and its lips bitten into blood by the
countless flies in the hut. The happy Pashka was sleeping his heavy,
healthy sleep in the fresh wind, in his soldier’s cap, heavy boots,
and his new short coat. As for Khomut, the old man, who has not got
even a short coat (he has only a long coat, frayed and with a large
hole through the shoulder), whose drawers always hung so low upon his
flabby thighs,--he was sitting with his back to the wind, bare-headed,
stripped to the waist. He, senilely emaciated, yellow of body, with
his shoulders elevated at a slant, with his twisted prominent backbone
glistening in the light of the stars, was sitting with his big tousled
head, ruffled by the fresh wind, bowed down, bending his neck which was
already scrawny and all in coarse wrinkles. He was intently examining
the shirt he had taken off, and, as he listened to Theodot, he would at
times squeeze its collar band between his thumb-nails.
The student jumped down upon the hard and smooth autumnal earth, and,
stooping, quickly walked toward the dark, murmurous garden, toward home.
All three dogs also arose, and, showing dimly white, started running
sideways after him, with their tails curled tightly.
_1911._
A GOODLY LIFE
My life has been a well-spent one; I got everything I went after. I
even own real property,--my little old man right after the wedding
signed the house over in my name; and I keep horses, and two cows, and
we have a business all our own. Of course, not a regular shop, now, but
just a little store, as they say,--but then, in our village, it will
pass. I always was successful, but then I have a persistent character,
at that.
As to all sorts of work, it was still my daddy that learned me. Though
he was a widower, and took to drink, he wasn’t far behind me in being
awful smart, business-like, and heartless. When the serfs was freed,
now, he up and says to me:
“Well, wench, I’m my own master now; let’s save up some money. As soon
as we save it up, we’ll go to the city, buy a house all to our own
selves; I’ll marry you off to a fine gentleman, and live like a king.
As for our masters, it’s no use sticking here with them,--they ain’t
worth it.”
Our masters, now,--although, to tell the truth, they were good and
kind,--was the poorest of the poor; actual beggars, you might say. And
so we went away from them to another settlement; as for the house, the
cattle, and whatever household goods we had, we sold them. We moved
right near to the city, and hired a cabbage patch from a lady by the
name of Meshcherina. She had been a _fräulein_ in the Tsar’s court; she
was plain, freckled, and had grown gray as a maid,--nobody would take
her to wife, so she lived in retirement. So, then, we hired the meadows
from her, and settled down in our little hut, all peaceful and quiet.
The weather’s chill; fall is coming on,--but little we care! We sit
and wait for good profits and never feel trouble coming along. But the
trouble was right there,--and what trouble, at that! Our venture was
drawing near the winding up, when suddenly something terrible happens.
We had had our tea in the morning,--it was a holiday,--so I stood,
just so, near the hut, watching the folks coming from church over the
meadow. As for my daddy, he had gone to see about the cabbages. It was
a sort of a bright day, even though it was windy, and so I was gaping
and didn’t notice that there was two men approaching me. One was the
priest,--so tall, you know, in a gray cassock and carrying a stick; his
face was dark, earthy; he’s got a mane like any fine horse, just simply
spreading out in the wind. The other was just a common peasant,--his
farm hand. They walked right up to the hut; I got confused, made him a
bow, and says:
“How do you do, Father? Thanks for thinking of us and calling.”
But he, I see, is angry, sullen, doesn’t even look at me; he just
stands and breaks up clods with his stock.
“And where,” says he, “is your father?”
“They’ve gone to the cabbage field,” says I. “If you like, now, I can
call them. But there he’s coming, himself.”
“Well, you just tell him to take away whatever goods he’s got,
together with this dinky little samovar, and get away from here. My
watchman is coming here to-day.”
“What do you mean, a watchman? Why, we have already given the lady the
money, ninety roubles it was. What do you mean, Father?” (Though I was
young, I knew just what was what in such things.) “Are you joking, or
something?” I says. “You ought to produce some proper paper,” I says.
“No talk out of you!” he yells. “The owner is going to live in the
city; I’ve bought the meadows from her, and now the land is my own
property!”
But he, himself, waves his arms about, knocks his stick against the
ground,--like as not to hit you in the snout any minute.
Father sees these goings-on, and starts running toward us,--he was
awful hot-headed. He runs up and asks:
“What’s all this noise about? What are you yelling at her for, Father,
without knowing yourself what’s what? You oughtn’t to be shaking your
stick, but ought to come right out and explain by what sort of right
the cabbages have come to be yours? We are poor folks, now, we can go
to court about it. You,” he says, “are a person in holy orders; you
can’t hold no enmity against nobody; your kind can’t touch the holy
sacrament if you do.”
Father, you understand, hadn’t said as much as one saucy word to him;
but the other, though he was a pastor, was as wicked as the most
ordinary drab _moujik_; and so, when he heard that kind of talk, he
just grew pale,--not a word could he say, but you could just see his
legs quivering under his cassock. And then, don’t he let out a squeal,
and don’t he go for father,--to hit him over the head, you understand!
But father got from under it, grabbed the stick, tore it out of the
priest’s hands, and then went smash! over his knee with it. The other
tried to grapple with him, but father breaks it in halves, flings the
pieces away as far as he can and calls out:
“Don’t come near me, for God’s sake, your reverence! You,” he calls
out, “are black and like a beetle, but I am still more of a beetle than
you be.”
And then he grabs him by the arms!
What with courts and law, father was sent to a convict colony for this
here thing. I was left all alone in this world, and thinks I, what am
I to do now? Plainly, you can’t get through the world on righteousness
alone; plainly, you must needs keep your eyes open. I figured it out a
whole year, living with my aunt; then I saw there was nowhere for me to
go,--I had to marry fast as I could. My dad had a good friend in town,
a harness maker,--well, him it was that courted me. You couldn’t say
as how he made a striking bridegroom,--but still he was a good catch,
at that. There was, to tell the truth, one man that I liked,--and
liked right well; but then he was poor too, about as bad off as I was,
also living with strangers, like me; but the other was his own master,
after all. I didn’t have a copper of dowry, and here, I see, he is
taking me without anything,--how could I let a chance like that pass
by? I thought, and I thought, and went and married him,--although, of
course, I knew that he was an elderly man, and a drunkard, and always
excitable; a cut-throat, to put it plainer.... I married him and
became, you understand, not an ordinary wench any more, but Nastasiya
Semenovna Zhokhova, a citizen’s wife, living in a city.... Of course,
it seemed flattering.
I suffered for nine years with this husband. That citizen business
was just a name; we was so poor really that we was about as bad off
as the _moujiks_! And then there was scrapping and rows every blessed
day. Well, the Lord took pity on me, and took him away. The children I
had by him all used to die on me; there was only two boys left,--one
was Vanniya, going on nine; the other was an infant in arms. He was
an awful lively and healthy boy; about ten months he started in to
walk, to talk; all of my children, now, used to begin walking and
talking about the eleventh month. He got to drinking tea all by his own
self,--used to sink his little face in the saucer so’s you couldn’t
pull it away, nohow. But this boy died, too, when he weren’t a year
yet. I come home one day from washing clothes in the river, and my
sister-in-law,--we used to rent our rooms off her,--up and says:
“Your Kostiya was yelling and squirming all day to-day. I done all
sorts of things to him already; I worked his arms and I patted him
hard, and I gave him some sugar and water; but all he does is gag,
and throw up the water through his nose. Either he’s gone and caught
a cold, or else he’s ate something; for the children always put
everything in their mouth,--how is a body to look after them?”
I was just scared stiff. I make a dash for the cradle and throw back
the curtain, but he was already beginning to pass away then; couldn’t
even as much as cry out. My sister ran to get a doctor’s assistant we
knew; when he comes, he asks: “What did you feed him with?”
“He’s eaten some manna porridge, now, and that was all.”
“And wasn’t he playing with something?”
“That’s right, he was,” says my sister. “There was a copper ring from
a horse-collar knocking about all the time,--well, he was playing with
that.”
“Well,” says the doctor’s assistant, “he must have swallowed it,
for sure. May your arms wither!” says he. “You’ve gone and done it
now,--why, he’s going to die on your hands!”
Of course, it turned out just like he said. Not even two hours had gone
when he passed away. We took on and we took on, but there was nothing
as could be done about it; for it’s no use going against the will of
God. So I buried him too; only Vanniya was left. Only he was left; but
then, as they say, one is enough. A small creature, it’s true, and
yet he’ll eat and drink as much as a grown-up. So I started scrubbing
floors at the home of Nikulin,--a colonel in the army, he was. Him and
his wife was rather well off; they paid thirty roubles a month for the
rooms they had. They lived in the upper floor; the kitchen was below.
The woman they had to get up their meals was a no-account little old
woman; she wasn’t responsible, and yet she was loose. Well, naturally,
she got in the family way. Couldn’t bend down to scrub the floors,
couldn’t pull a pot out the oven.... She went away when her time came,
and I just grabbed her place: that’s how I had gotten around the
masters! To tell the truth, I’ve been clever and cunning from a girl
up; no matter what I took a hold of, I’d do it neat, accurate, better
nor any waiter. Again, I knew how to please them: no matter what the
masters would say, I’d just say “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, ma’am,” all the
time, and “You are absolutely right....” I used to get up when you
could still see the moon. I’d mop up the floors, make the stove, polish
up the samovar,--in the meanwhile the masters would wake up, but I had
everything ready. And then, of course, I always kept myself clean, and
was well-built,--I was spare, but still I was handsome. There was times
when I’d even get to feeling sorry for myself: what were my beauty and
my knowledge going to waste for, now, in such hard work?
Thinks I, I ought to take advantage of the opportunity. And the
opportunity was, that the colonel was awful strong himself and
couldn’t bear to look at me calmly. His wife, now, was a German,--fat,
ailing, and some ten years older than he. He weren’t good-looking;
heavy-bodied, short-legged, looking like a wild pig,--and she was
still worse. Well, I see he’s started to pay court to me, to sit in my
kitchen, to teach me smoking. Soon as his wife went out, he was right
there on the spot. He’d chase his orderly into town, as though on some
errand, and be sitting there. He bored me to death, but, of course, I
pretended otherwise: I’d laugh, and I’d sit and swing my leg,--getting
him heated up in all sorts of ways, that is.... What can you do when
there’s poverty; and, as they say, this little was as good as a feast.
Somehow one day, on the Tsar’s birthday, he comes down to the kitchen
in his uniform frock, in epaulettes, belted with that white belt of
his like with a hoop, with kid gloves in his hands. He’s buttoned his
collar so tight that his neck is all swollen and he’s all blue in the
face; he’s all perfumed,--his eyes shining, his moustache black and
thick.... He comes down and says:
“I’m going to the cathedral with the missus right away; dust off my
boots,--I’ve only gone through the yard and yet I managed to get all
dusty.”
He put his foot in its patent-leather boot upon a bench,--just like a
big iron pillar, his leg was; I bent down, wanting to wipe it off, but
he grabs me by the neck, even tearing my kerchief off; then he grabbed
me tight about the bosom and was already dragging me behind the stove.
I try this way and that,--can’t get away from him nohow. And he is hot
all over, just swelling up with blood,--trying to overpower me, that
is; to get at my face and kiss me.
“What are you doing!” I says. “The mistress is coming,--go away, for
the love of Christ!”
“If you will get to love me,” he says, “I won’t begrudge you anything!”
“Oh yes, now, we know all about those promises!”
“May I never leave this spot,--may I die without absolution!”
Well, of course, there was more of the same sort of thing. But, to
tell the honest truth, what did I know at that time? I could have
very easily been taken in by his words; but, glory be to God, things
didn’t turn out his way. Somehow he caught hold of me another time,
at an unlucky moment. I broke away, all mussed up, and got mortal
angry,--and there was the mistress, now; she was coming down, dressed
up, all yellow, fat, like a dead person, groaning, her dress rustling
on the stairs. I break away, and stand there without my kerchief,--and
there she is, heading straight for us. He goes past her and shows his
heels, but I stand there like a fool, not knowing what to do. She stood
opposite me, and she stood some more, holding the silk skirt of her
dress,--I remember like it was to-day: she was going out visiting, and
had on a brown silk dress, and white mittens without fingers, and she
carried a parasol, and wore a hat like a basket. She stood for a while,
let out a groan, and went out. To tell the truth, though, she never
said a word to him or to me. But when the colonel went away to Kiev,
she just took and drove me out.
So I got all my little belongings together and went back to my
sister,--Vanniya was living at her house, you understand. I went away
from this place, and again I figure: my brains are just going for
nothing; I can’t save up anything, nor make a decent match and have
a business of my own,--God has wronged me! I’ll get in harness once
again, thinks I, turn about somehow, and I _will_ get what I’m after,
and _will_ have a capital of my own, or die trying! So I thought it all
out, apprenticed Vanniya to a tailor, and then got a place for myself
as maid with Samokhvalov the merchant.... And that was the beginning of
my rise.
They gave me a wage of two and a quarter. There was two servants,--me,
and a girl by the name of Vera. One day I wait at table, and she washes
the dishes; the next day I wash the dishes, and she waits at table. You
couldn’t call it a large family: there was the master, Matvei Ivannich;
the mistress, Liubov Ivanna; two grown-up daughters; and two sons. The
master himself was a serious-minded man, not much given to talking,--he
was never even at home on week-days, and whenever there was a holiday,
he’d be sitting upstairs in his room, reading all sorts of newspapers
and smoking a cigar. As for the mistress, she was a simple soul,
kind, and, like myself, from the middle classes. They wasn’t long in
marrying off their daughters, Anna and Klasha, and held two weddings in
one year,--married them off to military men. Right there, to tell the
truth, is where I begun to save up,--for the military men did give me
a great deal in tips. If you just did anything, even a trifle,--like
handing them the matches, say, or their overcoats and rubbers,--right
off you’d have twenty kopecks, or thirty.... But then I used to go
about awful neat, and I pleased the military. Vera, to tell the truth,
was always putting on some airs, like some miss or something; she took
short, mincing steps, was tender and awful easy hurt,--the minute
anything would happen, she’d knit her downy eye-brows, her lips,
like cherries, would start to quiver, and there was the tears in her
eye-lashes. True, she did have pretty eye-lashes, great big ones, I
never saw anybody else with anything like them. But then, I was wiser.
I used to put on a smooth waist, cut on a bias, with open-work; I’d
put a switch on my head with a black velvet bow, and I wore a starched
white apron,--it would interest anybody just to look at me. Vera, she
always used to lace herself tight in corsets; she’d lace herself so
tight she couldn’t stand it, and at once her head would start aching
till she’d throw up,--but I never even had no use for a corset, and was
all right as I was.... And when the military men were gone, the sons
started in tipping me.
The elder had already reached twenty when I took the place, and the
younger was going on fourteen. This boy had to sit all the while, poor
fellow. He had broken all his legs and arms,--I seen that business many
a time. When he’d break something, the doctor would come to him right
away, bandage it up with cotton, lint, and all that sort of thing;
then he’d pour something over it like lime; this same lime would dry up
together with the lint, would become like a splint; and when the hurt
part was healed up, the doctor would just cut all that stuff, taking it
all off,--and the arm, when you’d look at it, was all grown together.
He couldn’t walk by himself, but crawled around on his bottom. He used
to simply dash upon sofas, and over thresholds, and up the stairs. He
even used to crawl across the whole yard into the garden. He had a
great big head, clumsy looking, like his father’s; his temples coarse,
red-haired, like a dog’s wool; he had a broad, old-looking face.
That was because he used to eat an awful lot,--he’d eat sausage, and
chocolate bon-bons, and pretzels, and pastry made out of layers of
dough,--whatsoever his heart might desire. But his little legs, his
little arms, was like a sheep’s, and all broken, all in scars. They
used to keep him just so for a long time, making long shirts for him
of different colours; sometimes blue, sometimes pink. They had a lady
teacher from a parochial school coming over to our house to teach him.
He was a great hand for learning, and had a good head on his shoulders!
And the way he’d play on an accordeon--you couldn’t find even a whole
person to play like that! He’d play, and sing in time with the music.
He had a strong, piercing voice. He used to go way, way up when he’d
sing: “I’m a monk, and handsome too!” He used to sing that song often.
The elder son was in good health, but also a sort of innocent, not fit
for any business. They gave him away for instruction into all sorts of
schools,--and he was chased out of all of them; they couldn’t learn him
anything. Come night,--he’d get full some place or other, and be gone
until dawn. Still, he really was afraid of his mother, and would not
come in through the front door for anything. I’d get through with my
work in the evening, and wait until the master and mistress would be
asleep; then I’d steal through the rooms, open the window in his little
den, and then go back to my place again. He’d take his boots off in the
street, crawl through the window in only his stocking-feet, and never a
squeak or a creak out of him. The next day he’d get up like he’d never
been any place, and in some spot where we couldn’t be seen he’d shove
what was coming to me into my hand. It wasn’t none of my worry, and I’d
take it right gladly! If he was to break his neck, that would be his
lookout.... And then I started in having an income from the younger,
from Nicanor Matveich.
I was after what I wanted day and night, you might say. Once I took
into my head that one idea, to absolutely provide for myself and to
marry a decent party, I had taken a fresh hold on life. I used to save
every little copper, now; money, you know, has little wings, once you
let it out of your hands!
I got rid of this here Vera,--but she, to tell the truth, was there
really without need; I just put it that way to the master and mistress:
“I can get along all by my own self,” I says; “you just add any trifle
you like to my wage, and you’ll do better nor now.” So, then, I was
left alone and managing everything myself. I wouldn’t even take the
wages in my hands,--soon as twenty or twenty-five roubles would gather,
I’d beg the mistress to go to the bank and put it away in my name.
Clothes, and shoes, and everything else went with the place,--what was
I to spend money for? The only expenses I had was to put up a little
stone at my husband’s grave,--I paid two roubles seventy, so’s people
wouldn’t talk. And right here, the Lord forgive us,--such was my luck
and his misfortune,--this poor wretch had to go and fall in love with
me....
Of course, now I often think: maybe it was on account of him that
God punished me through my son. Sometimes I can’t get it out of my
head,--I’ll tell you right away what he went and done to himself.
And besides, just consider that it really was very hard,--I used to
look at this big-headed fellow, and what a vexation would take hold
on me! “May this and that befall you,” I’d think, “you was born, with
a silver spoon in your mouth! Even though you be a cripple, yet how
rich you live.... Whereas mine is all sound, and yet he don’t eat or
drink as much on a holiday as you do on a week-day, just so.” Then I
started in to notice,--it looked like he’d fallen in love with me;
well, now, he just wouldn’t take his eyes off my face. By that time
he was already sixteen, and had taken to wearing wide trousers, and
to belting his blouse; a red-haired moustache started cropping out.
But he was homely, tow-haired, green-eyed--God deliver me! His face
was broad, but he himself was as thin as a bone. At first, evidently,
he got it into his head that he could be pleasing,--he began to dress
up, to buy polly-seeds, and used to play on his accordeon so fine
that you could listen to him for hours. He played well, to tell the
truth. When he seen that his affair weren’t coming along, he grew
quiet and thoughtful-like. Once I was standing in the balcony, and
I see him crawling through the yard with a new German accordeon. He
had shaved and combed himself once more; had put on a three-buttoned
blouse with a high collar, fastening at the side; his head was thrown
back,--looking for me, that is. He looked and he looked; his eyes
became longing-like and dim, and then he began a polka:
“Let us go, let us go,
I would dance a polka through;
Dancing makes one braver; so
I can speak my love for you....”
But, like as if I hadn’t noticed him, I took and threw down a
slop-bowl, with water! I threw it down, and then was scared myself. But
he crawls, he struggles up the stairs, drying himself with one hand and
dragging the accordeon by the other. His eyes were lowered, and he was
all white, and he spoke meek-like, all aquiver:
“May your hands wither. What you’ve done is a sin, Nastiya.”
And that was all.... True, he was a peaceful one.
He was losing flesh at that time, not by the day but by the hour; and
the doctor had already said that he wasn’t long for this world, that
he was bound to die from a consumption. It made me shudder even as
much as to touch him. But then a poor person ain’t got no call to be
particular,--money can do anything, and so he started in to bribe me.
Just as soon as everybody used to fall asleep, right off he’d call me
to him,--either into the garden or into his room. (He lived apart from
everybody, living downstairs; his room was large, warm, and yet bleak;
all the windows looked out into the yard, the ceiling was low, the wall
paper was old and brown.)
“You just sit with me a while,” he says, “and I’ll give you some money
for that. I don’t want anything from you,--I have simply fallen in
love with you, and want to be with you; these walls have near drove me
crazy.”
Well, I’d take the money and sit for a while, and I got together about
half a hundred in that way. And then I had about four hundred of wages
and interest laid by. So, thinks I to myself, it’s about time now
for me to be crawling out of the harness, bit by bit. But, to tell
the honest truth, it was a pity to do so,--I wanted to bide my time
for another year or so, to save up a little more. But the main thing
was,--he had let it slip once when he was talking with me,--he had a
little toy saving bank that he was keeping most secret,--he had gotten
over two hundred roubles in trifling sums from his mother. Naturally,
with him lying sick, always abed, and all alone, his mother would
thrust the money upon him to cheer him up. But no matter how I tried
not to, I still would think once in a while: “The Lord forgive my
transgression, but it would be best if he gave that money to me! It’s
of no use to him, anyway; he’s like to die at any moment; whereas I’d
be well-fixed for all time with it.” I just waited to see how this
business might be worked, as cleverly as possible. I became more kind
to him, of course; began to sit with him more often. I used to come
into his room, and then look over my shoulder on purpose, as though I
had come in by stealth. I’d close the door and begin speaking in a low
whisper:
“There now,” I’d say, “I’ve got away; let’s sit together like a lovin’
couple.”
Making believe, that is, like I had a meeting arranged with him, but
that I was losing my courage, and yet at the same time was glad that I
had got through with my work and could now be with him. Then I began
to put on a weary air, to pretend I was in deep thought. And he was
always trying to get the reason out of me:
“Nast, why have you grown so sad?”
“Oh, just so! I’ve got more than my share of trouble!”
And then I’d top that with a sigh, become quiet, and lean my cheek on
my hand.
“But just what,” he’d say, “is the matter?”
“Well,” I says, “poor folks got a lot of things the matter with them,
but who ever worries about them? I wouldn’t even want to bore you with
them.”
Well, he guessed what was what pretty soon. He was clever, like I
said,--he’d be a match even for a healthy person. One day I came into
his room,--it was, as I remember even now, in mid-Lent; the weather was
sort of gloomy, wet, with a fog outside; everybody in the house was
sleeping after dinner. I come into his room with some needle-work in
my hands,--I was sewing something or other for myself; I sat down near
his bed and was just wanting to heave a sigh, and again make believe
I was aweary, and then start leading him on to my idea easy-like,
when he starts in talking about it himself. I can see him right now,
lying in his pink blouse,--brand new, never yet washed; in blue wide
trousers; in new small boots with patent-leather tops; his legs laid
one acrost the other, and him looking out of the corner of his eye.
His sleeves was wide, the trousers wider still, and his little legs
and arms like match-sticks; his head was heavy, big, and he were all
little himself,--it even made a body unwell to see him. To look at him,
he seemed a boy, yet his face was that of an old man, although it was
somehow youngish at the same time,--that was on account of him being
clean-shaved,--and he had a thick moustache. (Come to think of it, he
shaved himself every day, that’s how fast his beard would grow; his
hands looked like they was covered with tow, and the hair upon them was
all red, too.) Well, as I was saying, he’s lying there, his hair parted
on one side, his face turned toward the wall; he was picking at the
wall-paper, and all of a sudden he says;
“Nast!”
I even shuddered all over.
“What is it, Nicanor Matveich?”
And meanwhile my own heart rolled up to my mouth.
“Do you know where my toy bank is lying?”
“No,” I says, “how should I know that, Nicanor Matveich? I never had no
evil designs in my mind upon you.”
“Get up; draw out the bottom drawer in the wardrobe; take out the old
accordeon,--that’s where the toy bank is. Let me have it here.”
“But what do you want it for?”
“Just so,--I want to count the money.”
I got at the drawer, opened the cover of the accordeon,--and there,
stuffed into the bellows, was a tin elephant,--feeling pretty heavy.
I take it out and hand it to him. He takes it, rattles it, lays it
by him,--just like a baby, he was, honest to God,--and goes off into
thought about something. He keeps silent, and he keeps silent; then he
smiles, and says:
“To-day, Nast, I had a fine dream. I even woke up before daybreak on
account of it, and it has made me feel very good all day, up to dinner.
Just look,--I have even shaved myself, and have got all dressed up for
you.”
“But then, Nicanor Matveich, you always go about neat-dressed, anyway.”
And I don’t understand myself what I’m saying, I’m that excited.
“Well,” says he, “I guess I will be able to go about in the other
world. You can’t even imagine what a good-looking fellow I’m going to
be in the other world!”
I even got to feeling sorry for him.
“It’s a sin to make fun of such things, Nicanor Matveich, and I can’t
even understand why you say such things. Perhaps,” I says, “God will
send you health yet. You’d do better to tell me what your dream was.”
He started in beating about the bush again; started in to smile
wryly,--“What good am I alive!” he says. Then he began, without rhyme
or reason, to talk about a cow we had:
“For God’s sake,” says he, “tell mother to sell it; I can’t stand it no
more, that’s how tired I am of it; I lie here in bed and look at the
little barn where she’s kept, and she always looks back at me through
the bars,”--and all the while he’s rattling the money, and keeps from
looking me in the eyes. And I listen, and also can’t understand half of
what he’s saying,--just like two persons out of their minds, we was,
saying anything that came into our heads. Finally I couldn’t stand
it no more; for, thinks I, everybody will wake up at any second, and
they’ll be calling for a samovar, and then the whole business falls
through! And so I interrupt him as soon as I can, going in for cunning:
“But no,” I says, “you’d better tell me what dream you saw.... _Was it
anything about us two?_”
Of course, I wanted to say something that would please him, and I
struck it so right that he even changed colour entirely, and cast his
eyes down. All of a sudden he takes the toy bank, gets a little key out
of his trousers’-pocket, and wants to open it,--and can’t, nohow; just,
can’t get at the key-hole, his hands are trembling so. At last he does
manage to open it and pours out all it held onto his belly,--I remember
it all like it was now: there was two paper bills and eight gold
pieces; he scoops it all into his hand, and suddenly says in a whisper:
“Could you kiss me just once?”
My hands and feet just got numb from fright. But he’s carrying on like
he was going out of his mind, whispering, stretching upward to me:
“Nastechka, just once! God is my witness I will never say another word,
never ask again!”
I looked over my shoulder,--well, thinks I, I might just as well be
hanged for a sheep as for a lamb,--and I kissed him. So he was all just
gasping; he grabbed me around the neck, caught my lips, and I guess he
didn’t let me go for a whole minute. Then he shoves all the money into
my hand,--and turns his face to the wall.
“Go,” he says.
I ran out and went straight into my room. I put the money away under
lock and key, grabbed hold of a lemon, and started in to rub my lips.
I rubbed them so hard that they simply turned all white. I was awful
afraid, to tell the truth, that I might get a consumption from him....
Well and good,--this business, then, turned out all right, glory
be to God; so I begin to lay my plans for the next move, of more
importance,--the one which I had the most struggles about. I felt that
there was trouble brewing; I was afraid he wouldn’t let me leave my
place. “He’ll start in,” thinks I, “to pester me with his love, will
want to become my husband on account of this money.” But no; nothing
happens, I see. He don’t try to annoy me; he treats me rightly, the
same like before, as though nothing had taken place between us,--even
more modestly, it looks like,--and he don’t call me into his room:
that meant he was keeping his word. Then I bring the talk around to my
going away, putting it up to my master and mistress: it’s time for me
to see about my son a little, now; to be free for a little while. They
won’t even hear of it. And as for him, you can understand how he felt,
without my saying a word about it. I hinted about my going away to him
at one time,--so he just got all white. He turns his face to the wall,
and says with a sort of a bitter little smile:
“You have no right to do it,” he says. “You have led me on, have got me
used to you. You must wait,--I will die soon. But if you go away now, I
will strangle myself.”
A fine modest fellow he turned out to be, didn’t he? “Ah,” thinks I,
“damn your shameless eyes! Here I have forced myself to do like you
wanted, but you take to threatening me! Oh, no, you haven’t come across
one of that sort in me!” And I started looking for an excuse harder
than ever. About that time, most luckily, the mistress gave birth to
another girl, and a wet-nurse was hired for her; so I picked on that,
saying that I couldn’t get along with her. She was, to tell the truth,
a wicked, daft old woman; even the mistress herself was afraid of her.
And she used to drink, on top of that,--there was always a demijohn on
duty under her bed,--and she couldn’t bear anybody to be near her. So
she began saying things about me, making trouble in all sorts of ways.
Either I hadn’t pressed the linen right, or else I didn’t know how to
wait at table at all.... But, if you was just to say one word to her,
she’d get all in a trembling passion and run off to complain. She’d sob
out loud, and, of course, not so much because she had been offended,
but just dissembling. The further it went, the worse it got, so I up
and says to the master and mistress:
“So and so,” I says, “let me go; I can’t bear to live on account of
that old woman; I will lay hands on myself.”
And in the meanwhile, I already had my eye on a house on Glukhaya
Ulitza.[11] Well, hearing me speak like that, the mistress didn’t even
try to hold me any longer. True, when she was saying good-bye to me,
she wanted me to come and live with them again, awful hard; or just to
come on some holidays, or on birthdays:
[11] Blind Alley would be the nearest English equivalent. _Trans._
“You must,” she says, “always come to put things in order, to get
everything ready. It’s only when you’re around,” she says, “that I feel
easy. I have grown used to you, like you was one of the family.”
She saw me off with all honours,--which meant that she no longer held
any grudge against me; she baked a great big white loaf, putting in a
whole salt-cellar full of sugar. I thank her in all sorts of ways, but,
of course, she wasn’t anything much in my life,--so I thinks one thing,
and I says another. I promised her all she wanted and more, scraping
and bowing low before her,--and went my ways. And at once, with the
Lord’s blessing, I got busy. I bought the house I had in mind, and
opened a dram shop. The trade started off awful good,--in the evening,
when I’d come to counting what I’d taken in during the day, there would
be thirty, or forty, or sometimes all of forty-five roubles in the
till,--and so I got the idea of opening up a store as well, so as, you
understand, to get them coming and going. My husband’s sister had long
since married a watchman in the Red Cross; he was calling me gossip all
the time, and was friendly with me,--so I went to him, got a trifling
loan for all sorts of fixtures, permits, and started in doing business.
And right then Vanniya had finished his apprenticeship. I took counsel
with folks that knew a thing or two as to where I could place him, now.
“Why,” says they, “where else would you place him, when there’s no end
of work in your own house?”
And they were right, at that. So I put Vanniya into the store, and stay
in the dram shop myself. And then we were off! And, of course, I had
even forgot to think of all this past nonsense,--although, to tell the
honest truth, the poor cripple had just taken to his bed, at the time
I was going away. Never a word out of him to anybody, but just lies
down, just like he were dead, forgetting his accordeon even. Suddenly,
lo, and behold ye, Polkanikha comes into my yard,--this same wet-nurse.
(The little boys had nick-named her Polkanikha.[12]) She comes, and she
says:
[12] Wife-of-a-regiment. _Trans._
“A certain man has told me to give you his regards; says you should
come and pay him a visit, without fail.”
I went all hot and cold from vexation and shame! “What a darling, to
be sure!” thinks I to myself. “What an idea he has gotten into his
head! What a mate he has found for himself!” I couldn’t hold in and I
says:
“I got no use for his regards; he ought to keep in mind the state
he’s in, and you, you old devil, ought to be ashamed to try and be a
go-between. Do you hear me, or don’t you?”
She just stopped short. She stands, all stooping, her swollen eyes
glowing at me from under her brows, and just shaking her cabbage head;
she’d grown daft, either from the heat or from vodka.
“Oh, you heartless creature!” says she. “He was even crying about you,”
she says. “All last evening he lay with his face to the wall, and
sobbing out loud.”
“Well,” says I, “am I to start weeping bucketfuls? And wasn’t he
ashamed, the red-head, to be bawling before folks? Why, what a baby! Or
was he weaned from the breast, or something?”
And so I put the old woman out as empty-handed as she had come, and
didn’t go myself. And right soon after that he took and really did
strangle himself. Right then, of course, I felt great regret because
I hadn’t gone; but at that time I had other things to think about,
besides him. I had one disgrace coming on top of another, right in my
own house.
I had rented out two rooms in the house; one was taken by the policeman
on our post,--a fine, serious-minded, respectable man, Chaikin by name;
a young lady prostitute came into the other. Flaxen-fair she was, kind
of young, and not at all bad to look at,--rather good-looking. She was
called Phenia. Kholin the contractor used to come to see her,--he was
keeping her; well, I relied on that, and let her take the room. But
right here some disagreement took place between them, and so he left
her. What was to be done? She had nothing to pay with, but I couldn’t
chase her out,--she had run up a debt of eight roubles.
“Miss,” says I, “you must earn off anybody; I don’t keep no open house
for strangers.”
“I will try,” she says.
“But then, somehow a body can’t see you trying. Instead of trying, you
always stick at home evening after evening. It’s no use,” I says, “to
be placing your hopes on Chaikin.”
“I will try. It makes me conscience-struck, just to hear you.”
“A-ah!” I says, “what a conscience you must have, to be sure!”
She’ll try and she’ll try,--but there was no trying of any sort, if the
truth be told. She did try to get around Chaikin but he wouldn’t even
as much as look at her. Then I see that she’s going after my boy. No
matter when I look, he’s always hanging around her. All of a sudden, he
gets a notion of getting a new jacket.
“Oh, no,” I says, “you’ll wait a while! As it is, I’m dressing you like
any fine young gentleman; now it’s boots, now it’s a cap. I, now, used
to deny myself everything, used to figure every copper as a gold piece,
yet I’d supply you with everything.”
“I’m not a bad-looker,” says he.
“You daft loon,” says I, “what am I to do, sell the house, or
something, on account of your good looks?”
I notice that my business is getting poorer. I started having
shortages, losses. I’d sit down to drink my tea,--and even that had
lost its taste for me. I started in to watch. I’d be sitting in the
dram shop, and yet be listening all the time--I’d put my ear to the
partition, without stirring, and listen. I’d hear them rumbling one
day, I’d hear them rumbling the next.... I begun scolding him about it.
“And what business is that of yours?” he says. “Maybe I want to marry
her.”
“So that’s how,--it’s none of your own mother’s business! I see your
intention long since,” I says, “only this is never going to be in this
eternity.”
“She’s mad in love with me; you can’t understand her; she is tender and
shy.”
“A fine love you can expect,” I says, “from a deboshed slut like
that! She’s making fun of you, you fool,” I says. “She’s got the bad
disease,” I says, “all her legs is covered with sores.”
He seemed turned to stone for a while; his eyes was all puckered up,
like he was looking at the bridge of his nose, and he kept silent.
“Well,” thinks I, “glory be to the Lord, I got him in the right spot.”
But still, I was frightened to death: it was plain to be seen, you
understand, that the poor fellow had fallen hard. “So that means,”
thinks I, “that I must finish her off as fast as I can.” I take
counsel with my gossip, and with Chaikin. “Tell me, now, what am I to
do with them?” “Why,” they say, “catch them on the spot, of course,
and throw them out,--and there’s the long and the short of it.” And
here is what they thought up. I made believe I was going out calling.
I went away, walked for some time through the streets, and about six
o’clock,--when Chaikin was relieved, that is,--I set out for home,
soft and easy. I run up and push the door,--just as I thought, it was
locked. I knock,--no answer. And Chaikin was already standing around
the corner. Then I started knocking on the windows, until the panes
jarred. Suddenly the latch clicks,--and Vanniya comes out. He’s as
white as chalk. I hit him on the shoulder with all my might,--and go
straight into the room. And there it was just like a feast had been
laid out,--empty beer bottles; weak table wine; sardines; a large
herring, all cleaned, as rosy as amber,--everything from the store.
Phenka was sitting on a chair, with a blue ribbon in her braid. Soon as
she saw me, she jumped up, staring at me with all her eyes; she was all
white, and her very lips had turned blue from fear,--she thought I’d go
for her, to beat her. But I just says, natural-like,--although I could
scarcely breath; I was throwing my shawl open, and then muffling myself
up again, by turns:
“What have you got here?” I says; “is it a bethrothal, or something?
Or is it somebody’s birthday? Well, why don’t you welcome a body, why
don’t you treat me to something?”
They don’t say a word.
“Well,” I says, “why don’t you say something? Why don’t you speak,
little son? Is that the kind of a host you are, my pet? So that’s where
my hard-earned money flies away, I see!”
He even got his dander up:
“I am of full age myself!”
“So-o,” I says, “and what about me? That means that I’m to rent a hutch
or something from your grace and this here little bitch? To get out of
my own house? Is that it, eh, so I’ve warmed a viper in my bosom, have
I?”
And then he starts yelling at me!
“You have no right to insult her! You have been young yourself at one
time,--you ought to understand what love is!”
And Chaikin, the minute he heard that uproar, was right there: he
jumped in without a word, grabbed Vannka by the shoulders, and straight
into a lumber room with him, under lock and key. (An awful strong man,
he was,--like a bandit or something!) He turns the key on him, and says
to Phenka:
“You are listed as a miss, but I can make a wolf out of you!”
(Meaning he’d make a note on her passport that would make her hounded
like a wolf.)
“Do you want me to do that,” he says, “or don’t you? Vacate this room
for us this very day, so’s there won’t be even a whiff of you left!”
She went into tears. But I added something on top of that.
“Let her first get the money what’s coming to me!” I says. “Or else I
won’t even let her take away the least little lousy trunk of hers. Let
her get my money ready, or I’ll let the whole town know about her!”
Well, so we packed her off that same evening. When I was chasing her
out, she took on something awful. She cried and she couldn’t catch her
breath for sobbing; she even tore her hair. Of course, her fix wasn’t
any too sweet. Where was she to go? All her goods, all her booty,
was her own person. But never the less she went off. Vanniya, too,
quieted down for a while. He was let out from under lock and key in
the morning,--and never a peep out of him; he was very much scared,
and you could see by his face that he was conscience-stricken. He
settled down to work. And so I even rejoiced and was set at rest,--but
not for long. Again there were leaks from the till; and this here
street-walker started sending a boy into the shop, and my son, now,
would supply her with all sorts of delicacies! Now he’d give her all
the sugar she wanted, now tea, now tobacco.... Or a handkerchief, or
soap, again and again,--whatever came to his hand.... How was a body
to watch him all the time? And then he started in to drink, harder and
harder. At last he neglected the store entirely: he didn’t even live at
home, come to think of it,--he’d just come in and eat, and then he’d
be off again without as much as a by-your-leave. Every day he’d go
off to see her; he’d put a bottle under his coat, and away with him;
and this same vodka, now, was already dear then. I run around like a
chicken without its head,--from the dram-shop to the store, from the
store to the dram-shop; and by that time I was afraid to tell him as
much as a word,--he had become a downright tramp! He always was a
good-looker,--he took after me entirely; his face was very fair and
soft,--just like a young lady, he was; he had clear, intelligent eyes;
was well-built, broad-shouldered, with chestnut curly hair.... But now
his mug was all bloated; his hair got shaggy and came down over his
collar; his eyes got bleary, and he got all tattered and had begun to
stoop. He always kept silent now, looking at the bridge of his nose all
the time,--in deep thought, like.
“Don’t you bother me now,” he’d say, “I’m liable to do something that
will lead to prison.”
And when he’d get tipsy, he’d start slobbering, laughing over nothing
at all; he’d be playing _Time Fled Beyond Recall_ on his accordeon, and
his eyes would fill with tears. Well, I see my affairs are in a bad
way,--time for me to get married, soon as I can. And right then they
was trying to make a match betwixt me and a certain widower,--he had
a store, too, and lived in a suburb. An elderly man, he was, but in
good standing, with means. Just the very thing, you understand, that
I was striving for. I find out as quickly as I can from trustworthy
folks all about his life, down to the last stitch; I see there’s
nothing out of the way whatsoever. I got to decide about getting up
an acquaintance as quick as possible,--the match-maker had only shown
us to each other in church before that; I got to bring it about, you
understand, so’s we can visit each other,--sort of make an inspection,
as it were. He comes to me first, and gives his credentials: “Lagutin,
Nikolai Ivannich,--store-keeper.” “Very pleased to meet you,” I says. I
see he’s altogether a fine man,--not any too tall, of course, and all
gray; but so agreeable, quiet, neat, diplomatic,--you could see he was
a thrifty sort; he had never run up a copper of debt to anybody in all
his life, he says. Then me and the match-maker went to see him, like
it was on business. We get there. I see he’s got a wine-cellar,--Rhine
wines, mostly; and a store stocked with everything that goes with
wines: cured lard, now, and ham, and sardines, and herrings. The house
wasn’t large, but neat as a pin. There was flowers and little curtains
on the windows, the floor was swept clean,--even though he were a
bachelor. In the yard everything was in order, too. There was three
cows and two horses. One was a three-year-old brood-mare,--he’d been
offered five hundred for it already, he said, but he’d turned the offer
down. Well, I just went into raptures watching that horse,--that’s how
handsome it was! But he only smiles quiet-like, walks with little steps
before us, crackling his fingers, and telling us everything, like he
was reading off some price-list: here’s this and this, and there’s that
and that.... So, thinks I, it’s no use trying to be too smart here; the
business ought to be brought to an end quick....
Of course, it’s only now that I’m telling all these things so briefly;
but only my poor head knows what feelings I went through at that
time! I couldn’t feel my legs under me for joy,--I’d gotten what I
was after, you see, I had found the party I was looking for! But I
kept silent, I was afraid and shivering all over,--supposing all my
hopes was to be dashed down? And that’s almost what did happen; all my
trouble almost went for nothing,--and I can’t tell calmly the reason
why, even now;--it was on account of this here poor cripple, and on
account of my darling little son! We was managing this business so
quietly, so genteel, that we thought never a soul would know. But no,
I hear that the entire suburb already knows about my intentions and
Nikolai Ivannich’s; the rumour, of course, reached the Samokhvalovs as
well,--never fear, it was nobody else but Polkanikha that whispered it
to them. And he, the poor cripple, now, took and hung himself, like I’m
telling you! “There now, you,--I threatened and you didn’t believe me,
so now, I’ll do it just to spite you!” He hammered a nail into the wall
above his head, fixed a cord from a sugar-loaf to it, drew it around
his throat, and crawled off the bed. It wasn’t no great trick; didn’t
take much brains! One day at twilight I was standing in the store,
putting some things to rights,--when suddenly some one thunders again
and again against a shutter in the house. My heart just went down into
my shoes. I jump out on the threshold,--it’s Polkanikha.
“What do you want?”
“Nicanor Matveich has passed away!”
She barked it out, turned on her heel, and went for home. But I, in the
first excitement, didn’t take anything into account,--it was just like
I had been scalded with steam from fright.... I threw a shawl over my
shoulders, and started after her. She runs, with her skirt caught up in
front, stumbling, stooping,--and I keep on running too.... It was just
a disgrace before the whole town! I run, and can’t understand a thing.
I had only one thought,--I’m ruined forever! Just think of what he’d
gone and done,--may God not bear it against him! Just think what little
conscience some people have! I run up to the house,--and there are as
many people there as at a fire. The front entrance is ajar; whoever
wants to pushes his way in,--everybody is curious, naturally. In my
lightheadedness I tried to get in there too. But, glory be, something
seemed to hit me over the head; I came to my senses and backed out.
Maybe that was what saved me,--else I would have known what crow tastes
like. If any one,--why, even this Polkanikha, say,--had remembered
me!... “Here, now, your honour, is the one we think is to blame, who is
the reason of it all; just you question her,”--and all would have been
over with me. Try and wriggle out of it then. A person may not have a
blessed thing to do with it, but they grab you and put you away.... It
wouldn’t be the first time a thing like that has happened.
Well, soon as they buried him, my heart eased up a little. I’m getting
ready for the wedding, hurrying to wind up my business, to sell what I
could without loss,--when again there’s grief and woe. I was knocked
off my feet as it was, what with one worry and another, and was all
roasted from the heat,--the heat that year was simply unbearable, with
dust, with a hot wind, especially in our neighbourhood, in Glukhaya
Ulitza, standing half way up on a hill,--when suddenly there was
another bit of news: Nikolai Ivannich had taken offense. He sends over
this same match-maker, now, that had brought us together,--a terrible
slut, she was, and kept both her eyes peeled; never fear, it was she
herself that put him, Nikolai Ivannich, up to it. Nikolai Ivannich lets
me know through her as how he’s putting off the wedding until the first
of September,--he’s got a lot of affairs to attend to, now,--and lets
me know about my son, about Vanniya: to figure out what was best to be
done with him; that he was to be placed anywhere at all,--“Because,
now,” he says, “I won’t take him into my house, for no amount. Even
though he be your own son,” he says, “he’s bound to clear ruin us, and
he’ll be upsetting me.” (And really, just think of his position! Since
he’s never known any turmoil, had never raised any rows, of course he
was afraid of any excitement: whenever he’d get excited, everything in
his head would get muddled,--he wouldn’t be able to say a word.) “Let
her get rid of him,” he says. And where was I to place him, how was I
to get rid of him? The young fellow had gotten out of hand entirely;
with strangers he’d break his neck altogether. But there was no way
of getting away from his riddance. As it was, I was all through with
him ever since he’d come to know Phenka: she had just bewitched him,
the bitch! He’d sleep all day and drink all night,--turning night into
day.... I couldn’t even begin to tell the trouble I went through with
him that summer! He got me so that I began to melt away like a candle;
I couldn’t hold a spoon, my hands shook so. Soon as it got dark I’d sit
down on the bench before the house and wait until he’d come in off the
street,--I was afeared the boys in the city might do him up....
Well, having gotten such a decision from Nikolai Ivannich, I call my
son to me: “So and so, my little son,” I says, “I’ve borne with you
long enough, but you’ve turned out a weakling and have gone astray;
you have disgraced me all over this neighbourhood. You’ve got used
to having everything soft and nice, now, until at last you’ve become
a tramp, a drunkard. You haven’t got a gift like I have,--no matter
how many times I fell, I always got up again; but you can’t save up
anything for yourself. Here am I,--I’ve come to be respected, and I
own real estate, and I drink and eat no worse nor other folk; I don’t
deny my heart nothing,--and all along of being governed by common
sense, always and above all things. But you, I see, want to stay a
flutter-fly, like you’d always been. It’s time you was getting off my
neck....”
He sits there and never a word out of him,--just picks the oilcloth on
the table. I had just called him out to dinner, for he’d been sleeping
all along, and his mug was all puffed up.
“Well, why don’t you say something?” I asks. “Don’t you be tearing that
oilcloth,--get one of your own first; just you answer me.”
Again he don’t say a word; he bends his head and his lips quiver.
“You’re going to marry?” he says.
“Well,” I says, “it ain’t known yet whether I am or whether I ain’t;
but, if I do marry, it will be a decent man, that ain’t a-going to
let you into his house. I ain’t your Phenka, brother; I ain’t no
street-walker or something.”
When all on a sudden he jumps up from his place and gets all in a
passion:
“Why,” he says, “you ain’t worth one of her fingernails!”
How was that? Good, eh? He jumped up, yelling till it didn’t sound
like his own voice, slammed the door like thunder,--and off with him.
But I, even though I was no great hand at crying, just went off into
tears. I cry one day, I cry another,--I had only to think of the words
he could find the heart to say to me, and off I’d go. I cry, but I
keep one thing in mind,--I would never forgive him such an insult till
the end of time, and I would drive him off entirely.... But all this
time he don’t come home. I hear he’s carrying on a feast at her house,
dancing and prancing, drinking through the money he had stolen, and
threatening me: “Never mind,” he says, “I’ll settle her; I’ll lay in
wait till she’ll be going somewhere in the evening; and I’ll kill her
with a stone.” He sends to the store to buy things,--to make fun of me,
of course; now for ginger cookies, now for herrings. I just quiver all
over from vexation, but I hold myself in and give what’s wanted. One
day I’m sitting in the store, when suddenly he comes in himself, drunk
as a lord. He brings in some herrings,--a little wench had bought four
of them that morning for his money, of course,--and slap with them down
on the counter!
“How dare you,” he yells, “send such abominable stuff to your
customers? They smell; they’re only fit for dogs to eat!”
He’s yelling, with his nostrils all puffed out,--looking for an excuse.
“Don’t you be raising no rumpus here,” I says, “and don’t be yelling;
I don’t make the herrings myself, but buy them by the barrel. If you
don’t like them, don’t guzzle them,--here’s your money back.”
“But what if I had ate them and died?”
“Again,” I says, “you’re swine, and ain’t got no call to be yelling at
me,--who are you to be giving me orders? Guess you ain’t such a much.
You ought to speak decent-like, and not be crowding in with a row into
somebody else’s establishment.”
But all on a sudden he grabbed hold of a steelyard off a bin and sort
of hisses out:
“I’ll swat you over the head,” he says, “so’s you’ll stretch right out!”
And then he ran out of the shop with all his might. But I, the way I
had sat down on the floor, that’s the way I stayed,--I just couldn’t
get up....
Then, I hear that they done for him,--the Lord had punished him on
account of his mother! He was barely alive when they brought him in a
cab,--unconscious drunk, his head bobbing, his hair caked with blood
and covered with dust; his boots and watch had been stolen, his new
jacket was all in tatters,--there wasn’t as much as a square inch of
whole cloth left anywhere.... I figured and I figured,--take him in
I did, and I even paid the cabby; but that very same day I sends my
compliments to Nikolai Ivannich, and say that he be told for sure that
he shouldn’t be worried any more over anything; that I had decided
about my son, now,--I would drive him out without any pity right off
when he would wake up. He also sends back his compliments and bids them
say: “Very wisely and well done, accept my thanks and sympathy ...” and
two weeks later he set the date for the wedding. Yes....
Well, that’s enough; that’s where my story ends. Guess there’s nothing
more, to tell about. I’ve gotten along so well with my husband all my
days, that it’s just like a rarity nowadays. As I’m saying, what I went
through whilst I was struggling to get into this heaven can’t be told
in words! But, truth to tell, the Lord hath rewarded me,--it is now the
twenty-first year that I’m living with my little old man, fenced about
as with a stone wall, and I know for sure that he wouldn’t let nothing
or nobody hurt me; it’s only to look at him that he’s so quiet! But, of
course, no matter how I try, the heart _will_ start yearning once in a
while! Especially before Easter, in Lent, for some reason or other. I
think I could die now,--it’s fine, peaceful; they’ll be after reading
litanies in all the churches.... True, I’ve had enough of toiling and
moiling in my time,--oh, but Nastasiya Semenovna was the persistent
one! Ought I, with my mind, to be sitting on the outskirts of a town?
My husband calls me Skobele,[13] as it is.... Again, once in a while
I get to longing for Vanniya. Never a bit of news about him in twenty
years. Maybe he’s died long since, but I don’t know about it. I even
felt sorry for him that time they brought him in. We dragged him in,
and got him up into bed,--he slept like he was dead the livelong day.
I’d climb up, and listen to his breathing,--to see if he was alive,
now.... And in the room there was a sour stench of some sort; he’s
lying in bed, all tattered, chewed-up, snoring and gagging.... It was a
shame and a pity to look at him, and yet it was my own flesh and blood!
I’d look and I’d look, and I’d listen,--and then walk out. And what an
anguish seized hold on me! I forced myself to sup, cleared away the
table, put out the light.... Can’t sleep, and that’s all there is to
it,--I just lie there and shiver.... And it was one moonlit night. Then
I hear he’s waked up. He’s coughing all the time, all the time going
out into the yard, banging the door.
[13] A great Russian general and a universal military genius and
strategist. _Trans._
“What you walking about for?” I ask.
“My stomach aches,” he says.
I can hear by his voice that he’s upset and grieving.
“Drink some of that mugwort and vodka that you’ll find in a bottle
standing in the image shrine.”
I lay a little longer,--I may have dozed off a little,--when I felt
through my slumber, that some one is stealing up over the flooring. I
jumped up,--it was he.
“Mother, dear,” he says, “don’t be afraid of me, for the love of
Christ!”
And then he went off into a flood of tears! He sat down on the bed,
catching my hands, kissing them, raining tears on them,--and just
unable to catch his breath,--that’s how he was crying and sobbing. I
couldn’t bear it--and went off on my own! It was a pity, of course,
but there was no help for it,--all my future lot turned upon him. But
then, I saw he understood all this very well himself.
“I can forgive you,” I says, “but you see yourself, now, that there’s
nothing to be done about it. So you just go away as far as possible,
so’s I shouldn’t even hear about you!”
“Mother, dear,” he says, “why have you ruined me, just like you ruined
that poor cripple Nicanor Matveich?”
Well, I see the man ain’t in his right senses yet, so I didn’t even
start to argue with him. He cried and he cried, then he got up and went
away. And in the morning, I look into the room where he’d slept, but
he was already gone for a long while. That meant he had gone as early
as possible for shame,--and then he just disappeared, like a stone in
the water. There was a rumour, now, that he had lived for a while in
a monastery at Zadorsk; that he had then travelled to Tsaritsin,--and
there, never fear, he must have broken his neck.... But what’s the use
of talking about it--it only troubles the heart! No matter how much you
cook water, it will still be water....
But as to what he’d said about Nicanor Matveich,--why, I think it’s
even silly. It wasn’t like I had been greedy after a great sum, or had
pulled it out of his pocket. He knew his unfortunate condition himself,
and was often taken with spells of sadness. He used to say to me at
times:
“Nastiya, fate has made me a cripple, and my nature is an insane one:
either I’m gay somehow, like just before some misfortune,--or else I
have such a melancholy spell, especially in summer, during the heat,
with all this dust, that I could just lay hands on myself! I’ll die;
they’ll bury me in the Chernoslobodskaya cemetery,--and this dust will
swirl for all eternity on to my grave, from beyond the enclosing wall!”
“But, now, Nicanor Matveich, why take on so about that? We don’t feel
such things when we’re dead.”
“Why,” he says, “what of it that we won’t feel them,--the trouble is
that one thinks about them while one is still alive....”
And, to tell the truth, it was awful wearisome in the house, in the
Samokhvalovs’, when everybody would fall asleep after dinner, and
the wind would be swirling this dust along! And he had laid hands on
himself just at the time of the greatest heat, at the dullest time. Our
whole town, to tell the truth, is wearisome. I was in Tula the other
day, now,--why, you can’t even compare them!
_1911._
“I SAY NOTHING”
When he had been a young man, everybody used to call Alexander Romanov
Shasha; at that time he was living in the settlement of Limovo, in an
iron-roofed house that stood facing the common, and his beatings were
administered to him by his father, Roman.
Roman deemed himself the first man in all that district,--he used
to shove his hand out to all the gentry and the squires whenever he
would meet them. He had a store in the settlement, and a mill beyond
it; but the way he got richer and richer was by buying up groves from
the land-owners and then cutting them down. Makar, his own brother,
had nothing to eat; all in tatters, he might be hobbling over the
common, and, doffing his hat meekly, would say: “Greetings, brother.”
But Roman, well-fed, looking like a deacon, would answer him from his
stoop: “Don’t you brother me, you dolt. You’ve made your bow, so just
keep on going on your way.” What, then, must have been the feelings of
the sole heir of such a man? He used to stroll through the village in a
cap that had come from the city; in a sleeveless overcoat of the finest
broadcloth, in boots with patent-leather tops. He was all the time
cracking polly-seeds, and playing polkas on an expensive accordeon.
Whenever he met any wenches or young lads,--all his relatives, all
consanguine, everyone of them,--he would be followed by that sort of
gaze from which celebrities feel a chill run down their back. But he
would meet such a gaze with a surly--even a ferocious--one; all his
youth seemed to have passed in a preparation for that rôle in which he
attained such perfection later on.
Roman, at the height of his prosperity, began to decline in strength,
and to get muddled in his affairs. Grizzled, bearded, pot-bellied, clad
in a sleeveless overcoat of casinette that resembled an under-cassock,
it was only when he was in his cups that he plucked up heart; but when
sober he was always despondent and deliberately churlish. He still
retained his glory and his might. Out on the common, near the church,
right opposite his windows, he had built a school; he was trustee over
it, and could at any instant he liked make the teacher grovel at his
feet. He was still able to give goods on credit to the land-owners;
to give bribes to the police inspector, without the least necessity;
he could still regale one with smoked sprats, with a pickled lobster
in a rusty can, with sherry and with wine from Tsimliyan, which is
something like champagne,--and, even as he entertained, he would yell,
if his guest were of the humbler sort: “Drink, you blockhead!” But it
surely was high time to supplant him. But who could do it? That was
just it,--there was no supplanting him. Shasha was withdrawing more
and more into his rôle of a man upon whom had been inflicted an insult
which could be wiped out only by blood, and his relations with Roman
resolved themselves merely into Roman’s dragging him around by his
“temples.” Shasha, to use Roman’s words, could make an angel lose his
patience,--it was impossible not to be dragging him around. And drag
him around Roman did. But the more he dragged him, the more unbearable
did Shasha become.
Who but he should have taken pride in the house, the might, the ways
of his father? His father would yell at him, in the presence of
guests: “Go on, now, be a trifle more free and easy, you dolt!” But
then, that was the way of those whom his father imitated, the way of
the merchants; and was it not a matter for the highest pride to feel
one’s self a merchant’s son? At times his father would even boast
about him, self-complacently saying to the guest: “Wait, I’ll show
youse my son!”--and would shout all over the house: “Shash, c’mon
over here,--Mikolai Mikhalich wants to have a look at ye!” But, oh,
the way Shasha would enter the room where his father and the guest
were sitting! He would enter with his face crimsoning, glowering from
underneath his beetling and knit eye-brows, holding his arms stiffly
akimbo, like a pretzel, and stepping still more stiffly, toeing in,
and as elegantly as if he, were dancing the fifth figure of the
quadrille,--and, having made a scraping bow to the guest, he would
instantly rush backward to the window, toward the lintel of the door;
blowing out his nostrils, he would tear his hang-nails with his teeth,
and, in the expectation of an affront from the visitor, answered all
questions with the most ludicrous brevity and abruptness.... How, then,
could one refrain from beating him? The guest would depart; Roman,
having seen him off, would walk up to Shasha without a word, and,
swinging back his arm, would grab Shasha fast by his hair. Without a
word, Shasha would extricate his head out of his father’s fingers, and,
having run out into the anteroom, would smite his bosom with his fist:
“All r-r-right, father! I say nothing! I always say nothing!” he would
hiss ominously.
“Why, she-animal that you are!” Roman would bawl at him. “Why, it’s for
this same silence and hoiti-toitiness that I’m a-beating you of! So,
then, you’re striving for the beating yourself? Why? Wherefore?”
“My ashes when I’m laid in my grave shall know it all!” Shasha would
answer ferociously and enigmatically.
One could have wagered his head that he must have been in an excellent
state of feelings. Had he not been born with a golden spoon in his
mouth? He would order new boots two or three times in a year; he never
ran short of money or of polly-seeds; he would promenade the main
street with the teacher, and he played on the harmonica better and
more spiritedly than everybody else; the wenches used to sing their
“heart-breaking” songs without taking their languishing eyes off him.
While in the fall, in the winter, he would pay court at evening parties
to the coquettish daughters of the priest, to the daughters of the
police inspector, dancing with them to the sounds of a talking machine;
he was usher at weddings, donning a frock-coat, starched shirt, and
new, tight shoes. But then, even his courting was somehow caustic,
offhand. But what’s the use! Even when all by himself, looking in the
mirror as he whipped up his browny fleece with a metallic comb, he
would squint at himself like some monster. His nose was squashed, his
voice hoarse, his appearance that of a convict,--the _moujiks_ used
to call him a hangman.... No great honour, that, you would think.
But no,--he took a delight even in that. “The low-down devil!” the
_moujiks_ would say. “Nothing ever pleases him; everything ain’t his
way, everything ain’t right!” And he, with all his might, tried to
justify these by-names. “Who? Is it Shasha you mean by low-down?” Roman
would ask with indignation. “Why, you can pave a pavement with blocks
the likes of him! He’s a fool, a play-actor, a born loafer,--and that’s
all there is to it! What’s he putting on airs for? What the devil is
he after?” But Shasha just looked on with a venomous smile, and never
let a word out. “Well, now, just take a look at him,--do!” Roman was
saying. “Just look what he’s trying to make out of himself!” But Shasha
only knit his eye-brows, making them turn up higher and higher; more
and more rapidly did he bite his nails, and by now was convinced even
himself that something dreadful was coming to a head within him. “Oh,
father!” he would say, as though unable to hold out. “Oh, but I would
like to tell you a certain thing!” Roman, despondent, with sagging
pouches under his eyes, would smile like a martyr: “Well, what sort of
a thing is it? Eh? Well, now, say it?” “Who, me?” Shasha would ask,
throwing a glance at him from underneath his eyebrows. “Yes, you!” “My
ashes when I’m laid in my grave shall know it all!” “But what is it
that they’ll know? Are you drunk, you good-for-nought?” “Drunk!” Shasha
would answer. “Drunk? I say nothing. I al-ways say nothing!” And,
almost weeping, Roman would again advance upon him, like a bear; would
again catch him by the head, and, bending it down, would drag him by
the hair in an excruciating transport.
From his twentieth year to his twenty-fifth, Shasha was almost never
beaten,--unless it were sort of casually, of course. But he made
up for this with something else. He sought other occasions for
self-torture,--and of occasions there were as many as he wanted.
He married--and it was a splendid match--the daughter of the manager
of a great estate which belonged to a nobleman; his bride was a
laughing, freckled girl, rather pretty. His marriage was celebrated
magnificently. The owners of the estate resided abroad; therefore
Shasha was able to go to the wedding ceremony in their carriage, and
the priest, out of respect to this carriage, felicitated him upon his
lawful marriage with especial eloquence and servility, although it
did seem to Shasha that he was being made fun of. The wedding feast,
too, was held in the owners’ house. Wine flowed like a river. Roman,
amid the general clamour of delight, started in to dance, shaking the
parquetry, the mirrors and the chandeliers. The owners’ flunky gave
an excellent imitation of a railroad train: he began with a rumbling
whistle through his fingers, then started in beating out, with his
feet, the slow and heavy clatter of a train constantly increasing
its momentum, and wound up with a riotous gallop. The sexton, having
imbibed too much cognac at the feast, died on his way home. The deacon,
having fallen down in his own yard into some half-liquid manure,
was almost trampled to death by his sheep. The nastiest of autumn
dawns, pallidly blue, looked in through the fog into the smoke-filled
seigniorial halls,--but the lights were still burning there; the
talking machine, now grown hoarse, was still gurgling out now the
_Lezguinka_, now _The Lancers_; the ushers, all moist from the heat
and their exertions, were still yelling as they supervised the dances;
while the eyes of the young ladies grew glazed from fatigue, and the
soles of their white slippers flew off as they danced.... But Shasha
did not spare even his own high celebration; having convinced himself
that he was infernally jealous of his young wife and a certain rather
young land-owner, he, feigning intoxication, suddenly stepped upon the
long train of her dress during a waltz, and tore it off with a ripping
sound. And after that he made a rush for a knife, trying to cut his
own throat, and, upon being disarmed, he sobbed wildly, tearing off
his starched collar and his white tie, calling upon the memory of his
departed mother.... As for his behaviour after the wedding,--Shasha did
everything that lay in his power to wreck his own domestic well-being,
and to hasten the ruin of Roman.
Having attained the zenith, Roman was inevitably bound, as is always
the case in Russia, to start rolling downward again, toward his
former lowly lair. Soon after the wedding it turned out that he was
entirely entangled, head and foot, in the toils of debt. He became
awesome. His grizzled beard turned white. His face came to resemble
a dirty-gray, milked-out udder. His eyes died out. His belly, grown
flabby, hung down. But Shasha rejoiced malignantly: “I told you so! I
told you so!”--and was finishing him off; he rioted, kicked up rows,
demanded a winding up of Roman’s affairs. And Roman, turning green
from wrath, would rise up against him like a bear, thirsting to maim
him,--but he no longer could; he no longer could! Crushed down by the
thought of approaching disgrace, of approaching poverty, he took to
drinking harder and harder. Having lost all shame, he got his mistress
(a cook and a soldier’s wife), into his own house. Shasha, not being
contented with his wife, lived with her too, just to spite him. As
for his wife, he used to exhaust her with his jealousy and his scares;
he used to stay away from the house and to send _moujiks_ with notes
to her, upon which notes would be written: “Forgive me in death; I
send my blessings to the children,”--and below there would be drawn a
grave with a cross. His wife was for a long while deluged with tears.
And then she got together with the teacher, and now gave Shasha every
reason to be saying “All r-r-right! Only my ashes when I’m laid in
my grave will know it all!” The upshot of it all was, that Roman was
laid low by a stroke of paralysis; that only the wind-mill beyond the
settlement was left out of all his wealth; that Shasha’s wife, taking
the children with her, fled to her father, who had gone to the city of
Skopin. The while Shasha, drinking deep of the delicious draught of his
misfortunes, treating everything and everybody with merciless criticism
and opprobrium, was absenting himself in the village, drinking every
bit as hard as his father, she pulled up stakes and disappeared.
Roman left the settlement for his mill beggared and barely alive.
Beggared and widowed, gnashing his teeth with rage, Shasha followed him
out of the village. What with toiling and moiling, even the mill would
not have been a bad thing to live by. But how was Shasha to be bothered
with it! How could you expect him to have the strength of getting up
on his feet after the awful finishing stroke fate had dealt him! Even
formerly he,--not understood, not appreciated, condemned to live in the
midst of enemies and ill-wishers,--had had but one recourse left him:
to say nothing, and again to say nothing, and to say nothing without
end. And now? Why, he could have piled up thousands from this mill
alone; there would have been no getting into it for the carts full of
grain surrounding it,--if he only had two or three hundred to get him a
new shaft and new mill-stones.... Yes, but where was a body to get that
money? It’s only into the hands of fools that good luck plays; but you
take an able, sensible man, and Fate will twist him into a ram’s horn.
Well, let it,--let it! “I say nothing,” Shasha would say, malignantly
rejoicing; “I al-ways say nothing!”
The broken trough,[14] familiar to him and appropriate to his former
status of a _moujik_, again appeared before Roman in place of palatial
chambers. Nor did the rub lie at all in the fact that, instead of
smoked sprats and Tsimliyan wine, a big slice of black bread and a
wooden vessel of water turned up on his table,--he would have eaten
such food with his former relish; the rub was in the torments of his
pride,--the most cruel of all human torments. In a big hut, leaning
all to one side, with an earthen floor and with holes in its corners,
atop the bare oven,--there did Roman sleep now. In the morning he would
crawl out beyond the threshold, with a tall staff in his hands. With
pig-weeds and high rank grass was the outside of the hut overgrown;
stinging nettles choked up the huge shell of the wide-open wind-mill.
All this stood out on the bare ridge of the plains, nigh the highway.
And Roman would go out to the edge of the road, and would place his
trembling, cold paws upon his staff. He was without a hat; the wind
tangled up his gray, shaggy locks, his gray beard,--the beard of a
_moujik_ Job. He was bare-footed, in short drawers of striped ticking,
in a long blouse filthy from cinders and the rubbish of the oven. His
legs were black and thin, his torso huge and emaciated. Those whom he
had regaled and lectured at one time now rode past him. And Roman--it
was not for nothing that Shasha had sprung from his loins--even
rejoiced that folks saw him in poverty, in disgrace, and he bowed to
the ground before them. And of evenings he would stand in the dark hut
before a little painted board hung up in a corner, and with heavy sighs
bowed before it still lower then he did before men, saying his prayers
now in a whisper, now loudly--warmly and grievously thanking God for
all that He had visited upon him, a miserable, stricken old man....
Shasha, now, enjoyed his humiliation in a gayer fashion, in low-down
inns, in low-down pot-houses, drinking away the last scanty remnants
of their former prosperity, and paying for his long tongue by being
beaten....
[14] The reference here is to a famous folk-tale,--best known in
Pushkin’s version, _The Little Gold Fish_. A fisherman, having caught
a little gold fish, is promised the fulfillment of all his wishes for
its release. All his demands, instigated by his wife, are granted,
beginning with a substitution of a new trough for a broken one, and
up to the attainment of rank and wealth; but finally the wife insists
upon the fulfillment of a wish so insolent that, upon his return from
interviewing his benefactress, the fisherman finds his wife sitting at
the same old broken trough, before his former humble hut. _Trans._
Then, from his twenty-fifth year on, his beatings became regular,
administered to him upon a previously designated day; and no longer was
he beaten the way his father used to beat him; he was beaten with heels
now, until he would lose consciousness.
The soldier’s wife remained faithful to the house of Roman. She
also moved to the mill. And when Roman died--oh, how proud (with a
malignantly joyous pride) Shasha was over this calamity,--she passed
into Shasha’s hands openly. But in the meanwhile her lawful husband
had come home from service. She was as needful to him as snow in
the summertime; but never the less he held it to be his most sacred
duty and his inalienable right to avenge his sullied honour. And he
ingeniously timed this revenge with the day of the folk-festival at
Limovo.
Every year, on the fifteenth of July, on a great holiday popularly
called the Kiriki, a fair is held in Limovo. Rain pours down in chill
torrents; one is reminded of the summer only by the rooks in the
fields, by the height and the density of the grains and the grasses,
and also by the sky-larks, that sing above them in the rain and are
blown aslant by the wind. But on the common at Limovo a little nomadic
city of tents is already springing up. The traders from the city have
arrived,--and it is an unaccustomed, strange sight to see in the
settlement these city people, in their long-skirted coats. In building
upon the common, and making it congested, they have changed the simple
village picture with their thronging, their big, strong carts laden
with goods; together with these goods they have brought the atmosphere
of an Asiatic bazaar; their samovars smoke, and their braziers emit the
fumes of frying mutton.... On the fifteenth, since the early morn, they
are already standing behind their counters; while the _moujiks_ with
their women-folk and little ones keep on streaming in, flocking from
all directions toward the village; they have dammed up the common so
that there isn’t room for a pin to fall. And above all this swarming,
babel, hubbub, and creak of carts, booms the festal pealing of bells,
summoning to mass.
To the sound of these bells, in full view of all the folks riding
through the dirty by-lane that leads past the wind-mill, Shasha
is standing nigh his threshold; his belt is loose, and, bending
downward, he holds a wooden vessel with water in one hand and with
the other hand, which is wet, he is rubbing his bearded, pock-marked
face, all puffy from sleep. How little does this thick-set _moujik_
in broken boots resemble the former Shasha! He appears calmer than
before, yet still more morose. His hair is fearfully thick even now,
but it is already shaggy, like a _moujik’s_. Having washed himself,
he tears his hair apart with a wooden comb, combs out his tangled
round beard, clears his throat hoarsely, and eyes his little mirror
askance,--eyes his broad, porous face, with the squashed nose. He
hasn’t forgotten that he looks like a hangman. And really, he does
look like one,--especially now. Having combed himself, he puts on a
blouse that he saves for gala occasions,--it is of red calico, and its
dye will come off on his body when he will begin to perspire. On week
days he becomes stultified from ennui, from over-sleeping, from the
fact that no one any longer pays any attention to him, or listens to
him; his boasting about his former state, his hints about that which
was supposed to lurk within his soul, and his foul tattling about his
runaway wife, have all long since palled upon everybody. But to-day
is a holiday; to-day people would look with curiosity upon him, the
erstwhile man of wealth now walking around on his uppers; to-day he
would be playing before an enormous crowd, to-day he would be fearfully
beaten,--beaten until he would lose conscience,--right before the eyes
of all this crowd.... And lo, he is already entering into his rôle;
he is already excited; his jaws are tightly clenched; his eye-brows
are distorted.... Having togged himself out, he puts on a rusty cap,
and, with a constrained step, resolutely and steadily sets out for the
village.
The strangest part of all is the piety with which he begins this
day. He goes directly toward the church, and, without looking at
anybody, but with all his being feeling upon him the eyes of everybody
surrounding him, he bows and makes the sign of the cross with all his
might. In the church he shoves his way to the very ambo, where at one
time he had had his own rightful place, and at that moment he is filled
to the marrow of his bones with contempt for the _moujiks_, reminding
them briefly and sternly, like one having authority, that it wouldn’t
be a bad idea for them to wake up and stand aside. And the _moujiks_
hastily comply. Glowering like a bull from underneath his eye-brows
at the officiating priests and the icons, he prays frenziedly and
austerely until the very end of the mass, haughtily demonstrating to
everybody that he is the only one who knows just the right time to
bow and to make the sign of the cross. Just as austerely does he walk
through the fair after the mass, proud of the fact that he had already
had a drink or two, that he could approach some trader in his tent as
an equal, shaking his hand and leaning over the counter, scooping up a
handful of polly-seeds and bothering the trader with his conversations
about the city, and about the state of trade.... He was also proud of
the fact that he could at times yell at the droves of wenches, pressing
one another against the counter, like sheep; or at some _moujik_ that,
with a bag under his arm,--there would be a young pig squirming around
in that bag,--has already tested all the penny whistles, all the mouth
organs, and could not, for the life of him, decide which one to take.
The people, pouring out of the church, have flooded the common; the
belfries are pealing forth their chimes; the beggars are snufflingly
clamorous; the live-stock--which is also bought and sold during the
Kiriki--bleats and hee-haws; and in the dense crowd, spitting out
polly-seed shells and slipping up in the mire between the tents, there
are already many intoxicated men. Shasha has already managed to drink
some more, and feels that the right time has come. Having had his
fill of talking with the traders, he goes with resolute steps toward
the carrousels. A countless multitude of people has gathered there,
watching, until their heads, too, begin to go ’round and ’round,
the wooden horses and their riders. Almost all of Limovo is there,
and, towering a head taller above everybody, is the soldier’s wife’s
husband. Shasha’s hands grow cold; his lips quiver; but he pretends not
to notice his foe. He approaches his acquaintances, pulls a bottle out
of his pocket, regales anybody who comes along, and drinks himself. He
talks a great deal, and loudly; he smokes, and laughs unnaturally and
malevolently; but all the while he is on the alert, waiting.... And
now, pretending to be hopelessly drunk, in a new cap with the store’s
price tag still showing white upon it, clean shaven, well-fed, with
sleepy blue eyes, the soldier advances straight upon Shasha, and
with all his momentum, as though without seeing him, strikes him in
the chest with his shoulder. Shasha, gritting his teeth, steps to one
side and continues his conversation. But the soldier comes back, again
passes him,--and once more hits him in the chest with his shoulder!
Whereupon, as though unable to bear such insolence, Shasha distorts his
face,--distorted enough without that,--and drawls out through his teeth:
“E-eh, young fellow! Watch out that I don’t shove you in my own way!”
And the soldier, instantly checking his headlong progress, suddenly
staggers backward and roars out furiously:
“What’s ’at?”
Amid the hubbub and rumble of the fair, amid the clanging of the
carrousel bells and the delighted, hypocritically-sympathizing shouts
of the oh’ing and parting crowd, the soldier stuns Shasha and draws his
blood with the very first blow. Shasha, trying to get his fingers into
the soldier’s mouth, true to an old usage of the _moujiks_, in order to
tear his lips, pounces upon him like a beast,--and instantly falls down
in the mire as if he were dead, underneath the iron-shod heels that
beat heavily upon his chest, upon his shaggy head, upon his nose, upon
his eyes,--already glazed, as in a ram with his throat cut. And all
the folks “oh” and “ah” and wonder: “There’s a queer, incomprehensible
fellow for you! Why, he knew, he knew beforehand how this matter would
end! Why did he go into it, then?” And truly,--why did he? And toward
what, in general, is he so insistently and undeviatingly heading,
as he devastates his ruined dwelling from day to day, endeavouring
to eradicate even to the last atom the very traces of that which
was created, in such an unprecedented manner, by the uncouth genius
of Roman, and ceaselessly thirsts after humiliations, disgrace, and
beatings?
Within the church enclosure, on the way to the door of the chapel,
there were some horrible specimens of humanity, standing ranged in two
files. In her yearning for self-torture; in her yearning-loathing of
the curbing bit, of toil, of her mode of existence; in her infatuation
with all sorts of hideous visages (both those of the tragedian and
of the scaramouche), in her dark, criminal desires, in her lack of
will power, her eternal disquiet, in her misfortunes, sorrows and
poverty,--Russia breeds these people from of old, and without end.
In Limovo alone some half-hundred of them gather. And what faces are
these, what heads! Just as if they had come out of the crude wood-cuts
made in Kiev, which depict both fiends and the striving anchorites of
the Mother-Desert. There are ancients with such withered heads, with
such scant locks of long gray hair, with such noses, as thin as thin
can be, and with the slits of their unseeing eyes so deeply fallen in,
that they seem to have lain for centuries in the caverns where they had
been walled up still in the time of the Kiev princes.... And they had
come out of there in half-rotted tatters; they had thrown upon their
remains their beggars’ wallets, fastening them cross-wise behind their
shoulders with odd bits of rope, and had set off on their wanderings
from one end of Russia to the other, through her forests, over her
steppes, in the winds of her steppes....
There are lantern-jawed blind men,--sturdy and squat _moujiks_, that
look just like pilloried convicts who have killed their scores of
souls,--these have solid, square heads, their faces seem to have been
hacked out by an axe, and their bare legs are swollen with livid blood
and are unnaturally short, even as their arms are. There are common
idiots, huge of shoulder and of leg. There are malignant dwarfs with
bird-like faces. There are wedge-headed hunch-backs, who seem to be
wearing pointed caps made out of horse-hair. There are monstrous
marasmi, squatting back on their crooked legs like terriers. There are
foreheads squeezed in at the sides and forming skulls that look like
the cap of an acorn. There are bony old women, without a vestige of
a nose,--for all the world like Death itself.... And all this mass,
prominently displaying its tatters, its sores and cankers, vociferate
in a Bulgarian, old-church sing-song, vociferates in rough basses,
and castrated altos, and indescribably depraved tenors, about Lazarus
and his sores, about Alexei the Man of God, who also, thirsting after
poverty and martyrdom, did forsake his father’s roof, “knowing not
whither he went....”
All these people, with their eye-brows writhing above their dark eyes,
with an intuition, an instinct, as keen as that of certain primary
sea creatures, instantly sense, surmise, the approach of a generous
hand; and by now they have already grabbed up a not unconsiderable
quantity of bread-crusts, of round cracknels, and of the _moujiks’_
coppers, grown green from contact with their execrable tobacco. After
mass, with a chanting still more vigorous and importunate, they spread
through the sea of the people, through the fair. The cripples, too,
move after them,--legless creatures, crawling on their bottoms and
on all fours, or lying in their eternal beds, in little carts. Here
is one of these little carts. In it is a little bit of a man, about
forty years of age, with his ears tied up in a woman’s kerchief; his
milky-blue eyes are calm, and he has stuck out of his old rags a thin
little hand,--violet-coloured, six-fingered. He is pulled about by
a bright-eyed little lad, with exceedingly pointed little ears, and
with fox-like down upon his head. All around him is a multitude of the
fraternity, all of them, for some reason or other, also tied up with
kerchiefs. And out of all this fraternity one _moujik_ with a large
white face stands out he is all broken up, all maimed; there is no
bottom to him at all, and he has on but one fusty bast shoe. Probably,
he, too, had been beaten-up somewheres as thoroughly as Shasha: his
entire kerchief, his ear, his neck and one shoulder are all in caked
blood. In his long bag there are pieces of raw meat, cooked bits of
mutton, bread crusts, and millet. His seat, now, is sewn up with a bit
of leather,--and twisting himself all up, he squirms and starts off, on
and on over the mire, extending in front of him his unshod foot, his
leg half-bare, in lime-covered scabs that are oozing with matter and
pasted over with strips of burdock.
“Look ye, ye faithful,--look and behold ye! This is reckoned, from of
old, as the disease of leprosy!” a freckled tatterdemallion beside him
is shouting in a rapid recitave, which is right rollicking....
And it is toward these people that Shasha is heading. He lives for some
two or three years more in his mill; he celebrates three or four fairs
more; he again enters into battle with the soldier three or four times:
kind-hearted folks bring him to by throwing water out of wooden tubs
upon him as he lies without breath or speech; without opening his eyes,
he drags his wet head over the ground, back and forth, and moans out
painfully through his clenched teeth.
“All r-r-right, good folks! I say nothing! I al-ways say nothing!”
Then he is brought to the mill; he lies for two weeks over the stove,
little by little getting better, and soon he is again traipsing around
the low-down inns; he brags, he lies, he curses out everybody and
everything, he smites his breast with his fists, threatening all his
foes,--but the soldier especially. But once the Kiriki turn out to
be unfortunate,--the soldier breaks Shasha’s arm with his heel, and
shatters the bridge of his nose, and knocks out his eyes. Lo, now
Shasha is both blind and a cripple. The soldier’s wife abandons him;
his mill, his land, is taken by good folks for his debts. And now
Shasha is safe in harbour; now he is a fully-privileged member of
the horde of beggars that stand in the church enclosure during the
Kiriki,--bone of its bone, flesh of its flesh. All in tatters, with a
round and thick beard, with his head clipped so closely that it looks
like a hedge-hog, he wildly distorts his eye-brows over his empty,
drawn-over sockets, and hoarsely bawls in time with the others the
beggars’ soul-wringing canticles. The chorus sombrely rends the air, to
the best of each member’s ability, and the voices of the leader stand
out resonantly, as they bawl out every syllable:
There once lived three sisters; there were once three Marys of Egypt,--
In three parts did they their wealth divide:
One part was set aside for the blind and the sick;
One part was set aside for prisons, for dark dungeons;
The third part was set aside for churches, for cathedrals....
Shasha’s harsh voice chimes in, soaring above that of the others:
The time will come
When the earth, the sky shall be shaken;
The least stones shall crumble,
The Lord’s thrones shall tumble,
The sun and the moon shall grow dim,--
And the Lord shall cause a river of fire to flow....
And blending, swelling, attaining a sinister and a triumphant force,
the entire choir becomes throatily, sonorously clamorous:
Mi-cha-el the Arch-angel,
Shall make all earthly creatures perish;
He shall blow his trumpets,
He shall say to all mankind:
Ye had your life and being,
Having your own free will;
Ye did shun church-going,--
At matins ye were sleeping,
At vespers ye were eating,--
Your paradise stands ready:
Fires never dying,
Tortures past all bearing!
_1913._
DEATH
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate!...
This is a tale of the death of a prophet,--peace to his ashes!--told
that the doubters may be convinced of the need for submission to The
Leader.
“We have never beheld Him, nor do we behold Him now,” say they. But the
sun is not at fault in that vision has been denied to the eyes of a
bat. The heart of man aye seeketh faith and protection. But who would
seek protection from an owl? It is better to dream of the shadow of the
phœnix, even though the phœnix may never have existed in this world.
But the protecting shadow of the Creator exists since the start of time.
The black-eared jackal slinks in the steps of a lion: the lion knoweth
where the prey is, and the black-eared one findeth sustenance in the
remnants of the lion’s repast. Thus did the Hebrews follow their
prophet out of the land of Egypt. Through the favour of God did he
fulfill the mighty deed he had set out to do.
In his infancy he had experienced the delight of slumber, of awakening,
of endearment. The daughter of the king had rocked him in her arms,
dark and rounded, smooth as a snake, but as warm as fruit in the sun.
Joyously and intently did her dark eyes gaze upon him, as they shone
above him; and impulsively did she kiss him, pressing him to her cold
breasts; she would pretend to strangle him, as is the wont of all
maidens. When recalling the like, many a one exclaims within his heart:
“Why was I not a youth then!” But there is a time for all things.
The Pharaoh did bestow upon him a ring with a seal of authority, and
did clothe him in the garments of a courtier. When the freshness
of the morning is supplanted by the warmth of the sun; when, in
the marketplace, the fennel is sprinkled to draw the scent of the
purchaser; when there is a smell of burning peat floating from the
chimneys, and a smell of fog from the direction of the great river,
upon which towering white sails slowly float by, two abreast, the while
a thin-bearded buffalo, as dove-coloured and rough-skinned as a swine,
dully contemplates them, as he arises from the slime near the bank,--at
such a time the prophet, conscious of his powers and alertness, did
ride about in his chariot, overlooking the labours in the fields, and
had the right to lash the lazy ones over the head with his scourge,
to yell at them until he became red in the face, so that he might
afterwards, in the sweet consciousness of a duty fulfilled, repose in
the light shade of the palms, upon a dry dike among the canals.
Having attained manhood, he spent ten years in wedlock. He shared his
couch with a woman rich and well-born; he took his pleasure of her
in the night,--in the daytime his pleasure lay in his orders and his
cares, in drink and food, in the buoyancy of his body, that liked
equally well both the dry sultriness of an inner court, emanating from
its heated slabs of stone, and the cool breath of a breeze throughout
the house, blowing from the river and from the blossoming gardens of
its island. He took pride in his children, in his household, in the
respect shown to him of all men. And he was happy, even as many others
are. But an unseen hand was making taut the bow of his life; it was
testing the bow-string and the wood, preparing to loose the arrows of
truth. And ten years more did he pass in the striving of his mind and
his heart, in the silent acquirement of the wisdom of Egypt; for the
wall is preceded by the foundation, and speech, by thought. And he
hath said of the heathen priests: “Ye men of folly! Slaves, tormented
by heat, may be forgiven for raising their arms toward the sun, and
supplicating it as God. But the sun is not God. None may behold God. He
is beyond our comprehension. He may only be sensed. There is but one
God. He hath no offspring.” Whereupon the Pharaoh was possessed by a
fury, even as the _gour_, the wild-ass, is overtaken by his madness.
“Who is he that dares to live and to believe without my sanction?” he
exclaimed. “He hath no precious rings upon his fingers, nor is there
a necklace about his neck. He is but my slave. Therefore shall I set
up a persecution of him and of all his tribe. I shall flash like the
lightning, I shall deafen like thunder.” But the prophet gathered his
strength together, even as a man that standeth before the steep ascent
of a hill, and went upon his way, fearless and assured.
Musk is brayed, aloes are put in the fire, that they might give forth
their perfume. A diver would never pluck a single pearl-bearing
shell, were he to fear holding in his breath as he plunges into the
sea. And when the time had come to lift up the heaviest stone for
the structure, to throw it up on the knee, to clasp it as firmly as
possible and to carry it, the prophet did lift it, so strenuously
that he felt a pain in his groin. And for forty years did he carry it
in the desert, ever at a strain, ever enduring fatigue, and joyous
in the consciousness that he was working the will of God, and not of
the Pharaoh. And, having carried it to the required spot, to the spot
indicated by the Builder, he did cast down the stone, so that it lay
even and flush; and he did straighten up, and did wipe the sweat from
his face, with a trembling arm that had grown weak and was aching to
the very shoulder.
And the time came for him to die.
He had attained to a knowledge of the veritable God. He had become
convinced that it was madness to represent Him in the form of idols
made of stone, of clay, and of metal. God had put upon him the task of
delivering the Hebrew nation out of bondage and from the temptation of
idolatry,--and he had rent asunder the silken nets of this world, he
had risen up and had conquered in the wrestling. God had put him to the
proof,--for forty years to be a chieftain for the refractory and the
weak, to command and instruct in a desert that held nothing but hunger
and sultriness. And for forty years he had been as mighty as a king; as
tireless as a day-labourer burthened with a multitude of children; as
needy as a shepherd; brawny and tall as a wrestler, strong and tawny
as a lion. His body, girt only about the loins with an animal pelt,
had become black from the sun and the wind, while his feet had become
rough and callous, like those of a camel. In his old age he had become
awesome to men, and none of them deemed him mortal. But his hour did
approach at last.
O ye who hearken! In The Book it is written: “All are conceived in
the lap of truth,--it is the parents that make Hebrews, Christians,
Fire-Worshippers out of the children.” But a sage is like a blind man:
he feeleth every stone in his path, choosing the path that is the right
one; he raiseth his face upward, yearning for the sole source of light
and warmth. He considereth life, and he considereth death, lessening
his fear before the latter. And there have been not a few of those who
have received the chalice of the inevitable with equanimity; there have
also been those who have said: “It is even as sweet as the chalice of
life.” However, it is but the fool that yearneth for the chalice of
death during life,--such a one is loathsome to behold. But he also is
a fool that giveth no thought to the inevitable, that forgetteth that
all mortals ought to have but one Beloved, Who possesseth clemency and
demandeth submission. O ye who hearken! Hearken attentively, as man
ought always to hearken to man; and, as ye hearken, reflect. For, as
we speak, we are but mixing the good words of others with the passable
ones of our own, dealing with that which is foreign to none of us; and
the purpose of our speech is consolation.
In The Book it is written: “I that am God am nearer to man than the
artery that sendeth him slumber.” God is compassionate. He knoweth what
is good for us and what is bad. He did create us mortal, yet we think
of resisting death. Vain striving! Have ye heard at what cost Iscander
the Two-Horned attained the Land of Darkness? And yet, he did not
succeed in quaffing of the water of eternal life, of which he had been
told: It is to be found in the Land of Darkness. The Angel of the Winds
is not perturbed by the fact that his wings may extinguish the lamp of
some poor widow. The Messenger of Death heeds neither the prayer of
a shepherd nor the outcry of a sovereign. Bide a while: earth shall
devour the brains within our skulls, that are now filled with projects.
Death is no Mogul, and thou art no Atabek-Abou-Bekr: thou canst not
ransom thyself with gold from Death. Therefore, seek ye consolation.
The prophet did oppose the will of God in the desert, and heavy as
his punishment for his disobedience: God forbade him to enter the
Promised Land. The prophet did wax wroth in spirit that he was mortal,
and that death was already nigh him, for he was old. Spake he: “I
shall do single combat with it.” At noonday, passing through the camp
of the Hebrews in the mountains of Moab, he did look, and beheld not
his shadow upon the white stones nigh him. And he was seized with a
fit of trembling from fear, and his head was confused, like that of
a man that is fever-stricken. Thereupon he did go toward his tent,
with the steps of a wounded beast advancing upon its adversary. And
he girt a sword about him, and did command food to be brought to him.
And he did eat much thereof, full greedily, till that he was sated.
And he did feel aches and nausea, as though from poison, as though
from the fruit plucked from the tree of hell; and he did wax green in
the face, and was bathed in sweat, even as a woman in travail; and
he did lie down upon the ground, crying out wildly: “Behold, I am
dying,--bare your swords and arise in my defense!” Thus did he cry out
upon the first day. On the second, his aches did wax greater, and he
began to implore, moaning and wrathful: “Summon a physician for me!”
But when the physician had revealed his impotence, and the third day
had come, the prophet uttered low: “Oh, have mercy upon me! Death is
unconquerable!” And he did grow weaker, and fell into a slumber, and
did sleep through all the day, and his aches did depart from him. And,
having come to, he beheld that it was already night and that he was
alone, and again did he feel the delight of living, and the sorrow of
parting with life. Whereupon two dark angels did enter in to him, that
they might console and prepare him.
One sat down at the head of the couch; the other, at the feet of the
prophet. “Speak!” said they. But he kept silent and made no reply to
them, for he was in deep thought. He gazed out into the night, beyond
the raised side of the tent, sensing their presence with dread, for
truth had not yet entered within all his veins. And it was so quiet in
the tent and the desert that all the three could hear the rustling of
the hot wind as it swept by in the darkness. And the stars were flaming
sombrely, as on all sultry nights.
“God is compassionate to all His creatures,” spake the angel who was
sitting at the head of the prophet’s couch.
“Yet here is a man in torment; he was dying, and is dying now,” spake
the angel sitting at the prophet’s feet.
They wanted to test the prophet, but he understood this. And he made
answer, in his thoughts:
“This was not death, but an illness, a chastisement. Is it not better
to think thus? For he that hath tasted of death cannot speak about it.
We know not what it is.”
“The sun is the source of life,” spake the angel sitting at the head of
the couch.
“But then, it is also as deadly as the horned viper,” spake the angel
seated opposite him.
They wanted to test the prophet, but he understood this. And he made
answer, in his thoughts:
“We do not know God’s purpose. But He is benign, and His purpose also
is benign. Is it not better to think thus? Man ought to dedicate his
every moment to life, recalling death only that he may weigh all his
deeds upon its scales, and that he may meet the inevitable hour without
fear. How would he that trades know that he is dealing fairly with him
that buys, how would he know that he is giving him that which is his
due, if there were no scales? How would a man spend his day, if his
heart were never to be forsaken by indignation over the thought that
the sun would sink at its wonted hour, and if he were to be possessed
with the desire of preventing it? He would be insane and futile.”
“The slumber of the dead is sweet,” spake the angel sitting at the head
of the couch.
“But, just now, a man has died in the camp of the Hebrews,--happy,
young, beloved,” spake the angel seated opposite him. “Just hearken:
there is the rustle of the hot wind; the stars flame sombrely; and the
hyænas whine and whimper in their evil joy, hurriedly digging open
the grave, sniffing its stench and anticipating the devouring of his
entrails. But the sorrow of the dead man’s near ones is more dreadful
than the grave itself.”
They wanted to test the prophet, and they did succeed in wounding his
heart with the last. But, in his thoughts, he spake to them:
“I am recalling every moment of my life; every moment of my sweet
childhood, my joyous youth, my laborious manhood--and I lament
them. Ye speak of the grave,--and my hands grow chill from fear.
I beseech ye,--console me not, for consolation depriveth one of
courage. I beseech ye,--remind me not of the flesh, for it will turn
to corruption. Is it not better to think otherwise? Even his halting
place, in a vale sheltered from the winds, where he may have passed but
a day, a man will abandon with regret; but it is his duty to go on, if
to go on be necessary. Speaking with dread of the grave, are we not
speaking in the words of the ancients, that knew the flesh, but knew
not God and the immortality of souls? Dreadful is the majesty of the
deeds of God. Do we not mistake this dread for the dread of death? Say
ye to yourselves more often: ‘The hour of death is not as dreadful as
we deem it. Else, neither the universe nor man could exist.’”
“He is a sage,” spake the angel sitting at the head of the couch.
“He was refractory and arrogant,” spake the angel seated opposite the
first. “He dreamed of wrestling with God,--and now he shall be punished
anew: never a mortal shall point to his grave in the mountains of Moab.
And thereby shall his glory be diminished.”
They wanted to test the prophet, but he understood, and answered them
unwaveringly:
“Goodly is the glory of those that merit glory. But that which has
earned diminution, must be diminished. For even the most glorious of
men would rejoice only in the true measure of glory.”
Thereupon the angels, struck by the wisdom of the prophet, did exclaim,
as they arose from their places:
“Truly, God Himself shall console thee! We can but bow down before
thee.”
They were dark, and they were standing in a dark tent. But their eyes
shone, and the prophet beheld the starry radiance of their eyes. They
retreated into the night, like shades, barely stooping at the doorway
of the tent. As for the prophet, he remained alone in the midst of the
night and the desert, lying upon the earth. And when the sun had arisen
from behind the craggy mountains, and it grew light and hot within
the tent, the prophet, feeling a great longing to rest amid coolness,
did forsake his couch, and did bend his steps toward a vale in the
mountains, seeking shade. But there was none even in the vale by now.
However, in the inmost recesses of one mountain he came upon a cavern.
And behold, two captives were hacking away with sharp picks at the
entrance into this cavern. The stones at the entrance were as white as
the snow upon mountain-tops, and were hot from the sun. And the black
hair of the copper-faced captives, as well as the cloths about their
loins, were wet with perspiration. But two fresh fruits, two apples,
were lying upon a stone near the cavern, while in the cavern itself
it was dark and cool. And the labourers, lowering their picks, spake,
saying:
“We greet thee, lord and chieftain, in the name of God, the Merciful,
the Compassionate. Lo, we have finished our labour.”
And the prophet asked them:
“Who are ye, and what were ye doing?”
To which they did answer:
“We were preparing a treasure-chamber for the king. Enter, look about
thee, and rest from thy journey and the heat. Refresh thy lips with the
fruits, and tell us which is the sweeter and riper one.”
And, having entered the cavern, the prophet did sit down upon a stone
couch nigh one of its walls, and did feel the shade and the coolness.
And, having bitten of the first fruit, he spake:
“Verily, this is life itself: I am drinking water from a spring, I
scent the pleasant odours of the flowers of the fields, and I feel the
taste of aspen honey. I am vigorous, and I am strong.”
And, having bitten of the second, he exclaimed:
“Verily, there is nothing to compare with this: I am drinking the wines
of paradise, sealed with a seal of musk, blended with the water of a
well-spring that quencheth the thirst of those who draw nigh to The
Eternal. I scent the fragrance of a celestial garden, and feel the
taste of the honey of its flowers,--nor hath this honey any bitter
tang. And lo, a blessed drowsiness befogs my head. Awake me not, O ye
captives, till that my time be fulfilled.”
And the captives,--they were angels, the captives of God,--quietly went
on, as his speech died away:
“Till that the sun,” uttered the first, reading the _Sura_, the
Canticle, of the Great Tidings--“till that the sun be bent, till that
the stars rain down from the sky, and the mountains remove from their
place, and the she-camels be abandoned, and the seas do boil up....”
“I am S’in,” uttered the second, reading the _Sura_ for the Departing.
“Glory be to Him that reigneth over all the universe! Ye all shall
return to Him!...”
And, hearing their whispers, but without catching their words, the
prophet did lie down upon the couch, and did repose in the sleep of
death, knowing not thereof. And the angels did wall up the entrance to
the sepulchral cavern, and did depart to the Master Who had sent them.
And the prophet was joined to his people, having had his fill of days,
and without perceiving the end thereof. Never a man, even to this day,
has yet contemplated his tomb in the mountains of Moab. But his wisdom
is imprinted in the memory of all peoples, and is recorded in Heaven in
_Ghilliun_, the Book Eternal.
The Sheikh Saadi,--may his name be blessed!--the Sheikh Saadi,--many of
his pearls have we strung side by side with our own, upon the string
of a good style!--hath told us of a man who had tasted the bliss of
drawing nigh The Beloved. This man had been lost in contemplation; but
when he had come back to the everyday world, he was asked with a kindly
mockery: “But where are the flowers from the garden of your reverie?”
And the man made answer: “I desired to bring back the whole skirt of
my coat full of roses for my friends; but, when I had drawn nigh the
rose-bush, I was so intoxicated by its fragrance that I did release it
out of my hands.”
Let him that can connect the story of the poet with our own.
Peace and joy be the portion of all that dwell upon this earth!
_1911._
THE GENTLEMAN FROM SAN FRANCISCO
_Alas, alas that great city Babylon,
that mighty city!_
THE APOCALYPSE
The gentleman from San Francisco--neither at Naples nor at Capri had
any one remembered his name--was going to the Old World for two whole
years, with wife and daughter, solely for the sake of pleasure.
He was firmly convinced that he was fully entitled to rest, to
pleasure, to prolonged and comfortable travel, and to not a little
else besides. For such a conviction he had his reasons,--that, in the
first place, he was rich, and, in the second, that he was only now
beginning to live, despite his eight and fifty years. Until now he had
not lived, but had merely existed,--not at all badly, it is true, but,
never the less, putting all his hopes on the future. He had laboured
with never a pause for rest,--the coolies, whom he had imported by
whole thousands, well knew what this meant!--and finally he saw that
much had already been accomplished, that he had almost come abreast of
those whom he had at one time set out to emulate, and he decided to
enjoy breathing space. It was a custom among the class of people to
which he belonged to commence their enjoyment of life with a journey
to Europe, to India, to Egypt. He, too, proposed to do the same. Of
course he desired, first of all, to reward himself for his years of
toil; however, he rejoiced on account of his wife and daughter as well.
His wife had never been distinguished for any special sensitiveness
to new impressions,--but then, all elderly American women are fervid
travellers. As for his daughter,--a girl no longer in her first youth,
and somewhat sickly,--travel was a downright necessity for her: to
say nothing of the benefit to her health, were there no fortuitous
encounters during travels? It is while travelling that one may at times
sit at table with a _milliardaire_, or scrutinize frescoes by his side.
The itinerary worked out by the gentleman from San Francisco was an
extensive one. In December and January he hoped to enjoy the sun of
Southern Italy, the monuments of antiquity, the _tarantella_, the
serenades of strolling singers, and that which men of his age relish
with the utmost _finesse_: the love of little, youthful Neapolitaines,
even though it be given not entirely without ulterior motives; he
contemplated spending the Carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, whither
the very pick of society gravitates at that time,--that very society
upon which all the benefits of civilization depend: not merely the
cut of tuxedos, but, as well, the stability of thrones, and the
declaration of wars, and the prosperity of hotels,--Monte Carlo,
where some give themselves up with passion to automobile and sail
races; others to roulette; a third group to that which it is the
custom to call flirting; a fourth, to trap-shooting, in which the
pigeons, released from their cotes, soar up most gracefully above
emerald-green swards, against the background of a sea that is the
colour of forget-me-nots,--only, in the same minute, to strike against
the ground as little, crumpled clods of white.... The beginning of
March he wanted to devote to Florence; about the time of the Passion of
Our Lord to arrive at Rome, in order to hear the _Miserere_ there; his
plans also embraced Venice, and Paris, and bull-fighting in Seville,
and sea-bathing in the British Islands, and Athens, and Constantinople,
and Palestine, and Egypt, and even Japan,--of course, be it understood,
already on the return trip.... And everything went very well at first.
It was the end of November; almost as far as Gibraltar it was necessary
to navigate now through an icy murk, now amidst a blizzard of wet
snow; but the ship sailed in all safety and even without rolling; the
passengers the steamer was carrying proved to be many, and all of them
people of note; the ship--the famous _Atlantida_--resembled the most
expensive of European hotels, with all conveniences: an all-night
bar, Turkish baths, a newspaper of its own,--and life upon it flowed
in accordance with a most complicated system of regulations: people
got up early, to the sounds of bugles, stridently resounding through
the corridors at that dark hour when day was so slowly and inimically
dawning over the grayish-green desert of waters, ponderously turbulent
in the mist. Putting on their flannel pyjamas, the passengers drank
coffee, chocolate, cocoa; then they got into marble baths, did their
exercises, inducing an appetite and a sense of well-being, performed
their toilet for the day, and went to breakfast. Until eleven one was
supposed to promenade the decks vigorously, inhaling the fresh coolness
of the ocean, or to play at shuffle-board and other games for the sake
of arousing the appetite anew, and, at eleven, to seek sustenance in
bouillon and sandwiches; having refreshed themselves, the passengers
perused their newspaper with gusto and calmly awaited lunch, a meal
still more nourishing and varied than the breakfast. The next two hours
were sacred to repose,--the decks were then encumbered with _chaises
longues_, upon which the travellers reclined, covered up with plaids,
contemplating the cloud-flecked sky and the foaming hummocks flashing
by over the side, or else pleasantly dozing off; at five o’clock,
refreshed and put in good spirits, they were drenched with strong
fragrant tea, served with cookies; at seven they were apprized by bugle
signals of a dinner of nine courses.... And thereupon the gentleman
from San Francisco, in an access of animal spirits, would hurry to his
resplendent _cabine de luxe_, to dress.
In the evening the tiers of the _Atlantida_ gaped through the dusk
as though they were fiery, countless eyes, and a great multitude of
servants worked with especial feverishness in the kitchens, sculleries,
and wine vaults. The ocean, heaving on the other side of the walls, was
awesome; but none gave it a thought, firmly believing it under the sway
of the captain,--a red-haired, man of monstrous bulk and ponderousness,
always seeming sleepy, resembling, in his uniform frock-coat, with its
golden chevrons, an enormous idol; it was only very rarely that he left
his mysterious quarters to appear in public. A siren on the forecastle
howled every minute in hellish sullenness and whined in frenzied
malice, but not many of the diners heard the siren,--it was drowned
by the strains of a splendid stringed orchestra, playing exquisitely
and ceaselessly in the two-tiered hall, decorated with marble, its
floors covered with velvet rugs; festively flooded with the lights of
crystal lustres and gilded _girandoles_, filled to overflowing with
diamond-bedecked ladies in _décoletté_ and men in tuxedos, graceful
waiters and deferent _maitres d’hôtel_,--among whom one, who took
orders for wines exclusively, even walked about with a chain around his
neck, like a lord mayor. A tuxedo and perfect linen made the gentleman
from San Francisco appear very much younger. Spare, not tall, clumsily
but strongly built, groomed until he shone and moderately animated, he
sat in the aureate-pearly refulgence of this palatial room, at a table
with a bottle of amber Johannesberg, with countless goblets, small and
large, of the thinnest glass, with a curly bouquet of curly hyacinths.
There was something of the Mongol about his yellowish face with clipped
silvery moustache; his large teeth gleamed with gold fillings; his
stalwart, bald head glistened like old ivory. Rich, yet in keeping
with her years, was the dress of his wife,--a big woman, expansive and
calm; elaborate, yet light and diaphanous, with an innocent frankness,
was that of his daughter,--tall, slender, with magnificent hair,
exquisitely dressed, with breath aromatic from violet cachous and with
the tenderest of tiny, rosy pimples about her lips and between her
shoulder blades, just the least bit powdered.... The dinner lasted for
two whole hours, while after dinner there was dancing in the ball room,
during which the men,--the gentleman from San Francisco among their
number, of course,--with their feet cocked up, determined, upon the
basis of the latest political and stock-exchange news, the destinies
of nations, smoking Habana cigars and drinking _liqueurs_ until they
were crimson in the face, seated in the bar, where the waiters were
negroes in red jackets, the whites of their eyes resembling hard boiled
eggs with the shell off. The ocean, with a dull roar, was moiling in
black mountains on the other side of the wall; the snow-gale whistled
mightily through the sodden rigging; the whole steamer quivered as it
mastered both the gale and the mountains, sundering to either side,
as though with a plough, their shifting masses, that again and again
boiled up and reared high, with tails of foam; the siren, stifled by
the fog, was moaning with a deathly anguish; the lookouts up in their
crow’s-nest froze from the cold and grew dazed from straining their
attention beyond their strength. Like to the grim and sultry depths of
the infernal regions, like to their ultimate, their ninth circle, was
the womb of the steamer, below the water line,--that womb where dully
gurgled the gigantic furnaces, devouring with their incandescent maws
mountains of hard coal, cast into them by men stripped to the waist,
purple from the flames, and with smarting, filthy sweat pouring over
them; whereas here, in the bar, men threw their legs over the arms
of their chairs with never a care, sipping cognac and _liqueurs_,
and were wafted among clouds of spicy smoke as they indulged in
well-turned conversation; in the ball room everything was radiant
with light and warmth and joy; the dancing couples were now awhirl
in waltzes, now twisting in the tango,--and the music insistently,
in some delectably-shameless melancholy, was suppliant always of the
one, always of the same thing.... There was an ambassador among this
brilliant throng,--a lean, modest little old man; there was a great man
of riches,--clean-shaven, lanky, of indeterminate years, and with the
appearance of a prelate, in his dress-coat of an old-fashioned cut;
there was a well-known Spanish writer; there was a world-celebrated
beauty, already just the very least trifle faded and of an unenviable
morality; there was an exquisite couple in love with each other, whom
all watched with curiosity and whose happiness was unconcealed: _he_
danced only with _her_; sang--and with great ability--only to _her_
accompaniment; and everything they did was carried out so charmingly,
that the captain was the only one who knew that this pair was hired
by Lloyd’s to play at love for a good figure, and that they had been
sailing for a long time, now on one ship, now on another.
At Gibraltar everybody was gladdened by the sun,--it seemed to be early
spring; a new passenger, whose person aroused the general interest,
made his appearance on board the _Atlantida_,--he was the hereditary
prince of a certain Asiatic kingdom, travelling incognito; a little man
who somehow seemed to be all made of wood, even though he was alert
in his movements; broad of face, with narrow eyes, in gold-rimmed
spectacles; a trifle unpleasant through the fact that his skin showed
through his coarse black moustache like that of a cadaver; on the
whole, however, he was charming, unpretentious, and modest. On the
Mediterranean Sea there was a whiff of winter again; the billows ran
high, and were as multi-coloured as the tail of a peacock; they had
snowy-white crests, lashed up--although the sun was sparkling brightly
and the sky was perfectly clear--by a _tramontana_, a chill northern
wind from beyond the mountains, that was joyously and madly rushing
to meet the ship.... Then, on the second day, the sky began to pale,
the horizon became covered with mist, land was nearing; Ischia, Capri
appeared; through the binoculars Naples--lumps of sugar strewn at the
foot of some dove-coloured mass--could be seen; while over it and this
dove-coloured thing were visible the ridges of distant mountains,
vaguely glimmering with the dead whiteness of snows. There was a great
number of people on deck; many of the ladies and gentlemen had already
put on short, light fur coats, with the fur outside; Chinese boys,
never contradictory and never speaking above a whisper, bow-legged
striplings with pitch-black queues reaching to their heels and with
eye-lashes as long and thick as those of young girls, were already
dragging, little by little, sundry plaids, canes, and portmanteaux and
grips of alligator hide toward the companion-ways.... The daughter of
the gentleman from San Francisco was standing beside the prince, who
had been, through a fortuitous circumstance, presented to her yesterday
evening, and she pretended to be looking intently into the distance, in
a direction he was pointing out to her, telling, explaining something
or other to her, hurriedly and quietly. On account of his height he
seemed a boy by contrast with others,--he was queer and not at all
prepossessing of person, with his spectacles, his derby, his English
great coat, while his scanty moustache looked just as if it were of
horse-hair, and the swarthy, thin skin seemed to be drawn tightly over
his face, and somehow had the appearance of being lacquered,--but
the young girl was listening to him, without understanding, in
her agitation, what he was saying; her heart was thumping from an
incomprehensible rapture before his presence and from pride that he was
speaking with her, and not some other; everything about him that was
different from others,--his lean hands, his clear skin, under which
flowed the ancient blood of kings, even his altogether unpretentious,
yet somehow distinctively neat, European dress,--everything held a
secret, inexplicable charm, evoked a feeling of amorousness. As for
the gentleman from San Francisco himself,--he, in a high silk hat,
in gray spats over patent-leather shoes, kept on glancing at the
famous beauty, who was standing beside him,--a tall blonde of striking
figure, her eyes were painted in the latest Parisian fashion; she was
holding a diminutive, hunched-up, mangy lap dog on a silver chain and
was chattering to it without cease. And the daughter, in some vague
embarrassment, tried not to notice her father.
Like all Americans of means, he was very generous on his travels, and,
like all of them, believed in the full sincerity and good-will of
those who brought him food and drink with such solicitude, who served
him from morn till night, forestalling his least wish; of those who
guarded his cleanliness and rest, lugged his things around, summoned
porters for him, delivered his trunks to hotels. Thus had it been
everywhere, thus had it been on the ship, and thus was it to be in
Naples as well. Naples grew, and drew nearer; the musicians, the brass
of their instruments flashing, had already clustered upon the deck, and
suddenly deafened everybody with the triumphant strains of a march;
the gigantic captain, in his full dress uniform, appeared upon his
stage, and, like a condescending heathen god, waved his hand amiably
to the passengers,--and to the gentleman from San Francisco it seemed
that it was for him alone that the march so beloved by proud America
was thundering, that it was he whom the captain was felicitating
upon a safe arrival. And every other passenger felt similarly about
himself--or herself. And when the _Atlantida_ did finally enter the
harbour, had heaved to at the wharf with her many-tiered mass, black
with people, and the gang-planks clattered down,--what a multitude of
porters and their helpers in caps with gold braid, what a multitude
of different _commissionaires_, whistling gamins, and strapping
ragamuffins with packets of coloured postal cards in their hands, made
a rush toward the gentleman from San Francisco, with offers of their
services! And he smiled, with a kindly contemptuousness, at these
ragamuffins, as he went toward the automobile of precisely that hotel
where there was a possibility of the prince’s stopping as well, and
drawled through his teeth, now in English, now in Italian:
“Go away![*] _Via!_”
[*] English in the original. The same applies to the other phrases in
this story marked with asterisks. _Trans._
Life at Naples at once assumed its wonted, ordered current: in the
early morning, breakfast in the sombre dining room with its damp
draught from windows opening on some sort of a stony little garden;
the sky was usually overcast, holding out but little promise, and
there was the usual crowd of guides at the door of the vestibule;
then came the first smiles of a warm, rosy sun; there was, from the
high hanging balcony, a view of Vesuvius, enveloped to its foot by
radiant morning mists, and of silver-and-pearl eddies on the surface
of the Bay, and of the delicate contour of Capri against the horizon;
one could see tiny burros, harnessed in twos to little carts, running
down below over the quay, sticky with mire, and detachments of
diminutive soldiers, marching off to somewhere or other to lively and
exhilarating music. Next came the procession to the waiting automobile
and the slow progress through populous, narrow, and damp corridors
of streets, between tall, many-windowed houses; the inspection of
lifelessly-clean museums, evenly and pleasantly, yet bleakly, lit,
seemingly illuminated by snow; or of cool churches, smelling of wax,
which everywhere and always contain the same things: a majestic portal,
screened by a heavy curtain of leather, and inside,--silence, empty
vastness, unobtrusive little flames of a seven-branched candle-stick
glowing redly in the distant depths, on an altar bedecked with laces;
a solitary old woman among the dark wooden pews; slippery tombstones
underfoot; and somebody’s _Descent from the Cross_,--inevitably a
celebrated one. At one o’clock there was luncheon upon the mountain
of San Martino, where, toward noon, gathered not a few people of the
very first quality, and where the daughter of the gentleman from San
Francisco had once almost fainted away for joy, because she thought she
saw the prince sitting in the hall, although she already knew through
the newspapers that he had left for a temporary stay at Rome. At five
came tea at the hotel, in the showy salon, so cosy with its rugs and
flaming fireplaces; and after that it was already time to get ready for
dinner,--and once more came the mighty, compelling reverberation of the
gong through all the stories; once more the processions in Indian file
of ladies in _décoletté_, rustling in their silks upon the staircases
and reflected in all the mirrors; once more the palatial dining room,
widely and hospitably opened, and the red jackets of the musicians upon
their platform, and the black cluster of waiters about the _maitre
d’hôtel_, who, with a skill out of the ordinary, was ladling some sort
of a thick, roseate soup into plates.... The dinners, as everywhere
else, were the crowning glory of each day; the guests dressed for them
as for a rout, and these dinners were so abundant in edibles, and
wines, and mineral waters, and sweets, and fruits, that toward eleven
o’clock at night the chambermaids were distributing through all the
corridors rubber bags with hot water to warm sundry stomachs.
However, the December of that year proved to be not altogether a
successful one for Naples; the porters grew confused when one talked
with them of the weather, and merely shrugged their shoulders guiltily,
muttering that they could not recall such another year,--although it
was not the first year that they had been forced to mutter this, and to
urge in extenuation that “something terrible is happening everywhere”;
there were unheard of storms and torrents of rain on the Riviera; there
was snow in Athens; Etna was also all snowed over and was aglow of
nights; tourists were fleeing from Palermo in all directions, escaping
from the cold. The morning sun deceived the Neapolitans every day that
winter: toward noon the sky became gray and a fine rain began falling,
but growing heavier and colder all the time; at such times the palms
near the entrance of the hotel glistened as though they were of tin,
the town seemed especially dirty and cramped, the museums exceedingly
alike; the cigar stumps of the corpulent cabmen, whose rubber-coats
flapped in the wind like wings, seemed to have an insufferable stench,
while the energetic snapping of their whips over their scrawny-necked
nags was patently false; the footgear of the _signori_ sweeping the
rails of the tramways seemed horrible; the women, splashing through the
mud, their black-haired heads bared to the rain, appeared hideously
short-legged; as for the dampness, and the stench of putrid fish
from the sea foaming at the quay,--they were a matter of course. The
gentleman and the lady from San Francisco began quarreling in the
morning; their daughter either walked about pale, with a headache, or,
coming to life again, went into raptures over everything, and was, at
such times both charming and beautiful: beautiful were those tender and
complex emotions which had been awakened within her by meeting that
homely man through whose veins flowed uncommon blood; for, after all
is said and done, perhaps it is of no real importance just what it is,
precisely, that awakens a maiden’s soul,--whether it be money, or fame,
or illustrious ancestry....
Everybody affirmed that things were entirely different in Sorrento,
in Capri,--there it was both warmer and sunnier, and the lemons were
in blossom, and the customs were more honest, and the wine was more
natural. And so the family from San Francisco determined to set out
with all its trunks to Capri, and, after seeing it all, after treading
the stones where the palace of Tiberius had once stood, after visiting
the faery-like caverns of the Azure Grotto, and hearing the bag-pipers
of Abruzzi, who for a whole month preceding Christmas wander over the
island and sing the praises of the Virgin Mary, they meant to settle in
Sorrento.
On the day of departure,--a most memorable one for the family from San
Francisco!--there was no sun from the early morning. A heavy fog hid
Vesuvius to the very base; this gray fog spread low over the leaden
heaving of the sea that was lost to the eye at a distance of a half a
mile. Capri was entirely invisible,--as though there had never been
such a thing in the world. And the little steamer that set out for it
was so tossed from side to side that the family from San Francisco
was laid prostrate upon the divans in the sorry general cabin of
this tub, their feet wrapped up in plaids, and their eyes closed from
nausea. Mrs. suffered,--so she thought,--more than anybody; she was
overcome by sea-sickness several times; it seemed to her that she was
dying, whereas the stewardess, who always ran up to her with a small
basin,--she had been, for many years, day in and day out, rolling on
these waves, in freezing weather and in torrid, and yet was still
tireless and kind to everybody,--merely laughed. Miss was dreadfully
pale and held a slice of lemon between her teeth; now she could not
have been cheered even by the hope of a chance encounter with the
prince at Sorrento, where he intended to be about Christmas. Mr.,
who was lying on his back, in roomy overcoat and large cap, never
unlocked his jaws all the way over; his face had grown darker and
his moustache whiter, and his head ached dreadfully: during the last
days, thanks to the bad weather, he had been drinking too heavily of
evenings, and had too much admired the “living pictures” in dives of
_recherché_ libertinage. But the rain kept on lashing against the
jarring windows, the water from them running down on the divans; the
wind, howling, bent the masts, and at times, aided by the onslaught
of a wave, careened the little steamer entirely to one side, and then
something in the hold would roll with a rumble. During the stops, at
Castellamare, at Sorrento, things were a trifle more bearable, but
even then the rocking was fearful,--the shore, with all its cliffs,
gardens, _pigin_[15], its pink and white hotels and hazy mountains clad
in curly greenery, swayed up and down as if on a swing; boats bumped up
against the sides of the ship; sailors and steerage passengers were
yelling vehemently; somewhere, as though it had been crushed, a baby
was wailing and smothering; a raw wind was blowing in at the door; and,
from a swaying boat with a flag of the Hotel Royal, a lisping gamin was
screaming, luring travellers: “Kgoya-al! Hôtel Kgoya-al!...” And the
gentleman from San Francisco, feeling that he was an old man,--which
was but proper,--was already thinking with sadness and melancholy
of all these Royals, Splendids, Excelsiors, and of these greedy,
insignificant mannikins, reeking of garlic, that are called Italians.
Once, having opened his eyes and raised himself from the divan, he saw,
underneath the craggy steep of the shore, a cluster of stone hovels,
mouldy through and through, stuck one on top of another near the very
edge of the water, near boats, near all sorts of rags, tins, and
brown nets,--hovels so miserable, that, at the recollection that this
was that very Italy he had come hither to enjoy, he felt despair....
Finally, at twilight, the dark mass of the island began to draw near,
seemingly bored through and through by little red lights near its base;
the wind became softer, warmer, more fragrant; over the abating waves,
as opalescent as black oil, golden pythons flowed from the lanterns on
the wharf.... Then came the sudden rumble of the anchor, and it fell
with a splash into the water; the ferocious yells of the boatmen, vying
with one another, floated in from all quarters,--and at once the heart
grew lighter, the lights in the general cabin shone more brightly, a
desire arose to eat, to drink, to smoke, to be stirring.... Ten minutes
later the family from San Francisco had descended into a large boat;
within fifteen minutes it had set foot upon the stones of the wharf,
and had then got into a bright little railway car and to its buzzing
started the ascent of the slope, amid the stakes of the vineyards,
half-crumbled stone enclosures, and wet, gnarled orange trees, some
of them under coverings of straw,--trees with thick, glossy foliage,
and aglimmer with the orange fruits; all these objects were sliding
downward, past the open windows of the little car, toward the base of
the mountain.... Sweetly smells the earth of Italy after rain, and her
every island has its own, its especial aroma!
[15] Pino-groves. _Trans._
The island of Capri was damp and dark on this evening. But now it came
into life for an instant; lights sprang up here and there, as always
on the steamer’s arrival. At the top of the mountain, where stood the
station of the _funicular_, there was another throng of those whose
duty lay in receiving fittingly the gentleman from San Francisco. There
were other arrivals also, but they merited no attention,--several
Russians, who had taken up their abode in Capri,--absent-minded because
of their bookish meditations, unkempt, bearded, spectacled, the collars
of their old drap overcoats turned up; and a group of long-legged,
long-necked, round-headed German youths in Tyrolean costumes, with
canvas knapsacks slung over their shoulders,--these latter stood in
need of nobody’s services, feeling themselves at home everywhere, and
were not at all generous in their expenditures. The gentleman from San
Francisco, on the other hand, who was calmly keeping aloof from both
the one group and the other, was immediately noticed. He and his ladies
were bustlingly assisted to get out, some men running ahead of him
to show him the way: he was surrounded anew by urchins, and by those
robust Caprian wives who carry on their heads the portmanteaux and
trunks of respectable travellers. The wooden pattens of these women
clattered over a _piazetta_, that seemed to belong to some opera,
an electric globe swaying above it in the damp wind; the rabble of
urchins burst into sharp, bird-like whistles,--and, as though on a
stage, the gentleman from San Francisco proceeded in their midst toward
some mediæval arch, underneath houses that had become welded into one
mass, beyond which a little echoing street,--with the tuft of a palm
above flat roofs on its left, and with blue stars in the black sky
overhead,--led slopingly to the grand entrance of the hotel, glittering
ahead.... And again it seemed that it was in honour of the guests from
San Francisco that this damp little town of stone on a craggy little
island of the Mediterranean Sea had come to life, that it was they who
had made so happy and affable the proprietor of the hotel, that it was
they only who had been waited for by the Chinese gong, that now began
wailing the summons to dinner through all the stories of the hotel, the
instant they had set foot in the vestibule.
The proprietor, a young man of haughty elegance, who had met them with
a polite and exquisite bow, for a minute dumbfounded the gentleman
from San Francisco: having glanced at him, the gentleman from San
Francisco suddenly recalled that just the night before, among the rest
of the confusion of images that had beset him in his sleep, he had seen
precisely this gentleman,--just like him, down to the least detail: in
the same sort of frock with rounded skirts, and with the same pomaded
and painstakingly combed head. Startled, he was almost taken aback; but
since, from long, long before, there was not even a mustard seed of any
sort of so-called mystical emotions left in his soul, his astonishment
was dimmed the same instant, passing through a corridor of the hotel,
he spoke jestingly to his wife and daughter of this strange coincidence
of dream and reality. And only his daughter glanced at him with alarm
at that moment: her heart suddenly contracted from sadness, from a
feeling of their loneliness upon this foreign, dark island,--a feeling
so strong that she almost burst into tears. But still she said nothing
of her feelings to her father,--as always.
An exalted personage--Rais XVII,--who had been visiting Capri, had
just taken his departure, and the guests from San Francisco were given
the same apartments that he had occupied. To them was assigned the
handsomest and most expert chambermaid, a Belgian, whose waist was
slenderly and firmly corseted, and who wore a little starched cap that
looked like a pronged crown; also, the stateliest and most dignified
of flunkies, a fiery-eyed Sicilian, swarthy as coal; and the nimblest
of bell-boys, the short and stout Luigi,--a fellow who was very fond
of a joke, and who had changed many places in his time. And a minute
later there was a slight tap at the door of the room of the gentleman
from San Francisco,--the French _maitre d’hôtel_ had come to find
out if the newly arrived guests would dine, and, in the event of an
answer in the affirmative,--of which, however, there was no doubt,--to
inform them that the _carte de jour_ consisted of crawfish, roast
beef, asparagus, pheasants, and so forth. The floor was still rocking
under the gentleman from San Francisco,--so badly had the atrocious
little Italian steamer tossed him about,--but, without hurrying, with
his own hands, although somewhat clumsily from being unaccustomed
to such things, he shut a window that had banged upon the entrance
of the _maitre d’hôtel_ and had let in the odours of the distant
kitchen and of the wet flowers in the garden, and with a leisurely
precision replied that they would dine, that their table must be
placed at a distance from the door, at the farthest end of the dining
room, that they would drink local wine and champagne,--moderately dry
and only slightly chilled. The _maitre d’hôtel concurred_ in every
word of his, in intonations most varied, having, however, but one
significance,--that there was never a doubt, nor could there possibly
be any, about the correctness of the wishes of the gentleman from San
Francisco, and that everything would be carried out punctiliously. In
conclusion he inclined his head, and asked deferentially:
“Will that be all, sir?”
And, having received a long-drawn-out “Yes”[*] in answer, he added that
the _tarantella_ would be danced in the vestibule to-day,--the dancers
would be Carmella and Giuseppe, known to all Italy, and to “the entire
world of tourists.”
“I have seen her on post cards,” said the gentleman from San Francisco
in a voice devoid of all expression. “About this Giuseppe, now,--is he
her husband?”
“Her cousin, sir,” answered the _maitre d’hôtel_.
And, after a little wait, after considering something, the gentleman
from San Francisco dismissed him with a nod.
And then he began his preparations anew, as though for a wedding
ceremony: he turned on all the electric lights, filling all the mirrors
with reflections of light and glitter, of furniture and opened trunks;
he began shaving and washing, ringing the bell every minute, while
other impatient rings from his wife’s and daughter’s rooms floated
through the entire corridor and interrupted his. And Luigi, in his red
apron, was rushing headlong to answer the bell, with an ease peculiar
to many stout men, the while he made grimaces of horror that made the
chambermaids, running by with glazed porcelain pails in their hands,
laugh till they cried. Having knocked on the door with his knuckles, he
asked with an assumed timidity, with a respectfulness that verged on
idiocy:
“_Ha sonato, signore?_ (Did you ring, sir?)”
And from the other side of the door came an unhurried, grating voice,
insultingly polite:
“Yes, come in....”[*]
What were the thoughts, what were the emotions of the gentleman from
San Francisco on this evening, that was of such portent to him? He
felt nothing exceptional,--for the trouble in this world is just that
everything is apparently all too simple! And even if he had sensed
within his soul that something was impending, he would, never the
less, have thought that this thing would not occur for some time to
come,--in any case, not immediately. Besides that, like everyone who
has gone through the rocking of a ship, he wanted very much to eat,
was anticipating with enjoyment the first spoonful of soup, the first
mouthful of wine, and performed the usual routine of dressing even with
a certain degree of exhilaration that left no time for reflections.
Having shaved and washed himself, having inserted several artificial
teeth properly, he, standing before a mirror, wetted the remnants
of his thick, pearly-gray hair and plastered it down around his
swarthy-yellow skull, with brushes set in silver; drew a suit of
cream-coloured silk underwear over his strong old body, beginning to
be full at the waist from excesses in food, and put on silk socks and
dancing slippers on his shrivelled, splayed feet; sitting down, he
put in order his black trousers, drawn high by black silk braces, as
well as his snowy-white shirt, with the bosom bulging out; put the
links through the glossy cuffs, and began the torturous pursuit of the
collar-button underneath the stiffly starched collar. The floor was
still swaying beneath him, the tips of his fingers pained him greatly,
the collar-button at times nipped hard the flabby skin in the hollow
under his Adam’s-apple, but he was persistent and finally, his eyes
glittering from the exertion, his face all livid from the collar that
was choking his throat,--a collar far too tight,--he did contrive
to accomplish his task, and sat down in exhaustion in front of the
pier glass, reflected in it from head to foot, a reflection that was
repeated in all the other mirrors.
“Oh, this is dreadful!” he muttered, letting his strong bald head
drop, and without trying to understand, without reflecting, just what,
precisely, was dreadful; then, with an accustomed and attentive glance,
he inspected his stubby fingers, with gouty hardenings at the joints,
and his convex nails of an almond colour, repeating, with conviction;
“This is dreadful....”
But at this point the second gong, sonorously, as in some heathen
temple, reverberated through the entire house. And, getting up quickly
from his seat, the gentleman from San Francisco drew his collar still
tighter with the necktie and his stomach by means of the low-cut vest,
put on his tuxedo, drew out his cuffs, scrutinized himself once more
in the mirror.... This Carmella, swarthy, with eyes which she knew
well how to use most effectively, resembling a mulatto woman, clad
in a dress of many colours, with the colour of orange predominant,
must dance exceptionally, he reflected. And, stepping briskly out of
his room and walking over the carpet to the next one,--his wife’s--he
asked, loudly, if they would be ready soon?
“In five minutes, Dad!” a girl’s voice, ringing and by now gay,
responded from the other side of the door.
“Very well,” said the gentleman from San Francisco.
And, leisurely, he walked down red-carpeted corridors and staircases,
descending in search of the reading room. The servants he met stood
aside and hugged the wall to let him pass, but he kept on his way
as though he had never even noticed them. An old woman who was late
for dinner, already stooping, with milky hair but _décolettée_ in a
light-gray gown of silk, was hurrying with all her might, but drolly,
in a hen-like manner, and he easily out-stripped her. Near the glass
doors of the dining room, where all the guests had already assembled,
and were beginning their dinner, he stopped before a little table
piled with boxes of cigars and Egyptian cigarettes, took a large
Manila cigar, and tossed three _lire_ upon the little table; upon the
closed veranda he glanced, in passing, through the open window: out of
the darkness he felt a breath of the balmy air upon him, thought he
saw the tip of an ancient palm, that had flung wide across the stars
its fronds, which seemed gigantic, heard the distant, even noise of
the sea floating in to him.... In the reading room,--snug, quiet,
and illuminated only above the tables, some gray-haired German was
standing, rustling the newspapers,--unkempt, resembling Ibsen, in round
silver spectacles and with the astonished eyes of a madman. Having
scrutinized him coldly, the gentleman from San Francisco sat down in
a deep leather chair in a corner near a green-shaded lamp, put on his
_pince nez_, twitching his head because his collar was choking him,
and hid himself completely behind the newspaper sheet. He rapidly
ran through the headlines of certain items, read a few lines about
the never-ceasing Balkan war, with an accustomed gesture turned the
newspaper over,--when suddenly the lines flared up before him with a
glassy glare, his neck became taut, his eyes bulged out, the _pince
nez_ flew off his nose.... He lunged forward, tried to swallow some
air,--and gasped wildly; his lower jaw sank, lighting up his entire
mouth with the reflection of the gold fillings; his head dropped back
on his shoulder and began to sway; the bosom of his shirt bulged out
like a basket,--and his whole body, squirming, his heels catching the
carpet, slid downward to the floor, desperately struggling with someone.
Had the German not been in the reading room, the personnel of the hotel
would have managed, quickly and adroitly, to hush up this dreadful
occurrence; instantly, through back passages, seizing him by the head
and feet, they would have rushed off the gentleman from San Francisco
as far away as possible,--and never a soul among the guests would have
found out what he had been up to. But the German had dashed out of
the reading room with a scream,--he had aroused the entire house, the
entire dining room. And many jumped up from their meal, overturning
their chairs; many, paling, ran toward the reading room. “What--what
has happened?” was heard in all languages,--and no one gave a sensible
answer, no one comprehended anything, since even up to now men are
amazed most of all by death, and will not, under any circumstances,
believe in it. The proprietor dashed from one guest to another,
trying to detain those who were running away and to pacify them with
hasty assurances that this was just a trifling occurrence, a slight
fainting spell of a certain gentleman from San Francisco.... But no one
listened to him; many had seen the waiters and bell-boys tearing off
the necktie, the vest, and the rumpled tuxedo off this gentleman, and
even, for some reason or other, the dancing slippers off his splayed
feet, clad in black silk. But he was still struggling. He was still
obdurately wrestling with death; he absolutely refused to yield to her,
who had so unexpectedly and churlishly fallen upon him. His head was
swaying, he rattled hoarsely, like one with his throat cut; his eyes
had rolled up, like a drunkard’s.... When he was hurriedly carried
in and laid upon a bed in room number forty-three,--the smallest,
the poorest, the dampest and the coldest, situated at the end of the
bottom corridor,--his daughter ran in, with her hair down, in a little
dressing gown that had flown open, her bosom, raised up by the corset,
uncovered; then his wife, big and ponderous, already dressed for
dinner,--her mouth rounded in terror.... But by now he had ceased even
to bob his head.
A quarter of an hour later everything in the hotel had assumed some
semblance of order. But the evening was irreparably spoiled. Some
guests, returning to the dining room, finished their dinner, but in
silence, with aggrieved countenances, while the proprietor would
approach now one group, now another, shrugging his shoulders in polite
yet impotent irritation, feeling himself guilty without guilt, assuring
everybody that he understood very well “how unpleasant all this was,”
and pledging his word that he would take “all measures within his
power” to remove this unpleasantness. It was necessary to call off the
_tarantella_, all unnecessary electric lights were switched off, the
majority of the guests withdrew into the bar, and it became so quiet
that one heard distinctly the ticking of the clock in the vestibule,
whose sole occupant was a parrot, dully muttering something, fussing
in his cage before going to sleep, contriving to doze off at last with
one claw ludicrously stretched up to the upper perch.... The gentleman
from San Francisco was lying upon a cheap iron bed, under coarse woolen
blankets, upon which the dull light of a single bulb beat down from
the ceiling. An ice-bag hung down to his moist and cold forehead.
The livid face, already dead, was gradually growing cold; the hoarse
rattling, expelled from the open mouth, illuminated by the reflection
of gold, was growing fainter. This was no longer the gentleman from
San Francisco rattling,--he no longer existed,--but some other.
His wife, his daughter, the doctor and the servants were standing,
gazing at him dully. Suddenly, that which they awaited and feared was
consummated,--the rattling ceased abruptly. And slowly, slowly, before
the eyes of all, a pallor flowed over the face of the man who had died,
and his features seemed to grow finer, to become irradiated, with a
beauty which had been rightfully his in the long ago....
The proprietor entered. “_Già è morto_,” said the doctor to him
in a whisper. The proprietor, his face dispassionate, shrugged his
shoulders. The wife, down whose cheeks the tears were quietly coursing,
walked up to him and timidly said that the deceased ought now to be
carried to his own room.
“Oh, no, madam,” hastily, correctly, but now without any amiability and
not in English, but in French, retorted the proprietor, who was not
at all interested now in such trifling sums as the arrivals from San
Francisco might leave in his coffers. “That is absolutely impossible,
madam,” said he, and added in explanation that he valued the apartments
occupied by them very much; that, were he to carry out her wishes,
everybody in Capri would know it and the tourists would shun those
apartments.
The young lady, who had been gazing at him strangely, sat down on
a chair, and, stuffing her mouth with a handkerchief, burst into
sobs. The wife dried her tears immediately, her face flaring up. She
adopted a louder tone, making demands in her own language, and still
incredulous of the fact that all respect for them had been completely
lost. The proprietor, with a polite dignity, cut her short: if madam
was not pleased with the customs of the hotel, he would not venture to
detain her; and he firmly announced that the body must be gotten away
this very day, at dawn, that the police had already been notified, and
one of the police officers would be here very soon and would carry
out all the necessary formalities. Was it possible to secure even a
common coffin in Capri, madam asks? Regrettably, no,--it was beyond
possibility, and no one would be able to make one in time. It would be
necessary to have recourse to something else.... For instance,--English
soda water came in large and long boxes.... It was possible to knock
the partitions out of such a box....
At night the whole hotel slept. The window in room number forty-three
was opened,--it gave out upon a corner of the garden where, near a high
stone wall with broken glass upon its crest, a phthisic banana tree
was growing; the electric light was switched off; the key was turned
in the door, and everybody went away. The dead man remained in the
darkness,--the blue stars looked down upon him from the sky, a cricket
with a pensive insouciance began his song in the wall.... In the dimly
lit corridor two chambermaids were seated on a window sill, at some
darning. Luigi, in slippers, entered with a pile of clothing in his
arms.
“_Pronto?_ (All ready?)” he asked solicitously, in a ringing whisper,
indicating with his eyes the fearsome door at the end of the corridor.
And, he waved his hand airily in that direction.... “_Partenza!_” he
called out in a whisper, as though he were speeding a train, the usual
phrase used in Italian depots at the departure of trains,--and the
chambermaids, choking with silent laughter, let their heads sink on
each other’s shoulder.
Thereupon, hopping softly, he ran up to the very door, gave it the
merest tap, and, inclining his head to one side, in a low voice, asked
with the utmost deference:
“_Ha sonato signore?_”
And, squeezing his throat, thrusting out his lower jaw, in a grating
voice, slowly and sadly, he answered his own question, as though from
the other side of the door:
“Yes, come in....”[*]
And at dawn, when it had become light beyond the window of room
number forty-three, and a humid wind had begun to rustle the tattered
leaves of the banana tree; when the blue sky of morning had lifted
and spread out over the Island of Capri, and the pure and clear-cut
summit of Monte Solaro had grown aureate against the sun that was
rising beyond the distant blue mountains of Italy; when the stone
masons, who were repairing the tourists’ paths on the island, had set
out to work,--a long box that had formerly been used for soda water
was brought to room number forty-three. Soon it became very heavy,
and was pressing hard against the knees of the junior porter, who
bore it off briskly on a one horse cab over the white paved highway
that was sinuously winding to and fro over the slopes of Capri, among
the stone walls and the vineyards, ever downwards, to the very sea.
The cabby, a puny little man with reddened eyes, in an old, wretched
jacket with short sleeves and in trodden-down shoes, was undergoing
the after effects of drink,--he had diced the whole night through in
a _trattoria_, and kept on lashing his sturdy little horse, tricked
out in the Sicilian fashion, with all sorts of little bells livelily
jingling upon the bridle with its tufts of coloured wool, and upon the
brass points of its high pad; with a yard-long feather stuck in its
cropped forelock,--a feather that shook as the horse ran. The cabby
kept silent; he was oppressed by his shiftlessness, his vices,--by the
fact that he had, that night, lost to the last mite all those coppers
with which his pockets had been filled. But the morning was fresh; in
air such as this, with the sea all around, under the morning sky, the
after effects of drink quickly evaporate, and a man is soon restored
to a carefree mood, and the cabby was furthermore consoled by that
unexpected sum, the opportunity to earn which had been granted him by
some gentleman from San Francisco, whose lifeless head was bobbing from
side to side in the box at his back.... The little steamer,--a beetle
lying far down below, against the tender and vivid deep-blue with
which the Bay of Naples is so densely and highly flooded,--was already
blowing its final whistles, that reverberated loudly all over the
island, whose every bend, every ridge, every stone, was as distinctly
visible from every point as if there were absolutely no such thing as
atmosphere. Near the wharf the junior porter was joined by the senior,
who was speeding with the daughter and wife of the gentleman from San
Francisco in his automobile,--they were pale, with eyes hollow from
tears and a sleepless night. And ten minutes later the little steamer
was again chugging through the water, again running toward Sorrento,
toward Castellamare, carrying away from Capri, for all time, the family
from San Francisco.... And again peace and quiet resumed their reign
upon the island.
Upon this island, two thousand years ago, had lived a man who had
become completely enmeshed in his cruel and foul deeds, who had for
some reason seized the power over millions of people in his hands,
and who, having himself lost his head at the senselessness of this
power and from the fear of death by assassination, lurking in ambush
behind every corner, had committed cruelties beyond all measure,--and
humankind has remembered him for all time; and those who, in their
collusion, just as incomprehensively and, in substance, just as cruelly
as he, reign at present in power over this world, gather from all over
the earth to gaze upon the ruins of that stone villa where he had dwelt
on one of the steepest ascents of the island. On this splendid morning
all those who had come to Capri for just this purpose were still
sleeping in the hotels, although, toward their entrances, were already
being led little mouse-gray burros with red saddles, upon which, after
awaking and sating themselves with food, Americans and Germans, men and
women, young and old, would again clamber up ponderously this day, and
after whom would again run the old Caprian beggar women, with sticks in
their gnarled hands,--would run over stony paths, and always up-hill,
up to the very summit of Mount Tiberio. Set at rest by the fact that
the dead old man from San Francisco, who had likewise been planning
to go with them but instead of that had only frightened them with a
_memento mori_, had already been shipped off to Naples, the travellers
slept on heavily, and the quiet of the island was still undisturbed,
the shops in the city were still shut. The market place on the
_piazetta_ alone was carrying on traffic,--in fish and greens; and the
people there were all simple folk, among whom, without anything to do,
as always, was standing Lorenzo the boatman, famous all over Italy,--a
tall old man, a care-free rake and a handsome fellow, who had served
more than once as a model to many artists; he had brought, and had
already sold for a song, two lobsters that he had caught that night and
which were already rustling in the apron of the cook of that very hotel
where the family from San Francisco had passed the night, and now he
could afford to stand in calm idleness even until the evening, looking
about him with a kingly bearing (a little trick of his), consciously
picturesque with his tatters, clay pipe, and a red woolen _beretta_
drooping over one ear.
And, along the precipices of Monte Solaro, upon the ancient Phœnician
road, hewn out of the crags, down its stone steps, two mountaineers
of Abruzzi were descending from Anacapri. One had bag-pipes under his
leathern mantle,--a large bag made from the skin of a she-goat, with
two pipes; the other had something in the nature of wooden Pan’s-reeds.
They went on,--and all the land, joyous, splendid, sun-flooded, spread
out below them: the stony humps of the island, which was lying almost
in its entirety at their feet; and that faery-like deep-blue in which
it was aswim; and the radiant morning vapours over the sea, toward the
east, under the blinding sun, that was now beating down hotly, rising
ever higher and higher; and, still in their morning vagueness, the
mistily azure massive outlines of Italy, of her mountains near and
far, whose beauty human speech is impotent to express.... Half way
down the pipers slackened their pace: over the path, within a grotto
in the craggy side of Monte Solaro, all illumed by the sun, all bathed
in its warmth and glow, in snowy-white raiment of gypsum, and in a
royal crown, golden-rusty from inclement weathers, stood the Mother of
God, meek and gracious, her orbs lifted up to heaven, to the eternal
and happy abodes of Her thrice-blessed Son. The pipers bared their
heads, put their reeds to their lips,--and there poured forth their
naïve and humbly-jubilant praises to the sun, to the morning, to Her,
the Immaculate Intercessor for all those who suffer in this evil and
beautiful world, and to Him Who had been born of Her womb in a cavern
at Bethlehem, in a poor shepherd’s shelter in the distant land of
Judæa....
Meanwhile, the body of the dead old man from San Francisco was
returning to its home, to a grave on the shores of the New World.
Having gone through many humiliations, through much human neglect,
having wandered for a week from one port warehouse to another, it had
finally gotten once more on board that same famous ship upon which
but so recently, with so much deference, he had been borne to the Old
World. But now he was already being concealed from the quick,--he was
lowered in his tarred coffin deep into the black hold. And once more
the ship was sailing on and on upon its long sea voyage. In the night
time it sailed past the Island of Capri, and, to one watching them from
the island, there was something sad about the ship’s lights, slowly
disappearing over the dark sea. But, upon the ship itself, in its
brilliant _salons_ resplendent with lustres and marbles, there was a
crowded ball that night, as usual.
There was a ball on the second night also, and on the third,--again in
the midst of a raging snow storm, whirling over an ocean booming like
a funeral mass, and heaving in mountains trapped out in mourning by
the silver spindrift. The innumerable fiery eyes of the ship that was
retreating into the night and the snow gale were barely visible for
the snow to the Devil watching from the crags of Gibraltar, from the
stony gateway of two worlds. The Devil was as enormous as a cliff, but
the ship was still more enormous than he; many-tiered, many-funnelled,
created by the pride of the New Man with an ancient heart. The snow
gale smote upon its rigging and wide-throated funnels, hoary from
the snow, but the ship was steadfast, firm, majestic--and awesome.
Upon its topmost deck were reared, in their solitude among the snowy
whirlwinds, those snug, dimly-lit chambers where, plunged in a light
and uneasy slumber, was its ponderous guide who resembled a heathen
idol, reigning over the entire ship. He heard the pained howlings
and the ferocious squealings of the storm-stifled siren, but soothed
himself by the proximity of that which, in the final summing up, was
incomprehensible even to himself, that which was on the other side of
his wall: that large cabin, which had the appearance of being armoured,
and was being constantly filled by the mysterious rumbling, quivering,
and crisp sputtering of blue flames, flaring up and exploding around
the pale-faced operator with a metal half-hoop upon his head. In
the very depths, in the under-water womb of the _Atlantida_, were
the thirty-thousand-pound masses of boilers and of all sorts of
other machinery--dully glittering with steel, hissing out stream and
exuding oil and boiling water,--of that kitchen, made red hot from
infernal furnaces underneath, wherein was brewing the motion of the
ship. Forces, fearful in their concentration, were bubbling, were
being transmitted to its very keel, into an endlessly long catacomb,
into a tunnel, illuminated by electricity, wherein slowly, with an
inexorability that was crushing to the human soul, was revolving within
its oily couch the gigantean shaft, exactly like a living monster
that had stretched itself out in this tunnel. Meanwhile, amidship
the _Atlantida_, its warm and luxurious cabins, its dining halls and
ball rooms, poured forth radiance and joyousness, were humming with
the voices of a well-dressed gathering, were sweetly odorous with
fresh flowers, and the strains of the stringed orchestra were their
song. And again excruciatingly writhed and at intervals came together
among this throng, among this glitter of lights, silks, diamonds
and bared feminine shoulders, the supple pair of hired lovers: the
sinfully-modest, very pretty young woman, with eye-lashes cast down,
with a chaste coiffure, and the well-built young man, with black hair
that seemed to be pasted on, with his face pale from powder, shod in
the most elegant of patent-leather foot-gear, clad in a tight-fitting
dress coat with long tails,--an Adonis who resembled a huge leech. And
none knew that, already for a long time, this pair had grown wearied of
languishing dissemblingly in their blissful torment to the sounds of
the shamelessly-sad music,--nor that far, far below, at the bottom of
the black hold, stood a tarred coffin, in close proximity to the sombre
and sultry depths of the ship that was toilsomely overpowering the
darkness, the ocean, the snow storm....
_1915._
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page 24, 245: Misprinted single quote corrected to double quote.
Page 162: Extraneous closing quote removed after “in pleasing
Lushka....”; and page 238, after “brought to an end quick....”
Page 185: Comma added after “I’ve done for him”, before the closing
quote.
Page 197: The quote beginning with “I can’t catch her nohow” is missing
a closing quote mark. This has been left as-is.
Typos corrected: “submissve” to “submissive” (page 87); “Bittnerness”
to “Bitterness” (page 171); “trouser’s-pocket” to “trousers’-pocket”
(page 180); “pronounciation” to “pronunciation” (page 178); “acquiver”
to “aquiver” (page 222); “there is was just” to “there it was just”
(page 234); “that it, eh, So” to “that it, eh, so” (page 235);
“tremblng” to “trembling” (page 257); “the grave itelf” to “the grave
itself” (page 275).
Original spelling of “acrost”, “faery”, and “piazetta” retained.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been left unchanged.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAMS OF CHANG AND OTHER STORIES ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
