The Russian Masters: Works by Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev and More. Максим Горький
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in dull rags, with here a bony arm bared, there a sharp knee, and there again a frightfully sunken chest. Some are almost entirely naked. The women differ little from the men, except that they are even uglier and more uncouth. All have trembling heads and hands and walk with an uncertain step, as if on a slippery, or hilly, or sliding surface. Their voices, too, are all alike, rough and hoarse. They speak as uncertainly as they walk, as if their lips were frozen and refused to obey.
In the centre, at a separate table, sits Man, his gray, unkempt head leaning on his arms. In this position he remains throughout the scene, except during the one moment when he speaks. He is dressed very poorly.
In the corner stands Someone in Gray, with the candle burned nearly to the end. The slender blue flame flickers, now bending, now striving upward with its sharp little tongue. Its blue throws a ghastly glare on His face and chin._
THE DRUNKARD'S CONVERSATION
—Oh my! Oh my!
—Look, everything is swaying so strangely. There's nothing to rest your eyes on.
—Everything is shaking as in a fever—the people, the chair, the ceiling.
—Everything is floating and rocking as on waves.
—Do you hear a noise? I hear a kind of noise, as if an iron wheel were rumbling, or stones falling from a mountain, large stones coming down like rain.
—It's the ringing in your ears.
—It's the tingling of your blood. I feel my blood. It flows heavy through my veins, thick, thick, black, smelling of rum. And when it gets to my heart, it all falls down, and it's terrible.
—It seems to me I see flashes of lightning.
—I see huge, red woodpiles and people burning on them. It's disgusting to smell the roasting flesh.
—Dark shadows circle around the piles. They are drunk, the shadows are. Hey, invite me! I'll dance with you.
—Oh my! Oh my!
—I am happy, too. Who will laugh with me? Nobody. So I'll laugh by myself. (He laughs)
—A charming woman is kissing my lips. She smells of musk and her teeth are like a crocodile's. She wants to bite me. Get away, you dirty hussy!
—I am not a dirty hussy. I am an old pregnant snake. I've been watching a whole hour to see little snakes come out of my body below and crawl around. Say, don't step on my little snakes.
—Where are you going?
—Who's walking there? Sit down. You make the whole house shake when you walk.
—I can't. I feel awful sitting down.
—I too. When I am sitting I feel a horror running through my whole body.
—So do I. Let me go.
[Three or four Drunkards reel aimlessly about, getting tangled up In the chairs.
—Look what it's doing. It's been jumping for two hours, trying to get on my knee. It just misses by an inch. I drive it away and it comes back again.
—Black cockroaches are creeping under my skull and buzzing.
—My brain is falling apart. I feel the gray matter separating. My brain is like rotten cheese. It stinks.
—There's some sort of a corpse here. I smell it.
—Oh my! Oh my!
—I'll sneak up to her to-night and cut her throat.
—The blood will flow. It's flowing already. See how red it is.
—I am constantly being followed by three men. They are calling me into a dark corner of the vacant lot, and they want to kill me. They are already at the door.
—Who is walking on the walls and ceiling?
—Good Lord! They have come to take me.
—Who?
—They.
—My tongue is getting paralyzed. I'll cry. (Cries)
—My whole body is coming out. I'll soon be turned inside out, and then I'll be all red.
—Listen, listen. Ho! Somebody! A monster is going for me. He's raising his hand. Help! Ho!
—What is it? Help! A spider!
—Help!
[For some time they shout "Help!" hoarsely.
—We are all drunkards. Let's call down all the people from above.
It's so disgusting up there.
—No, don't. When I leave here and go out on the street, it rampages and tears about like a wild beast and soon throws me off my, feet.
—We've all come here. We drink rum and it gives us joy.
—It gives us fright. I shiver the whole day from fright.
—Fright is better than life. Who wants to return to life?
—I don't.
—I don't. I'd rather croak here. I don't want to live.
—No one!
—Oh my! Oh my!
—Why does Man come here? He drinks little and just sits still. We don't want him.
—Let him go to his own house. He has a house of his own.
—Fifteen rooms.
—Don't touch him. He has no place to go to any more.
—He has fifteen rooms.
—They're empty. Only rats run around and fight in them.
—And his wife.
—He hasn't any. Seems she died.
[During this conversation and the following, Old Women in strange headgear enter quietly and replace unnoticeably the Drunkards, who quietly depart. The women mingle in the conversation, but in such a way that no one notices it.
CONVERSATION OF DRUNKARDS AND OLD WOMEN
—He'll soon die, too. He can scarcely drag himself along, he's so weak.
—He has fifteen rooms.
—Listen to the beating of his heart. It's uneven and faint. It'll soon stop beating altogether.
—Hey, Man, give us an invitation to your house. You have fifteen rooms.
—It'll soon stop beating altogether, that old, sick, feeble heart of
Man!
—He's asleep, the drunken fool. It's dreadful to sleep, and yet he sleeps. He might die in his sleep.
—Hey, there, wake him up!
—Do you remember how it used to beat when it was young and strong?
[A low laugh is heard.
—Who's laughing? There are some here who have no business to be here.
—It just seems so to you. We are all alone, only we drunkards.
—I'll go out on the street and start a fight. I've been robbed. I'm stark naked, and my skin is green.
—Good evening.
—The wheel is rumbling again. Oh, Lord, they'll crush me! Help!
[No one responds.
—Good evening.
—Do you remember his birth? I believe