A 
 
 A 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 6 
 1 
 1 
 
 5 
 3 
 3 : 
 
 Stories of the 
 Steppe 
 
 .« 
 
 by Maxim Gorki 
 
 I
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 STRATFORD UNIVERSAL LIBRARY 
 
 STORIES 
 OF THE STEPPE 
 
 by 
 
 Maxim Gorki 
 
 v 
 
 translated by 
 Henry T. Schnittkind ; ; Isaac Goldberg 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 The Stratford Company, Publishers 
 
 1918
 
 
 Copyright 1918 
 
 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 Introduction 
 
 MAXIM GORKI, the Bitter Voice of Russia, can tell fairy- 
 tales whose coloring has all the richness of oriental twi- 
 lights and whose cadences are garlands woven of sea-spray and 
 wind-blossoms. His stories of the steppe are not propagandistic, 
 and with the exception of the powerful tale Because of Monotony, 
 they are not sordid pictures of realistic misery, but they are 
 sweet fairy lullabies that the gods must sing to the baby angels 
 when they are sad and weary with their contemplation of human 
 sorrows. These tales are filled with longing, and throughout 
 that longing there is a thread of red fire that at times bursts 
 forth into a flaming prophecy of hope. Perhaps Gorki, in writ- 
 ing those strange, wonderfully magical fairy tales, was un- 
 consciously rehearsing that strangest and most wonderful fairy 
 tale of them all, — the great Russian Revolution. 
 
 He who has no love for music had better leave these stories 
 alone, as they will have no charm for him. He who prefers so- 
 ciety to sunsets will find these stories dull and colorless, — as 
 colorless as the clouds at the close of the day are to a blind man. 
 But those who have the capacity for enjoying the silent music 
 of the night, the barely audible purling of sea-waves in the dis- 
 tance, the soft pit-a-pat of the wind-dance on the prairie, will be 
 charmed by these stories as they have rarely been charmed in 
 tlieir waking hours. For these stories of the steppe have all 
 the magic of dreams; their atmospliere enveloi)es you and per- 
 meates your every pore, sinking deep into your lieart through 
 every one of your five senses, and tlirougli a sixth sense, too,— a 
 sense whose very indefinable vagueness makes if the most vivid 
 of them all. For it is that sense, — or shall i cnli it religious 
 experience, — which enables you to realize eternity in the single 
 
 V
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tick of a clock and infinity in a drop of water. It is that sense 
 which sometimes catches you unawares, as you pass on your 
 prosaic road of jagged experiences between a dream and a 
 dream, when suddenly turning your head, you see God nodding 
 and smiling to you as he pauses for an instant in this labor of 
 creating new worlds. 
 
 The Russians, we are told, are dreamers. Fortunate Rus- 
 sians ! The greatest and finest and most enduring things in the 
 world are the handiwork of dreamers. Men of action who are 
 unable to dream are the destroyers of the world; they are the 
 Hindenburgs, the Hohenzollerns, those brute forces that can- 
 not leave their imprint on the sands of time unless the sand is 
 soaked in human blood. It is the dreamers, men like Gorki and 
 Tolstoi, who out of the elements of sea and land can build a 
 fairy tale and out of the chaos of tyranny and suffering can 
 create a nation of free men and women, 
 
 Maxim Gorki is one of the supreme dreamer-revolutionists 
 of the present day, and the stories of the steppe are among his 
 most wonderful visions. The translators have been rather free 
 in their rendering, for it has required the utmost care to re- 
 produce the tang and the perfume of the Russian steppe on 
 American soil. A dream of such fine coloring and melody can 
 be totally shattered by the introduction of the slightest jarring 
 note, and the translators hope that at least a fraction of the 
 beauty of the original has been preserved in this version, 
 
 H. T, S. 
 
 VI
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Makar Chudra 9 
 
 Because of Monotony 27 
 
 The Man Who Could Not Die ... 49 
 
 vu
 
 Makar Chudra 
 
 A MOIST and chilly wind carried over the steppe the mel- 
 ancholy murmur of the waves that splashed against the 
 shore, and of the shrubbery which covered the water's edge. 
 Now and then the Avind drove before it a multitude of withered 
 yellow leaves, whirling them into the camp-fire and fanning its 
 flames, whereupon a shudder crept over the darkness that en- 
 veloped us, piercing the autumn night and revealing to the left — 
 the limitless steppe, and to the right — the infinite ocean against 
 the background of which crouched the figure of Makar Chudra, 
 an old gypsy who had been set to watch over the horses of the 
 camp which was situated about fifty paces from us. 
 
 He seemed utterly unconscious of the cold blasts of the 
 wind that whipped open his gypsy cloak, exposing and lashing 
 unmercifully his hairy bronze-colored chest. Turning toward 
 me his free, vStrong and handsome face from his recumbent post- 
 ure, he thouglitfully puffed away at his big pipe, blowing thick 
 clouds of smoke from his mouth and nostrils. His motionless 
 eyes were fixed beyond me upon the darkness that stretched 
 endlessly over the death-like silence of the steppe. He talked 
 to me without interruption, making no motion whatsoever to 
 shield himself against the pitiless buffeting of the storm. 
 
 "And so you are joining us? That's fine ! You have chosen 
 a splendid course. Falcon. We all have to meet our fate. Go 
 about and see the world, and wticn you liave seen enougli, lie 
 down and die — and that's all ! 
 
 9
 
 10 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 < < ■ 
 
 Life? Other people?" he continued — " H 'm ! What 
 business is it of yours? Are you not yourself a slice of life? 
 And as for other people, they have been living without you and 
 they will continue to live without you. Do you think anybody 
 needs you? You're neither bread nor a staff; why then should 
 people have need of you ? 
 
 ' ' To learn and to teach, you say ? Can you ever learn how to 
 make people happy ? No, you can 't. You will only become gray 
 and then you will say that you must teach others. But what are 
 you going to teach them? Everybody knows what he needs. 
 The wise take everything, the fools get nothing, and everybody 
 learns for himself . . . 
 
 "Human beings are ridiculous, crowding themselves to- 
 gether into a single heap and stifling the life out of one an- 
 other, when there is so much room in the world, " — he extended 
 his hand toward the wide steppe. — "And they are forevermore 
 working. For what? For whom? Nobody knows. You behold 
 a man at the plough, and you think : First he wastes away his 
 strength tilling the earth by the sweat of his brow, and then he 
 stretches his own corpse in it and rots away. Nothing remains 
 of him, he does not even reap his own sowing, but dies just as 
 he was born, a blockhead. 
 
 ' ' Can it be that he is bom for this, — to dig about in the earth 
 and then to die even before he has succeeded in preparing his 
 own grave? Has he known freedom? Does he understand the 
 wide expanse of the steppe ? The multitudinous murmur of the 
 sea, is his heart ever gladdened by that sound ? H 'm ! From the 
 moment of his birth he is a slave, and throughout all his life 
 he remains a slave, that 's all ! He can do nothing to help him- 
 self, except to put a noose around his head if ever he becomes a 
 little wiser. 
 
 ' ' But as for me — just look at me, will you — I have seen 
 so much in my fifty odd years that if I were to write it all down 
 on paper, it would fill more than a thousand sacks like the one
 
 MAXIM GORKI 11 
 
 you've got there. Yes, and then there would be some left over. 
 I'd like you to show me the country I haven't been to. Why, 
 you haven't even heard of all the countries I have visited. 
 That 's the way to live — wandering, wandering, — staying only 
 for a little while in each place. — Why not ? Just as the day 
 and the night are forever on the go, chasing each other around 
 the earth, I would advise you to be on the move, away from your 
 thoughts about life, if you don't want to get sick of them. For 
 the more you think of life the less you like it, that's how it al- 
 ways happens. I, too, have had the same experience. Yes, 
 Falcon, I've lived through it all myself. 
 
 "I have been in jail; it was in Galicia, and I had plenty of 
 time to philosophize there. What am I in this world for? I used 
 to ask myself. I would get these thoughts into my head just to 
 break the monotony, — for it certainly was monotonous there ! At 
 such moments my heart was oppressed with longing whenever 
 I looked at the fields through the prison bars. My heart was 
 pressed as in a vise ! . . , Yes, Falcon, we live in this world and 
 that is all. Who knows why? Nobody. And it's useless to ask. 
 Live and live fully ; keep wandering and look about you, and you 
 will never long for that which you haven't got, never! At that 
 time I could have strangled myself with my girdle. Yes, Falcon, 
 I've been through it all! 
 
 " H 'm ! Once I spoke to a man . . , He was a stern fellow, 
 — one of you, a Russian, lie said : ' You ought to live not as you 
 like, but as God ha.s ordained. Only throw yourself at God's 
 feet and lie will give you everything that you pray for.' And 
 yet this chap himself wore a ragged suit full of holes. I told him 
 to get a new suit of clothes with his prayers, whereupon he be- 
 came angry, cursed and drove me away from him. Up to that 
 time he had been preaching forgiveness and love. lie should 
 therefore have forgiven me when I ofTcnded his pride with my 
 words. There's a teacher for you ! They tench you to eat less, 
 and they themselves eat ten times a day ..."
 
 12 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 He spat into the fire and became silent, filling his pipe once 
 more. The wind had died down to a soft, melancholy wail, the 
 horses neighed in the darkness, and from the camp floated the 
 tender, yet sorrowful tones of a dirge. The singer was the 
 beautiful Nonka, the daughter of Makar. I recognized the rich 
 and round quality of her voice which always sounded so pathetic, 
 so full of longing and discontent — whether she were singing a 
 song or merely saying ' ' good morning. ' ' In her brown lustreless 
 features you could see the smoldering hauteur of a queen and 
 in her dark-brown eyes that were always veiled with a shadow of 
 sadness flashed the conscious power of her charm and the ir- 
 resistible attractiveness of her beauty, as well as her contempt 
 for everything that was unlike herself. 
 
 Makar handed the pipe to me. 
 
 "Have a smoke! Doesn't the girl sing well? Don't you 
 think so, hey ? How would you like to be loved by a girl like her 1 
 You wouldn't? That's fine! You are quite right. Put no 
 trust in women, and keep away from them. To kiss a girl is 
 better and pleasanter than to smoke my pipe. . . But once you 
 have kissed a woman the freedom of your heart is dead. A 
 woman binds you to her with bonds that can neither be seen nor 
 torn asunder. You give your whole soul away and you get 
 nothing in return. Take my advice; beware of women. They 
 are always lying, the snakes. . . 'I love you more than anything 
 else in the world,' she says. And yet, if you but prick her acci- 
 dentally with a pin, she will tear your heart out. I know ! 
 Ye gods, how well I know ! If you will listen to me. Falcon, I '11 
 tell you a story. But above all, be on your guard, and you will 
 remain a free bird all your life. 
 
 * ' There was one upon a time a young gypsy, and his name 
 was Zobar, Loyko Zobar. All Hungary and Bohemia and Sla- 
 vonia and all the country that borders on the sea knew him, for 
 he was a brave lad. There was not a village in the entire land in 
 which there were not at least a dozen people who had sworn an
 
 MAXIM GORKI 13 
 
 oath to Heaven that they would kill Loyko. And yet he lived. 
 If he ever took a fancy to a horse, he would gallop away with 
 it even if an entire regiment had been set to watch over the 
 beast. H'm! He feared neither God nor man. And even if 
 Satan himself were to array his whole hellish army against him, 
 he would oppose them single-handed, and I haven't the slightest 
 doubt in the world that Satan's jaw would feel the taste of Zo- 
 bar's mighty fist. 
 
 "And every gypsy camp knew him either by sight or by 
 hearsay. He loved only horses, nothing else, and even these he 
 loved only for a while. One gallop and he was done with them. 
 And the money that he got for selling them anybody could have 
 for the asking. He had nothing that he was unwilling to share 
 with others. If you were to ask for his very heart, he would tear 
 it out of his breast and give it to you for the mere pleasure of 
 doing you a favor. That's the kind of a man he was, Falcon! 
 
 ' ' Our band was at that time wandering through Bukowina — 
 it was about ten years ago — . Once, in the springtime — I re- 
 member it as though it happened yesterday — we were resting ; 
 myself, Danila, the soldier who had fought with Kossuth, old 
 Nur and all the others. Radda, Danila 's daughter, was with us, 
 too. 
 
 "You know my Nonka, don't you? Isn't she a queen of a 
 girl! But Radda must not be compared with her, for that wo\i1d 
 be too much honor for Nonka! Words cannot describe this 
 Radda. One might, perhaps, express her loveliness by means 
 of the violin, but he alone could do it who knows the violin as 
 he knows his own soul. 
 
 "Many a brave young heart did she ruin, ye gods, how many ! 
 Once a rich old man behfld her. When his glance fell upon her, 
 he stopped as if paralyzed. He sat upon his mount and gazed 
 at her, trembling as in a fever. He was as handsome as the 
 devil on a holifiay, his mantle was embroidered with gold, and 
 whenever the horse stamped with his hoofs, the sabre flashed
 
 14 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 like lightning at his side . . . The entire sabre was inlaid with 
 precious stones, and the bright blue velvet on his cap was like 
 a piece of sky ... A mighty nobleman was he ! He gazed and 
 gazed upon Radda, and then he said to her: 'Give me a kiss 
 and I will give you a purse full of money in return ! ' She merely 
 turned away, and that was all. 'Pardon me! Even if I have 
 offended you, you will at least favor me with your smile, won't 
 you ? ' Thus did he humble his pride, throwing a purse of money 
 at her feet — a great, big purse, brother ! But Radda merely 
 kicked it with her foot into the dusty road, and that was all. 
 
 ' ' ' Aha ! Is that the kind of a girl you are ? ' muttered the 
 rich man, whipping his horse. Only a cloud of dust remained be- 
 hind. 
 
 "And the next day he came again. — 'Who is her father?' 
 he cried in a loud voice that resounded throughout the camp. 
 Danila came. 'Sell me your daughter, and set your own price!' 
 But Danila replied : ' This is the custom only among gentlemen ; 
 they sell everything, from their pigs to their conscience. But I 
 have fought under Kossuth, and I will not sell anything ! ' The 
 nobleman flew into a rage and grasped the hilt of his sabre, but 
 just at that moment one of us stuck a burning match into the ear 
 of his horse and drove him away together with the rider. . . We 
 broke up our camp and wandered on. We wandered for two 
 days, and yet he overtook us! 'Hey, you folks,' he said, 'be- 
 fore you and before God my conscience is clear. Give me this girl 
 for my wife, and I will share everything with you. I am very 
 rich ! ' — He was burning with excitement and just as a blade of 
 grass quivers in the tempest, just so did he sway in the saddle. 
 
 " 'Well, my daughter, speak!' grumbled Danila into his 
 beard. 
 
 " 'If the daughter of an eagle were to go of her own free 
 wiU into the nest of a raven, what would she become then?' 
 asked Radda. 
 
 "Danila laughed and we laughed with him.
 
 MAXIM GORKI 15 
 
 ** 'Well spoken, little daughter! Have you heard, your 
 Honor ? It can 't be done ! You had better look for a little dove 
 — they are more submissive.' 
 
 "And we went on. The nobleman took his cap, threw it 
 upon the ground and galloped away, — he galloped so fast tnat 
 the earth quaked. That's the kind of a girl she was. Falcon! 
 
 * * Yes, and one evening we were sitting and listening. Music 
 floated over the steppe. It was a wonderful music ! It set the 
 blood in our veins afire and seemed to call us somewhere. And 
 we, every one of us, felt as though that music awoke in us a 
 vague longing, either to die or else to live as the ruler of the 
 entire world. That's the kind of music it was, Falcon! 
 
 "And it came nearer and ever nearer. And suddenly a 
 horse steps out of the darkness, and upon this horse sits a man 
 playing on a fiddle as he approaches us. At the campfire he 
 halts, stops playing and greets us with a smile. 
 
 " 'Ah, Zobar, it is you!' cried Danila joyously. 
 
 "That, then, was Loyko Zobar! The ends of his mustache 
 hung way down over his shoulders, mingling together with his 
 steel-brown locks; his eyes glittered as the bright-stars, and the 
 very sun was mirrored in his laughter, so help me God! He 
 looked as though chiselled out, chiselled out of one piece together 
 with his horse. He sat as though wholly suffused with blood in 
 the light of the glowing logs, and his teeth flashed when he 
 laughed. May I be cursed if I did not fall in love with him im- 
 mediately, even before he spoke a single word or even noticed 
 that I, too, lived on the face of the earth! 
 
 "Yes, Falcon, that's the kind of people we sometimes find 
 in the world! He looks into your eyes and he captures your 
 whole soul. And yon are not even asliamed of it; on the con- 
 trary, you foci proud of it. Tti your dealings with such a man 
 you become better yourself. My friend, the world has not many 
 people like him! And it is only right that this sliould be so. 
 If there were much good in the world, people would no longer
 
 16 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 consider it good. That's how it is! But hear what happened 
 after that. 
 
 "Radda spoke up: 'You play beautifully, Loyko. Who 
 made you this fiddle with such rich full tones?' 
 
 "Loyko laughed. * I myself have made it ! Not out of wood 
 have I made it, but out of the breast of a young girl whom I 
 have loved ardently, and the strings have I fashioned by inter- 
 twining her heart-strings. It is still somewhat false, this fiddle, 
 but I know how to master it with the bow in my hand. Do you 
 see?' 
 
 "We gypsies, as you know, try from the very outset to be- 
 cloud the eyes of women in order that they may not set our 
 hearts aflame, but that they should themselves instead be filled 
 with longing for us. Loyko acted likewise. But he struck the 
 wrong party. Radda turned away and said, yawning: 'H'm! 
 And yet people have told me that Loyko is wise and clever. The 
 people have lied to me ! ' Saying this, she went off. 
 
 " 'Aha, my beauty! You have sharp teeth!' exclaimed 
 Loyko w ith flashing eyes as he jumped off his horse. ' Hail, com- 
 rades ! Here I am ! ' 
 
 " 'Be our welcome guest, eagle!' replied Danila. After 
 our mutual embraces we conversed for a while and then we all 
 w'ent to sleep . . . We slept soundly . . . The next morning we no- 
 ticed that Zobar had tied a bandage around his head. What was 
 the matter ? Why, his temple had been wounded by the horse 's 
 hoof, he said. 
 
 "H'm! We knew what sort of a horse it was and we all 
 snickered into our beards. Danila also smiled. What? Wasn't 
 Loyko worthy of Radda? Surely not that! A girl may be as 
 beautiful as the day, and yet her soul remains mean and 
 cramped, and even if you hang a sackful of gold around her neck, 
 she can never become better than she was in the first place. Yes, 
 siree ! 
 
 ' ' Thus we lived on and on in that place. Business was good,
 
 MAXIM GORKI 17 
 
 and Zobar remained with us. That was a comrade for you, Fal- 
 con ! Wise as an old man, and skilled in everything ; he even un- 
 derstood how to read and WTite Russian and Hungarian. When- 
 ever he began to speak, you felt as though you would like to 
 banish sleep forever just so you might listen to him! And he 
 could play — may a thunderbolt strike me down this very mo- 
 ment if this world has ever seen another man who could play 
 like Zobar. When he first drew his bow across the strings your 
 heart began to go pit-a-pat, at the second chord your heart 
 stopped beating. But he would play on and smile at us. We 
 wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when we listened to 
 his tunes. Now you could hear a long-drawn-out prayer for help 
 that would cut your heart like a knife, with its pathos. And now 
 the instrument reechoed with the melody of the steppe telling 
 fairy tales, oh such melancholy fairy-tales, to heaven. Then re- 
 sounded a maiden's tearful syllables, as she was bidding fare- 
 well to her heart's beloved. And then rippled forth the cheerful 
 laughter of her brave lover, calling her into the steppe. And 
 suddenly, heigho! A free and lively tune leapt from his bow 
 like a cataract, and it seemed as if the very sun would begin to 
 dance in the heavens to the rhythm of that tune! That's the 
 kind of music it was. Falcon ! 
 
 "Every nerve in your body tingled at the sound of that mu- 
 sic and you became its utter .slave. And if Loyko had exclaimed 
 at such a moment, ' To arms, comrades ! ' we would all have 
 plunged our knives into the heart of him who might be indicated 
 by Loyko. He could do everything with us, and we loved him, we 
 loved him ardently. Only Radda paid no attention to liim. That 
 wouldn't have been so bad, but she even made sport of him. As 
 in a vi.se .she held Zobar 's heart imprisoned. Loyko gnashed his 
 teeth and twirled his long niustaclie. His eyes wore blacker 
 than an abyss, and yet now and tlu^n they flashed .so fiercely that 
 our hearts were filled with trembling. At night he went far 
 into the steppe, did this fearless Loyko, and he let his fiddle wail
 
 18 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 till the dawning of the day. The fiddle wailed because his free- 
 dom w-as dead. And we lay awake in our camp, thinking, 
 'What's to be done?' We knew very well that when two rocks 
 roll upon each other it is death to stand between them. That's 
 how it was, Falcon ! 
 
 "One day we were all sitting together and speaking about 
 our business. Our talk was becoming monotonous and so Danila 
 spoke up: 'Sing us a song, Zobar! Gladden our hearts with a 
 tune ! ' The latter cast a glance toward Radda, who lay upon 
 her back not far from us, her face upturned toward the sky, 
 and then he began to draw his bow. Hereupon the fiddle started 
 to talk, as though it really were the heart of a young girl ! And 
 Loyko sang : 
 
 ' Ho ! My heart is aflame as I ride, 
 Through the wastes of the steppe so wide. 
 Like an arrow flies my steed 
 Shod with the whirlwind 's speed. * 
 
 "Radda turned her head, raised herself on her elbow and 
 smiled into Loyko 's eyes. His face flamed up like the sunrise. 
 
 'Heigho! Let us gallop away 
 
 From the night to the gates of the day! 
 
 Let us scatter the mantle of mist 
 
 Where the hills by the sunrise are kissed. 
 
 We will ride with the sun till the night 
 And spatter the sky with her light ; 
 We will leap into midnight from noon 
 And rest on the tip of the moon. ' 
 
 "That's the way he sang! Nobody can sing like that now- 
 adays! Radda, however, merely remarked as though she were
 
 JVIAXIM GORKI 19 
 
 spilling water through a sieve: 'I wouldn't fly so high if I were 
 you, Loyko. You're liable to fall down and stick your nose into 
 a puddle, and then your mustache will get dirty. You had better 
 look out ! ' Loyko glared at her for a moment, but said nothing. 
 Controlling his rage, he continued his song: 
 
 ' Heigho ! And to-morrow will peep 
 And will find us fast asleep. 
 And then we will both pass away, 
 In the flaming sun's red spray.' 
 
 " 'That's what I call a song!' said Danila. — 'Never in my life 
 have I heard such a song. May Satan make a pipe out of me 
 this very minute if I 'm not telling the truth ! ' Old Nur stroked 
 his mustache and shrugged his shoulders. This song of Zobar's 
 had touched the hearts of us all. But Radda was not pleased 
 with it. 
 
 " 'A fly once buzzed just like this when he tried to imitate 
 the cry of the eagle,' she said. We all felt as though she had 
 just showered us with snow. 
 
 " 'Perhaps you would like to taste the whip, Radda,' said 
 her father. But Zobar threw his cap on the ground and with 
 flashing eyes exclaimed: 'Stop, Danila! A fiery horse needs a 
 bit of steel ! I want your consent to marry your daughter!' 
 
 " 'Well spoken!' smiled Danila. 'Take her, if only you are 
 willing and able !' 
 
 " 'Very well,' replied Loyko, and turned to Radda: 'Well, 
 my pretty lass, listen to me and don't be so haughty! I have 
 known many of your sisters, yes, many of them. But not one of 
 them has so fired my heart as you. Ah, Radda, you have im- 
 prisoned my soul... Well, then, what am I to do about it? 
 Whatever must happen will happen. . . Yes, there isn't a horse 
 in the world who can carry you away from yourself! I ask you 
 to marry me before God, my honor, your father and all these
 
 20 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 people. But beware of interfering with my freedom — for I am 
 a free man and I want to live as I choose!' Hereupon, compress- 
 ing his lips, he approached her. With flashing eyes he stepped 
 forward to take her... 'Aha,' we said to ourselves, 'at last 
 Radda has put the bit into the mouth of the steed of the steppe. 
 But suddenly we saw him throw his hands into the air and fall 
 down flat on his back ! . . . 
 
 "He fell as though struck with a bullet. How had it hap- 
 pened ? It was Radda. She had coiled the whip around his legs 
 drawing it sharply toward herself, whereupon Loyk'o fell to the 
 ground. 
 
 "And then she lay down again and looked smilingly at the 
 sky. We waited to see what Loyko would do. The latter, how- 
 ever, sat on the ground pressing his temples with his hands, as 
 though fearful that his head would burst. Then he rose quietly 
 and went off into the steppe without casting a single glance in 
 our direction. Nur whispered to me, 'Watch him!' And I crept 
 after Zobar into the steppe, into the darkness of the night. That 's 
 the way it was. Falcon ! . . . " 
 
 Makar shook the ashes out of his pipe and filled it anew. 
 
 I cuddled up in my cloak and looked into Makar 's old face 
 that was blackened by the wind and sun. Sternly and thought- 
 fully he shook his head, murmuring something I could not hear ; 
 his thick gray mustache trembled in the wind which played 
 through his dishevelled hair. He resembled an old oak which, 
 though struck by lightning, still stands tall and mighty in its 
 invincible pride. The sea and the shore whispered interminably 
 together, and the wind carried their whisperings over the steppe. 
 Nonka was no longer singing and the clouds that now covered the 
 sky made the autumn night even more dark and terrible. 
 
 "Loyko walked slowly, step by step, with bowed head and 
 hands hanging limp and lifeless. Commg to the ravine near the 
 river, he sat down on a rock and moaned. So piteously did he 
 moan that my heart bled in sympathy. And yet I did not come
 
 MAXIM GORKI 21 
 
 near him. Words cannot console a man's sufferings, can they?. . 
 Yes, he sat thus for one hour, two hours, three hours — he sat mo- 
 tionless near the river. 
 
 "I lay on the ground at no great distance. The night was 
 bright, the moon threw a silvery glitter over the whole steppe, 
 so that it was possible to see everything. 
 
 "Suddenly I see Radda walking quickly from the gypsy 
 camp toward Loyko. I was happy, oh, so happy ! After all, Radda 
 was a most wonderful girl ! She approached him, but he did not 
 hear her. She put her hand on his shoulder. Loyko started, took 
 his hands away from his face and raised his head. And you 
 should have seen how he sprang to his feet and grasped the 
 hilt of his knife ! ' He will kill the girl ! ' I said to myself. I was 
 just on the point of running to the camp in order to summon 
 help when I heard these words: 'Throw it away, or else I will 
 blow your brains out! Do you see this?' And Radda pointed a 
 pistol at Zobar's head. That's the devil of a girl she was. Falcon ! 
 'Now,' thought I, 'they are equally matclied. What will happen 
 next, I wonder?' 
 
 " 'Listen to me !' Radda put the pistol into her belt and con- 
 tinued : 'I have come not to kill you but to make peace. Throw 
 away that knife!' He threw it away and looked at her darkly. 
 It was wonderful, brother! Here stood two creatures looking at 
 each other like beasts of prey, and yet they were both such brave 
 and splendid people. Only the bright moon beheld them, and 
 I . . . Nobody else. 
 
 "'Now listen to me, Loyko. I love you!' He merely 
 shrugged his shoulders, as though he were tied hand and foot. 
 
 " 'I have seen many a lad, but you are braver and hand- 
 somer than all the rest. The others would all shave off their 
 mustache at a single glance from my eye, they would all fall at 
 my feet, if I should only a-sk it. But of what use would it be? 
 With all that they could not please me, and I would only make 
 women out of them. There arc very few bravo gyi)sios iti the 
 world, very few, Loyko. None of thcrn have I ever loved Ix-fore,
 
 22 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 but now I love you. And yet I love my freedom, and this, Loyko, 
 I love more than you. But without you I cannot live, even as you 
 cannot live without me. And therefore I want you to be mine, 
 with your whole heart and soul. Do you hear?' 
 
 "He smiled. * I hear! My heart is glad to hear your words. 
 Speak on ! ' 
 
 " 'I have this much to say yet, Loyko: Whatever you do, 
 I will compel you to become mine. And therefore I would advise 
 you to lose no time, for my kisses and embraces are awaiting you 
 — and most ardent will they be, these kisses and embraces of 
 mine, Loyko! In the warmth of my arms you will forget your 
 courageous life, and your beautiful songs that give so much joy 
 to the gypsy folk will no longer reecho in the steppe. . . You will 
 sing only tender love songs to me, your Radda . . . Lose no time, 
 therefore, but do as I say. To-morrow you must submit to me as 
 to a superior officer. You will bow down at my feet, in the pres- 
 ence of the whole camp, and you will kiss my right hand — and 
 then I will become your wife ! ' 
 
 "So that's what the devilish girl wanted. It was amazing. 
 Such things had happened only in olden times, among Montene- 
 grins, but among the gypsies, never. Submission to a woman! 
 Tell me. Falcon, can you imagine anything more ridiculous? 
 Why, you won't be able to do so in a hundred years. No, siree! 
 
 "Loyko sprang to his feet and uttered a cry that rang 
 through the whole steppe, as though a bullet had just passed 
 through his breast. Radda trembled, but did not lose her nerve. 
 
 " 'Farewell till to-morrow, and to-morrow you will do what 
 I have commanded. Do you hear, Loyko?' 
 
 " 'I hear! I will do it!' groaned Zobar, holding his arms 
 out to her. But she turned away from him. He swayed like a 
 tree uprooted by the tempest, and fell to the ground, weeping 
 and laughing hysterically. 
 
 "That's the way the beautiful vixen tortured the poor fel- 
 low. It was with great difficulty that I brought him to his senses.
 
 JMAXIM GORKI 23 
 
 "I wonder what good it does to Satan or Beelzebub or any 
 other devil when human beings are plunged in such grief? What 
 pleasure can it give to the Evil One to listen to the heartrending 
 groans of men and women ? I wonder whether the philosophers 
 know anything about it ? . . . 
 
 "I returned to the camp and told everything to the old 
 men. They deliberated for some time and at last decided to wait 
 and see how all this would turn out. And this is what happened : 
 As we were all sitting around the camp-fire the next evening, 
 Loyko came to us. He looked thoughtful, his features were ter- 
 ribly emaciated and there were black rings under his eyes which 
 he kept fixed on the ground. Without looking at us he said: 
 'Listen to me, comrades. This night I have searched my heart 
 and I no longer find in it any place for my old freedom. Radda 
 alone now lives in it, and nothing else. Here she is, the ex- 
 quisitely beautiful Radda, smiling like a queen ! She loves her 
 freedom more than she loves me, but I, I love her more than I 
 love my freedom, and I have therefore determined to fall at her 
 feet. Thus has she commanded me to do, in order that you might 
 all see how her loveliness has enslaved the dauntless Loyko Zobar 
 who, before he knew Radda, used to play with women as the 
 vulture plays with ducks. After that, however, she will become 
 my wifo, fondling me with her kisses and embraces, so that I 
 shall no longer have any desire to sing to you, or any regrets 
 over the loss of my freedom! Am I right, Radda?' — Raising 
 his eyes, he looked at her sadly. She said nothing in reply, but 
 nodded her head vigorously and pointed at her feet. And we 
 looked on in sorrow and amazement, not understanding it at all. 
 We felt as though wc wanted to go far away, so that we might 
 not see Loyko Zobar falling at a woman's foot, even though this 
 woman was Radda herself. Wc were overcome with a feeling of 
 shame, [)ity and sorrow ;if this siid spectacle. 
 
 " 'Well?' said Radda to Zobar. 
 
 " 'Ah, do not be so hasty! Tliero's plenty of time for that
 
 24 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 yet. You will have glory enough to-day!' laughed Loyko. Like 
 the clashing of steel — that's how his laughter sounded. 
 
 " 'Well, then, comrades, this is the whole story. "What else 
 is there left for me to do? This much. It is necessary for me 
 to find out whether my Radda's heart is really so hard as she 
 has shown it to be. And that's what I am going to fimd out 
 now . . . Pardon me, my dear comrades ! ' 
 
 "And before we could realize what Zobar was about, Radda 
 was already lying on the ground, and in her breast stuck Loyko 's 
 crooked knife up to its very hilt. "We all stood as if paralyzed. 
 
 But Radda drew the knife out of her heart, threw it aside, 
 pressed a lock of her black hair to the open wound, smiled and 
 spoke up loudly and clearly: 'Farewell Loyko! I knew that 
 you would act like this ! ' . . . And with these words on her lips 
 she died. 
 
 "Do you understand now what kind of a girl she was, 
 Falcon? What a woman ! May I be forever cursed if she wasn't 
 the daughter of the very devil himself ! Yes, siree ! 
 
 " 'And now, my proud queen, I M^ill fall at your feet!' he 
 cried aloud, did this Loyko, and the whole steppe reechoed veith 
 his words. He threw himself on the ground, pressed his lips to 
 the feet of the dead Radda, and remained as though lifeless him- 
 self. We removed our caps and surrounded the two in silence. 
 
 "What do you think of such a story. Falcon?... 
 
 "At last Nur wanted to say: 'We ought to bind him !' But 
 not a hand would have been raised to bind Loyko Zobar, and 
 Nur knew it. Danila, however, picked up the knife that Radda 
 had cast aside and looked at it for a long time. His lips quiv- 
 ered. Radda's blood was still warm upon this knife, and it was 
 so sharp and crooked! Then Danila approached Zobar and 
 plunged the knife into his back, just over the heart. For he was 
 after all the father of Radda, was this old soldier, Danila. 
 
 " 'Well done!' said Loyko in a ringing voice, turning to-
 
 MAXIM GORKI 25 
 
 ward Danila. And then he sank down at Radda's side and his 
 soul followed hers out of the world. 
 
 "And there before our eyes lay Radda, her hand with its 
 black lock of hair pressed to her bosom, her wide open eyes turned 
 toward the skj% and at her feet lay the handsome form of Loyko 
 Zobar. His hair had fallen over his face, and so we could not 
 see his features. 
 
 "We stood lost in deep thought. Old Danila's gray mus- 
 tache trembled and terrible was the look in his dark eyes. He 
 gazed toward the sky, but said not a word. But the old and 
 feeble Nur threw himself face downward on the ground and wept 
 like a child. 
 
 "And there was good cause for weeping. Falcon! Yes, 
 siree!. . . 
 
 "Well, then, God be with you, my friend. Keep going 
 straight ahead and do not turn aside. You will only rot away 
 if you stay in one place. That's all. Falcon!" 
 
 Makar stopped, put his pipe into his tobacco pouch and 
 threw the folds of his cloak over his breast. The rain was drizz- 
 ling, the storm increased and the surf pounded against the 
 shore with a loud and hollow growl. One after another the 
 horses came near the dying fire, looked at us with their big, in- 
 telligent eyes and stood around us in a big circle. 
 
 "Hop, hop, ehoi!" Makar called out to them in a friendly 
 voice; and as he was stroking the neck of his favorite animal 
 with the palm of his hand, he said turning to me: "It is time 
 to sleep!" Covering his head with his cloak he stretched out 
 on the ground and soon fell asleep. Rut I had no desire to sleep. 
 I gazed through the darkness of the stepf)e at the roaring ocean, 
 and I could see before me the queenly figure of the proud and 
 lovely Radda. She held her hand with the lock of her black 
 hair tightly pressed against her wound and through her slender 
 brown fingers trickled the blood from her breast, drop by drop, 
 and they fell upon the earth like ruddy stars of fire.
 
 26 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 And behind her, close upon her heels, hovered the brave 
 Loyko Zobar. His face was veiled by his thick black hair behind 
 which his cold big tears flowed in a steady stream . . . 
 
 The rain fell faster and the wind sang a sad and solemn 
 dirge to the proud pair — Loyko Zobar and Radda, the daughter 
 of old Danila. And the two shadows whirled silently around 
 each other in the darkness of the night, yet never was the singer, 
 Loyko, able to overtake his proud, beloved Radda. . .
 
 Because of Monotony 
 
 I 
 
 ~|3UFFING voluminous volleys of thick gray smoke, the pas- 
 I senger-train, like an enormous reptile, disappeared in the 
 distance of the steppe, engulfed in the yellow sea of growing 
 corn. The rumbling of the train seemed to merge with the smoke 
 in the hot atmosphere, and for several moments interrupted the 
 indifferent silence of the vast, deserted plain, in the midst of 
 which the little railroad station, because of its isolation, aroused 
 an impression of sadness. 
 
 And when the muffled, but insistent noise of the train had 
 grown fainter and died away under the clear dome of the cloud- 
 less sky, silence once more resumed its oppressive reign, adding 
 to the desolate monotony of the steppe. 
 
 The steppe looked now a golden yellow; the vault of the 
 heavens was a luminous blue; two colors of incommensurable 
 vastness. The dark walls of the station planted in their midst 
 produced the effect of an accidental stroke of the brush, which 
 marred the centre of that melancholy picture, patiently painted 
 by some artist devoid of imagination and inspiration. 
 
 Every day, at noon and at four o'clock in the afternoon 
 there arrived at the station, on their way across the stoppe, 
 trains that stopped for four minutes. These precious minutes 
 provided the only distraction at the station: they brought 
 impressions to the station employees. 
 
 Each train has a multitude of distinct ])orsons, dressed in 
 various manners. They appear for a moment; behind the little 
 windows of the coaches they pass rai)i(lly by, with weary face, 
 impatient, indifferent; the signal is given, the whistle blows, and 
 with a nerve-wracking noise t)u-y fly off across the steppe, far 
 
 27
 
 28 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 away, toward the city, where men and women throng in throb- 
 bing life. 
 
 To the station employees, who are sorely bored in their soli- 
 tude, it is most interesting to behold these faces; after the de- 
 parture of the train they exchange impressions that have been 
 hastily gathered. About them extends the silent steppe, above 
 them floats the indifferent sky, and within their hearts they har- 
 bor obscure envy toward the men who every day ride by, speed- 
 ing on to some unknown place, while they remain there, pris- 
 oners of the desert, as if living apart from life and in the impos- 
 sibility of seeing any human countenance, except during the 
 two hundred and forty seconds each day. 
 
 And after the train has gone they remain rooted to the 
 platform, their eyes following the black thread that disappears 
 in the golden sea of the prairies, silent before the manifestation 
 of life flying past them. 
 
 Thc}^ are almost all there: the chief, a corpulent red-faced 
 personage with the mustache of a Cossack ; his aide, a young fel- 
 low with reddish hair and a pointed little beard ; the watchman 
 Luka, short, inquisitive and wily, and one of the switchmen, 
 Gomozov, a taciturn peasant, robust, with black hair, serious and 
 full face. 
 
 Near the door of the station, seated on a bench, is the chief's 
 wife, a fat little woman who suffers much from the heat ; in her 
 lap slumbers an infant with cheeks as bulging and as red as 
 his mother's. 
 
 The locomotive and the coaches disappear behind a slope, 
 as if the train had been swallowed by the earth. 
 
 Then the chief turns to his wife and says: 
 
 ' ' Well Sofia ! Is the samovar ready ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' It certainly is, ' ' she replies sweetly, with a languid voice. 
 
 "Luka! Hey there! Sweep the road. Can't you see 
 they've filled it with all kinds of filth?" 
 
 "Yes, I know, Matvei Yegorovitch. "
 
 MAXIM GORKI 29 
 
 "Very well. Shall we have tea, Nikolai Petrovitch?" 
 
 "So as not to break the custom, ' ' replies the aide. 
 
 And when the four o'clock train has left, Matvei Yegoro- 
 vitch says to his wife : 
 
 "Well Sofia! Is dinner ready?" 
 
 Then he gives the order to Luka, — always the same order, 
 and invites his aide who dines with them. 
 
 "Good. . . . Shall we eat?" 
 
 And his aide replies, properly: 
 
 "As always." 
 
 They walk from the platform to the dining-room, where 
 there are many flowers and few pieces of furniture, — where the 
 odor of the kitchen is perceptible, as well as that of the infant's 
 swaddling-clothes, and there, seated around the table, they speak 
 of what speeds by the station. 
 
 "Did you notice, Nikolai Petrovitch, a brunette dressed in 
 yellow who was in one of the second-class coaches ? There was a 
 stunning beauty for you!" 
 
 "Not at all bad, but dressed without taste," answered the 
 aide. 
 
 lie always spoke in a curt, sententious manner, for he be- 
 lieved himself to be an educated man, conversant with life. He 
 had been to college. In a little note-book bound in black cloth 
 he was wont to inscribe sayings of famous men, pli rases culled 
 from the feuilletons of newspapers and from the books that came 
 by accident into his hands. The chief never contradicted him; 
 in all matters tliat did not concern the service he listened atten- 
 tively to his adjutant. Tiie wise aphorisms from Nikolai Petro- 
 vitch 's notf'-book pleased him especially, and he was frank in 
 his admiration of them. The aide's "but" in regard to the 
 brunette evoked a query from Matvei Yegorovitch. 
 
 "Then you don't think that yellow becomes brunettes?" 
 
 "I refer to her manner, not the color," explained Nikolai
 
 30 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 Petrovitch, carefully taking some preserves which he brought 
 forth from a crystal jar to place in the dessert plate. 
 
 "Manner is a thing by itself," admitted the chief. 
 
 His wife joined in the discussion, for such a subject was 
 within her scope and of direct concern to her. 
 
 But since the minds of such persons are very little exercised 
 the conversation proceeds slowly, rarely penetrating to their 
 feelings. 
 
 And through the window the silent steppe gazes in upon 
 them, and the sky, majestic in its proud serenity. 
 
 At every moment freight trains arrive, but the personnel of 
 these trains has been known to them for a long time. They are 
 all half-asleep fellows, oppressed by the monotony of the jour- 
 neys across the steppe. Of course sometimes they relate an 
 accident that occurred on the line. But news of this character 
 arouses no reflection: it is devoured just as epicures swallow a 
 rare and savory dish. 
 
 And the sun slowly descends in the heavens, until it reaches 
 the edge of the steppe, and when it has almost touched the earth 
 it turns purple. A red tint covers the plain, which awakes an 
 apprehensive mood of insufficiency, a vague aspiration towards 
 something far away, beyond that emptiness. The rim of the 
 sun then touches the earth. For a long time after its disappear- 
 ance there sounds in the sky the music of the sunset's resplen- 
 dent colors, and twilight arrives, warm and silent. The stars 
 light up and tremble in the heavens, as if terrified by the mono- 
 tony that reigns on earth. 
 
 "With the coming of twilight the steppe grows smaller; the 
 darknesses of dusk arise from all directions and make for the 
 station, and night falls, black and lugubrious. 
 
 The station lamps are lighted ; brighter and higher than 
 the others is the light of the signal-desk. Around it, darkness 
 and silence. 
 
 At each instant there is the sound of a bell : a signal that
 
 MAXIM GORKI 31 
 
 a train is approaching ; the funeral tolling of the bell crosses the 
 steppe, where it is quickly extinguished. 
 
 A short while after the ringing, a vivid light draws nearer, 
 and the silence of the steppe trembles with the muffled noise of 
 the train, which rolls toward the solitary station, surrounded by 
 darkness. 
 
 II 
 
 The lower stratum of the society of the station maintains a 
 life somewhat distinct from that of the aristocracy. The watch- 
 man Luka struggles perpetually with his desire to run off to his 
 wife and his brother, who live in the town, seven versts away. 
 That's where his home is, as he says to Gomozov when he orders 
 the taciturn, leisurely switchman to lend a helping hand in the 
 station. 
 
 At the word "home" Gomozov always sighs heavily and 
 says to Luka : 
 
 "Yes, you're right. . . One's home requires care. . . . 
 
 And the other switchman, Afanassi Yagodka, an old soldier 
 with a round, ruddy face encircled by gray hairs, and of jest- 
 ing, malicious propensities, refuses to believe Luka. 
 
 "Home!" he exclaims mockingly. "Ilis wife! I know very 
 well what that means. ... Is your wife a widow? Or perhaps 
 some soldier's spouse?" 
 
 "Shut up, you king of the fowl!" retorts Luka, scornfully. 
 
 He dubs Yagodka king of the fowl because the old soldier 
 professes a deep affection for birds. Ills entire house is covered, 
 inside as well as outside, with cages and dove-cotes; within and 
 without, all day long is heard the ceaseless trilling and cooing of 
 the birds. Imprisoned by the soldier the quails sing their mono- 
 tonous "pay your debts," the starlings ninnuur long discourses, 
 many-colored birds whisper tirelessly, whistle or trill, enlivening 
 the soldier's sombre existence. Taking care of them during the 
 time left free to him by his work, he treats them with the ut-
 
 32 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 most tenderness and solicitude, not interesting himself at all in 
 his companions. 
 
 Luka he calls a snake, — Gomozov a katsap,* and openly 
 terms them "women chasers," saying that they should be 
 whipped for it. 
 
 Luka gives little heed to his words; but if the soldier suc- 
 ceeds in rousing his anger, for a long time he grumbles in most 
 offensive manner. 
 
 "Gray barracks beast! Garrison rat! What can you un- 
 derstand? You spent your whole life chasing the frogs behind 
 the cannons. Who's telling you to say anything? Back to 
 your partridges, — command them, order your fowl about ! ' ' 
 
 Yagodka, after having heard the watchman 's insults, calmly 
 went to lodge complaint with the chief, who shouted that he 
 didn't want people coming to him and pestering him with non- 
 sense, and dismissed the soldier unceremoniously. Whereupon 
 the soldier betook himself to Luka and in his turn insulted him 
 without getting excited about it, calmly, with execrable words 
 full of meaning, until Luka dashed off, leaving him alone. 
 
 ' ' What can you do ? There 's no getting along with that fel- 
 low! No doubt it's all silly; just the same, 'Judge not that ye 
 be not judged. . . .' " 
 
 On a certain occasion the soldier answered him with a 
 loud guffaw. 
 
 "Poll-parrot! 'Judge not, judge not. . . .' why, if people 
 didn't judge one another they'd have nothing to talk about." 
 
 Besides the chief's wife there was another woman in the 
 station, — the cook. Her name was Arina ; she was almost forty, 
 and very ugly: obese, with hanging breasts, always dirty and 
 ragged. She waddled like a duck, and in her freckled face 
 beamed two little darting eyes surrounded by a network of 
 wrinkles. There was something submissive, oppressed, about 
 her ill-formed person, and her fleshy lips curled out constantly, 
 
 * Name given by inhabitants of Qreat Russia to those of Little Russia.
 
 MAXIM GORKI 33 
 
 as if she wanted to implore pardon of all men, throw herself at 
 their feet, yet not daring to cry. Gomozov spent eight months 
 in the station without paying any special heed to the cook ; when- 
 ever he met her he would simply wish her "good day!" She 
 would reply in like manner, they would exchange two or three 
 sentences and would continue on their way. But one day Gomo- 
 zov came to the chief's kitchen to ask Arina to mend a few of 
 his shirts. The cook consented, and after they were mended, 
 for some reason or other, she brought them to Gomozov in 
 person. 
 
 "Ah! A thousand thanks!" he said. "Three shirts at ten 
 kopeks apiece makes thirty kopeks I owe you, — correct?" 
 
 "Correct," replied Arina. 
 
 Gomozov sank into a revery and was silent for some time. 
 
 "What district do you come from?" he finally asked the 
 woman, who, while he was mediating had scrutinized his beard. 
 
 "From Riazan," she answered. 
 
 "That's very far! And how do you come here?" 
 
 "Why, to tell the truth, .... I'm alone .... all alone—" 
 
 "That can carry one farther still," sighed Gomozov. 
 
 There followed a long silence. 
 
 "What a coincidence! I, too, am alone, I come from the 
 district of Sergatch," Gomozov began to say. "I, too am alone 
 .... all alone. I once had a wife. ... a child, two children. . . . 
 My wife died during an epi(h'mic of cholera, and the children. . . 
 from something or otiicr, j^erhaps because their last hour had 
 come. . . . died, too. And I, . . . . how shall I say? I was left 
 without a compass to guide me. . . . Misfortune. . . . Yes, after 
 that I tried witiiout success to establish myself once more. But 
 the machine had fallen apart; it no longer worked and I began 
 to go, as one would say, out of my path. . . . And here it is three 
 years that I've dragged along in my wretchedness." 
 
 "It's bad not to have a husband !" murmured Arina sweetly. 
 'I should think so. You arc a widow, perhaps?" 
 
 ( <
 
 34 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 "Unmarried." 
 
 ' ' You don 't say ! ' ' exclaimed Gomozov incredulously. 
 
 ' ' Upon my word ! ' ' affirmed Arina. 
 
 "How is it you never married?" 
 
 "Who was going to take me? I've nothing .... how 
 could I tempt anyone ? If I 'd have been good-looking at least ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' slowly uttered Gomozov, who had remained meditat- 
 ing. 
 
 And stroking his beard he began to examine her with pene- 
 trating glance. . . . Then he inquired what wages she received. 
 
 "Two fifty." 
 
 "Good. There are thirty kopeks coming to you? Listen 
 to what I say to you. Come for them tonight. . . . around ten 
 o'clock. What do you say? I'll give them to you then, we'll 
 have tea, and we '11 dance to drive away the monotony. . . . We 're 
 both so lonesome. . . . Come, won't you?" 
 
 "I'll come," she promised, impatiently. 
 
 And she left. 
 
 Later, having returned to the house punctually at ten 
 o'clock, she departed from Gomozov at dawn. 
 
 He did not repeat his invitation, nor did he give her the 
 thirty kopeks. 
 
 Arina came again of her own accord, meek and submissive, 
 and silently planted herself before him. He, stretched out 
 upon the bed, gazed at her and rolling toward the wall, said, 
 "Sit down." 
 
 When she had sat down he admonished her: 
 
 "Hear what I tell you. . . . Keep this secret. Let nobody 
 know! .... Understand? Otherwise things would be very un- 
 pleasant. ... I'm no youngster, nor are you, either. . . . Under- 
 stand?" 
 
 She nodded affirmatively. 
 
 When they parted he gave her some clothes that needed 
 mending and warned her again:
 
 MAXIM GORKI 35 
 
 "Nobody! Not a soul!" 
 
 And thus they lived, hiding their relations from everybody. 
 
 Arina came to his house in spite of all, almost dragging 
 herself. He received her with great condescension, affecting 
 lordly airs, and at times he would say to her, frankly : 
 
 "How ugly you are!" 
 
 She would smile in silence, — an insipid, guilty smile, and 
 when she left him she would take along something to repair. 
 
 They did not meet often. But on various occasions, en- 
 countering her at the station, he would say to her in a low 
 voice : 
 
 "Come tonight." 
 
 And Arina would go meekly, with a serious expression on 
 her freckled face, as if she were intent upon fulfilling an impor- 
 tant duty. 
 
 And when she returned to the station her countenance would 
 wear its habitual lugubrious expression of guilt and fright. 
 
 At times she would stop at some nook sheltered by a tree of 
 the steppe. Here reigned night, and in the austere silence her 
 heart would compress with fear. 
 
 Ill 
 
 On a certain occasion, after having seen the four o'clock 
 train leave, the higher employees of the station organized a tea- 
 party in the garden, before the windows of Matvei Yegorovitch 's 
 rooms, in the leafy shade of the poplars. 
 
 It was a hot-weather castom that introduced a touch of 
 variety into the monotony of their existence. 
 
 They would sip tea and look at each other in silence after 
 having exhausted all the subjects suggested by the train. 
 
 "It's even hotter today than yesterday," commented Matvei 
 Yegorovitch, handing his wife the jar and with the other hand 
 wiping the perspiration that bedewed his forehead. 
 
 The woman took tho jar and observed:
 
 36 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 "It simply seems hotter because of the monotony." 
 
 "H'm! . . . . Perhaps. . . . Really How tedious exis- 
 tence is ! Now cards, for example, are good in cases like this. . . . 
 But we are only three. ..." 
 
 Nikolai Petrovitch shrugged his shoulders, blinked, and 
 announced, in a clear voice: 
 
 "Cards, according to Schopenhauer, are the bankruptcy of 
 
 intellect." 
 
 "Well expressed!" enthused Matvei Yegorovitch. "Very 
 well. 'The bankruptcy of intellect'. . . . Yes. And who said 
 that?" 
 
 "Schopenhauer, a German philosopher. ..." 
 
 ' ' A philosopher ! So-o ! ' ' 
 
 "And tell me. These philosophers. . . .Are they, maybe, 
 employees of the Universities?" asked Sofia Ivanovna. 
 
 "It is. . . . how shall I explain it? .... it's not a position 
 but so to say, a natural gift Everybody can be a philo- 
 sopher Everyone who's born with the habit of thinking 
 
 about the beginning and the end of things. Of course, there are 
 philosophers in the universities, but you can be one anywhere 
 at all. . . . even if you happen to be an employee at a railroad 
 station." 
 
 "And do those in the universities see very much?" 
 
 "That depends on their. . . . intelligence." 
 
 "But if there were only one more we could have started a 
 fine game!" sighed Matvei Yegorovitch. 
 
 And the conversation languished. 
 
 The larks sing in the blue heavens, the linnets flit from 
 branch to branch of the poplars, chirping sweetly. Inside a 
 child is crying. 
 
 "Is Arina there?" asked Matvei Yegorovitch. 
 
 "Certainly," replied his wife in a low voice. 
 
 "A queer creature," observed Nikolai Petrovitch. 
 
 "Eccentricity is the first manifestation of triviality," re-
 
 MAXIM GORKI 37 
 
 marked Nikolai Petrovitch sententiously, with a dreamy, medi- 
 tative air. 
 
 "How's that?" asked the chief, interested. 
 
 And Nikolai Petrovitch, repeating the aphorism with a pro- 
 fessorial air, rolls his eyes in a voluptuous manner, while Sofia 
 Ivanovna says, in a languid little voice : 
 
 "How well you remember what you've read! And here I 
 can't recall what I read yesterday!" 
 
 "Habit," replied Nikolai Petrovitch curtly. 
 
 "No, that other fellow is better. What do you call him? 
 Schopenhauer?" said Matvei Yegorovitch with a smile. "So 
 that whatever is young will become old." 
 
 "And vice versa, for a poet has written: 'All that is new 
 comes from what has been left by the old.' " 
 
 "The devil! How can you remember all that? It gushes 
 from you like water from a fountain!" 
 
 Matvei Yegorovitch laughed contentedly; his wife smiled 
 with a kindly air, and Nikolai Petrovitch tried in vain to hide 
 his pleasure at the compliment. 
 
 "And who said that about triviality?" 
 
 "Bariatinsky, a poet." 
 
 "And that other quotation?" 
 
 "Fofanov, another poet." 
 
 "There's a couple of smart fellows for you !" enthused Mat- 
 vei Yegorovitch. 
 
 "And with a musical voice, laughing with contentment, he 
 repeated the two citations. 
 
 It seems that monotony ])liiys witli them. For u moment it 
 frees them from its clutches, then once more grasps them in its 
 power. Then they become silent, suffering from the heat, which 
 is increased by the tea. 
 
 In the station, only .silence; on the steppe, only the sun. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I was about to Hpeak of Arina!" recalls Matvei 
 Yegorovitch. "There's a strange woman for you! I watch her
 
 38 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 with wonder. As if she were crushed by something. She 
 doesn't laugh, or sing, and speaks very little. . . . You'd think 
 she was a piece of wood! And yet she's a wonderful worker, 
 and she's so careful with Lelia, so devoted to the child. ..." 
 
 He speaks in a low voice, but wishes nevertheless that Arina 
 will hear him through the window. He knows that servants 
 swell with pride upon hearing themselves praised. His wife 
 interrupts him with a meaningful rebuke. 
 
 "None of that. You don't know much about her." 
 
 Whereupon Nikolai Petrovitch, beating time with a spoon 
 on the table, began to murmur sweetly, as if declaiming: 
 A slave am I of love, 
 And deep is my despair, 
 When in the lists I enter, 
 'Gainst you, my demon fair! 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "How now? What's that you're saying? She. . . . Ah, 
 you've got something between you!" 
 
 And Matvei Yegorovitch laughed heartily. His cheeks 
 shook and beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead. 
 
 "There's nothing so wonderful about her," said his wife. 
 "In the first place, she doesn't take good care of the child. In 
 the second, have you noticed the kind of bread she makes ? Bit- 
 ter, burned. And why?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. There is something the matter with the 
 bread. . . . We '11 have to speak to her about it. But, the deuce ! 
 I didn't expect anything like this! So she's a regular heart- 
 breaker? Devil take me! And who's the man? Lukachka? 
 I'll tease the life out of the old devil! Yagodka? The tooth- 
 less dandy!" 
 
 "Gomozov," said Nikolai Petrovitch curtly. 
 
 "So grave a fellow as that! 0-oh ! But you're. . . . You're 
 not fooling, are you?" 
 
 Such a shocking bit of gossip amused Matvei Yegorovitch
 
 MAXIM GORKI 39 
 
 immensely. He was soon laughing in loud outbursts, tears com- 
 ing to his eyes; first he spoke of the necessity of giving the 
 lovers a severe reprimand ; then he began to imagine the tender 
 conversations that passed between them, and exploded anew in a 
 deafening roar. 
 
 At last he became petulant. Nikolai Petrovitch assumed 
 a serious face, while Sofia Ivanovna brusquely interrupted her 
 husband's talk. 
 
 ''The devil! I don't have to pay his debts, do I? This is 
 interesting!" continued Matvei Yegorovitch, unable to control 
 himself. 
 
 At this juncture Luka appeared, saying, not very correctly, 
 "The telegraph is calling." 
 
 "I'm going. Give the signal to 42." 
 
 In another moment he was beside the aide at the station, 
 where Luka replied to the telegraph call. Nikolai Petrovitch 
 went to the apparatus and asked the next station, "Can I send 
 train 42?" 
 
 The chief passed through the office, smiled and said, "We've 
 got to play those devils a trick. Just to kill time and conquer 
 this deadly monotony. . . . "We may well be permitted to laugh 
 for once." 
 
 "Certainly, that's permissible," agreed Nikolai Petrovitch, 
 without leaving the apparatus. 
 
 P''or ho knew that jtliilosophy must be expressed in a laconic 
 manner. 
 
 IV 
 
 The opportunity for indulging in a little laughter was not 
 slow in presenting itself. 
 
 On a certain night Oomozov went to the shack where Arina, 
 by his orrlor and with permi.ssion of her master had arranged n 
 bed amid all the old furniture. The place was exposed and 
 damp, and the broken boxes, the casks, the tables and all the
 
 40 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 other objects assumed in the darkness the most terrifying shapes. 
 When Arina was alone in the midst of all this she was so afraid 
 that she could scarcely sleep, and she recited all the prayers she 
 had ever learned, in a subdued voice. 
 
 Gomozov came, and for a long time silently took her to him, 
 and after he had become tired he fell asleep. But he was soon 
 awakened by the uneasy whispering of Arina. 
 
 "Timofei Petrovitch. Tiraofei Petrovitch!" 
 
 ''What's the matter?" asked Gomozov, not yet thoroughly 
 awake. 
 
 "We've been locked in!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" he exclaimed, sitting up with a 
 start. 
 
 "Somebody came here and with some chains. ..." 
 
 "Are you crazy?" he grumbled, angrily and in terror, 
 thrusting her from him. 
 
 Gomozov arose, and stumbling against several objects made 
 his way to the door, pushed it, and after a silence said, ill- 
 humoredly, "The soldier!" 
 
 Someone on the other side of the door laughed gleefully. 
 
 "Open!" begged Gomozov aloud. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 It was the soldier's voice. 
 
 ' ' I tell you to open ! ' ' 
 
 "Tomorrow morning," replied the soldier. 
 
 And he went off. 
 
 "I've got to get to work!" cried Gomozov, in tones of 
 mingled anger and entreaty. 
 
 "I'll attend to your duties. Don't worry." 
 
 "You dog, you!" murmured the switchman,- in anxiety. 
 "Wait a while! You haven't any right to lock me up. ... He 
 has the key. . . . What '11 you tell him? He'll ask, 'Where is 
 Gomozov?' And. . . . Ha?. . . . Answer him!"
 
 MAXIM GORKI 41 
 
 ' ' But, you must know that the order for this came from the 
 chief himself," said Arina in a low, despairing voice. 
 
 "The chief?" stammered Gomozov, horrified. "Why?" 
 
 And then, after a moment's silence. 
 
 "You lie!" he exclaimed. 
 
 She replied with a deep sigh. 
 
 "What will this lead to?" wondered the switchman, sitting 
 down upon something near the door. What a disgrace for me I 
 And all on account of you, you ugly old witch ! ' ' 
 
 With his fists doubled up Gomozov made a threatening ges- 
 ture toward the direction whence came the breathing. She, on 
 her side, was careful not to say a word. 
 
 A dark dampness surrounded them, a darkness impregnated 
 with the odor of limestone, mould, and something acrid that 
 seemed to pierce the nostrils. Strips of moonlight came through 
 the cracks of the door. Behind, a freight train leaving the sta- 
 tion rumbled off noisily. 
 
 "What good is this silence?" asked Gomozov, in a rage. 
 "What am I to do now? First you commit follies and then 
 you're silent? Think, devil take you! What are we to do? 
 Where can T hide to conceal this shame? Oh, good Lord in 
 heaven! Why did I ever fall in with such a. . . ." 
 
 "I'll implon; pardon," said Arina, in a low voice. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Perhaps they'll forgive. ..." 
 
 "What good will that do mo? If Ihoy pardon you! Well, 
 what then? On whom will the disgrace fall? It's me that 
 they'll laugh at!" 
 
 After another pause he began to curse her anew. And the 
 time i)ass('d with cruel slowness. At last the woman, in a 
 trembling voice, said to him, entreatingly, "Timofci Petrovitch, 
 forgive me !" 
 
 "Yon ought to be forgiven with a good rap on the head!" 
 he snarled.
 
 42 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 Again a long silence, lugubrious, unnerving, full of suffering 
 and suppressed anger for the two persons imprisoned in the 
 darkness. ' 
 
 "Good heavens! If only day would come more quickly!" 
 wailed Arina in her perplexity. 
 
 "Shut up, or I'll knock daylight into you!" scowled Gomo- 
 zov, returning to his bitter reproaches. 
 
 And once again the torture of silence fell over them. And 
 the cruelty of time increased with the approach of day, as if 
 each minute retarded its progress, maliciously enjoying the ludi- 
 crous, yet grievous situation of the two persons. 
 
 At last Gomozov fell asleep, but the song of a rooster, crow- 
 ing near the cabin, awoke him. 
 
 "Hey there, witch! Are you sleeping?" he asked, in a 
 muffled voice. 
 
 "No," answered Arina, with a deep sigh. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like a nice little nap?" proposed the switch- 
 man, ironically. "Come. ..." 
 
 "Timofei Petrovitch!" implored Arina with a shrill cry. 
 ' ' Don 't torment me ! Have pity on me ! In the name of Christ, 
 son of God, have pity on me! I'm alone, all alone! And you, 
 my beloved. ..." 
 
 "None of your howling, and don't make yourself ridicu- 
 lous," interjected Gomozov seriously, quieting the hysteric mut- 
 tering of the woman, who had moved him somewhat. "Hush! 
 When the Lord begins to punish. ..." 
 
 And anew they waited in silence for the passing of each 
 minute. But the moments went by without bringing anything. 
 At last, through the cracks of the door could be seen the gleam 
 of the sun's rays, which illuminated the darkness of the cabin. 
 Somebody came to the door, listened for a moment and then 
 went away. 
 
 ' ' Hangman ! ' ' growled Gomozov. 
 
 And he spat out.
 
 MAXIM GORKI 43 
 
 Another period of waiting, silent and tyrannical. 
 
 * ' Good Lord, I beg You ! ' ' murmured Arina. 
 
 It seemed that someone was slowly coming near. The chain 
 rattled, and the voice of the chief was heard. 
 
 "Gomozov! Take Arina by the hand and come out! At 
 once ! ' ' 
 
 "Come," said Gomozov to her, in a low voice. 
 
 Arina, with bowed head, came over to his side. 
 
 The door was opened ; the chief appeared. He saluted and 
 said, "My congratulations to the young couple! Forward! 
 Strike up the band!" 
 
 Gomozov passed the threshold and came to a sudden halt, 
 stupefied by a wild, confused tumult. Behind the door were 
 Luka, Yagodka and Nikolai Petrovitch. 
 
 Luka was beating his fist against a pail, howling something 
 in a quivering tenor voice ; the soldier was blowing his bagpipe, 
 and Matvei Yegoroviteh was making wild gestures, his cheeks 
 puffed out, and making a trumpet-like sound through his lips. 
 
 Pum, pum! Pum-pum-pum! 
 
 The pail thumped, the bagpipe wheezed and groaned, and 
 Matvei Yegoroviteh laughed madly. His aide, too, exploded 
 with laughter when he beheld Gomozov in utter confusion, with 
 a sinister face and silly laugh upon his treinbliiig lips. Behind 
 him was Arina, half petrified, her head bowed low upon her 
 breast. 
 
 "Arina, to her lover. 
 Spoke very tender words." 
 
 Luka sang, making terrible gestures in Gomozov 's direction. 
 
 And the soldier approached. Placing his bagpipe next to 
 the switchman's ear he played on and on. 
 
 "Excellent. Now proceed, proceed. Ann in arm!" cried 
 the chief. 
 
 His wife was seated in the vestibule, and she swayed from 
 side to side, uttering penetrating shrieks.
 
 44 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 "Motria, enough. Oh, I'll die of laughing!" 
 Who, for a taste of the beauty's lips. 
 Wouldn't brave the stoutest whips? 
 
 It was the aide who sang, almost into Gomozov's ear. 
 
 "Long live the young couple!" shouted Matvei Yegorovitch 
 as Gomozov took a step forward. 
 
 And from the throats of all rose a unanimous hurrah, the 
 soldier shouting with a roaring bass, 
 
 Arina walked behind Gomozov with raised head, her mouth 
 open, her arms hanging at her side. Her eyes peered vaguely 
 forward, but it is doubtful whether they saw anything. 
 
 "Motria, order them to embrace. . . . Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 "Bride and bridegroom, this is bitter!" shouted Nikolai 
 Petrovitch, using the phrase employed at the embracing of a 
 newly-wed pair. 
 
 And Matvei Yegorovitch leaned against a tree, for he was so 
 weak from laughing that his feet shook beneath him. 
 
 And the pail kept dinning away, while the bagpipe wheezed 
 and groaned, and Luka danced as he sang: 
 "Oh, lovely cook Arina, 
 You've made us a pretty thick soup." 
 
 And Nikolai Petrovitch began once more to trumpet through 
 his lips, "Pum, pum, pum! Tra, ta, ta! Pum, pum! Tra, ta, 
 ta!" 
 
 Gomozov went as far as the door of a certain shanty and 
 suddenly made his escape through it. Arina was left in the 
 yard .surrounded by her almost delirious persecutors. They 
 shouted, laughed, whistled into her ears and jumped about her 
 in a paroxysm of crazy joy. 
 
 Arina stood before them with impassive countenance, dirty, 
 pitiful, ridiculous. 
 
 "The young bridegroom has gone off, and she. . . . remains 
 here, ' ' shouted Matvei Yegorovitch to his wife, pointing to Arina 
 and bursting anew into loud guffaws.
 
 MAXIM GORKI 45 
 
 Arina turned her head toward him, walked by the cabin, 
 and suddenly fled to the steppe. She was followed by a din of 
 whistling, shouts and laughter. 
 
 * ' Enough ! Let her alone ! ' ' shouted Sofia Ivanovna. * ' Let 
 her get back her courage. She has to make dinner for us soon." 
 
 Arina went further and further into the steppe, yonder 
 where, behind the land used for the railroad there arose the 
 bristling fringes of the corn. She walked slowly, like one ab- 
 sorbed in her thoughts. 
 
 "What's that you say?" asked Matvei Yegorovitch of the 
 various actors in the farce, who were recounting to each other 
 the most trivial details of the event. 
 
 And everybody laughed. Even Nikolai Petrovitch found an 
 aphorism for the occasion. 
 
 ''In truth it is no sin 
 To laugh at the ridiculous." 
 he said to Sofia Ivanovna. 
 
 And then he added, with an air of importance, "But to 
 laugh excessively is unhealthy." 
 
 Despite this, there was a great deal of laughter in the sta- 
 tion that day; but it didn't go so well with the eating, for, since 
 Arina had not returned, the chief's wife had to do the cooking. 
 Yet even the tasteless meal wa.s not enongli to extinguish the 
 good humor of the group. Gomozov did not fare forth from the 
 cabin until his duties called him, and when he came out he was 
 summoned to the chief's office, whore Nikolai Petrovitch, much 
 to Matvei Yegorovitch 's delight, asked jnin how he had suc- 
 ceeded in seducing his beauty. 
 
 "F'or its originality it is a sin of the first class," said 
 Nikolai Petrovitch to the chief. 
 
 "It certainly is," assented the composed switchman with a 
 forced laugh. 
 
 For he had suddenly begun to understand that by telling
 
 46 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 the story in a manner to cast ridicule upon Arina he himself 
 would be less laughed at. 
 
 And he began: 
 
 "At first we made eyes at each other. ..." 
 
 "Made eyes at each other? Ha, ha, ha! Just imagine, 
 Nikolai Petrovitch, how an ugly thing like that would make 
 eyes! This is delicious!" 
 
 ' * Well, but she did make them at me. And when I saw that, 
 I said to myself, ' You can have a little amusement ! ' Then she 
 asked me, *Do you want me to sew your shirts?' " 
 
 "But the subtlety of the phrase was not in the sewing," 
 observed Nikolai Petrovitch. 
 
 And he explained to the chief. 
 
 "That, you know, is from Nekrassov. Continue, Timofei." 
 
 And Timofei continued his explanations; at first he forced 
 himself, then gradually he began to believe his own lie, for he 
 saw that his lie was useful. 
 
 And meanwhile, she of whom he spoke was stretched out in 
 the steppe. She had made her way into the depths of the sea of 
 corn, and had dropped upon the earth, where she remained for 
 a long time motionless. "When the hot sun began to burn her 
 shoulder until she could stand it no longer, she turned over 
 with her mouth facing the sky, covering her face with her 
 hands, so that her eyes should not see the heavens, which were 
 too clear, nor the sun, which was too bright. 
 
 Under the breath of the wind the corn produced a weak 
 noise about that woman crushed with shame, and the countless 
 crickets chirped tirelessly, as if intent upon very important 
 business. And it was hot. The woman tried to recall her pray- 
 ers, but she could not. Before her eyes there swayed in a wild 
 dance faces contracted with laughter, while in her ears boomed 
 the tenor voice of Luka and the mocking, querelous notes of the
 
 MAXIM GORKI 47 
 
 bagpipe, and the resounding shouts. Either this, or the heat, 
 oppressed her bosom; she tore open her chemise, exposed her 
 skin to the rays of the sun, hoping, perhaps, that in this way 
 she might breathe more comfortably. And while the sun toasted 
 her skin, a strange sensation burrowed about within her breast. 
 With deep sighs, from time to time she murmured, "Good God, 
 I entreat You!" 
 
 But the only response that came to her ears was the dry 
 rustling of the com and the chirping of the crickets. When she 
 raised her head above the waves of the corn she beheld its gol- 
 den reflection, the black chimney of the water-house that rose 
 behind the station in the little valley, and the roof of the house 
 in which they were all laughing at her plight. There was noth- 
 ing else in the boundless yellow plain, covered by the blue dome 
 of heaven, and to Arina it seemed that she was all alone in the 
 world, — that she was stretched out exactly in its centre, and 
 that there was none who would offer to share with her the bur- 
 den of solitude. 
 
 At night she heard cries. 
 
 * ' Arina ! Arina, — the devil ! ' ' 
 
 One of the voices she recognized as Luka's, — the other was 
 the soldier. She would have liked to hear a certain other voice, 
 but that one was not heard; then she began to weep copiously. 
 The tears ran down her cheeks and on to her bosom. She wept, 
 and as she wept she rubbed her naked skin against the earth, so 
 as not to feel the inner burning that tormented her more and 
 more. She cried, then tried to stop, stifling her groans, as if 
 afraid that someone would hear her and forbid her to cry. 
 
 Afterward, when night had come, she arose and walked 
 slowly toward the station. 
 
 Arrived there she leaned against the wall of the shack, and 
 there she remained a long time, her gaze fixed upon the steppe. 
 She could make out a freight trjiin and she heard the soldier
 
 48 . STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 relating the story of her shame, and heard the laughter of the 
 conductors. 
 
 The night was peaceful, a moonlit night. . . . The loud guf- 
 faws echoed afar, across the desolate steppe, where the sound of 
 the locomotive's whistle died away. 
 
 "Good Lord, I beg You!" sighed the woman, leaning more 
 heavily against the wall. 
 
 But her sighs did not lighten the burden that she felt upon 
 her heart. 
 
 The next morning she made her way into the attic of the 
 station and hanged herself, using a rope that formerly had 
 served for putting out clothes to dry. 
 
 Two days later, on account of the odor of the body, the 
 corpse was discovered. At first they were afraid, then they be- 
 gan to inquire as to who was to blame. Nikolai Petrovitch 
 demonstrated conclusively that it was Gomozov's fault. The 
 chief then struck Gomozov with his closed fist and ordered the 
 switchman to shut up. 
 
 The authorities began to investigate. As a result they found 
 that Arina used to suifer from attacks of melancholy. . . . The 
 laborers about the station were ordered to bury the corpse in the 
 steppe. And when this had been carried out, order and quiet 
 returned to the station. 
 
 And its inhabitants began to live their four minutes per 
 day, dying of monotony and solitude, of idleness and the heat. 
 With envious glances they followed the trains that sped past 
 them. 
 
 And in winter, when the tempests, in a wild charge, loosen 
 their fury upon the steppe, and boom their wailings, and 
 envelop the station in snow and wild shrieks, the life of its 
 denizens becomes more monotonous than ever.
 
 The Man Who Could Not Die 
 
 (From ''Old Isergil") 
 
 IT was in Dobrudja, at the mouth of the Danube, that oUl 
 Isergil told me the story which I am relating here. 
 
 One evening, when the grape-gathering was over for the 
 day, the Maldavians employed in the vineyard went to the sea- 
 shore, but I remained alone with old Isergil. We lay on the 
 ground in the thick shade of the vines, observing silently the 
 gradually disappearing outlines of the people as they seemed 
 more and more to melt into the gathering darkness. 
 
 They were laughing and singing as they strolled along: the 
 men — sunburnt and sturdy, with long black mustache and 
 thick shocks of hair that fell over their shoulders, their stalwart 
 forms dressed in short jackets and wide trousers; the women 
 and the girls — gay, pretty and supple as willow twigs, with 
 dark blue eyes and tanned faces whose black and silk-soft luiir 
 fastened with garlands of coins, played loosely in the warm aiul 
 wanton breeze. The bells tinkled softly as the wind swept over 
 the wide ste[)pe. Now and then, when a sudden puff rushed 
 through the darkness as though in combat with an invisible 
 force, their hair was blown high over their heatls in fanta.stic 
 shapes. Seen from a distance, these shapes gave to th(! gradually 
 vanishing women a wdinlti lul, fairy-like appearance. Farther 
 they went and t";iil(irf, uml llir magic of the darkness threw 
 about them a mantle that seemed more iiinl more wonderfully 
 fanta.stic. 
 
 Now arose the sound of a violin, a girl sang in a velvety alto 
 
 49
 
 50 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 voice, and laughter came to our ears. And the imagination, 
 having burst the bonds of reality in the bewitching twilight, 
 wove all these sounds into a wreath of gaily-colored ribbons and 
 flowers of melody which hovered gracefully over the dim out- 
 lines of the toilers. 
 
 The evening air was becoming permeated with the sharp 
 salty tang of the sea, mingled with the warm, pungent odor of 
 the rain-soaked earth. A few clouds that seemed to have been 
 torn away from the recent rain-storm, still straggled in the air, 
 curling softly and tinting with luxurious colors the western sky, 
 — now white and feathery, now steel-gray, now, towering like 
 sun-drenched cliffs, golden and rosy and red, and now black and 
 threatening. And through these clouds, fragments of blue sky, 
 already glittering with innumerable stars, peeped tenderly over 
 the steppe. All this, — the perfume, the clouds, the stars and 
 the people — shone with a bewitching beauty in the fragrant 
 golden twilight; and yet an atmosphere of indescribable sadness 
 hovered over everything, as at the beginning of a fairy tale. 
 Everything was alive, harmoniously and beautifully alive, and 
 yet the hand of death seemed to be over all, as though their 
 luxuriant growth were suddenly arrested. This life lacked the 
 nervous action of real life; it lacked those sounds which have 
 the power of latent growth. The sounds that reached the ear 
 at this time, however, were faint and broken, and as they were 
 dying away they seemed to be transformed into soft sighs, — 
 sighs of regret and of longing. Longing for what ? Happiness, 
 perhaps, — that elusive, unrecognizable will-o '-the-wisp, human 
 happiness? .... 
 
 As these tones floated through the air I was filled with fan- 
 ciful desires. I wished that I might be tranformed into dust 
 and that I might be blown by the wind in every direction. I 
 longed to flow like a warm stream through the steppe, to sweep 
 into the sea and to rise in soft vapor amongst the beautiful 
 clouds. I wished that I, and I alone, could permeate that en-
 
 ]VIAXIM GORKI 51 
 
 tire sorrowful, magical night. And I became melancholy with- 
 out myself knowing the reason why. 
 
 * ' Why haven 't you gone with the others ? ' ' asked old Isergil 
 as she nodded toward the sea. 
 
 She was bent with old age, almost doubled like a half- 
 closed jack-knife. Her once dark blue eyes were sad and tearful. 
 Her voice sounded dry and thin, without the slightest vibration. 
 Her words seemed to issue from her creaking bones. It was a 
 miracle that she could still speak at all ! 
 
 "I didn't care to," I replied. 
 
 "Well, well, well! You are born old, you people of the 
 North. You are as sullen as the very devil. Our girls are afraid 
 of you, and yet you are so young and strong. ' ' 
 
 The moon had risen. Its orb was big and blood-red. It 
 seemed to have been born out of the womb of the steppe which 
 had grown fat and fertile through the centuries with the flesh 
 and the blood of numberless human victims swallowed therein. 
 The shadows of the vine leaves wove delicate lace patterns 
 around us, covering us as with a net whose meshes danced and 
 trembled without end. And to the left of us quivered the 
 shadows of the clouds, bright and transparent in the shimmer- 
 ing moonbeams. We coukl just barely hear the murmur of the 
 sea in the distance, the soft weeping of the violin, the cheerful 
 laughter of a young girl, the vibrant baritone of her companion, 
 — all harmonizing with the regular lilt and ripple of the waves 
 against the shore. 
 
 "Look! There comes Larra!" 
 
 I followed with my eyes the crooked linger of old isrrgil 
 and I saw quivering shadows, many shadows, — and one of Ukmii, 
 darker and thifker, hovered lower and faster than the rest. It 
 was the shadow of a layer of clfjuds that moved over the sky 
 faster and lower than the clouds directly overhead. 
 
 "I sec nobody there," I .said. 
 
 Why, you are blinder than I, old woman though I am. Look,
 
 52 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 there — don't you see? That black thing that flies so fast over 
 the steppe." 
 
 I looked again, and once more I saw nothing but shadows, 
 
 "That is nothing but a shadow," I said. "Why do you call 
 it Larra?" 
 
 * * Because it is Larra ! He has turned into a mere shadow. 
 And it is time he did ! He has been living for thousands of years 
 already, and the sun has sucked out all his blood and marrow 
 and the wind has shrivelled up his body. Thus does God punish 
 human beings for their overweening pride ! ' ' 
 
 "Tell me about it," I begged of the old gipsy, already pic- 
 turing to myself one of those exquisite fairy tales the like of 
 which you can hear only in the steppe. 
 
 And old Isergil began her story: 
 
 "It happened many thousands of years ago. Far over the 
 sea, toward the rising of the sun lies the land of the Great 
 Stream, and in that land every leaf on every tree and every 
 blade of grass gives out just as much shade as a man needs in 
 order to shield himself against the sun, which shines there with 
 a terrible blaze. So generous is the earth in that country ! 
 
 "Once upon a time there lived in that land a race of mighty 
 men who tended their herds and spent their days in hunting 
 wild beasts. At the end of every hunt they regaled themselves 
 with merry feasts, singing songs and making love to the girls 
 who were flame-bright in their loveliness in that land. 
 
 "Once, in the midst of their banquet, an eagle swooped 
 down from the sky and carried off one of their maidens. Dark 
 was her hair and her body was tender and fragrant as the night. 
 The arrows which the men shot after the eagle fell back to earth. 
 They looked for the maiden everywhere, but they could not find 
 her. And in time she was forgotten, just as everything else 
 is forgotten." 
 
 The old gipsy sighed and then became silent. Her creaking
 
 MAXIM GORKI 53 
 
 voice sounded like the jarring of the forgotten centuries stirred 
 into life again and awaking within her breast the shadow of a 
 memory. And the sea accompanied harmoniously the beginning 
 of this old, old legend, one of the many that had their birth in 
 the gray dawn of the world where the wind of the land and the 
 waves of the ocean whispered together. 
 
 "Twenty years later the maiden returned, shattered and 
 weary, and with her came a youth, strong and handsome as she 
 herself had once been. And when they asked her where she had 
 lived all this time she told them how the eagle had carried her 
 off to his nest among the mountains where she dwelt as his wife. 
 The youth was his son, but the father was no longer alive; for 
 that mighty eagle, when he felt that he was growing feeble and 
 old and that his end was approaching, raised himself with a final 
 effort on high toward the sun, folded his wings and allowed 
 himself to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below. 
 
 "Everybody looked in amazement at the eagle's son and 
 they noticed that he was in no way different from them except 
 that his eye was proud and cold and invincible as the eye of the 
 monarch of the air. When they spoke to him, he replied or kept 
 silent, just as he pleased ; and when the elders addressed liim, he 
 answered them as though he were their equal. This disj)lease(l 
 them, and they called him un inifiiiished arrow whose barb had 
 been left uiisharpcncd, and they exj)laiiied that many thousands 
 of people like himself and even much older than himself honored 
 and obeyed them. But he looked at them with his eold haughty 
 eyes, remarking that there was not another man in tiie world 
 like himself. If others honored and obeyed llic elders, it w^as 
 their affair; but as for him, it was his intention not to abide by 
 the elders' wishes. 
 
 "lI(!reupon they became enraged and cried out that there 
 was no place for him in their midst! 'Let him go wherever he 
 wishes!' they said, lie laughed ami went wherever he wished, — 
 namely, to a beautiful young girl who had h(;(;n looking at him
 
 54 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 long and steadily. He approached her and took her in his 
 arms. This girl, however, was the daughter of one of the elders 
 who had just rebuked him. And although he was handsome, she 
 spurned his embrace, for she feared the wrath of her father. 
 She pushed him away from her and was about to leave, but he 
 followed her; and as she fell down, he placed his foot upon her 
 breast. He crushed it so fiercely that the blood began to spurt 
 out of her mouth and her life rushed forth from her writhing 
 heart. 
 
 "All those who had witnessed this were overwhelmed with 
 terror, for never had they beheld a human being slain in such a 
 manner. And for a long time they were silent, gazing at the 
 dead maiden as she lay there with her terrified, distended eyes 
 and bleeding mouth that even in death seemed dumbly crying 
 for revenge. And they gazed at him as he stood there alone, 
 cold and defiant, with his head raised high, inviting the punish- 
 ment that he knew would fall upon his head. Finally, recover- 
 ing their senses, they seized and bound him, and then left him 
 there ; for they thought it too merciful a punishment to put him 
 to death at once for such a horrible and unheard-of crime as he 
 had committed." 
 
 The darkness of the night was spreading, its meshes inter- 
 woven with the soft threads of melody still heard in the distance, 
 its tints becoming more and more fantastic. The crickets chir- 
 rupped among the trembling vine leaves, the winds sighed and 
 whispered to one another, and the full moon, blood-red hitherto, 
 gradually grew more silvery, scattering its shimmer lavishly 
 over the wide steppe. 
 
 "And they gathered together to determine upon the pen- 
 alty that might be worthy of his crime. One of them proposed 
 to have him torn asunder by two horses pulling in opposite di- 
 rections. This, however, did not satisfy them. Another one sug- 
 gested that they should all shoot their arrows at him. But this, 
 too, did not seem punishment enough. Some recommended that
 
 MAXIM GORKI 55 
 
 they should burn him at the stake; but in that case the smoke 
 would hide his suffering from their eyes. They discussed this 
 thing and that thing, but they found no torture that satisfied 
 them all. And his mother knelt before the elders, but found 
 neither words nor tears to soften their hearts with pity toward 
 her son. For a long time they deliberated, until finally a wise 
 man said : 'Let us ask him why he did it !' 
 
 "They asked him and he replied: 'First remove my chains. 
 Unless I am freed I refuse to talk to you ! ' 
 
 "And when they had removed his chains he said: 'What 
 do you want ? ' And he asked this in the tone of a master speak- 
 ing to his slaves. 
 
 " 'You have already heard what we want,' replied the 
 wise man. 
 
 " 'Why should I explain my actions to you?' 
 
 " 'In order that we may understand you, terrible eagle! 
 Now listen to us. Your life is forfeited anyhow, so that you had 
 better tell us why you have killed her. We are going to live on 
 and it is necessary that we should learn more than we already 
 know.' n B|, •.|--^^'3<i 
 
 " 'Very well, I will tell you, although I myself do not know 
 just what has happened. It seems to me that I killed her be- 
 cause she spurned me when I desired to embrace her.' 
 
 " 'But she was not yours!' 
 
 " 'Do you use only that which is yours? I think that each 
 man brings with him nothing but his speech, his hands and his 
 feet. Tlicsc alone are his by right of birth. And yet do not all 
 of you possess wives, boasts of burden, tracts of land and many 
 other things besides?' 
 
 "To this they replied that whatever people possess they 
 have purchased at the cost of their strength, their soul, their 
 freedom, their very life But he insisted that he wanted to pos- 
 sess whatever seemed to liini beautiful and desirable, and to keep 
 all this as his very own without sharing it with others.
 
 56 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 "For a long time they argued with him and then realized 
 from his words that in his own eyes he appeared to be the first 
 and only creature on God's earth, neither recognizing nor in- 
 deed being able to recognize any rights outside of himself. They 
 shuddered when they saw how he was deliberately condemning 
 himself to everlasting loneliness among men. He knew neither 
 race, nor mother, no heroic deeds, and no peaceful occupation. 
 He had neither herd nor home, nor mate, and he did not even 
 feel the want thereof ! ' ' 
 
 In the distance, on the seashore, arose the merry ripple of 
 a girl's laughter intermingled with the melting tenor of a gipsy 
 song. The others regularly filled the rests in his rhythmical 
 singing. The tender sheaves of melody rose and fell in the air, 
 disappearing suddenly, as though someone had caught them in 
 their flight and carried off this aerial booty to distant lands. 
 
 "When the elders saw that they could do nothing else with 
 him, they deliberated again to determine the proper punishment. 
 But this time their deliberation did not last so long, for that 
 same wise elder who up to this time had said nothing about the 
 penalty, now spoke up : * Wait ! The punishment already exists. 
 And a most fearful punishment it is, the like of which has not 
 been seen for many thousands of years. His punishment is 
 within himself, inexorable and unescapable. Let him go free 
 that he may live on — this is his punishment!' ^ 
 
 "And thereupon a miracle took place. Out of a clear and 
 cloudless sky there suddenly crashed a peal of thunder. The 
 heavenly powers had confirmed the wise elder's judgment. The 
 bystanders bowed their heads and each went to his home. But 
 he, the eagle's son, whose name was henceforth Larra (which 
 means abandoned, exiled), laughed loudly and boisterously at 
 his judges and went forth a free man. — Lonely and free was 
 he, just as his father had been. Yet his father was not a human 
 being! And Larra began to live his wondrous life — free as 
 an eagle. Often he appeared in the settlement of the race of
 
 MAXIM GORKI 57 
 
 giants, robbing them of their cattle and beautiful maidens; — 
 whatever he desired for his pleasure was his pitiful victim. 
 People shot their arrows at him, yet his body could not be pierced, 
 for it was shielded against death by an invisible armor of retri- 
 bution. He was quick, rapacious, strong and terrible. Rarely 
 did anybody come face to face with him. He was seen for the 
 most part from a distance. And whoever caught sight of him 
 shot as many arrows as he possessed or was able to spare. And for 
 many long years he roamed alone and companionless through the 
 haunts of men. . . . Yet we mortals cannot endure unending joy ; 
 we cannot be happy in constant and unalloyed pleasure, for such 
 pleasure loses all its value in the end, and then we begin to long 
 for pain. . . . And so it once happened that he came close to the 
 people, and when they were about to attack him he remained 
 motionless, making no effort whatsoever to defend himself. 
 Thereupon one of the people realized what he desired and he 
 cried, 'Do not touch him! He wants to die!' 
 
 "And they all restrained themselves, for there was not one 
 among them who wished to set him free from his evil lot of 
 eternal life. They refrained from hiying hands on him, but 
 stood around and mocked him. Larra, however, trembled at 
 their laughter and fumbled for something that was hidden in 
 his bosom. Grasping it convulsively he rushed upon the men — 
 with a stone in his uplifted hand. They avoided his attack but 
 refu.sod to strike back, Thereujjon he fell upon the ground, 
 weeping and weary, and they stood about gn/.ing at his prostrate 
 form. .Seeing this he snatched a knife that liiid \':\]\v\\ upon the 
 ground from one of the ni'-n during the struggle, and plung(>d 
 It into his breast. But the knife sruipi)ed at the hilt as though 
 it had .struck against a stone; and once more he fell upon the 
 earth, and in desf)air beat his head violently against it. The earth 
 merely yielded, leaving a hollf)W where his liciid had struck 
 ngaijist it. 
 
 " 'lie cannot die!' joyfully cried those who had witnessed
 
 58 STORIES OF THE STEPPE 
 
 all this. And they went away leaving him all alone. He lay 
 upon his back and this is what he saw : High against the heavens 
 like two black dots flew two mighty eagles. And he, a human 
 being, lay there helpless upon the ground; and in his human 
 eyes there was such deep longing, such endless, overwhelming 
 sorrow that they could drown out the happiness of the entire 
 race of mortals. And from that time on unto this very day he 
 has been seeking for death — always alone, always in vain. And 
 everywhere you can see him, seeking everywhere. . . . You saw 
 him but a little while ago. ... He is nothing but a shadow now, 
 and a shadow he will remain forever. Now he understands 
 neither the speech nor the actions of men. ... He no longer 
 knows what it is to live and the secret of death will forever re- 
 main locked against him. He merely wanders and seeks, seeks 
 and wanders. His life is no life and the hope of death no longer 
 smiles upon him, and no rest nor welcome can he find among 
 men. Thus has God punished man's overweening pride!" 
 
 Old Isergil sighed and then became silent, while her head 
 sank down on her breast. 
 
 I looked at her. Sleep was overpowering the old gipsy, 
 and I pitied her. The latter part of her story had burst forth in 
 loud, almost threatening tones, and yet her words rang with a 
 timid and slavishly humble undertone. 
 
 A song arose in the darkness on the seashore. A most won- 
 derful song it was ! First an alto rang through the night, — a 
 young girl's voice, singing the first measures of the melody. 
 Then a second voice took up the same song from the very start 
 while the first voice continued the melody, a few measures in 
 advance of the second singer. Then a third, a fourth, and a 
 fifth voice took up the same song, and each new voice began like 
 the second, a few measures after the one previous to it, and 
 continued the song through to the end. And suddenly a chorus 
 of men 's voices rang out, singing the self-same melody from the 
 beginning, harmonizing and supporting the other singers, yet not
 
 MAXIM GORKI 59 
 
 in the least drowning out their voices, A fugue in the steppe ! — 
 Born among the common folk and sung by the common folk ! 
 
 The melody was wonderful. Each female voice rang sweetly 
 and distinctly out of the interweaving strands of music. It was 
 as if many-colored rills were chasing and tumbling out of the 
 air over a steep precipice and then swinging and melting together 
 into a stream of exquisite melody. The voices rushed into this 
 stream, submerging themselves within its depths and then with 
 a ripple of laughter bubbling up on the surface again. One 
 after another they tumbled pure and bright as crystal, and then 
 rose once more into the heights. And the harmony, too, was 
 wonderful. The male voices sang in a different and mpre sim- 
 ple rhythm, without any ornament or vibration, — somewhat 
 heavy and melancholy, as though they were telling a tale of 
 sorrow, — while the female voices, overtaking each other con- 
 tinually, seemed to be forevermore hastening to tell the same 
 tale to their companions, — yet a tale that was no longer sor- 
 rowful but filled with the merry ringing of silvery fairy bells. 
 
 And this melody rose higher and higher until it over- 
 \rhelmed the moaning of the sea.
 
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