The lad listened to what Chelkash was saying with mouth wide open and amazement and admiration written on his round, tanned face; but soon he realized that the hobo was pulling his leg, and, smacking his lips, he burst into a hearty laugh. Chelkash kept a straight face, hiding his smile under his moustache.
“I’m a boob! You talk as if it was all true, and I listen to it and believe it.... But, still, so help me God, things were better there before!”
“Well, and what am I saying? Ain’t I saying that before things were.. ”
“Stop kidding!” interrupted the boy with a wave of his hand. “What are you, a shoemaker? Or a tailor? You, I mean.”
“Me?” asked Chelkash in his turn, and after thinking for a moment, he said: “I’m a fisherman.”
“A fish-er-man! Is that so! So you catch fish?”
“Fish! Why fish? The fishermen here don’t only catch fish. Mostly it’s drowned bodies, lost anchors, sunken ships—things like that. They have special hooks for this work....”
“Yah! It’s all lies! ... They must be the fishermen they sing about in the song:
On arid shores
We spread our nets,
And barns and sheds we trawl....
“Have you ever met fishermen like that?” asked Chelkash with a smile., looking hard at the boy.
“Met them? No, where could I have met them? But I’ve heard about them....”
“What do you think of them?”
“That kind of fisherman, you mean? Well ... they’re not a bad lot. They’re free. They have freedom....”
“What’s freedom to you? ... Do you like freedom?”
“What do you think? Be your own master. Go where you like, do what you like.... I should say so! You can keep yourself straight and have no milestone round your neck. Have a good time, and nothing to worry about, except keep God in mind. What could be better?”
Chelkash spat contemptuously and turned his head away.
“With me it’s like this,” continued the boy. “My father’s dead. We’ve only a patch of a farm. My mother’s old. The land’s all dried up. What can I do? I’ve got to live. But how? I don’t know. I thinks to myself—I’ll go and be a son-in-law in a good house. But what’s the use? It would be all right if the father-in-law gave his daughter a share of his property, and we could set up for ourselves. But do you think he’d do that? Not a bit. The devil wants to keep it all for himself and expects me to slave for him ... for years! You see what I mean? But if I could earn a hundred or a hundred and fifty rubles, I’d be independent, and I’d say to the father-in-law—you can keep your property! If you give Marfa a share, all well and good. But if you don’t ... thank God she’s not the only girl in the village! I’d be quite free. On my own.... Y-e-s!” The boy heaved a deep sigh and went on to say: “But what can I do now? Nothing. I’ll have to go and slave for a father-in-law. I thought I’d go to the Kuban and earn a couple of hundred rubles, and then everything would be all right. I’d be able to live like a gentleman. But I didn’t make anything. So I’ll have to go as a labourer after all.... I’ll never have my own farm now! Ah, well!”
It was quite evident that the lad was extremely reluctant to go as a son-in-law, for as he finished speaking his face became beclouded with grief and he squirmed as he lay on the ground.
Chelkash asked him:
“Where are you bound for now?”
“Home, of course! Where else?”
“How do I know? You might be bound for Turkey....”
“T-u-rkey!” drawled the boy in astonishment. “What Christians go to Turkey? That’s a nice thing to say!”
“You’re a fool!” said Chelkash, heaving a sigh and turning his head away again. This sturdy peasant lad stirred something in him....
He became conscious of a vague, but steadily growing feeling of vexation gnawing at the pit of his stomach which prevented him from concentrating his mind on the task he had before him that night.
Offended by the snub which had just been administered to him, the boy muttered something under his breath and now and again cast a sidelong glance at the hobo. He pouted his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and far too rapidly blinked his eyes in the most comical fashion. He was obviously disappointed at the conversation with this bewhiskered tramp having been brought to such an abrupt close.
But the tramp paid no more attention to him. He sat on the curbstone engrossed in thought, whistling softly to himself, and beating time with his dirty, bare heel.
The lad wanted to pay him out for the snub.
“Hey, fisherman! Do you often go on the booze?” he began, but the “fisherman” suddenly turned his face towards him and asked:
“Listen, baby! Do you want to do a job of work with me tonight? Tell me quick!”
“What kind of job?” the lad asked suspiciously.
“What do you mean, what kind? Any kind I give you.... We’ll go fishing. You’ll row the boat.”
“Oh, all right. Not so bad. I don’t mind taking a job. But ... I won’t get into trouble with you, will I? You’re a dark one.... There’s no understanding you.”
Chelkash again became conscious of a feeling like heartburn rising in his chest. In a low voice of cold anger he said:
“Then don’t chatter about what you don’t understand.... If you’re not careful I’ll give you a crack over the head that’ll make you understand.”
His eyes flashed. He jumped up from the curbstone, twirled his moustache with the fingers of his left hand and clenched his right hand into a hard brawny fist.
The boy was frightened. He glanced round rapidly, blinked timidly, and also sprang to his feet. The two stood looking each other up and down in silence.
“Well!” asked Chelkash sternly. He was burning and trembling with rage at the insult he had received from this callow youth whom he had despised when talking to him, but whom he now hated because he had such a healthy, tanned face, bright blue eyes and short sturdy arms, and because he lived in a village somewhere, had a home there, and some rich farmer was asking him to be his son-in-law; because of his whole past and present, but most of all because this lad, who was only a baby compared with himself, dared to love freedom, the value of which he did not appreciate, and which he did not need. It is always unpleasant to see a man whom you regard as being inferior to and lower than yourself love or hate the same things that you love and hate and thereby resemble you.
The lad glared at Chelkash and felt that the latter was his master.
“Oh ... I don’t mind,” he said, “I’m looking for a job, ain’t I? It’s all the same to me who I work for, you or somebody else. All I wanted to say was ... you don’t look like a working man, you’re ... er ... so ragged. Of course, I know it might happen to anybody. Lord, haven’t I seen enough drunkards! Lots of them! And some even worse than you.”
“All right, all right! So you agree?” Chelkash interrupted in a milder tone.
“Me? Why, of course! With pleasure! But how much will you pay me?”
“I pay according to results. It depends on the results.... On the catch. D’you understand? You might get a fiver. Will that be all right?”
Now that it was a question of money the peasant wanted to be definite, and he wanted his employer to be definite too. Again distrust and suspicion awoke in his mind.
“No, that doesn’t suit me, brother!”
Chelkash also began to play the part.
“Don’t argue. Wait! Let’s go to the pub!” he said.
They walked down the street side by side. Chelkash twirled his moustache with the important air of an employer. The lad’s face expressed complete readiness to obey, and at the same time complete distrust and apprehension.
“What’s your name?” Chelkash asked him.
“Gavrila,” the boy answered.
When they entered the dingy smoke-begrimed tavern, Chelkash walked up to the bar and in the familiar tone of a frequenter ordered a bottle of vodka, some shchi, roast meat, and tea. When all t
his was served, he curtly said to the barman: “On tick!” The barman silently nodded his head. This scene impressed Gavrila and roused in him a profound respect for this man, his master, who was so well known and enjoyed such credit in spite of his disreputable appearance.
“Well, we’ll have a bite now and then talk business. But wait here a moment, I have somewhere to go,” said Chelkash.
He went out. Gavrila looked around him. The tavern was in a basement; it was damp and dismal, and a suffocating smell of vodka fumes, stale tobacco smoke, tar, and of some other pungent substance pervaded the place. At a table, opposite Gavrila, sat a red-bearded drunken man in seaman’s dress, covered from head to foot with coal dust and tar. Hiccoughing every now and again, he sang a song in twisted and broken words that sometimes sounded like a hiss and sometimes were deeply guttural. He was evidently not a Russian.
Behind him sat two Moldavian women, ragged, black-haired and sunburnt, and they too were drunkenly singing a song.
Out of the gloom other figures emerged, all strangely dishevelled, and half drunk, noisy and restless....
Gavrila began to feel afraid and longed for the return of his master. All the noises of the tavern merged in one monotonous tone, and it seemed as though some enormous beast was growling, as though, possessing hundreds of different voices, it was angrily and blindly struggling to get out of this stone pit, but was unable to find the exit. Gavrila felt as though his body was absorbing something intoxicating and heavy, which made him dizzy and dimmed his eyes, which were roaming round the tavern with curiosity mixed with fear....
Chelkash came back and they began to eat and drink, talking as they proceeded with their meal. After the third glass of vodka, Gavrila was drunk. He felt merry and wanted to say something to please his master, who was such a fine fellow and had given him this splendid treat. But the words which welled up in his throat in waves could not, for some reason, slip off his tongue, which had suddenly become so strangely heavy.
Chelkash looked at him and said with an ironic smile:
“Half seas over already! Ekh, you milksop! What will you be like after the fifth glass? ... Will you be able to work?”
“Don’t ... be ... afraid ... brother,” stammered Gavrila. “You’ll... be ... satisfied. I love you! Let me kiss you, eh?”
“Now then, none of that! Here, have another drink!”
Gavrila took another drink, and another, until everything around him began to float in even, undulating waves. This made him feel unwell and he wanted to vomit. His face looked foolishly solemn. When he tried to talk he smacked his lips in a comical way and mooed like a cow. Chelkash gazed at him absently, as if recalling something, thoughtfully twirling his moustache and smiling sadly.
The tavern rang with a drunken roar. The red-haired seaman was sleeping with his head resting on his elbows.
“All right, let’s go,” said Chelkash, getting up from the table.
Gavrila tried to get up too, but could not. He swore, and laughed idiotically as drunken men do.
“What a wash-out!” muttered Chelkash, resuming his seat at the table opposite Gavrila.
Gavrila kept on chuckling and gazing stupidly at his master. The latter stared back at him, keenly and thoughtfully. He saw before him a man whose life had fallen into his wolfish clutches. He felt that this life was in his power to turn in any direction he pleased. He could crumple it like a playing card, or could help place it in a firm peasant groove. He felt that he was the other one’s master, but through his mind ran the thought that this lad would never have to drain the cup of bitterness that fate had compelled him, Chelkash, to do. . . . He both envied and pitied this young life, he despised it, and was even conscious of a feeling of regret as he pictured the possibility of it falling into other hands like his own. . . . But in the end all these feelings merged into one that was both paternal and practical. He was sorry for the lad, but he needed him. He took Gavrila under the armpits, lifted him up and gently prodding him from behind with his knee, he pushed him out into the tavern yard, laid him in the shade of a wood-pile, sat down beside him and lit his pipe. Gavrila wriggled about for a while, moaned, and fell asleep.
II
“Are you ready?” Chelkash in an undertone asked Gavrila, who was fumbling with the oars.
“In a minute! This rowlock’s loose. Can I give it just one bang with the oar?”
“No! Don’t make a sound! Force it down with your hand and it will slip into its place.”
Both were noiselessly handling a boat that was moored to the stern of one of a whole flotilla of small sailing barges laden with oak staves, and of large Turkish feluccas laden with palm and sandal wood and thick cyprus logs.
The night was dark. Heavy banks of ragged clouds floated across the sky. The sea was calm. The water, black and thick, like oil, gave off a humid, saline smell and lazily lapped against the ship’s sides and the beach, gently rocking Chelkash’s boat. Far from the shore loomed the dark hulls of ships, their masts pointing to the sky, tipped with different coloured lights. The sea, reflecting these lights, was dotted with innumerable coloured patches, which shimmered on its soft, black, velvety surface. The sea was sound asleep, like a labourer after a hard day’s work.
“We’re off!” said Gavrila, dropping his oars into the water.
“Aye, aye!” said Chelkash, pulling hard with his steering oar to bring the boat into the strip of water between the barges. The boat sped swiftly over the slippery water, and with each stroke of the oars the water was lit up with a bluish phosphorescent radiance that trailed like a long, soft, fluttering ribbon from the boat’s stern.
“Does your head still ache?” Chelkash asked in a kindly voice.
“Something awful! ... It’s ringing like a bell.... I’ll splash some water over it in a minute.”
“There’s no need to do that. Take this. It’ll help your inside, and you’ll soon get better,” said Chelkash, handing Gavrila a flask.
“I doubt it.... Well, God bless us....”
A soft gurgling sound was heard.
“Hey, you! That’s enough!” said Chelkash, stopping the boy from drinking more.
The boat pushed ahead again, noiselessly and swiftly winding its way among the ships.... Suddenly it shot out from among the crowd of ships, and the sea—infinite and mighty—spread out before them into the blue distance, where mountains of clouds towered out of the water—some violet and grey with puffy yellow borders, others greenish, the colour of sea water, and others of a dull, leaden hue, of the kind which throw heavy, mournful shadows. The clouds moved slowly, now merging with and now skirting each other, mingling their colours and forms, absorbing each other and again emerging in new shapes, majestic and frowning.... There was something sinister in the slow movement of this soulless mass. It seemed as though over there, on the edge of the sea, their number was infinite, and that they would eternally creep across the sky in this indifferent manner with the malicious object of preventing it from shining again over the slumbering sea with its millions of golden eyes—the multi-coloured stars, living and dreamily radiant, exciting lofty desires in men to whom their pure radiance is precious.
“The sea’s fine, isn’t it?” asked Chelkash.
“Not bad! Only it makes me feel afraid,” answered Gavrila, pulling strongly and steadily at the oars. The water was barely audible as it splashed under the strokes of the long oars and shone with the warm bluish light of phosphorus.
“Afraid! You boob!” exclaimed Chelkash contemptuously.
He, the thief, loved the sea. His vibrating nervous nature, thirsting for impressions, could not contemplate enough the dark, boundless, free and mighty expanse. He felt hurt when he heard this answer to his enquiry about the beauty of the thing he loved. Sitting in the stern, he cleaved the water with his oar and calmly gazed ahead, feeling that he would like to glide far away over its velvety surface.
The sea always gave him a warm expansive feeling which filled his whole soul and purged it somewhat
of the dross of everyday life. He appreciated this, and loved to see himself a better man, here, amidst the water and the air, where thoughts of life, and life itself, always lose, the former their painful acuteness, and the latter all value. At night, the sound of the sea’s soft breathing as it slept floats evenly over its surface, and this limitless sound fills a man’s soul with serenity, and gently subduing its evil impulses rouses in it mighty dreams....
“Where’s the tackle?” Gavrila suddenly asked, looking anxiously into the bottom of the boat.
Chelkash started.
“The tackle? I’ve got it here, in the stern.”
He felt ashamed at having to lie to this boy, and he also regretted the thoughts and feelings that had been disturbed by this boy’s question. It made him angry. The familiar sense of burning rose in his breast and throat, and this irritated him still more.
“Now look here!” he said to Gavrila in a hard, stern voice. “You sit still and mind your own business. I hired you to row. Do the job I hired you for. If you wag your tongue too much, you’ll be sorry for it! Do you understand me?”
The boat shivered for a moment and stopped. The oars remained in the water, causing it to foam. Gavrila wriggled uncomfortably on his seat.
“Row! ”
A foul oath shook the air. Gavrila swung back his oars. The boat shot forward, as if with fright, and sped on at a rapid, jerky pace, noisily cleaving the water.
“Steady now, steady!”
Chelkash stood up in the stern, and keeping hold of the steering oar, he glared coldly into Gavrila’s pale face. Bending forward, he looked like a cat crouching for a spring. In his rage he ground his teeth so hard that it could be distinctly heard, and Gavrila’s teeth, chattering with fear, were no less audible.
“Who’s that shouting?” came a stern cry from the sea.
“Row! Row, you devil! ... Quieter! ... I’ll murder you, you dog! ... Go on! ... Row! ... One! Two! Make a sound, and I’ll tear you limb from limb!” hissed Chelkash. And then he went on in a jeering tone: “Afraid! Booby!”