Twenty-six and One and Other Stories. Максим Горький
in the air.
"No, you tell me – who is she? You have insulted me… I?.. Not a single one can wrench herself from me, never! And you say to me such offensive words.".. And, indeed, he looked really offended. Evidently there was nothing for which he might respect himself, except for his ability to lead women astray; it may be that aside from this ability there was no life in him, and only this ability permitted him to feel himself a living man.
There are people to whom the best and dearest thing in life is some kind of a disease of either the body or the soul. They make much of it during all their lives and live by it only; suffering from it, they are nourished by it, they always complain of it to others and thus attract the attention of their neighbors. By this they gain people's compassion for themselves, and aside from this they have nothing. Take away this disease from them, cure them, and they are rendered most unfortunate, because they thus lose their sole means of living, they then become empty. Sometimes a man's life is so poor that he is involuntarily compelled to prize his defect and live by it. It may frankly be said that people are often depraved out of mere weariness. The soldier felt insulted, and besetting our baker, roared:
"Tell me – who is it?"
"Shall I tell you?" the baker suddenly turned to him.
"Well?"
"Do you know Tanya?"
"Well?"
"Well, try.".
"I?"
"You!"
"Her? That's easy enough!"
"We'll see!"
"You'll see! Ha, ha!"
"She'll.."
"A month's time!"
"What a boaster you are, soldier!"
"Two weeks! I'll show you! Who is it? Tanya! Tfoo!".
"Get away, I say."
"Get away… you're bragging!"
"Two weeks, that's all!"
Suddenly our baker became enraged, and he raised the shovel against the soldier. The soldier stepped back, surprised, kept silent for awhile, and, saying ominously, in a low voice: "Very well, then!" he left us.
During the dispute we were all silent, interested in the result. But when the soldier went out, a loud, animated talk and noise was started among us.
Some one cried to the baker:
"You contrived a bad thing, Pavel!"
"Work!" replied the baker, enraged.
We felt that the soldier was touched to the quick and that a danger was threatening Tanya. We felt this, and at the same time we were seized with a burning, pleasant curiosity – what will happen? Will she resist the soldier? And almost all of us cried out with confidence:
"Tanya? She will resist! You cannot take her with bare hands!"
We were very desirous of testing the strength of our godling; we persistently proved to one another that our godling was a strong godling, and that Tanya would come out the victor in this combat. Then, finally, it appeared to us that we did not provoke the soldier enough, that he might forget about the dispute, and that we ought to irritate his self-love the more. Since that day we began to live a particular, intensely nervous life – a life we had never lived before. We argued with one another all day long, as if we had grown wiser. We spoke more and better. It seemed to us that we were playing a game with the devil, with Tanya as the stake on our side. And when we had learned from the bulochniks that the soldier began to court "our Tanya," we felt so dreadfully good and were so absorbed in our curiosity that we did not even notice that the proprietor, availing himself of our excitement, added to our work fourteen poods (a pood is a weight of forty Russian pounds) of dough a day. We did not even get tired of working. Tanya's name did not leave our lips all day long. And each morning we expected her with especial impatience. Sometimes we imagined that she might come to us – and that she would be no longer the same Tanya, but another one.
However, we told her nothing about the dispute. We asked her no questions and treated her as kindly as before. But something new and foreign to our former feelings for Tanya crept in stealthily into our relation toward her, and this new something was keen curiosity, sharp and cold like a steel knife.
"Fellows! Time is up to-day!" said the baker one morning, commencing to work.
We knew this well without his calling our attention to it, but we gave a start, nevertheless.
"Watch her!.. She'll come soon!" suggested the baker. Some one exclaimed regretfully: "What can we see?"
And again a lively, noisy dispute ensued. To-day we were to learn at last how far pure and inaccessible to filth was the urn wherein we had placed all that was best in us. This morning we felt for the first time that we were really playing a big game, that this test of our godling's purity might destroy our idol. We had been told all these days that the soldier was following Tanya obstinately, but for some reason or other none of us asked how she treated him. And she kept on coming to us regularly every morning for biscuits and was the same as before. This day, too, we soon heard her voice:
"Little prisoners! I've come.."
We hastened to let her in, and when she entered we met her, against our habit, in silence. Staring at her fixedly, we did not know what to say to her, what to ask her; and as we stood before her we formed a dark, silent crowd. She was evidently surprised at our unusual reception, and suddenly we noticed that she turned pale, became restless, began to bustle about and asked in a choking voice:
"Why are you.. such?
"And you?" asked the baker sternly, without taking his eyes off the girl.
"What's the matter with me?"
"Nothing.."
"Well, quicker, give me biscuits.."
She had never before hurried us on..
"There's plenty of time!" said the baker, his eyes fixed, on her face.
Then she suddenly turned around and disappeared behind the door.
The baker took up his shovel and said calmly, turning towards the oven:
"It is done, it seems!.. The soldier!.. Rascal!.
Scoundrel!".
Like a herd of sheep, pushing one another, we walked back to the table, seated ourselves in silence and began to work slowly. Soon some one said:
"And perhaps not yet.".
"Go on! Talk about it!" cried the baker.
We all knew that he was a clever man, cleverer than any of us, and we understood by his words that he was firmly convinced of the soldier's victory… We were sad and uneasy. At twelve o'clock, during the dinner hour, the soldier came. He was, as usual, clean and smart, and, as usual, looked straight into our eyes. We felt awkward to look at him.
"Well, honorable gentlemen, if you wish, I can show you a soldier's boldness,".. said he, smiling proudly. "You go out into the hallway and look through the clefts… Understand?"
We went out and, falling on one another, we stuck to the cleft, in the wooden walls of the hallway, leading to the yard. We did not have to wait long… Soon Tanya passed with a quick pace, skipping over the plashes of melted snow and mud. Her face looked troubled. She disappeared behind the cellar door. Then the soldier went there slowly and whistling. His hands were thrust into his pockets, and his moustache was stirring.
A rain was falling, and we saw the drops fall into plashes, and the plashes were wrinkling under their blows. It was a damp, gray day – a very dreary day. The snow still lay on the roofs, while on the ground, here and there, were dark spots of mud. And the snow on the roofs, too, was covered with a brownish, muddy coating. The rain trickled slowly, producing a mournful sound. We felt cold and disagreeable.
The soldier came first out of the cellar; he crossed the yard slowly,
Stirring his moustache, his hands in his pockets – the same as always.
Then