Old Izergil and other stories / Старуха Изергиль и другие рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Максим Горький
Chelkash mused awhile and then said: “I’m a fisherman.”
“A fisherman? Think of that! So you catch fish, do you?”
“Why fish? The fishermen here don’t only catch fish. Mostly dead bodies, old anchors, sunken boats. There’s special fish-hooks for such things.”
“Lying again. Maybe you’re one of those fishermen who sing:
We cast our nets Upon the shores, In market stalls, in open doors.
“Ever met fishermen like that?” asked Chelkash, looking hard at the boy and grinning.
“No, but I’ve heard about them.”
“Like the idea?”
“Of people like that? Why not? At least they’re free; they can do what they please.”
“What’s freedom to you? Do you hanker after freedom?”
“Of course. What could be better than to be your own boss, go where you like and do what you like? Only you’ve got to keep straight and see that no millstones get hung round your neck. Outside of that, go ahead and have a good time without a thought for anything save God and your conscience.”
Chelkash spat contemptuously and turned away.
“Here’s what I’m up against,” went on the boy. “My father died without leaving anything much, my mother’s old, the land’s sucked dry. What am I supposed to do? I’ve got to go on living, but how? God knows. I have a chance to marry into a good family. I wouldn’t mind if they’d give the daughter her portion. But they won’t. Her old man won’t give her an inch of land. So I’d have to work for him, and for a long time. For years. There you are. If only I could lay hands on, say, a hundred and fifty roubles I’d be able to stand up to her father and say: ‘Do you want me to marry your Marfa? You don’t? Just as you say; she’s not the only girl in the village, thank God.’ I’d be independent, see? and could do what I liked.” The boy heaved a sigh. “But it looks as if there was nothing for it but to be his son-in-law. I thought I’d bring back a couple of hundred roubles from the Kuban. That would be the thing! Then I’d be a gentleman! But I didn’t earn a damn thing. Nothing for it but to be a farm-hand. I’ll never have a farm of my own. So there you are.”
The boy squirmed and his face fell at the prospect of being this man’s son-in-law.
“Where you bound now?” asked Chelkash.
“Home. Where else?”
“How do I know? Maybe you’re bound for Turkey.”
“Turkey?” marvelled the boy. “What honest Christian would ever go to Turkey? A fine thing to say!”
“You are a blockhead,” murmured Chelkash, turning away again. Yet this wholesome village lad had stirred something in him; a vague feeling of dissatisfaction was slowly taking form within him, and this kept him from concentrating his mind on the night’s task.
The boy, offended by Chelkash’s words, muttered to himself and threw sidelong glances at the older man. His cheeks were puffed up in a droll way, his lips were pouting and his narrowed eyes blinked rapidly. Evidently he had not expected his talk with this bewhiskered ruffian tramp to end so suddenly and so unsatisfactorily.
But the tramp paid no more attention to him. His mind was on something else as he sat there on the curbstone whistling to himself and beating time with a dirty toe.
The boy wanted to get even with him.
“Hey, you fisherman! Do you often go on a bout?” he began, but at that moment the fisherman turned to him impulsively and said:
“Look, baby-face, would you like to help me to do a job tonight? Make up your mind, quick!”
“What sort of job?” asked the boy dubiously.
“‘What sort’! Whatever sort I give you. We’re going fishing. You’ll row.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind doing that, I’m not afraid of work. Only – what if you get me into trouble? You’re a queer egg; there’s no understanding you.”
Chelkash had a sensation as of heart-burn.
“Don’t go spouting on things you don’t know anything about,” he said with cold animosity. “I’ll give you a good crack over the bean, and then you’ll understand a thing or two.”
He jumped up, his eyes flashing, his left hand pulling at his moustache, his right clenched in a hard and corded fist.
The boy was frightened. He glanced quickly about him and then he, too, jumped up, blinking nervously. The two of them stood there silently measuring each other with their eyes.
“Well?” said Chelkash harshly. He was seething inside, twitching all over from the insult taken from this puppy he had held in such contempt so far, but whom he now hated with all his soul because he had such clear blue eyes, such a healthy tanned face, such short sturdy arms; because he had a native village and a house there, and an offer to be the son-in-law of a well-to-do muzhik; he hated him for the way he had lived in the past and would live in the future, but most of all he hated him because he, a mere child as compared with Chelkash, dared to hanker after a freedom he could neither appreciate nor have need of. It is always unpleasant to discover that a person you consider beneath you loves or hates the same things you do, thereby establishing a certain resemblance to yourself.
As the lad looked at Chelkash he recognized in him a master.
“I don’t really – er – mind,” he said. “After all, I’m looking for work. What difference does it make whether I work for you or somebody else? I just said that because – well, you don’t look much like a workingman.
You’re so – er – down at heel. But that can happen to anybody, I know. God, haven’t I seen drunks before? Plenty of them, some even worse than you.”
“All right, all right. So you’re willing?” said Chelkash in a milder tone.
“With pleasure. State your price.”
“The price depends on the job. How much we catch. Maybe you’ll get five roubles.”
Now that the talk was of money, the peasant wanted to be exact and demanded the same exactness from the man who was hiring him. Once more he had his doubts and suspicions.
“That won’t suit me, brother.”
Chelkash played his part.
“Don’t let’s talk about it now. Come along to the tavern.”
And they walked down the street side by side, Chelkash twirling his moustache with the air of a master; the lad fearful and distrusting, but willing to comply.
“What’s your name?” asked Chelkash.
“Gavrilla,” answered the lad.
On entering the dingy, smoke-blackened tavern, Chelkash went up to the bar and in the off-hand tone of a frequenter ordered a bottle of vodka, cabbage soup, roast beef and tea; he repeated the list and then said nonchalantly: “On tick,” to which the barman replied by nodding silently. This instantly inspired Gavrilla with respect for his employer, who, despite his disreputable appearance, was evidently well known and trusted.
“Now we’ll have a bite and talk things over. Sit here and wait for me; I’ll be right back.”
And he went out. Gavrilla looked about him. The tavern was in a basement; it was dark and damp and filled with the stifling smell of vodka, tobacco smoke, pitch, and something else just as pungent. A drunken red-bearded sailor smeared all over with pitch and coal-dust was sprawling at a table opposite him. Between hiccups he gurgled a song made of snatches of words which were all sibilant one minute, all guttural the next. Evidently he was not a Russian.
Behind him were two Moldavian women. Swarthy, dark-haired, ragged, they too were wheezing out a drunken song.
Out of shadows loomed other figures, all of them noisy, restless, dishevelled, drunken…
Gavrilla