as i carelessly ran my eye over the newspaper, it fell upon the name of konováloff, and as it arrested my attention, i read the following:

"last night, alexánder ivánovitch konováloff, petty burgher of the town of muróm, aged forty, hanged himself to the ventilator of the stove in the general ward of the local prison. the suicide was arrested in pskóff, for vagrancy, and was forwarded by stages, under police escort, to his native place. the prison authorities state that he was always a quiet, reticent, thoughtful man. the prison doctor decided that melancholia must be regarded as the cause which incited konováloff to suicide." i read this brief announcement in brevier type—it is the custom to print notes about the destruction of insignificant people in small type—i read it through, and reflected that i might be able to throw a somewhat clearer light upon the cause which had led that meditative man to go out of life, because i had known him, and, at one time, had lived with him. indeed, i had not even the right to remain silent concerning him:—he was a splendid young fellow, and such as he are not often met with on life's highway.

i was eighteen years old when i first met konováloff. at that time, i was working in a bakery, as assistant baker. the baker was a soldier from "the musical division," a terrible vódka-drinker, who frequently spoiled the[pg96] dough, and when he was drunk, was fond of playing tunes on his lips, and strumming out various pieces with his fingers on anything that came handy. when the proprietor of the bakery reprimanded him for having spoiled his wares, or for being behindhand with them in the morning, he flew into a rage, and cursed the proprietor, cursed him mercilessly, always calling his attention, at the same time, to his musical talent.

"the dough has stood too long!"—he shouted, bristling up his long red mustache, and making a noise with his thick lips, which were always moist, for some reason or other.—"the crust is burned! the bread is raw! akh, the devil take you, you cock-eyed spectre! was i born into the world to do this work? curse you and your work—i'm a musician! do you understand? if the viola-player got drunk, i used to play the viola: if the hautboy man was under arrest, i blew the hautboy; if the cornet-à-piston has fallen ill, who can take his place? sutchkóff, i! glad to do my best, your well-born![1] tim-tar-ram-ta-ddi! but you're a p-peasant, katzáp![2] pay me my wages and discharge me!"

[1] the regulation reply of the soldier to an officer's greeting or request—translator.

[2] a nickname used by little russians for great russians—meaning, in general "a soldier";—as the great russians call little russian khokhól or "top-knot"—translator.

and the proprietor, a corpulent, bloated man, with small squinting eyes which were buried in fat, and a feminine face, stamped about the floor with his short, fat legs, his huge body swaying heavily the while, and roared, in a squealing voice:

"ruiner! destroyer! christ-seller of a judas! oh lord, why hast thou chastised me with such a man!" spreading his short fingers wide apart, he raised his hands[pg 97] to heaven, and all of a sudden roared loudly, in an ear-splitting voice:—

"and what if i hand you over to the police for your mutiny?"

"hand the servitor of the tzar and the fatherland over to the police?" bellowed the soldier, and started to administer a drubbing to the proprietor. the latter beat a retreat, spitting to one side in disgust, snorting wrathfully and cursing. this was all that he could do—it was summer, a season when it is extremely difficult to find a good baker in the vólga river-town.

such scenes were of almost every day occurrence. the soldier drank, spoiled the dough and played various marches and waltzes or "numbers," as he expressed it; the proprietor gnashed his teeth, and the result of it all was, that i was obliged to work for two, which was not very logical, and was very fatiguing.

and i was highly delighted when, one day, the following scene took place between the proprietor and the soldier. "well, soldier," said the proprietor, making his appearance in the bakery with a beaming and satisfied countenance, and his little eyes sparkled with a malicious smile,—"well, soldier, puff out your lips, and play the campaign march!"

"what's that for?!" gloomily said the soldier, who was lying on the tub with the dough, and, as usual, was half drunk.

"prepare to march, corporal!" said the proprietor exultantly.

"whither?" inquired the soldier, lowering his legs off the tub, and feeling that something was wrong.

"wherever you like—to a turkish woman or an english woman, as you please."

[pg 98]

"how am i to understand that?" shouted the soldier vehemently.

"you are to understand that i won't keep you another hour. go upstairs, get your wages, and take yourself off—march!"

the soldier had become accustomed to feel his strength, and the helpless position of his master, and the latter's announcement somewhat sobered him: he could not help understanding how difficult it would be for him, with his knowledge of the trade, to find another place.

"come now, you're lying!..." he said with alarm, rising to his feet.

"get out with you,—get out...."

"get out?"

"clear out!"

"that means, i have worked myself out," and the soldier shook his head sadly.... "you have sucked the blood out of me, sucked me dry, and now you turn me out. that's clever! that's good! akh, you ... spider!"

"i'm a spider, am i?" boiled up the proprietor.

"yes, you are! a blood-sucking spider—that's what you are!" said the soldier with conviction, and walked, reeling, toward the door.

the proprietor looked after him with a spiteful laugh, and his little eyes glittered joyfully.

"go along with you, now, and get a place with somebody! ye-es! i've given you such a character everywhere, my dear little dove, that you may beg as you will—no one will take you! they won't hire you anywhere.... i've settled your hash for you, you rotten-headed, stupid, infernal creature!"

"have you already hired a new baker?" i inquired.

[pg 99]

"a new one? no, he isn't new—he's the old one. he was my friend. ah, what a baker! regular gold! but he's a drunkard also, eh, what a drunkard! only, he has long fits of hard drinking.... now he'll come, and set to work, and for three or four months he'll strain every sinew and toil away like a bear! he'll know no sleep, no rest, and won't stick at the wages, no matter what you give him. he'll work and sing! he sings so, my dear fellow, that it's even impossible to listen to him—your heart grows heavy with it. he sings, and sings—and then he takes to drink again!"

the proprietor sighed, and waved his hand with a hopeless gesture.

"and when he starts in to drink—there's no stopping him. he drinks until he falls ill, or has drunk himself stark naked.... then he feels ashamed of himself, probably, for he vanishes somewhere, like an unclean spirit at the smell of incense.... and here he is.... have you really come, lesá?"

"yes," replied a deep, chest voice from the threshold. there, with his shoulder propped against the jamb of the door, stood a tall, broad-shouldered peasant, about thirty years of age. in costume, he was a typical tramp; in face and figure, a genuine slav—a rare specimen of the race. he wore a red cotton shirt, incredibly dirty and tattered, full trousers of coarse, home-made linen, and on one of his feet were the remains of a rubber boot, while on the other was an old leather boot-leg. his light, reddish-brown hair was tangled all over his head, and small chips, straws and bits of paper stuck in the snarls: all these things also adorned his luxuriant, light-reddish beard, which covered his chest like a fan. his long, pallid, weary face was lighted up by large, pensive blue eyes, which gazed at[pg 100] me with a caressing smile. and his lips which were handsome, although a trifle pale, also smiled beneath his reddish mustache. this smile seemed to say:

"this is the sort of fellow i am.... don't condemn me...."

"come in, sashók, here's your helper," said the proprietor, rubbing his hands, and affectionately eyeing over the mighty form of the new baker. the latter stepped forward silently, and offered me his long hand, with the powerful wrist of a legendary hero; we exchanged greetings; he seated himself on the bench, stretched his legs out in front of him, stared at them, and said to the proprietor:

"buy me two changes of shirts, nikola nikítitch, and boot-slippers.[3] and some linen for a cap."

[3] shoes—or slippers—made from boots by cutting off the legs.—translator.

"you shall have them all, never fear! i have caps on hand; you shall have shirts and trousers by this evening. come now, set to work in the meantime; i know you, i know what sort of a fellow you are. i don't mean to insult you—no one can insult konováloff ... because he never insults anyone. is the boss a wild beast? i have worked myself, and i know how a radish makes the tears flow.... well, stay here, my lads, and i'll take myself off...."

we were left alone.

konováloff sat on the bench and gazed about him with a smile, but without saying a word. the bakery was located in a cellar, with a vaulted ceiling, and its three windows were below the level of the earth. there was not much light, and there was very little air, but, on the other hand, there was a great deal of dampness, dirt and flour dust. along the walls stood long bins: one had dough on it, on[pg 101] another the dough had just been mixed with yeast, the third was empty. upon each bin fell a dull streak of light from one of the windows. the huge oven took up nearly one third of the bakery; beside it, on the filthy floor, lay sacks of flour. in the oven long logs of wood were blazing hotly, and their flame, reflected on the gray wall of the bakery, surged and quivered, as though it were narrating some story without sounds. the odor of fermenting dough and of humidity filled the rank air.

the vaulted, soot-begrimed ceiling oppressed one with its weight, and the combination of daylight and of the fire in the oven formed a sort of vague illumination which was very trying to the eyes. through the windows, a dull roar poured in, and dust blew in from the street. konováloff surveyed everything, sighed, and turning half-way round to me, inquired in a bored tone:

"have you been working here long?"

i told him. then we fell silent again, and inspected each other with furtive, sidelong glances.

"what a jail!" he sighed.... "shan't we go out into the street, and sit at the gate?"

we went out to the gate, and sat down on the bench.

"we can breathe here, at least. i can't get used to this pit all at once ... no i can't. judge for yourself—i've just come from the sea.... i've been working at the fishing stations on the caspian. and, all of a sudden, from that airy space—bang! into a hole!"

he looked at me with a melancholy smile, and ceased speaking, staring intently at the people who passed by in carriages and on foot. in his clear blue eyes shone much melancholy over something or other.... twilight descended; it was stifling, noisy, dusty in the street, and the houses cast shadows across the road. konováloff sat with[pg 102] his back resting against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and his fingers straying through the silky strands of his beard. i gazed askance at his pallid, oval face, and thought: what sort of a man is this? but i could not make up my mind to enter into conversation with him, because he was my master, and also because he inspired me with a strange sort of respect for him.

his brow was furrowed with three slender wrinkles, but sometimes they were smoothed out, and disappeared, and i very much wished to know what the man was thinking about.

"come along: it must be time to set the third batch of dough to rise. you mix the second, and, in the meantime, i'll set it, and then we'll knead out the loaves."

when he and i had "weighed out" and placed in the pans one mountain of dough, mixed another, and set the leavened dough for a third—we sat down to drink tea, and then konováloff, putting his hand into the breast of his shirt, asked me:

"do you know how to read? here then, read this,"—and he thrust into my hand a small smeared and crumpled sheet of paper.

"dear sásha,"[4] i read. "i salute and kiss you from afar. things are going badly with me, and life is tiresome, i can hardly wait for the day when i shall elope with you, or shall live in your company; this accursed life has bored me to the last degree, although, at first, i liked it. you will understand that well, and i, also, had begun to understand it, when i became acquainted with you. please write to me as soon as you can; i want very much to receive a little note from you. and meanwhile, farewell until we[pg 103] meet again, but not good-bye, you dear bearded friend of my soul. i will not write you any reproaches, although i'm angry with you, because you are a pig—you went away without taking leave of me. nevertheless, you have never been anything but good to me: you were the first of that sort, and i shall never forget it. can't you make an effort, sásha, to have me excluded? the girls told you that i would run away from you, if i were excluded; but that is all nonsense, and a downright lie: if you would only take pity on me, i would be like a dog to you, after my exclusion. it would be so easy for you to do that, you know, but it's very difficult for me. when you were with me, i wept because i was forced to live like that, although i did not tell you so. until we meet again. your kapitólina."

[4] lesá and sashók, as well as sásha and sáshka are diminutives of alexander.—translator.

konováloff took the letter from me, and began thoughtfully to turn it about between the fingers of one hand, while he twisted his beard with the other.

"and do you know how to write?"

"yes."

"and have you ink?"

"yes."

"write a letter to her, for christ's sake, won't you? she must consider me a rascal, she must be thinking that i have forgotten her.... write!"

"very well. this very minute, if you like.... who is she?"

"a woman of the town...? you can see for your-self—she writes about her exclusion. that means, that i am to promise the police that i will marry her, and then they will give her back her passport, and will take her little book away from her, and from that time forth, she will be free! do you catch on?"

half an hour later a touching epistle to her was ready.

[pg 104]

"come now, read it, and let's see how it has turned out?" begged konováloff impatiently.

this is the way it had turned out:

"kápa! you must not think that i am a scoundrel, and that i have forgotten you. no, i have not forgotten you, but i have simply been on a spree, and have drunk up all my money. now i have hired out in a place again, and to-morrow i shall get the boss to advance me some money, and i will send it to philip, and he will have you excluded. there will be money enough for your journey. and meanwhile—farewell until we meet. your alexánder."

"hm...." said konováloff, scratching his head,—"you ain't much of a writer. you haven't put any compassion into your letter, nor any tears. and then, again—i asked you to curse me with all sorts of words, and you haven't written a bit of that..

"but why should i?"

"so that she may see that i feel ashamed in her presence, that i understand that i am to blame toward her. and what have you done! you've written it just exactly as though you were scattering peas! now, you mix in some tears!"

i was compelled to mix some tears into the letter, which i managed to do successfully. konováloff was satisfied, and laying his hand on my shoulder, he said cordially:

"there, that's stunning! thanks! evidently, you're a good lad ... which means, that you and i are going to get along well together."

i had no doubt on that point, and asked him to tell me about kapitólina.

"kapitólina? she's a young girl—quite a child. she was the daughter of a merchant in vyátka.... well,[pg 105] and she went astray. the longer it lasted, the worse it got, and she went into one of those houses ... you know? i came—and saw that she was still a mere child! good lord, i said to myself, is it possible? well, so i made acquaintance with her. she began to cry. says i: 'never mind, have patience! i'll get you out of this—only wait!' and i had everything ready, that is to say, the money and all ... and, all of a sudden, i went on a spree, and found myself in astrakhan. a certain man told her where i was, and she wrote me that letter, to astrakhan...."

"well, and what are you going to do about it,"—i asked him, "do you intend to marry her?"

"marry her,—how can i? if i have one of my drinking bouts, what sort of a bridegroom would i be? no, this is what i mean to do. i'll get her released—and then, she may go wherever she likes. she'll find a place for herself ... perhaps she'll turn out a decent woman."

"she says she wants to live with you...."

"oh, she's only fooling. they're all like that—all the women.... i know them very well indeed. i've had a lot of different sorts. one, even, was a merchant's wife, and rich! i was a groom in a circus, and she cast her eyes on me. 'come,' says she,—'and be my coachman.' about that time i had got sick of the circus, so i consented, and went. well, and so.... she began to make up to me. they had a house, horses, servants—they lived like the nobility. her husband was a short, fat man, after the style of our boss, but she was as thin and flexible as a cat, and fiery. when she used to embrace me, and kiss me on the lips—hot coals seemed to be sprinkled on my heart. and i'd get all of a tremble, and even feel frightened. she used to kiss me, and cry all the time; even her shoulders[pg 106] heaved. i would ask her: 'what ails you, vyérunka?' and she would say: 'you're a child, sásha; you don't understand anything.' she was stunning.... and she spoke the truth when she said i didn't understand anything—i was pretty much of a fool, i know. what i do—i don't understand. how i live—i don't think!"

he ceased speaking, and gazed at me with widely-opened eyes; in them shone something which was not exactly fright, nor yet exactly a query,—something troubled and meditative, which rendered his handsome face still more melancholy and more beautiful ...

"well, and how did you end matters with the merchant's wife?" i asked.

"well, you see, sadness descends upon me. such sadness, i must tell you, brother, that at those times i simply can't live. it's as though i were the only man on all the earth, and there were no living thing anywhere except myself. and at such times, everything is repugnant to me—every earthly thing; and i become a burden to myself, and all people are a burden to me; if all of them were to fall dead, i wouldn't give a sigh! it must be an ailment, with me. it made me take to drinking ... before that, i did not drink. well, so this sadness came upon me, and i said to her, to that merchant's wife: 'véra mikháilovna! let me go, i can't stand it any longer!'-'what,' says she, 'are you tired of me?'—and she laughed, you know, in such an ugly way.—'no,' says i, 'i'm not tired of you, but i'm no match for myself.' at first she didn't understand me, and she even began to scream, and to rail.... afterwards, she did understand. she dropped her head, and said:'well, then, go!...' and burst out crying. her eyes were black, and she was all swarthy. her hair was black, also, and curly. she was[pg 107] not of the merchant-class by birth, but the daughter of a state official.... ye-es ... i was sorry for her, but i was repulsive even to myself at that time. why did i knuckle under to a woman?—anybody knows why.... of course, she found life tiresome with such a husband. he was exactly like a sack of flour.... she cried for a long time—she had got used to me.... i used to pet her a lot: i used to take her in my arms, and rock her. she would fall asleep, and i would sit and gaze at her. people are very handsome in their sleep, they are so simple; they breathe and smile, and that's all. and then again—when we lived at the villa in the country, she and i used to go driving together—she loved that with all her heart. we would come to some little nook in the forest, tie the horses, and cool ourselves off on the grass. she would order me to lie down, then she would put my head on her knees, and read me some little book or other. i would listen, and listen, until i fell asleep. she read nice stories, very nice stories. one of them i shall never forget—about dumb gerásim,[5] and his beloved dog. he, that dumb fellow, was a persecuted man, and no one loved him, except his dog. people laughed at him, and all that sort of thing, and he went straight to his dog.... it was a very pitiful story ... yes! but the affair took place in the days of serfdom.... and his lady-mistress says to him: 'dumb man, go drown your dog, for he howls.'—well, so the dumb man went.... he took a boat, and put the dog aboard it, and set out.... at this point, i used to feel the cold shivers run over me. oh lord! the sole joy on earth of a dumb man was being killed! what sort of behavior is that? akh—they were wonderful tales! and[pg 108] really—there was this good thing about it! there are people for whom all the world consists of one thing—a dog, for example. and why a dog? because there is no one else to love such a man, but the dog loves him. it is impossible for a man to live without some sort of love;—that's why he is given a soul, that he may love.... she read me a great many stories. she was a splendid woman, and i'm sorry for her this minute.... if it hadn't been for my planet,—i wouldn't have left her until she wished it herself, or until her husband had found out about my performances with her. she was so caressing—first of all; that is to say, not exactly caressing, in the way of giving presents, but, so ... caressing after the fashion of the heart. she would kiss me and she was just the same as any other woman ... and then, such a sort of fit would come over her ... so that it was downright astonishing what a good person she was. she would look straight into your soul, and talk to you like a nurse or a mother. at such times, i was just like a five-year-old boy with her. but nevertheless, i went away from her—because of that sadness! i pined for some other place.... 'good-bye,' says i, 'véra mikháilovna, forgive me.'—'good-bye, sásha,' says she. and the queer woman—she bared my arm to the elbow, and set her teeth into it, as though it had been meat! i came near yelling! so she almost bit out a whole piece ... my arm ached for three weeks afterwards. and here, you see, the mark is there yet...."

[5] iván s. turgéneff's famous tale: "mumu."—translator.

baring his arm, as muscular as that of a hero of epic song, white and red, he showed it to me, with an amiably melancholy smile. on the skin of the arm, near the elbow bend, a scar was plainly visible—two semicircles, which almost met at the tips. konováloff looked at them, and shook his head, with a smile.

[pg 109]

"the queer woman!" he repeated; "she bit me by way of a keepsake."

i had heard stories in this spirit before. every member of the "barefoot brigade" has, in his past, a "merchants wife," or "a young lady of the nobility," and in the case of nearly all tramps, this merchant's wife and this well-born young lady turn out to be thoroughly fantastic figure, through countless repetitions, almost always combining the most contradictory physical and psychical features. if to-day she is blue-eyed, malicious and merry, you may expect to hear of her a week later as black-eyed, amiable and tearful. and the tramp generally talks about her in a sceptical tone, with a mass of details which are degrading to her. but the story narrated by konováloff did not arouse in me the distrust created by tales i had heard in the past. it rang true, it contained details with which i was unfamiliar—those readings from books, that epithet of 'boy,' as applied to the mighty form of konováloff.

i pictured to myself the willowy woman, sleeping in his arms, with her head clinging close to his broad breast—it was a fine picture, and still further convinced me as to the truth of his story. and, in conclusion, his sad soft tone as he recalled the "merchant's wife"—was a unique tone. the genuine tramp never speaks in that tone either about women or about anything else—he likes to show that there is nothing on earth which he dares not revile.

"why don't you say something? do you think i am lying?"—inquired konováloff, and, for some reason, alarm rang out in his voice. he stretched himself out on the sacks of flour, holding a glass of tea in one hand, and with the other stroking his beard. his blue eyes gazed at me searchingly and inquiringly, and the wrinkles lay sharply across his brow.... "no, you'd better believe me.[pg 110]... what object have i in lying? even supposing that the like of us tramps are great hands at telling yarns.... it can't be done my friend:—if a man has never had anything good in life, surely he harms no one by making up with himself some tale or other, and telling it as a fact. he keeps on telling it, and comes to believe it himself, as though it had actually happened—he believes it, and—well, it is agreeable to him. many folks live by that. you can't prevent it.... but i have told you the truth, as it happened, so i have told it to you.... is there anything peculiar about that? a woman lives along, and gets bored, and the women are all good-for-nothing creatures.... supposing i am a coachman, that makes no difference to a woman, because coachmen and gentlemen and officers are all men.... and all are pigs in her sight, all seek one and the same thing, and each one tries to take as much as he can, and to pay as little as possible. and the simple man is even better, more conscientious than the rest. and i'm very simple ... the women all understand that very well about me,... they see that i will not offend them—that is to say, i won't ... do ... i won't jeer at them. when a woman sins, there's nothing she fears so much as a sneer, ridicule. they are more shame-faced than we are. we take our own, and, as like as not, go to the bazaar and tell about it, and begin to brag—'see here, look how we have cheated one fool!' ... but a woman has nowhere to go, no one will reckon her sin as a dashing deed. my good fellow, even the most abandoned of them have more shame than we have."

i listened to him and thought: was it possible that this man was true to himself in making all these speeches which did not fit in with him at all?

[pg 111]

but he, thoughtfully riveting upon me his eyes, clear as those of a child, went on talking, and astounded me more and more by his remarks.

it seemed to me that i was enveloped by something in the nature of a fog, a warm fog, which cleansed my heart, already, even at that time, greatly soiled with the mire of life.

the wood in the oven had burned down, and the bright pile of coals cast a rosy glow on the wall of the bakery ... it quivered ...

through the window peeped a tiny speck of the blue sky with two stars in it. one of them—the large one—gleamed like an emerald, the other, not far from it, was barely visible.

a week passed, and konováloff and i had become friends. "you, also, are a simple lad! that's good!"—he said to me, with a broad smile, as he slapped me on the shoulder with his huge hand.

he worked artistically. it was a sight worth seeing—how he exercised over a lump of dough weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, rolling it about in the mould, or how, bent over the bin, he kneaded, his mighty arms plunged to the elbows in the springy mass, which squeaked under his fingers of steel.

at first, when i saw how swiftly he hurled into the oven the raw loaves, which i could hardly toss fast enough from the moulds to his shovel,—i was afraid that he would pile them one on top of the other; but when he had baked three ovenfuls, and not one of the one hundred and twenty loaves—superb, rosy, tall—showed any sign of a "crush," i understood that i had to deal with an artist in his own line. he loved to work, became absorbed in his business, grew depressed when the oven baked badly, or when the dough[pg 112] rose slowly, waxed angry and reviled the proprietor if the latter bought damp flour, and was as merry and contented as a child if the loaves came out of the oven properly rounded, tall, well-risen, with a moderately rosy hue, and thin, crisp crust. he was accustomed to take the most successful loaf from the shovel into his hand, and tossing it from palm to palm, scorching himself in the operation, laugh gaily, as he said to me:

"eh, what a beauty you and i have made...."

and i found it pleasant to watch this gigantic child, who put his whole soul into his work, as every man, in every sort of work should do.

one day i asked him:

"sásha, i am told that you sing well?"

he frowned and dropped his head.

"i do sing.... only, i do it by fits and starts in streaks.... when i begin to get sad, i shall begin to sing ... and if i begin to sing ... i shall begin to grieve. you'd better hold your tongue about that, don't tease me. don't you sing yourself? akh, you ... what a piece you are! you'd ... better wait for me ... and whistle, in the meanwhile. then we will both sing together. is it a bargain?"

of course, i assented, and whistled, when i wanted to sing. but sometimes i broke off, and began to hum beneath my breath, as i kneaded the dough, and rolled out the loaves. konováloff listened to me, moved his lips, and after a while, reminded me of my promise. and sometimes he shouted roughly at me:

"drop that! don't groan!"

one day i took a small book out of my trunk, and, propping myself in the window, i began to read.

konováloff was dozing, stretched out on the bin with[pg 113] the doughy but the rustle of the leaves, as i turned them over above his ear made him open his eyes.

"what's that little book about?"

it was "the villagers of podlípovo."[5]

[5] podlípovtzui"—a well-known heart-rending story, by ryeshétnikoff.—translator.

"read it aloud, won't you?" he entreated.

so i began to read, as i sat on the window-sill, and he sat up on the bin, and leaning his head against my knees, he listened.—from time to time i glanced across the book at his face, and met his eyes—they cling to my memory yet—widely opened, intent, full of profound attention ...

and his mouth, also, was half open, revealing two rows of white, even teeth. his uplifted brows, the curving wrinkles on his lofty forehead, his arms, with which he clasped his knees, his whole motionless, attentive attitude warmed me up, and i endeavored, as intelligibly and as picturesquely as possible, to narrate to him the sad story of sysóika and pilá.

at last i got tired, and closed the book.

"is that all?" konováloff asked me, in a whisper.

"less than half."

"will you read it all aloud?"

"if you like."

"ekh!"—he clasped his head in his hands, and began to rock back and forth, as he sat on the board. he wanted to say something, he opened and shut his mouth, sighing like a pair of bellows, and, for some reason or other, puckering up his eyes. i had not expected this result, and did not understand its meaning.

"how you read that!"—he began in a whisper.—"in different voices ... how alive they all are. apróska! she fairly squeals! pilá ... what fools! it made[pg 114] me feel ridiculous to hear that ... but i restrained myself. what comes next? where are they going? lord god! how true to nature it is! why, they are just like real people ... the most genuine sort of peasants.... and exactly as though they were alive, and their voices, and their faces.... listen, maxím! let's put the bread in the oven, and then you go on reading!" we put the bread in the oven, prepared another batch of loaves, and for another hour and forty minutes i continued to read the book. then there was another pause—the bread was done, we took out the loaves, put in others, mixed some more dough, set some more to rise ... and all this was done with feverish haste, and almost in silence.

konováloff, with brows knitted in a frown, flung rare and monosyllabic orders at me, and hurried, hurried ...

toward morning, we had finished the book, and i felt as though my tongue had turned to wood.

seated astride of a sack of flour, konováloff stared me straight in the face with strange eyes, and maintained silence, with his arms propped on his knees.

"is it good?" i asked.

he shook his head, puckered up his eyes, and again—for some reason in a whisper—began:

"who wrote that?"—in his eyes gleamed amazement not to be expressed in words, and his face suddenly flushed with ardent feeling.

i told him who had written the book.

"well—he's a man, that he is! how he grasped them! didn't he? it's downright terrible. it grips your heart, that is, it nips your soul—it's so full of life. well, now, what about him, that writer, what happened to him for that?"

"what do you mean?"

[pg 115]

"well, for example, did they give him a reward or anything there?"

"but what did they need to reward him for?" i inquired, with crafty intent.

"for what? the book ... in the nature of a police document. as soon as they read it ... they consider: pilá, sysóika ... what sort of folks were they? everybody feels sorry for them.... they're unenlightened, innocent folks ... what a life they had! well, and...."

konováloff looked at me in confusion, and timidly asserted:

"some sort of orders ought to be given about that. surely, they are human beings, and they ought to be supported."

in reply to this, i delivered a whole lecture to him ... but, alas! it did not produce the effect on which i had reckoned.

konováloff fell into meditation, drooped his head, rocked his whole body about, and began to sigh, not interfering with a single word in my attempt to play the part of a professor. i got tired, at last, and paused.

konováloff raised his head and gazed sorrowfully at me.

"and so they did not give him anything?" he inquired.

"whom?" i asked, having entirely forgotten ryeshétnikoff.

"the author?"

i was vexed. i made no reply, conscious that this vexation was begetting in me irritation toward my peculiar audience, which, evidently, did not regard himself as competent to settle world-problems, and was inclined to interest himself in the fate of a man rather than in the fates of humanity.

[pg 116]

konováloff, without waiting for my answer, took the book in his hands, carefully turned it over, opened it, shut it, and putting it back in its place, heaved a deep sigh.

"how wonderful it all is, oh lord!" he said, in an undertone .... "a man has written a book?... just paper and a few little dots, that's all.... he wrote it ... and ... is he dead?"

"yes," i answered curtly.

at that time, i could not endure philosophy, and still less metaphysics; but konováloff, without inquiring as to my tastes, went on:

"he is dead, but the book remains, and people read it. a man looks at it with his eyes, and utters various words. and you listen, and understand: folks have lived in the world—pilá, and sysóika and apróska.... and you feel sorry for those folks, although you never have seen them, and they are nothing whatever to you! there may be thousands of live folks just like them walking along the street, and you see them, but you don't know anything about them ... and you care nothing about them ... they walk on, and on.... but in the book there are none of them ... still, you are so sorry for them that your very heart aches.... how can a man understand that?—and so the author got no reward, and is dead? nothing happened to him?"

i fairly exploded with rage. i told him all about the rewards of authors....

konováloff listened to me, his eyes starting from their sockets with amazement, as he smacked his lips with compassion.

"a pretty state of things!" he sighed, from a full breast, and gnawing his left mustache, he hung his head with sorrow.

[pg 117]

then i began to talk about the fatal influence of the dram-shop on the life of the russian literary man, about the great and genuine talents which had gone to perdition through vódka—the only consolation of their hard-working lives.

"but is it possible that such men drink?" konováloff asked me, in a whisper. distrust of me, together with terror, and pity for these people flashed in his widely-opened eyes.—"they drink! how can they ... after they have written books, take to drink?"

in my opinion, this was an irrelevant question, and i made no reply to it.

"of course, they do it afterwards,...." konováloff settled the point.—"men live and watch life, and suck in the bitterness of others' lives. they must have eyes of a special sort. and hearts, also.... they gaze at life, and grow sad.... and they pour out their grief in their books—.... but this does them no good because their hearts are touched—and you can't burn grief out of that even with fire ... all that is left for them to do, is to extinguish it with vódka. well, and so they drink.... have i got that right?"

i agreed with him, and this seemed to give him courage.

"well, and in all justice,"—he continued, to develop the psychology of authors,—"they ought to be distinguished for that. isn't that so? because they understand more than others, and point out divers disorders to others. now take me, for instance, what am i? a barefooted, naked tramp,... a drunkard and a crack-brained fellow. there is no justification for my life. why do i live on the earth, and to whom on earth is my life of any use, if you stop to consider it? i have no home of my own, no wife, no children—and i don't even feel the want of any. i live[pg 118] and grieve.... what about? i don't know. it's somewhat as though my mother had brought me into the world without something which all other people possess ... something which is more necessary than anything else to a man. i have no inward guide to my path ... do you understand? how shall i express it? i haven't got the right sort of spark ... or force, or whatever it is, in my soul. well, some piece or other has been left out of me—and that's all there is to it! you understand? so i live along, and search for that missing piece, and 'grieve for it, but what it is—is more than i know myself...."

"why do you say this?" i asked.

he gazed at me, holding his hand to his head the while, and a powerful effort was written on his face—the labor of a thought which is seeking for itself a form.

"why? because—of the disorder of life.... that is to say ... here am i living on, we'll say, and there's no place for me to go ... nothing that i can hang on to ... and such a life is confusion."

"well, and what comes next?" i pursued my inquiries as to the connection between him and authors, which was incomprehensible to me.

"what next?... that's what i can't tell you.... but this is what i think, that if some writer would cast an eye on me, then ... he might be able to explain my life to me ... couldn't he? what do you think about it?"

i thought i was capable myself of explaining his life to him, and immediately set about this task, which, in my opinion, was easy and clear. i began to discourse about conditions and surroundings, about inequality in general, about people who are the victims of life, and people who are life's priests.

[pg 119]

konováloff listened attentively. he sat opposite me, with his cheek resting on his hand, and his large blue eyes widely opened, thoughtful and intelligent, gradually clouded over, as with a thin mist, while the folds lay more sharply across his forehead, and he seemed to be holding his breath, all absorbed as he was in his desire to comprehend my remarks.

all this was very flattering to me. with fervor i depicted to him his life, and demonstrated to him, that he was not to blame for being what he was; that is to say, that he, as a fact, was perfectly logical and quite regularly founded on a long series of premises from the distant past. he was the mournful victim of conditions, a being equal in rights with all men, by his very nature, and reduced by a long line of historical injustices to the degree of a social cipher. i wound up my explanation with the remark, which i had already made several times:

"you have nothing to blame yourself for.... you have been wronged...."

he maintained silence, never taking his eyes from me; i beheld a brilliant, kindly smile dawn in them, and waited, with impatience, to see how he would reply to my speech.

the smile played over his lips, now he laughed affectionately, and reaching toward me with a soft, feminine movement, he laid his hand on my shoulder.

"how easily you talk about all that, brother! only, whence comes your knowledge of all these matters? is it all from books? but you have read a great lot of them, evidently—of books! ekh, if i could only read as many! but the chief point is—that you speak very compassionately. this is the first time i have ever heard such a speech. it's wonderful! everybody accuses his neighbor of his bad luck, but you accuse life, the whole order of things.

[pg 120]

"according to you it appears that a man is not to blame, himself, for anything whatever, but it is written in his fate that he is to be a tramp—well, and so he is a tramp, and it's very queer about prisoners, too: they steal because they have no work, but must eat.... how pitiful all that is, according to your showing! you have a weak heart, evidently!"

"wait a bit!"—said i, "do you agree with me? have i spoken truly?"

"you know best whether it is true or not—you can read and write.... it is true, i suppose, if you apply it to others.... but as for me...."

"what then?"

"well, i'm a special article.... who's to blame if i drink? pávelka, my brother, doesn't drink,—he has a bakery of his own in perm. but here am i—i'm as good a workman as he is—but i'm a vagrant and a drunkard, and i have no longer any standing or position in life ... yet we are the children of one mother. he is younger than i am. so it would appear that there is something wrong about me.... that means, that i was not born as a man should be born. you say yourself, that all men are equals: a man is born, he lives out his appointed time, then he dies! but i'm on a separate path.... and i'm not the only one—there are a lot of us like that. we must be peculiar people, and don't fit into any rule. we need a special account ... and special laws ... very strict laws,—to exterminate us out of life! for we are of no use, and we take up room in it, and stand in the way of other folks.... who is to blame for us?—we are, ourselves—before ourselves and before life.... because we have no desire to live, and we have no feeling toward ourselves.... our mothers begot us in an unlucky hour—that's where the trouble lies...."

[pg 121]

i was overwhelmed by this unexpected confutation of my deductions.... he—that big man with the clear eyes of a child—set himself apart from life in the ranks of the men who are useless in it, and therefore subject to extermination, with so light a spirit, with such laughing sadness, that i was positively stunned by his self-abasement, which i had never, up to that moment, beheld in any member of the barefoot brigade, who, as a whole, are beings torn loose from everything, hostile to everything, and ready to try the force of their exasperated scepticism on everyone.... i had encountered only men who threw the blame on everything and complained of everything, persistently thrusting themselves aside from the series of obvious facts which obstinately confuted their personal infallibility, and who always cast the responsibility of their bad luck on taciturn fate, on wicked people.... konováloff did not blame fate, and uttered not one word about people. he alone was to blame for all the disorder of his individual life, and the more persistently i endeavored to prove to him that he was "the victim of circumstances and conditions," the more persistently did he argue with me as to his own guilt toward himself and toward life for his mournful lot.... this was original, and it enraged me. but he experienced satisfaction in scourging himself; it was with satisfaction and nothing else that his eyes beamed, when he shouted at me, in a ringing baritone voice:

"every man is the master of himself, and no one is to blame if i am a scoundrel!"

in the mouth of an educated man, such remarks would not have surprised me, for there is no ulcer which cannot be found in the tangled and complicated psychical organism called "the intelligent man." but from the lips of a tramp, although he was an intelligent man, amid the[pg 122] scorned of fate, the naked, hungry and vicious creatures half men, half beasts, who fill the filthy dens of the towns,—from the lips of a tramp it was strange to hear these remarks. i was forced to the conclusion that konováloff really was—a special article,—but i did not wish to admit it.

from the inner point of view, konováloff was a typical representative, down to the most petty detail, of the "golden horde";[6] but, alas! the longer i inspected him, the more convinced did i become that i had to deal with a variety which infringed upon my idea as to people who ought, long ago, to have been accounted a class, and who thoroughly merit attention, as hungering and thirsting in a powerful degree, as very malicious and far from stupid....

[6] an organised band of high-grade thieves.—translator.

our dispute waxed hotter and hotter.

"but just wait," i shouted; "how can a man stand steady on his feet if divers obscure powers press upon him from all sides?"

"lean the harder!" cried my opponent loudly, growing warm, and flashing his eyes.

"yes, but what is one to lean against?"

"find a point of support for yourself, and lean on it!"

"and why haven't you done that?"

"why, don't i tell you, you queer man, that i myself am to blame for my own life!... i didn't find my point of support! i'm seeking it, i'm pining for it—but i can't find it!"

but we were obliged to look after the bread, so we set to work, each continuing to demonstrate to the other the truth of his views. as a matter of course, neither of us proved[pg 123] anything, and when we had finished attending to the oven, we lay down to sleep.

konováloff stretched himself out on the floor of the bakery, and soon fell asleep. i lay on the sacks of flour, and looked down from above upon his powerful, bearded figure, stretched out, in the fashion of an epic hero, on a mat which had been thrown down near the bin. there was an odor of hot bread, of fermented dough, of carbonic acid gas.... the day dawned, and the gray sky peeped through the panes of the windows, which were draped in shrouds of flour-dust. a peasant's cart rumbled past, and the shepherd blew his horn to assemble his flock.

konováloff snored. i watched his broad breast rise and fall, and thought over various methods of converting him, as speedily as possible, to my belief, but could hit upon nothing suitable, and fell asleep.

in the morning, he and i rose, set the dough to rise, washed ourselves and sat down on the bin to drink tea.

"say, have you got a little book?" inquired konováloff.

"yes."

"will you read it to me?"

"all right."

"that's good! do you know what? i'll live here a month, i'll get some money from the boss, and i'll give you half of it!"

"what for?"

"buy some little books.... buy some for yourself, after your own taste, and buy me some ... about a couple. i want some about the peasants. after the fashion of pilá and sysóika.... and let them be written pathetically, you know, not to make fun of folks.... there are some which are downright trash! panfilka and filátka—even with a picture in the front—nonsense.[pg 124] bureaucrats, various tales. i don't like all that sort of thing. i didn't know there were any like that one you have."

"do you want one about sténka rázin?"

"about sténka?... is it good?"

"very good."

"fetch it along!"

and soon i was reading aloud to him n. kostomároff's "the revolt of sténka rázin" at first, this talented monograph, which is almost an epic poem, did not please my bearded hearer.

"why aren't there any conversations in it?" he asked, peeping into the book. and when i explained the reason, he went so far as to yawn, and tried to hide the yawn, but did not succeed, and he said to me, in a confused and guilty way:

"read away ... never mind. i didn't mean to...."

i was pleased with his delicate tact, and pretended not to have observed anything, and that i did not, in the least, understand what he was talking about.

but in proportion as the historian depicted, with his artistic brush, the figure of stepán timoféevitch, and "the prince of the vólga volunteers" started out from the pages of the book, konováloff became transformed. in the beginning somewhat bored and indifferent, with eyes veiled in indolent dreaminess,—he gradually and by degrees imperceptible to me, presented himself to me in an astonishing, new form. as he sat on the bin opposite me, clasping his knees in his arms, and with his head laid upon them in such a way that his beard hid his legs, he stared at me with greedy, strangely burning eyes from beneath his sternly knit brows. there was not left in him a single trace of[pg 125] that childlike ingenuousness which had always so surprised me in him, and all that simplicity and feminine softness, which accorded so well with his kindly blue eyes, were now darkened and dried up,... had vanished somewhere. something lion-like, fiery was contained in his muscular figure, thus curled up in a ball. i stopped reading and gazed at him.

"read away,"—he said softly but impressively.

"what ails you?"

"read!" he repeated, and there was an accent of irritation as well as of entreaty in his tone.

i continued, casting an occasional glance at him, and noting that he was becoming more and more inflamed. something emanated from him which excited and intoxicated me—a sort of glowing mist. the book, also, exerted its influence.... and thus it was in a state of nervous tremor, full of foreboding of something unusual, that i reached the point where sténka was captured.

"they captured him!" roared konováloff.

pain, affront, wrath, readiness to rescue sténka resounded in his mighty exclamation.

the sweat started out on his brow, and his eyes widened strangely. he sprang from the bin, tall, excited, halted in front of me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said loudly and hastily:

"wait! don't read!... tell me, what's coming next? no, stop, don't speak! do they execute him? hey? read quick, maxím!"

one might have thought that konováloff instead of frólka was rázin's own brother. it seemed as though certain bonds of blood, unbroken and uncongealed for the space of three centuries, united this tramp with sténka, and the tramp, with the full strength of his lively, mighty[pg 126] body, with all the passion of his soul which was pining without "a point of support," felt the anguish and wrath of the free falcon who had been captured more than three hundred years before.

"do go on reading, for christ's sake!"

i read on, aroused and deeply moved, conscious that my heart was beating hard, and in company with konováloff, living over again sténka's anguish. and thus we came to the tortures.

konováloff gnashed his teeth, and his blue eyes blazed like live coals. he leaned over me from behind, and did not take his eyes from the book, any more than i did. his breath buzzed above my ears, and blew my hair into my eyes. i shook my head to put it out of the way. konováloff noticed this, and laid his heavy palm on my head.

"'then rázin gnashed his teeth so hard, that he spat them out on the floor, along with the blood....'"

"enough!—go to the devil!" shouted konováloff, and snatching the book from my hand, he flung it on the floor with all his might, and dropped down after it.

he wept, and, as he was ashamed of his tears, he bellowed in a queer way, in order to keep from sobbing. he hid his head on his knees, and cried, wiping his eyes on his dirty ticking trousers.

i sat in front of him, on the bin, and did not know what to say to console him.

"maxím!" said konováloff, as he sat on the floor. "it's awful! pilá ... sysóika. and now sténka ... isn't it? what a fate!... and how he spit out his teeth!... didn't he?"

and he trembled all over with emotion.

he was particularly impressed with the teeth which sténka spit out, and he kept referring to them, twitching his shoulders with pain as he did so.

[pg 127]

both of us were like drunken men under the influence of the harsh and poignant picture of the torture thus presented to us.

"read it to me again, do you hear?" konováloff entreated, picking up the book from the floor, and handing it to me.—"and, see here now, show me the place where it tells about the teeth?"

i showed him, and he riveted his eyes on the lines.

"so it is written: 'he spat out his teeth with the blood?' but the letters are just like all the other letters.... o lord! how it hurt him, didn't it? even his teeth.... and what will there be at the end? the execution? aha! thank the lord, they execute a man, all the same!"

he expressed his joy over the execution with so much passion, with so much satisfaction in his eyes, that i shuddered at that compassion which so violently desired death for the tortured sténka.

the whole of that day passed for us in a strange sort of mist: we talked incessantly about sténka, recalled his life, the songs which had been composed about him, his torments. a couple of times konováloff began to sing ballads, in a ringing baritone voice, and broke off suddenly.

he and i were closer friends from that day forth.

*

i read "the revolt of sténka rázin" to him several times more, "tarás bulba"[7] and "poor people."[8] my[pg 128] hearer was also greatly delighted with "tarás," but it could not obscure the vivid impression made on him by kostomároff's book. konováloff did not understand makár dyévushkin, and várya. the language of makár's letters appeared to him ridiculous, and he bore himself sceptically toward várya.

[7] n. v. gógol's famous kazák epic. tarás bulba is an imaginary character. the book has been translated into english by the translator of this book.

[8] f. m. dostoévsky's famous first book. there have been several translations. makár dyévushkin and várya are the principal—almost the only—characters in "poor people."

"just look at that, she's making up to the old man! she's a sharp one!... and he ... what a blockhead he was! but see here, maxím, drop that long-drawn-out thing. what is there to it? he's after her, and she's after him.... they ruined a lot of paper ... well, off with them to the pigs on the farm! it's neither pitiful nor funny: what was it written for?"

i reminded him of the story about the peasants of podlípovo, but he did not agree with me.

"pilá and sysóika—that's another pattern entirely! they are live people, they live and struggle ... but what are these? they write letters—they're tiresome! they're not even human beings, but just so-so—a mere invention. now if you were to put tarás and sténka alongside of them ... heavens! what feats they would have performed! then pilá and sysóika would have ... plucked up some spunk, i rather think?"

he had no clear conception of time, and in his imagination, all his beloved heroes existed contemporaneously, only—two of them dwelt in usólye, one among the "top-knots,"[9] on the vólga.... i had great difficulty in[pg 129] convincing him, that, had pilá and sysóika "gone down," following the káma down-stream, they would not have met sténka, and that if sténka had "kept on through the kazáks of the don and the top-knots," he would not have found bulba there.[10]

[9] the popular nickname, among the great russians, for the little russians,—kókhly. possibly the term is derived from the fact that the famous kazáks of the ukráina (little russia), known to history as the zaporózhian kazáks—or the kazáks dwelling "below the rapids" of the dnyépr river—shaved their heads, and wore only a top-knot of hair.

[10] sténka rázin, a kazák of the don, turned pirate, ravaged the caspian sea, the shores of persia, and the vólga, capturing towns and stirring up a revolt against the government he was executed in moscow, in 1671. he is famous, not only in history, but also in legends, in epic songs and in ballads.

konováloff was chagrined when he came to understand the matter. i tried to treat him to the history of pugatchóff's revolt,[11] as i was desirous of observing how he would bear himself toward emélka. konováloff rejected pugatchóff.

[11] emelyan pugatchóff, a kazák deserter and old ritualist (1778), gave himself out as the emperor peter iii. with the avowed intention of marching to st. petersburg, deposing "his wife" (the empress katherine ii.), and placing "his son" (afterwards the emperor paul i.) on the throne, he raised a serious revolt in the vólga provinces. it was put down, with difficulty, by troops, and pugatchóff was captured and executed.—translator.

"akh, the branded rascal—just look at him! he sheltered himself under the tzar's name, and got up a revolution.... how many folks he ruined, the dog!... sténka?—that's quite another matter, brother. but pugatchóff, was just a nit, and nothing more. a mighty important mess of victuals, truly! aren't there any little books in the style of sténka? hunt them up ... but fling away that calf of a makár—he isn't interesting. you'd better read over again, how they executed sténka."

on holidays konováloff and i went off to the river, or the meadows. we took with us a little vódka, some bread, a book, and set off early in the morning "for the free air," as konováloff called these excursions.

[pg 130]

we were especially fond of going to "the glass factory." for some reason or other, this name had been given to a building which stood at a short distance from the town, in the fields. it was a three-story, stone house, with a ruined roof and broken window-frames, and cellars which were filled, all summer long, with liquid, foul-smelling mud. greenish-gray in hue, half-ruined, as though it were sinking into the earth, it gazed from the fields at the town with the dark eye-sockets of its distorted windows, and seemed a blind singer of religious ballads, hardly treated by fate, who had been ejected from the city limits, and was in a very pitiful and dying condition. year after year, the water, at its flood, undermined this house, but it stood indestructibly firm; covered all over, from roof to foundation, with a green crust of mould, guarded by puddles against frequent visits from the police,—it stood on, and, although it had no roof, it afforded shelter to various shady and homeless individuals.

there were always a great many of them in it; tattered, half-starved, afraid of the light of the sun, they dwelt in this ruin like owls, and konováloff and i were always welcome guests among them, because both he and i, when we left the bakery, each took with us a loaf of bread, and on our way, purchased a measure of vódka, and a whole tray of "hot-stuff "—liver, lights, heart and tripe. at a cost of two or three rubles we provided a very filling treat for "the glass folks," as konováloff called them.

they repaid us for these treats by stories, wherein terrible, soul-rending truth was fantastically intermingled with the most ingenuous falsehood. every tale presented itself to us like a bit of lace, in which the black threads predominated—they represented the truth;—and in which threads of brilliant hues were to be met with—representing[pg 131] the falsehood. this lace fell over brain and heart, and oppressed them both painfully, compressing them with its cruel, torturing varied pattern. "the glass folks" loved us, after their own fashion, and almost always were my attentive auditors. one day i read to them: "for whom is life in russia good?"[12], and together with homeric laughter, i heard from them many valuable opinions on that subject.

[12] by nekrasoff.—translator.

every man, who has fought with life, who has been vanquished by it, and who is suffering in the pitiless captivity of its mire, is more of a philosopher than even schopenhauer himself, because an abstract thought never moulds itself in such an accurate and picturesque form, as does the thought which is directly squeezed out of a man by suffering. the knowledge of life possessed by these people whom life had flung overboard, astonished me by its profundity, and i listened eagerly to their stories, while konováloff listened to them for the purpose of arguing against the philosophy of the story-teller, and of dragging me into a dispute with himself.

after listening to a story of life and fall, narrated by some fantastically-unclothed fellow, with the physiognomy of a man, with whom one must be strictly on his guard,—after listening to such a story, which always bore the character of a justificatory and defensive statement, konováloff smiled thoughtfully and shook his head negatively. this was noticed because it was done openly.

"don't you believe me, lesá?" exclaimed the storyteller in distress.

"yes, i believe you ... how is it possible not to believe a man? and even if you perceive that he is lying, believe him, that is to say, listen, and try to understand[pg 132] why he lies? sometimes a lie shows up a man better than the truth does.... and besides, what truth can any of us tell about ourselves? the nastiest.... but one can invent fine things.... isn't that true?"

"yes...." assented the story-teller.... "but what were you shaking your head at?"

"what about? because you reason irregularly.... you tell your story in such a way that a fellow is bound to understand that you yourself didn't make your life what it is, but that your neighbors and various passers-by made it. but where were you all that time? and why didn't you offer any resistance to your fate? and the way it turns out is, that we all of us complain about people, yet we are people ourselves, and, of course, others may, also, complain of us. other people interfere with our lives—and that means that we, also, have interfered with other people's lives, isn't that so? well, then, how is that to be explained?"

"such a life must be constructed so that everyone will have plenty of room in it, and no one will interfere with the rest," they sententiously propounded to konováloff in argument.

"but who ought to construct life?" he retorted triumphantly, and, fearing that they would prove too sharp for him in answering his question, he immediately answered it himself:—"we! we ourselves! and how shall we construct life, if we don't understand it, and our life has not been a success? so it turns out, brethren, that our sole prop is—ourselves! well, and we all know what we are like...."

they replied to him, defending themselves, but he obstinately repeated his opinion: "no one was in anywise to blame concerning them, but each one of us is responsible to himself for himself."

[pg 133]

it was extremely difficult to drive him from his stand on this proposition, and it was extremely difficult for these people to master his point of view. on the one hand, in his presentation of the matter, they appeared fully competent to construct a free life; on the other—they appeared as weak, puny, decidedly incapable of anything, except making complaints of one another.

it very frequently happened that these discussions, begun at mid-day, ended about midnight, and konováloff and i returned from "the glass folks" through the darkness and in mud up to our knees.

one day we came near being drowned in a quagmire; on another, we fell into the hands of the police round-up, and spent the night in the station-house, together with a couple of score of assorted friends from the "glass factory," who turned out to be suspicious characters, from the point of view of the police. sometimes we did not care to philosophize, and then we went far a-field, in the meadows beyond the river, where there were tiny lakes, abounding in small fish, which entered them at the season of flood-water. among the bushes, on the shore of one of these lakes, we lighted a bonfire, which we required merely for the purpose of augmenting the beauty of the surroundings, and read a book, or talked about life. and sometimes konováloff would meditatively suggest:

"maxím! let's stare at the sky!"

we lay down on our backs, and gazed at the fathomless blue abyss above us. at first, we heard the rustle of wings around us, and the plashing of the water in the lake, we felt the earth under us, and around us everything that was there at the moment.... later on, the blue sky seemed to be gradually drawing us toward it, enfolded our consciousness in mist, we lost the sensation of existence,[pg 134] and, as though tearing ourselves away from the earth, we seemed to be floating in the waste expanse of the heavens, finding ourselves in a semi-conscious, contemplative condition, and endeavoring not to disturb it either by a word or a movement.

thus we would lie for several hours at a stretch, and return home to our work, renewed in body and soul, and refreshed by this union with nature.

konováloff loved nature with a profound, inexpressible love, which was indicated only by the soft gleam of his eyes, and always, when he was in the fields or on the river, he was completely permeated by a certain pacifically-affectionate mood, which still further heightened his resemblance to a little child. sometimes he said, with a deep sigh, as he gazed at the sky:

"ekh ... how good it is!"

and in this exclamation there was always more meaning and feeling than in the rhetorical figures of many poets, who go into raptures more for the sake of maintaining their reputations as persons with an exquisite sense of the beautiful, than out of genuine adoration before the unspeakably caressing beauty of nature ...

like everything else, poetry loses its holy beauty and directness, when it is turned into a profession.

*

two months passed, day by day, in the course of which konováloff and i discussed many things and read a great deal. i read the "revolt of sténka" so often to him, that he could narrate it fluently, in his own words, page after page, from beginning to end.

this book had become for him what a fairy-tale sometimes becomes to an impressionable child. he called the objects with which he had to deal by the names of its heroes,[pg 135] and when, one day, one of the bread-moulds fell from the shelf and broke, he exclaimed, sadly and angrily:

"akh you, voevóda!"[13]

[13] sometimes used to mean: "the governor of a province or town"; sometimes, "the commander of an army."—translator.

unsuccessful bread he nicknamed "frólka," the yeast he christened "sténka's thoughts"; sténka himself was the synonym for everything exceptional, huge, unhappy, unsuccessful.

during all this time he hardly alluded to kapitólina, whose letter i had read, and to whom i had composed a reply, on the first day of our acquaintance.

i knew that konováloff had sent her money, to the care of a certain philip, with a request that the latter would act as surety for her to the police, but no answer arrived, either from philip or from the girl.

and all of a sudden, one evening when konováloff and i were preparing to place the bread in the oven, the door of the bakery opened, and from out of the darkness of the damp ante-room a low-pitched, feminine voice, which was both timid and irritable, exclaimed:

"excuse me...."

"whom do you want?" i inquired, while konováloff, dropping the shovel at his feet, plucked at his beard in confusion.

"does baker konováloff work here?"

she now stood on the threshold, and the light of the hanging-lamp fell directly upon her head—on her white woollen kerchief. from beneath the kerchief gazed around, pretty, snub-nosed little face, with plump cheeks, and dimples in them from the smile of her full, red lips.

"yes!" i answered her.

"yes, yes!" konováloff exulted suddenly and very[pg 136] noisily, it seemed, throwing aside his shovel, and hastening forward, with huge strides, toward the visitor.

"sáshenka!" she sighed deeply, as she advanced to meet him.

they embraced, konováloff bending low to reach her.

"well, what now? how did you get here? have you been here long? hey? so it's you! are you free? that's good! now do you see? i told you ... your way is open before you again! go ahead boldly!"—konováloff hastily explained himself to her, as he still stood on the threshold, without removing his arms, which encircled her neck and waist.

"maxím ... you fight it out alone to-day, my boy, while i attend to the ladies' department.... where are you stopping, kápa?"

"i came straight here to you...."

"he-e-ere? you can't possibly stay here—we bake bread here, and ... it's utterly impossible! our boss is the strictest sort of a man. i must settle you for the night somewhere ... in lodgings, say. come on!"

and they departed. i remained to struggle with the bread, and had no expectation of seeing konováloff before the next morning; but, to my no small surprise, he made his appearance three hours later. my astonishment was still further increased, when, on glancing at him, with the anticipation of seeing the radiance of joy in his face, i perceived that it was merely cross, bored, and fatigued.

"what's the matter with you?" i asked, intensely interested in this mood of my friend, which was so unsuited to the event.

"nothing," he replied dejectedly, and, after a pause, he spat with considerable ferocity.

[pg 137]

"no, but all the same?..." i persisted.

"well, what business is it of yours?" he retorted wearily, stretching himself at full length on the bin.—"all the same ... all the same.... all the same—she's a woman! there you have the whole thing!"

i had great difficulty in getting an explanation out of him, and, at last, he gave it to me, approximately in the following words:

"i say—she's a woman! and if i hadn't been a fool, nothing would have come of it. you understand? well.... now you say; a woman is also a human being! of course, she walks on her hind paws, doesn't eat grass, talks with words, laughs ... in short, she isn't a beast. but, all the same, she's no company for the likes of us men.... ye-es! why? well ... i don't know! i feel that she doesn't fit in, but why—is more than i can understand.... now, there she—kapitólina,—this is the line she takes up:—'i want to live with you'—that means with me—'as your wife. i want,' says she, 'to be your watch-dog.... 'it's perfectly absurd! come, now, my dear girl,' says i, 'you're a fool; just consider, what will it be like to live with me? in the first place, there's my tippling; in the second place, i have no home; in the third, i am a vagabond, and i can't live in one place....' and so forth and so on, with a lot more, says i to her. but she—doesn't care a fig about my tippling. 'all men who work at trades are bitter drunkards,' says she, 'yet they have wives; you'll get a house,' says she, 'when you have a wife, and then you won't run off anywhere....' says i: 'kápa, i can't possibly bring myself to do it, because i know that i don't understand how to lead such a life, and i can't learn how.' and says she, 'then i'll jump into the river!' and says i[pg 138] to her: 'you ffo-oo-oll!' then she took to lashing me with her tongue, and didn't she let it loose! 'akh, you meddler, you brazen-faced monster, you deceiver, you long-legged devil!' says she.... and she started in to rail at me, and rail ... she simply seemed to be in such a rage at me, that i came near taking to my heels. then she began to cry. she cried and upbraided me: 'why did you take me out of that place,' says she, 'if you didn't want me? why did you lure me away from that place,' says she, 'and where am i to go now?' says she. 'you red-headed fool,' says she.... faugh! well, and what am i to do with her now?"

"well, and why did you get her away from that place, as a matter of fact?" i inquired.

"why? what a queer fellow you are! because i was sorry for her, apparently! you see, a man gets stuck in the mud ... and he feels sorry for every passer-by. but set up a wife, and all the rest of it ... not much! i won't consent to that. what sort of a family man would i make? and if i could stick to that, i would have married long ago. what good chances i have had! i might have married money.. and all that sort of thing. but if this sort of thing is beyond my power, how am i to do it? she's crying ... that's not a good thing ... of course.... but what am i to do about it? i can't help it!"

he went so far as to shake his head in confirmation of his plaintive "i can't." he rose from the bin, and ruffling his beard and his hair with both hands, he began to stride about the bakery with drooping head, and spitting in disgust.

"maxím!" he began, in an entreating, disconcerted way, "couldn't you go to her, sort of tell her the why and how of it ... hey? do go, that's a good fellow!"

[pg 139]

"what am i to say to her?"

"tell her the whole truth—say 'he just can't do it. it isn't the right thing for him to do ...' and see here, this is what you can say to her ... tell her ... 'there is something the matter with him.'"

"is that the truth?" i laughed.

"we-ell ... no, it isn't the truth.... but it's a good excuse, isn't it? akh, devil take you! what a mess a wife is! isn't that so? and i never thought of such a thing, not even one little minute. come, now, what am i to do with a wife?"

he flourished his hands with so much perplexity and terror as he said this, that it was clear he absolutely did not know what to do with a wife! and, despite the comicality of his statement of this whole affair, its dramatic side made me do some hard thinking over the situation of my comrade and of this girl. meanwhile, he continued to stalk about the bakery, and talk to himself, as it were.

"and she doesn't please me now, it's awful how repulsive she is to me! she's just sucking me in, and dragging me down somewhere, exactly like a bottomless bog. a nice husband you've picked out for yourself! you're not very clever, but you're a crafty girl."

this was the instinct of the vagabond beginning to speak in him, aroused by the feeling of eternal striving after his freedom, which had been assailed.

"no, you won't catch me with that sort of worm, i'm too big a fish for that!" he exclaimed vauntingly.—"this is the way i'll take it, yes ... and, after all, what of it?"—and, coming to a halt in the middle of the bakery, he sighed, and fell into thought. i watched the play of expression on his excited countenance, and tried to divine what conclusion he had arrived at.

[pg 140]

"maxím! hey, there, let's be off for the kubán!"

i had not expected this. i had certain literary—pedagogical designs on him: i cherished the hope of teaching him to read and write, and of imparting to him all that i knew myself at that time. it would have been curious to observe how this experiment would turn out.... he had given me his word not to move from the spot for the whole summer; this had lightened my task, and now, all of a sudden ...

"now you are talking nonsense!" i said to him, somewhat disconcerted.

"well, what else is there for me to do?" he cried.

i began to tell him that, in all probability, kapitólina's designs on him were not so decidedly serious as he imagined, and that he must watch and wait.

and, as it turned out, he had not so very long to wait.

we were sitting on the floor, with our backs to the windows, and chatting. it was almost midnight, and an hour and a half or two hours had elapsed since konováloff's return. all at once, the crash of breaking glass rang out behind us, and a pretty heavy stone thundered noisily down upon the floor beside us. we both sprang to our feet in affright, and rushed to the window.

"i missed fire!" screamed a shrill voice through the opening.—"my aim was bad! if it hadn't been for that...."

"c-cco-ome 'long!" bellowed a fierce bass voice.—"c-cco-ome'l-llong, and i'll settle him ... later on!"

a despairing, hysterical, and drunken laugh, shrill and nerve-splitting, floated in from the street through the shattered window.

"it's she!" said konováloff, sorrowfully.

[pg 141]

all i had been able to descry, so far, was a pair of legs hanging from the sidewalk into the opening before the window. there they dangled and bobbed about in a queer fashion, the heels striking against the brick wall, as though in search of a support.

"c-co-ome'long, now!" jabbered the fierce bass voice.

"let me go! don't drag me, give me a chance to ease my heart. good-bye, sáshka! good-bye...." an unprintable curse followed these words.

on approaching closer to the window, i caught sight of kapitólina. bending down very low, with her hands propped on the sidewalk, she was trying to look into the bakery, and her dishevelled hair lay in disorder over her shoulders and bosom. the white kerchief was pushed on one side, the bodice of her gown was tom. kapitólina was horribly drunk, and was reeling from side to side, hiccoughing, cursing, screaming hysterically, trembling all over, her garments all dishevelled, her face red, intoxicated, drenched with tears.

over her leaned the tall figure of a man, and he, resting one hand on her shoulder, and the other against the wall of the house, kept on roaring:

"c-cco-ome'long!" ...

"sáshka! you have ruined me ... remember that! curse you, you red-headed devil! may you never behold an hour of god's sunshine! i did hope ... i should reform ... you jeered at me, you gallow's-bird ... all right! let's make up! ah!... he has hid himself! shame on you, you cursed ugly mug! ... sásha ... dearest...."

"i haven't hid myself," said konováloff, in a deep, thick voice, approaching the window and climbing up on a bin.—"i'm not hiding ... but there's no use in[pg 142] your going on like this ... i certainly meant kindly by you; it will be a good thing, i thought, but you have rushed off wildly, in the most utterly absurd way...."

"sáshka! can you kill me?"

"why did you get drunk? don't you know what would have happened ... to-morrow?" ...

"sáshka! sáshka! drown me!"

"sto-o-op that! c-co-ome'long!"

"you scound-rrrel! why did you pretend to be a good man?"

"what's all this noise, hey? who are you?"

the whistle of the night-watchman interposed in this dialogue, drowned it, then subsided.

"why did i trust you, you devil!..." sobbed the girl under the window.

then her legs suddenly quivered, flashed upward in haste, and vanished in the gloom. a dull sound of voices and uproar rang out.

"i won't go to the station-house! sá-ásha!" shrieked the girl plaintively.

feet trampled noisily along the pavement.

whistles, a dull roaring, yells.

"sá-ásha! dear man!"

it appeared as though someone were being mercilessly tortured.... all these noises retreated from us, grew fainter, duller, and died away, like a nightmare. stunned, crushed by this scene, which had been enacted with astonishing swiftness, konováloff and i stared into the street through the darkness, and could not recover ourselves from the weeping, roaring, curses, shouts of the police, groans of anguish. i recalled individual sounds, and could hardly persuade myself that it had all actually taken place. this brief but painful drama had come to an end with terrible rapidity.

[pg 143]

"that's all.. said konováloff, with peculiar gentleness and simplicity, after listening a while longer in silence in the dark night, which gazed silently and sternly in at him through the window.

"how she gave it to me!..." he continued with amazement, after the lapse of several seconds, retaining his former attitude on the bin, kneeling and supporting his hands on the slope of the window-sill.—"she has got into the hands of the police ... drunk ... in company with some devil or other. she made up her mind quick!" he heaved a deep sigh, descended from the bin, seated himself on the sacks of flour, with his head clasped in his hands, rocked himself to and fro, and asked me, in an undertone:

"tell me, maxím, what was it that took place there just now?... that is to say, what share have i in it all now?"

i told him. it was all his affair, all the way through. first of all, one must understand what he wants to do, and when he begins a thing, he must set before himself its probable termination. he had not understood this in the least, did not know it, and was thoroughly to blame in every point. i was incensed at him—kapitólina's groans and cries, that drunken "c-come'long!" ... all these things still rang in my ears, and i did not spare my comrade.

he listened to me with bowed head, and when i had finished, he raised it, and on his countenance i read alarm and amazement.

"there you have it!" he exclaimed ... "that's clever! well, and ... what now? hey? how is it? what am i to do with her?"

in the tone of his words there was so much purely-childish[pg 144] in the sincerity of his confession of his fault toward the girl, and so much helpless astonishment, that i immediately felt sorry for my comrade, and reflected that, possibly, i had spoken very sharply and dictatorially to him.

"and why did i move her from that place?" said konováloff, regretfully.—"ekhma! she must be angry with me now ... for now i have.... i'll go there, to the police-station, and i'll try ... i'll see her—and all the rest of it. i'll say to her ... something or other.... shall i go?"

i remarked that not much was likely to come of his seeing her again. what could he say to her? moreover, intoxicated as she was, she was, probably, fast asleep by this time.

but he fortified himself in his idea.

"i'll go, just wait. all the same, i wish her well ... indeed i do. and what sort of people are they for her? i'll go.... here, you, just ... i'll be back before long."

and putting on his cap, he hastily quitted the bakery, without even donning the boot-slippers, of which he was, generally, so vain.

i finished my work and lay down to sleep, but when i awoke in the morning, and, according to my wont, cast a glance at the place where konováloff slept, he was not yet there.

he did not make his appearance until toward evening, when he presented himself gloomy, dishevelled, with harsh lines on his brow, and a sort of mist over his blue eyes. without looking at me, he stepped up to the bins, to see what i had been doing, and then lay down, in silence, upon the floor.

[pg 145]

"well, did you see her?" i asked.

"that's what i went for."

"well, what happened?"

"nothing."

it was plain that he did not wish to talk. assuming that this mood of his would not last long, i did not bother him with questions. and all that day he maintained silence, only flinging at me curt remarks bearing on the work, when it was absolutely necessary, striding about the bakery with drooping head, and still with the same beclouded eyes with which he had arrived. something seemed to have been extinguished within him; he worked slowly and languidly, as though held in bondage by his thoughts. at night, when we had already placed the last batch of loaves in the oven, and had not gone to sleep, for fear of their getting over-done, he asked me:

"come, now, read me something about sténka."

as the description of the tortures stirred him up more than anything else, i began to read that passage to him. he listened, stretched out motionless upon the floor, breast upward, and stared unwinkingly at the smoke-begrimed vaults of the ceiling.

"sténka died. so they set one man free," said konováloff slowly.—"and yet, in those days, a man could live. life was free. there was somewhere to go, a man could divert his spirit. now we have silence, and peaceableness ... order ... if you look at it so, from one side, life has now even become perfectly peaceful. books, reading and writing.... and, nevertheless, a man lives without protection, and there is no sort of guardianship over him. he sins in a forbidden way, but it is impossible not to sin.... for there is order in the streets, but in the soul there is—confusion. and nobody can understand anybody."

[pg 146]

"sásha! on what terms are you with kapitólina?" i asked.

"hey?" he bristled up.—"with kápa? enough!" ... he waved his hand with decision.

"that means—you have made an end of it?"

"i? no—she herself has made an end of it."

"how?"

"very simply. she insisted on her point of view, and wouldn't see any others whatever.... just as before. only, formerly, she did not drink, and now she has taken to drinking.... take the bread out while i get some sleep."

silence reigned in the bakery. the lamp smoked, the oven-door cracked from time to time, and the crusts of baked bread on the shelves cracked also, in drying. in the street, opposite our windows, the night-watchmen were chatting. and still another sound, a strange sound, reached the ear, now and then, from the street, like a sign-board creaking somewhere, or someone groaning.

i took out the bread, and lay down to sleep, but i could not get to sleep, and i lent an ear to all the nocturnal sounds, as i lay there, with half-shut eyes. all at once, i beheld konováloff rise noiselessly from the floor, go to the shelf, take from it kostomároff's book, open it, and hold it up to his eyes. his thoughtful face was clearly visible to me, and i watched him draw his fingers along the lines, shake his head, turn over a leaf, and again stare intently at it, and then transfer his eyes to me. there was an odd, strained, and interrogative expression on his pensive, sunken face, and this face—an entirely new one to me—he kept turned toward me for a long time.

i could not restrain my curiosity, and asked him what he was doing.

[pg 147]

"ah, i thought you were asleep...." he answered in confusion; then he approached me, holding the book in his hand, sat down beside me, and said, hesitatingly: "you see, i want to ask you about something ... isn't there some book or other about the rules of life? that is to say, instruction as to how a man ought to live? i want to have my deeds explained to me—which are injurious, and which are of no consequence ... you see, i am troubled about my deeds.... a deed which seems to me good at the start, turns out bad in the end. now, in that matter of kápa" he drew a long breath, and went on with an effort, and inquiringly: "so, won't you search, and see if there isn't a little book about deeds? and read it to me."

several minutes of silence.

"maxím!" ...

"what?"

"how black kapitólina did paint me!"

"that's all right, now.... say no more about it...."

"of course, it's no matter now.... but, tell me ... was she right?"

this was a ticklish question, but, on reflection, i replied to it in the affirmative.

"there, that's just what i think myself.... she was right ... yes...." drawled konováloff, sadly, and fell silent.

he fidgeted about for a long time on his mat, which was laid flat on the floor, rose to his feet several times, smoked, sat down by the window, and again lay down.

then i fell asleep, and when i awoke he was no longer in the bakery, and made his appearance only toward nightfall. he turned out to be covered all over with some sort[pg 148] of dust, and in his clouded eyes a fixed expression had congealed. flinging his cap on a shelf he heaved a sigh, and seated himself by my side.

"where have you been?"

"i went to take a look at kápka."

"well, and what of it?"

"stop that, brother! didn't i tell you...."

"evidently, you can't do anything with those people," i said, in the endeavor to dispel his mood, and began to talk about the mighty power of habit, and about everything else which seemed appropriate to the occasion. konováloff remained obstinately mute, and stared at the floor.

"no, there's no u-use! it is too much for me! i'm simply a man who spreads infection.... i have not long to live in this world.... such a woful, poisonous breath emanates from me. and just as soon as i go near a man, he immediately catches the infection from me. and woe is all that i can bring to anyone ...? for, when you come to think of it, to whom have i ever brought any satisfaction all my life long? to no one! and i've had dealings with a great many people, too.... i'm a rotting man."

"that's nonsense...."

"no, it's true!..." and he nodded his head with conviction.

i tried to convince him of the contrary, but from my remarks he drew still greater certainty as to his unfitness for life.

altogether, he had begun to undergo a swift, sharp change from the moment of the affair with kápka. he became meditative, lost his interest in books, did not work with his previous ardor, became taciturn and reserved.

during the intervals of freedom from work, he lay down[pg 149] on the floor, and stared fixedly at the vault of the ceiling. his face grew thin, his eyes lost their clear, childlike brilliancy.

"sásha, what's the matter with you?" i asked him.

"my drunken spree is coming on," he explained simply.—"i shall soon let myself loose ... that is, i shall begin to gulp down vódka.... i'm all on fire inside, already ... like a burn, you know.... the time has come ... if it hadn't been for that same story, i might have been able to hold out a little longer. but that affair is eating me up.... how so? i wanted to do good to a person, and—all of a sudden—it turns out entirely wrong! yes, brother, a rule for one's deeds is very necessary in life.... and couldn't such a set of rules be invented, so that all men might act like one, and everyone might understand the others? for it is utterly impossible to live at such a distance from one another! don't the wise people understand, that order must be established on the earth, and men must be brought to a clear knowledge?... e-ekhma!"

absorbed in these thoughts as to the indispensability of a rule of life, he did not listen to my remarks. i even noticed that he seemed to hold somewhat aloof from me. one day, after listening for the hundredth time to my project for reorganizing life, he appeared to become enraged with me.

"well, devil take you.... i've heard of that before.... the point doesn't lie in life, but in man. the first thing is ... the man ... do you understand? well, and there's nothing more to it.... so, according to you, it appears, that until all this has been made over, man, all the same, must remain just as he is now. also.... no, you make him over first, show[pg 150] him his way.... let things be bright and not cramped for him on the earth—that's what you must seek after for man. teach him to find his path.... but that stuff of yours is ... mere fiction."

i retorted, he waxed hot or grew surly, and exclaimed weariedly:

"eh, do stop!"

one day it chanced that he went away in the evening, and did not return at night to work, nor the following day. in his place, the proprietor made his appearance with a troubled face, and announced:

"our leksákha has gone off on a carouse. he's sitting in 'the little wall.' we must hunt up a new baker...."

"but perhaps he will recover himself?!"

"well, of course, just wait ... i know him...."

i went to "the little wall"—a dram-shop cleverly constructed in a stone wall. it was distinguished by the peculiarity that it had no windows, and that the light fell into it through a hole in the ceiling. as a matter of fact, it was a square pit, excavated in the ground, and covered overhead with boards. an earthy odor forever reigned within it, along with cheap, domestic tobacco, and wódka grown bitter with age—a symphony of odors which made one's head ache horribly after half an hour's sojourn among them. but the steady patrons of this den were accustomed to it—they were shady people, with no definite occupations—as they became accustomed to a mass of things which are intolerable to a man. and there they stuck, for whole days at a time, waiting for some artisan on a spree, that they might ply him with drink until he was stark naked.

konováloff was sitting at a large table in the centre of the dram-shop, surrounded by a circle of six gentlemen, in[pg 151] fantastically-tattered costumes, with faces like those of the heroes of hoffmann's "tales," who were listening to him with respectful and flattering attention.

they were drinking beer and vódka together, and eating something which resembled dry lumps of clay.

"drink, my lads, drink, each one as much as he can. i have money and clothing.... they'll last three days in all. i'll drink up everything and ... enough! i don't want to work any more, and i don't want to live here."

"it's the nastiest sort of a town," remarked someone, who looked like sir john falstaff.

"work?" inquired another, with a surprised and interrogative stare at the ceiling.—"and was man born into this world for that?"

then all of them began to yell at once, demonstrating to konováloff his right to drink up everything, and even elevating that right to the rank of an express obligation—to drink away his all precisely with them.

"ah, maxím," jested konováloff, on catching sight of me.—"come on, now, you book-reader and pharisee, take your whack! i've jumped the track for good, my lad. don't say a word! i mean to drink until i haven't a stitch of clothes to my back.... when nothing is left on my body but the hair, i'll stop. pitch in, too, won't you?"

he was not drunk, as yet, but his blue eyes flashed with desperate excitement and sorrow, and his luxuriant beard, which fell over his chest in a silky fan, kept moving to and fro, because his lower lip was twitching with a nervous quiver. his shirt-collar was unbuttoned, tiny drops of perspiration gleamed on his forehead, and the hand which he stretched out to me with a glass of liquor shook.

[pg 152]

"drop it, sásha, let's leave this place together," i said, laying my hand on his shoulder.

"drop it?...." he burst out laughing.—"if you had come to me ten years ago and said that ... perhaps i would have dropped it. but now it's better for me not to drop it.... what else is there for me to do? what? you see, i feel, i feel every movement of life ... but i can't understand anything, and i don't know my way ... i feel ... and i drink, because there's nothing else i can do.... have a drink!"

his companions stared at me with open disapproval, and all twelve of their eyes surveyed my figure with anything but a conciliatory air.

the poor fellows were afraid that i would carry off konováloff,—and the treat, which they had been awaiting, perhaps, for a whole week.

"brethren! this is my chum ... a learned fellow, devil take him! maxím, can you read to us here about sténka?... akh, comrades, what books there are in the world! about pilá?... hey, maxím!... comrades, it isn't a book, but blood and tears. but, you know, pilá ... that's myself? maxím!... and sysóika, i ... by god! how it's plain to me!"

he stared at me with widely-opened eyes, in which lay terror, and his lower lip quivered strangely. the company, not very willingly, made room for me at the table. i sat down beside konováloff, just at the moment when he seized a glass of beer and vódka, half and half.

evidently, he wished to stun himself as speedily as possible with this mixture. after taking a drink, he picked up from his plate a piece of the stuff which looked like clay, but was really boiled meat, inspected it, and flung it over his shoulder against the wall of the dram-shop.

[pg 153]

the company grumbled in an undertone, like a pack of hungry dogs over a bone.

"i'm a lost man.... why did my mother and father bring me into the world? nothing is known ... darkness! stifling closeness! that's all.... goodbye, maxím, if you won't drink with me. i won't go to the bakery. i have some money owing me from the boss—get it, and give it to me, i'll spend it for liquor.... no! take it yourself, for books.... will you take it? you don't want to? then don't.... but won't you take it? you're a pig, if that's the case.... get away from me! g-go a-way!"

he was getting intoxicated, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. the company was quite ready to fling me out from among them by the scruff of the neck, and i, not caring to wait for that, took myself off.

three hours later i was again in "the little wall." konováloff's party had been augmented by two men. they were all drunk, he—the least of all. he was drinking with his elbows resting on the table, and staring at the sky through the opening in the ceiling. the drunken men were listening to him, in various attitudes, and several of them were hiccoughing.

*

konováloff was singing in a baritone voice, which passed into a falsetto on the high notes, as is the case with all artisan singers. supporting his cheek on his hand, he was feelingly producing mournful roulades, and his face was pale with emotion, his eyes were half closed, his throat was curved forward. eight drunken, senseless, crimson faces were gazing at him, and only from time to time did the muttering and hiccoughing make themselves heard. konováloff's voice vibrated and wept, and moaned, and it was a[pg 154] sight pitiful to the verge of tears, to behold this magnificent fellow singing his melancholy lay.

the heavy smell, the sweaty, drunken, ugly faces, two smoking kerosene lamps and the planks which formed the walls of the dram-shop, black with dirt and soot, its earthen floor and the twilight which filled that pit—all these things were gloomy and painfully fantastic. it seemed as though men who had been buried alive were banqueting in a sepulchre, and one of them was singing, for the last time, before his death, and bidding farewell to the sky. hopeless sadness, calm despair, everlasting anguish resounded in my comrade's song.

"is maxím here? do you want to come with me as my assistant officer of bandits? go, my friend!—--" he said, breaking off his elegy, as he offered me his hand.... "i'm all ready, my lad!... i've collected a gang for myself ... here it is ... there'll be more men later on.... we'll find them! this is n-nothing! we'll call ourselves pilá and sysóika.... and we'll feed them every day on buckwheat groats and roast beef ... isn't that good? will you go? take your books with you ... you shall read about sténka and about other people.... friend! akh, i'm disgusted, i'm disgusted ... dis-gus-ted!..."

he banged his fist down on the table, with all his might. the glasses and bottle rattled, and the company, recovering its senses, immediately filled the dram-shop with an uproar which was frightful in its indecency.

"drink, my lads!" shouted konováloff. "drink! ease your hearts ... do your uttermost!"

i retreated from them, stood in the door which opened on the street, listened to konováloff orating with a twisting tongue, and when he began to sing again, i went off[pg 155] to the bakery, and his uncouth, drunken song moaned and wept after me for a long time in the nocturnal stillness.

two days later, konováloff vanished from the town.

i happened to encounter him again.

*

a man must have been born in cultured society, in order to find within himself the patience necessary to live out the whole of his life in the midst of it, and never once desire to escape somewhere, away from the sphere of all those oppressive conventions, legalized by custom, of petty, malicious lies, from the sphere of sickly self-conceit, of sectarianism of ideas, of all sorts of insincerity,—in a word, from all that vanity of vanities which chills the emotions, and perverts the mind. i was born and reared outside that circle of society, and for that reason—a very agreeable one to me—i cannot take in its culture in large doses, without a downright necessity of getting out of its framework cropping up in me, and of refreshing myself, in some measure, after the extreme intricacy and unhealthy refinement of that existence.

in the country it is almost as intolerably tedious and dull as it is among educated people. the best thing one can do is to betake himself to the dives of the towns, where, although everything is filthy, it is still simple and sincere, or to set out for a walk over the fields and roads of his native land, which is extremely curious, affords great refreshment, and requires no outfit except good legs with plenty of endurance.

five years ago i undertook precisely that sort of a trip, and as i tramped across holy russia, without any definite plan of march, i chanced to reach feodósia. at that time they were beginning to build the jetty there, and, in the expectation of earning a little money for my journey, i[pg 156] betook myself to the spot where construction was under way.

being desirous of taking a look at the work first, as a picture, i climbed a hill and seated myself there, gazing down upon the boundless, mighty sea, and the tiny men who were forging fetters for it.

an extensive picture of man's labor was spread out before me:—the whole rocky shore along the bay was dug up, there were holes and piles of stone and lumber everywhere, wheelbarrows, strips of iron, pile-drivers, and some other constructions of beams, and among all these things men were hastening to and fro in every direction. after having ripped up the mountain with dynamite, they were breaking it into small pieces with pickaxes, clearing a space for a line of railway, they were mixing cement in vast mortar-pits, and making out of it stones almost a fathom in cubic measurement, lowering them into the sea, erecting upon them a rampart against the titanic strength of its turbulent waves. they seemed as tiny as worms against the background of the dark-brown hill, disfigured by their hands, and like worms they swarmed busily about among the heaps of rubbish, and bits of wood in fragment of stone dust, and in the sultry heat, reaching to thirty degrees[14] of the southern day. the chaos around them, and the red-hot sky above them, imparted to them the appearance of being engaged in burrowing into the hill, trying to escape into its bosom from the fervor of the sun and the melancholy picture of destruction which surrounded them.

in the suffocating air hung a mighty moaning murmur and uproar, the blows of masons' hammers on stone, the wheels of the barrows screeched dolefully, iron pile-drivers[pg 157] descended upon the wood of the piles, the ballad of "the little oaken cudgel" wailed out, the axes tapped away as they rough-hewed the beams, and the dark, and gray, bustling little figures of men shouted in all tones.

in one spot, a cluster of them, loudly chanting "heave-ho!", were handling a huge fragment of rock, endeavoring to move it from its resting-place; in another spot, a heavy beam was being raised, and the men were shouting as they strained:

"ca-a-atch ho-old!"—and the mountain, furrowed with cracks, repeated dully: "hold-old-old!"

[14] réaumur. feodósia is on the shore of the black sea, in the crimea. 30° réau. = 84° fahrenheit.—translator.

along a broken line of boards, flung down here and there, moved a long file of men, bending low over their barrows loaded with stone, and coming slowly to meet them, with empty barrows, was another file, who were dragging out one minute of rest into two.... by one of the pile-drivers stood a dense, motley-hued throng of men, and one of them was singing in a long-drawn, plaintive voice:

"ee-ekhma, comrades,'tis awfully hot

ee-ekh! on us no one has pity!

o-oi there, little oaken cu-ud ge-el,

he-eave-ho-o!"

the throng hummed mightily, as they hauled away on the cables, and the piece of cast-iron, flying up through the pipe of the pile-driver, fell thence, giving out a dull, groaning sound, and the whole pile-driver quivered.

on every spot of the open space between the mountain and the sea tiny gray people hurried to and fro, filling the air with their shouts, with dust, and the sour odor of man. among them overseers were walking about, clad in white duck coats with metal buttons, which shone in the sun like someone's cold eyes. over them were the cloudless, mercilessly-hot heaven, volumes of dust and waves of sounds—[pg 158]the symphony of toil, the only music which does not afford delight.

the sea stretched out to the misty horizon, and softly plashed its transparent billows against the strand, so full of sound and movement. all gleaming in the sunlight, it seemed to be smiling, with the good-natured smile of a gulliver, conscious that, if he so wished, with one movement he could cause all the work of the lilliputians to disappear.

there it lay, dazzling the eyes with its radiance—great, powerful, kind, and its mighty breath blew upon the beach, refreshing the weary men who were toiling to put a restraint upon the freedom of its waves, which now were so gently and musically caressing the disfigured shore. it seemed to feel sorry for them:—its centuries of existence had taught it to understand, that those who build are not the ones who cherish evil designs against it; it long ago found out that they are only slaves,-that their part is to wrestle with the elements face to face. and in this struggle, the vengeance of the elements awaits them. all they do is to build, they toil on forever, their sweat and blood are the cement of all the constructions on the earth; but they receive nothing for this, though they yield up all their forces to the eternal propensity to construct—a propensity which creates marvels on the earth, but, nevertheless, gives men no blood, and too little bread. they also are elementary forces, and that is why the sea gazes, not angrily but graciously, upon their labors from which they derive no profit. these gray little worms, who have thus excavated the mountain, are just the same thing as its drops, which are the first to fall upon the cold and inaccessible cliffs of the shore, in the eternal effort of the sea to extend its boundaries, and the first to perish as they are dashed in fragments against these crags. in the mass, too, these drops[pg 159] are nearly related to it, since they are exactly like the sea, as mighty as it, as inclined to destruction, so soon as the breath of the storm is wafted over them. in days of yore the sea also was acquainted with the slaves, who erected pyramids in the desert, and the slaves of xerxes, that ridiculous man, who undertook to chastise the sea with three hundred lashes, because it had destroyed his toy bridges. slaves have always been exactly alike, they have always been submissive, they have always been ill-fed, and they have always accomplished the great and the marvellous, sometimes enriching those who have set them to work, most frequently cursing them, rarely rising up in revolt against their masters ...

and, smiling with the calm smile of a titan who is conscious of his strength, the sea fanned with its vivifying breath the earth, that titan which is still spiritually blind, and enslaved and wofully riddled, instead of aspiring to affinity with heaven. the waves ran softly up the beach, sprinkled with a throng of men, engaged in constructing a stone barrier to their eternal motion, and as they ran they sang their ringing, gracious song about the past, about everything which, in the course of the ages, they have beheld on the shores of earth....

among the laborers there were certain strange, spare, bronze figures, in scarlet turbans, in fezzes, in short blue jackets, and in trousers which were tight about the lower leg, but with full seats. these, as i afterward learned, were turks from anatolia. their guttural speech mingled with the slow, drawling utterance of the men from vyátka, with the strong, quick phrases of the bulgarians, with the soft dialect of the little russians.

in russia people were dying of starvation, and the famine had driven hither representatives of nearly all the[pg 160] provinces which had been overtaken by this disaster. they had separated into little groups, in the endeavor of the natives of each place to cling together, and only the cosmopolitan tramps were immediately discernible by their independent aspect, and costumes, and their peculiar turn of speech, which was that of men who still remained under the dominion of the soil, having only temporarily severed their connection with it, who had been torn from it by hunger, and had not yet forgotten it. they were in all the groups: both among the vyátkans and among the little russians they felt themselves at home, but the majority of them were assembled round the pile-driver, because the work there was light, in comparison with the work of the barrow-men and of the diggers.

when i approached them, they were standing with their hands released from a hawser, waiting for the contractor to repair something connected with the pulley of the pile-driver, which, probably, was "eating into" the rope. he was poking about up aloft on the wooden tower, and every now and then he would shout down:

"give way!"

then they would tug lazily at the rope.

"stop!... give way once more! stop! go ahead!"

the leader of the singing,—a young fellow, long unshaved, with a pock-marked face and a soldierly air,—shrugged his shoulders, squinted his eyes to one side, cleared his throat, and started up:

"into the earth the pile-driver rams the stake...."

the verse which followed would not pass muster with even the most lenient censor, and evoked an unanimous burst of laughter, which, evidently, proved that it was an[pg 161] impromptu, composed on the spot by the singer, who, as his comrades laughed, twirled his mustache with the air of an artist who is accustomed to that sort of success with his audience.

"go a-he-ead!" roared the contractor fiercely from the summit of the pile-driver.—"stop your neighing!...

"don't gape, mitritch,—you'll burst!"—one of the workmen warned him.

the voice was familiar to me, and somewhere or other i had seen before that tall, broad-shouldered figure, with the oval face, and large, blue eyes. was it konováloff? but konováloff had not the scar running from the right temple to the bridge of the nose, which intersected the lofty brow of this young fellow; konováloff's hair was of a lighter hue, and did not crisp in such small curls as this fellow's; konováloff had a handsome, broad beard, but this man was clean-shaven as to his chin, and wore a thick mustache, whose ends drooped downward, in little russian fashion. yet, nevertheless, there was something about him which i knew well. i made up my mind to enter into conversation with him, in particular, as the person to whom i should apply, in order to "get a job," and assumed a waiting attitude, until they should have finished driving the pile.

"o-o-okh! o-o-okh!"—the crowd heaved a mighty sigh as they squatted down, hauled away on the ropes, and again swiftly straightened themselves up, as though on the point of tearing themselves from the ground, and taking flight through the air. the pile-driver steamed and quivered, above the heads of the crowd rose their bare, sun-burned, hairy arms, hauling in unison on the rope; their muscles swelled out like wens, but the piece of cast-iron, twenty puds in weight,[15] flew upwards to a constantly[pg 162] lessening height, and its blow upon the wood sounded more and more faintly. anyone watching this work might have thought that this was a throng of idolaters, engaged in prayer, uplifting their arms, in despair and ecstasy, to their silent god, and bowing down before him. their faces, bathed in sweat, dirty, strained in expression, with dishevelled hair, which clung to their damp brows, their light-brown necks, their shoulders quivering with intensity of effort,—all those bodies, barely covered with tattered shirts and trousers of motley hues, filled the air roundabout them with their hot exhalations, and melting together in one heavy mass of muscles, moved restlessly about in the humid atmosphere, impregnated with the sultriness of the southland, and the dense odor of sweat.

[15] seven hundred and twenty pounds.—translator.

"enough!"—shouted someone, in an angry, cracked voice.

the hands of the workmen dropped the ropes, and they hung limply down the sides of the pile-driver, while the laborers sank down heavily, where they stood, upon the ground, wiping away the sweat, breathing hard, feeling of their shoulders, and filling the air with a dull murmur, which resembled the roaring of a huge, irritated wild beast.

"fellow-countryman!"—i addressed myself to the young fellow whom i had picked out.

he turned indolently toward me, ran his eyes over my face, and puckering them up, stared intently at me.

"konováloff!"

"hold on...." he thrust my head backward with his hand, exactly as though he were about to seize me by the throat, and suddenly lighted up all over with a joyful, kindly smile.

"maxím! akh—curse you! my friend ... hey? and so you have broken loose from your career? you[pg 163] have enlisted in the barefoot brigade? well, that's good! now, it's truly fine! a vagabond—and that's all there is to it! have you been so long? where do you come from? now you and i will tramp all over the earth! what a life ... that there behind us, isn't it? downright misery, long drawn out; you don't live, you rot! but i've been roaming the fair world ever since then, my boy. what places i've been in! what air i have breathed.... no, you've improved cleverly ... one wouldn't know you again: from your clothing, one would think you a soldier, from your phiz, a student! well, what do you think of it, isn't it fine to live so ... moving from place to place? for, you see, i remember sténka ... and tarás, and pilá ... everything."

he punched me in the ribs with his fist, slapped me on the shoulder with his broad palm, exactly as though he were preparing a beefsteak out of me. i could not interpose a single word into the volley of his questions, and only smiled,—very foolishly, in all probability,—as i gazed at his kind face, which was radiant with satisfaction over our meeting. i, also, was very glad to see him; this meeting with him recalled to me the beginning of my life, which, undoubtedly, was better than its continuation.

at last, i managed, somehow, to ask my old friend, whence came that scar on his brow and those curls on his head.

"why that, you see ... was a scrape. i undertook, with a couple of my chums, to make my way across the roumanian frontier; we wanted to take a look at things in roumania. well, so we set out from kalúga,—which is a small place in bessarábia, close to the frontier. we went quietly on our way—by night, of course. all of a sudden: 'halt!' the custom-house cordon had crawled[pg 164] straight down on it. well, of course, we took to our heels! then one insignificant little soldier hit me a whack over the pate. he didn't strike very hard, but, nevertheless, i lay in hospital about a month. and what an affair it was! it turned out that the soldier was from the same part of the country as myself! we were both muróm men.... he was brought to the hospital, too, not long after—a smuggler had spoiled him by sticking a knife into his belly. we made it up between us, and got things straightened out. the soldier asks me: 'did i slash you?'-'it must have been you, since you confess it.'—'i had to,' says he; 'don't you cherish a grudge,' says he, 'that's part of our service. we thought you were travelling with smuggled goods. here,' says he, 'this is the way they treated me—they ripped my belly open. it can't be helped; life is a serious game.'—well, and so he and i struck up a friendship. he was a good little soldier—was yáshka mázin.... and my curls? curls? the curls, my boy, came after the typhoid fever. i've had the typhoid fever. they put me in jail in kishinéff, with the intention of trying me for crossing the frontier illegally, and there i developed typhoid fever.... i lay there and lay there with it, and came near never getting up from it. and, in all probability, i shouldn't have recovered, only the nurse took a great deal of pains with me. i was simply astonished, my boy—she fussed over me as though i were a baby, and what did she care about me? 'márya petróvna,' i used to say to her, 'just drop that; i'm downright ashamed.' but she only kept laughing. she was a nice girl.... she sometimes read me soul-saving books. 'well, now,' says i, 'aren't there any books;' says i, 'like ...' you know the sort. she brought a book about an english sailor, who was saved from a shipwreck[pg 165] on an uninhabited island, and created a new life for himself there. it was interesting, awfully interesting! that book pleased me greatly; i'd have liked to go there, to him. you understand, what sort of a life it was? an island, the sea, the sky,—you live there alone by yourself, and you have everything and you are entirely free! there was a savage there, too. well, i'd have drowned the savage—what the devil should i want him for, hey? i don't get bored all alone. have you read any such book?"

"wait. well, and how did you get out of prison?"

"they let me out. they tried me, acquitted me, and released me. it was very simple.... see here, i won't work any more to-day, devil take it! it's all right, i've rattled my arms round hard enough, and it's time to stop. i have three rubles on hand, and for this half day's work i shall get forty kopéks.[16] see what a big capital! that means that you're to come home to where we live. we're not in the barracks, but yonder, in the vicinity of the town ... there's a hole there, so very convenient for human habitation.... two of us have our quarters in it, but my chum is ailing ... he's bothered with fever.... well, now, you sit here while i go to the contractor ... i'll be back soon!"

[16] about half these amounts in dollars and cents.—translator.

he rose swiftly, and walked off just at the moment when the men who were driving piles took hold of the ropes, and began their work. i remained sitting on a stone, looking at the noisy bustle which reigned around me, and at the blue-green sea. konováloff's tall form, slipping swiftly among the laborers, the heaps of stone, lumber, and barrows, vanished in the distance. he walked, flourishing his hands, clad in a blue creton blouse, which was too short and too tight for him, crash drawers, and heavy boot-slippers.[pg 166] his cap of chestnut curls waved over his huge head. from time to time he turned round, and made some sort of signals to me with his hands. he was so entirely new, somehow, so animated, calmly confident, amiable, and powerful. everywhere around him men were at work, wood was cracking, stone was being laid, barrows were screeching dolefully, clouds of dust were rising, something fell with a roar, and men were shouting and swearing, sighing and singing as though they were groaning. amid all this confusion of sounds and movements, the handsome figure of my friend, as it retreated from it with firm strides, constantly tacking from side to side, stood out very sharply, and seemed to present a hint of something which explained konováloff.

three hours after we met, he and i were lying in the "hole, very convenient for human habitation." as a matter of fact, the "hole" was extremely convenient—stone had been taken out of the mountain at some distant period, and a large, rectangular niche had been hewn out, in which four persons could have lodged with perfect comfort. but it was low-studded, and over its entrance hung a block of stone, which formed a sort of pent-house, so that, in order to get into the hole, one was forced to lie flat on the ground in front of it, and then shove himself in. it was seven feet in depth, but it was not necessary to crawl into it head foremost, and, indeed, this was risky, for the block of stone over the entrance might slide down, and completely bury us there. we did not wish this to happen, and managed in this way: we thrust our legs and bodies into the hole, where it was very cool, but left our heads out in the sun, in the opening of the hole, so that if the block of stone should take a notion to fall, it would crush only our skulls.

the sick tramp had got the whole of himself out into[pg 167] the sun, and lay a couple of paces from us, so that we could hear his teeth chattering in a paroxysm of fever. he was a long, gaunt little russian: "from piltáva, and, prehaps, from kieff...." he told me pensively.[17]

[17] "piltáva," for poltáva; and "prehaps" are respectively, actual and approximated specimens of the little russian pronunciation; though this brief sentence contains a third not easily reproduced.—translator.

"a man lives so much in the world, that it's of no consequence if he does forget where he was born ... and what difference does it make, anyway? it's bad enough to be born, and knowing where.... doesn't make it any the better!"

he rolled about on the ground, in the endeavor to wrap himself as snugly as possible in a gray overcoat, patched together out of nothing but holes, and swore very picturesquely, when he perceived that all his efforts were futile—he swore, but continued to wrap himself up. he had small, black eyes, which were constantly puckered up, as though he were inspecting something very intently.

the sun baked the backs of our necks intolerably, and konováloff constructed from my military cloak something in the nature of a screen, driving sticks into the ground, and stretching my costume over them. still, it was stifling. from afar there was wafted to us the dull roar of toil on the bay, but we did not see it; to the right of us, on the shore, lay the town in heavy masses of white houses, to our left—was the sea,—in front of us, the sea again, extending off into immeasurable distance, where marvellous, tender colors, never before beheld, which soothed the eye and the soul by the indescribable beauty of their tints, were intermingled, through soft half-tones, into a fantastic mirage.

[pg 168]

konováloff gazed in that direction, smiled blissfully, and said to me:

"when the sun has set, we will light up a bonfire, and boil some water for tea: we have bread, and meat. but, in the meanwhile, would you like a cantaloupe or a watermelon?"

with his foot he rolled a watermelon out from a corner of the hole, pulled a knife out of his pocket, and as he operated upon the watermelon with it, he remarked: "every time that i am by the sea, i keep wondering why so few people settle down near it. they would be the better for it, because it is soothing and sort of ... good thoughts come from it into a man's soul. but come, tell how you have been living yourself all these years."

i began to tell him. he listened; the ailing little russian paid no attention whatever to us, as he roasted himself in the sun, which was already sinking into the sea. and in the far distance, the sea was already covered with crimson and gold, and out of it, to meet the sun, rose clouds of a pinkish-smoke color, with soft outlines. it seemed as though mountains with white peaks, sumptuously adorned with snow and rosy in the rays of the sunset, were rising from the depths of the sea. from the bay floated the mournful melody of "the little oaken cudgel," and the roar of blasts of dynamite, which were destroying the mountain.... the rocks and inequalities of the soil in front of us cast shadows on the ground, and these, as they imperceptibly lengthened, crept over us.

"it's downright no good for you to haunt the towns, maxím,"—said konováloff persuasively, after he had listened to my epic narrative.—"and what is it that draws you to them? the life there is tainted and close. there's neither air, nor space, nor anything else that a man needs.[pg 169] people? what the devil do you want with them? you're an intelligent man, you can read and write, what are people to you? what do you need from them? and then, there are people everywhere...."

"ehe!" interposed the little russian, as he writhed on the ground like an adder.—"there are people everywhere ... lots of them; a man can't pass to his own place without treading on their feet. why, they are born in countless numbers! they're like mushrooms after a shower ... and even the gentry eat them!" he spat philosophically, and again began to chatter his teeth.

"well, so far as you are concerned, i say it again,"—continued konováloff,—"don't you live in the towns. what is there there? nothing but ill-health and disorder. books? well, i think you must have read books enough by this time! you certainly weren't born for that.... yes, and books are—trash! well, buy one, and put it in your wallet, and start out. do you want to go to tashként with me? or to samarkánd, or where? and then we'll have a try at the amúr—is it a bargain? i, my boy, have made up my mind to walk over the earth in various directions—that's the very best thing to do.... you walk along, and you're always seeing something new.... and you don't think of anything.... the breeze blows in your face, and it seems to drive all sorts of dust out of the soul. you feel light-hearted and free.... nobody interferes with you: if you feel hungry, you come to a halt, and earn half a ruble by some sort of work; if there isn't any work, you ask for bread, and you'll get it. in that way, you'll see a great deal of the world, at any rate.... all sorts of beauty.... come on!"

the sun set. the clouds over the sea darkened, the sea[pg 170] also grew dim, and wafted forth a refreshing coolness. here and there stars shone out, the hum of toil on the bay ceased, and only now and then were exclamations of the men, soft as sighs, borne thence to us. and when the light breeze breathed upon us, it brought with it the melancholy sound of the breaking of the waves against the shore.

the nocturnal gloom speedily grew more dense, and the figure of the little russian, which five minutes previously had perfectly definite outlines, now looked like nothing but an uncouth clod ...

"we ought to have a fire...." he said, coughing.

"we will...."

konováloff pulled out a pile of chips from somewhere or other, set fire to them with a match, and thin tongues of flame began caressingly to lick the yellow, resinous wood. slender streams of smoke curled through the night air, filled with the moisture and freshness of the sea. and everything grew quieter round about: ... life seemed to have withdrawn from us somewhither, and its sounds melted and were extinguished in mist. the clouds dispersed, stars began to glitter in the dark-blue sky, and upon the velvety surface of the sea, also, faintly flickered the tiny lights of fishing-boats, and the reflections of the stars. the fire in front of us blossomed out, like a huge, reddish-yellow flower.... konováloff thrust the teapot into it, and clasping his knees, began to stare thoughtfully into the blaze. and the little russian, like a big lizard, crawled up, and lay down near it.

"people have built towns, houses, have assembled together there in heaps, and defile the earth, sigh, crowd one another.... a nice life that! no, this is life, this, such as we...."

[pg 171]

"oho!"—the little russian shook his head,—"if we could only manage to get a fur coat, or a warm hut in it for the winter, we'd live like lords...." he screwed up one eye, and looked at konováloff, with a laugh.

"we-ell," said the latter abashed,—"winter—is ... a thrice-accursed time. towns really are needed for the winter ... you can't get along without them.... but the big towns are no good, all the same.... why cram people into such heaps, when two or three can't get along together?—that's what i was talking about. of course, when you come to think of it, there's no room for a man either in the town, or in the steppe, or anywhere else. but it's better not to think of such things ... you can't think out anything, and you only harrow your soul...."

up to this point i had thought that konováloff had been changed by his vagrant life, that the excrescences of sadness which were on his heart during the first period of our acquaintance had fallen away from him, like a husk, from the action of the free air which he had breathed during those years; but the tone of his last phrase rehabilitated before me my friend as still the same man, seeking a point of support for himself, whom i had known before. the same rust of ignorance in the face of life, and venom of thoughts about it, were still corroding that powerful form, which had been born, to its misfortune, with a sensitive heart. there are many such "meditative" people in russian life, and they are all more unhappy than anyone else, because the heaviness of their meditations is augmented by the blindness of their minds. i gazed with compassion on my friend, but he, as though confirming my thought, exclaimed, sadly:

"i have recalled that life of ours, maxím, and all that—[pg 172]took place there. how much ground i have covered since then in my roamings, how much, of all sorts, i have seen ... no, for me there is nothing suitable on earth! i have not found my place!"

"then why were you born with a neck that no yoke will fit?" inquired the little russian indifferently, taking the boiling teapot out of the fire.

"no, do you tell me,..." inquired konováloff,—"why i can't be easy? hey? why do people live on, and feel all right, busy themselves with their affairs, have wives, children, and all the rest of it ... they complain of life, but they are easy. and they always want to do this, that, or the other. but i—can't. why do things disgust me?"

"there's that man jawing,"—remarked the little russian in surprise.—"well, will you feel any the easier for your jawing?"

"that's so,..." assented konováloff sadly.

"i always say little, but i know what i'm talking about," uttered the stoic, with a consciousness of his own dignity, yet without ceasing to contend with his fever.

"let's drop that subject.... i was born, well, that means, live on, and don't argue...." said konováloff, this time viciously.

the little russian considered it necessary to add:

"and don't force yourself anywhere; the time will come when, without your will, you must be dragged in and ground to dust ... lie still, and hold your tongue.... neither our tongues nor our hands are of any help to us...."

he articulated this, began to cough, wriggled about, and took to spitting into the fire with exasperation. around us everything was obscure, curtained with a thick veil of[pg 173] gloom. the sky above us was dark, also, the moon had not yet risen. we felt rather than saw the sea—so dense was the mist in front of us. it seemed as though a black fog had been lowered over the earth. the fire went out ...

"let's lie down to sleep?" suggested the little russian.

we made our way into the "hole," and lay down, with our heads thrust out into the open air. we were silent. konováloff remained motionless, as though turned to stone, in the attitude in which he lay down. the little russian thrashed about incessantly, and his teeth kept chattering. i stared, for a long while, at the smouldering coals of the fire: at first brilliant and large, the coals gradually grew smaller, became covered with ashes, and disappeared beneath them. and soon nothing was left of the fire, except the warm odor. i gazed and thought:

"we are all of us like that.... the point is, to blaze up as brightly as possible!"

three days later i took leave of konováloff. i was going to the kubán, he did not wish to go. but we both parted with the conviction that we should meet again on earth.

it has not come to pass....