The Russian Masters: Works by Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev and More. Максим Горький
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side of the street they looked back at him and held on to their pockets. He shook his head and laughed.
—He's such a jolly good fellow.
—They're always laughing.
—And singing.
—It's he who sings. She dances.
—In her rosy dress, with her little bare neck.
—It does one good to look at them. They are so young and wholesome.
—I am sorry for them. They're starving. Do you understand? They're actually going without food.
—Yes, it's true. They had more clothes and furniture, but they sold every bit, and now they've nothing more to sell.
—I know. She had such pretty earrings, and she sold them to buy bread.
—He had a beautiful black frock-coat, the one in which he was married, and he sold that too.
—The only thing they'll have left is their engagement rings. How poor they are!
—That's nothing. I was once young myself, and I know what it is.
—What did you say, grandpa?
—I said it's nothing, nothing at all.
—Look, the mere thought of them makes grandpa want to sing.
—And dance.
[They laugh.
—He is so kind. He made my boy a bow and arrow.
—She cried with me when my daughter was ill.
—He helped me mend the rickety fence. He's strong.
—It's nice to have such good neighbors. Their youth warms our cold old age. Their jolliness drives away our cares.
—But their room is like a prison, it's so empty.
—No, it's like a temple. It's so bright.
—Look, they have flowers on the table, the flowers she picked on her walk in the country in her rosy dress with her little bare neck. Here are lilies-of-the-valley. The dew hasn't dried on them yet.
—There is the burning campion.
—And violets.
—Don't touch; don't touch the flowers, girls. Her kisses are upon them. Don't throw them on the floor, girls. Her breath is upon them. Don't blow them away with your breath. Don't touch, don't touch the flowers, girls.
—He'll come and he'll see the flowers.
—He'll take the kisses.
—He'll drink her breath.
—How poor they are! How happy they are!
—Come, let's leave.
—Haven't we brought our dear neighbors anything?
—What a shame!
—I brought a bottle of milk and a piece of white, sweet-smelling bread. (Puts them on the table)
—I brought flowers. (Scatters them)
—We brought branches of oak and birch with green leaves. Let's put them up around the walls. The room will look like cheerful green woods.
[They decorate the room with the branches, concealing the dark windows and covering the pinkish nakedness of the walls with leaves.
—I, brought a good cigar. It is a cheap one, but it's strong and fragrant and will give pleasant dreams.
—And I brought a ribbon, a red ribbon. It makes a very pretty fancy bow for the hair. It's a present my sweetheart gave me; but I have so many ribbons and she hasn't even one.
—What did you bring, grandpa? Did you bring anything?
—Nothing, nothing, except my cough. They don't want that, do they, neighbor?
—No more than they want my crutches. Hey, girls, who wants my crutches?
—Do you remember, neighbor?
—Do you remember, neighbor?
—Come, let's go to sleep, neighbor. It's late already. (They sigh and leave, one coughing, the other knocking the floor with his crutches)
—Come, come!
—May God give them happiness. They are such good neighbors.
—God grant that they may always be healthy and merry and always love each other. And may the hideous black cat never pass between them.
—And may the good man find work. It's bad when a man is out of work. (They leave)
[Enter immediately the Wife of Man, very pretty, graceful, and delicate, wearing flowers in her luxuriant hair which is hanging loose. The expression on her face is very sad. She seats herself on a chair, folds her hands in her lap, and speaks in a sad tone, turned toward the audience.
MAN'S WIFE
I've just returned from the city, where I went looking for I don't know what. We are so poor, we have nothing, and it's very hard for us to live. We need money, and I don't know how in the world to get it. People won't give it to you for the asking, and I haven't the strength to take it away from them. I was looking for work, but I can't get work either. There are lots of people and little work, they say. I looked on the ground as I walked to see if some rich person hadn't lost his purse, but either nobody had lost one or somebody luckier than I had already picked it up. I feel so sad. My husband will soon come from his search for work, tired and hungry. What am I to give him except my kisses? But you can't satisfy your hunger on kisses. I feel so sad I could cry.
I can go without eating for a long time and not feel it, but he can't. He has a large body which demands food, and when he's gone a long time without it, he gets pale, sick, and excited. He scolds me and then begs me not to be angry at him. I never am angry at him, because I love him dearly. It only makes me feel so sad.
My husband is a very talented architect. I even think he's a genius. He was left an orphan when a mere boy, and after his parents' death his relatives supported him for some time; but as he was always of an independent nature, sharp in his talk and prone to make unpleasant remarks, and as he showed them no gratitude, they dropped him. He continued to study, nevertheless, supporting himself by giving lessons, and so made his way through college. He often went hungry, my poor husband. Now he is art architect and draws plans of beautiful buildings, but no one wants to buy them, and many stupid persons make fun of them even. To make one's way in the world one must have either patrons or luck. He has neither. So he goes about looking for a chance, and maybe with his eyes on the ground looking for money like me. He is still very young and simple. Of course, some day fortune will come to us, too. But when will it be? In the meantime it's very hard to live. When we were married we had a little property, but we soon spent it. We went to the theatre and ate candy. He still has hopes, but I sometimes lose all hope and cry to myself. My heart breaks when I think he'll be here soon and I have nothing to give him again except my poor kisses.
O God, be a kind, merciful Father to us. You have so much of everything, bread and work and money. Your earth is so rich. She grows corn and fruit in her fields, covers the meadows with flowers, and yields gold and beautiful precious stones from her bowels. And your sun has so much warmth, and your pensive stars have so much quiet joy. Give us, I pray you, a little from your abundance, just a little, as much as you give your birds. A little bread, so that my dear good husband may not be hungry; a little warmth, so that he may not be cold; and a little work, so that he may carry his beautiful head erect. And please do not be angry with my husband because he swears so and laughs, and even sings and makes me dance. He is so young and not a bit staid or serious.
Now, after I have prayed, I feel relieved and hopeful