The Essential Russian Plays & Short Stories. Максим Горький
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It isn't her fault if she's that way.
SAVVA (coldly)
Nor mine either.
LIPA
Oh, Savva, if you only knew the terrible life people lead here. The men drink, and beat their wives, and the women—
SAVVA
I know.
LIPA
You say it so calmly. I have been waiting very much to have a talk with you.
SAVVA
Go ahead.
LIPA
You'll soon be leaving us, I suppose.
SAVVA
Yes.
LIPA
Then I won't have any chance to talk to you. You are scarcely ever at home. This is the first time, pretty nearly. It seems so strange that you should enjoy playing with the children, you a grown man, big as a bear.
SAVVA (merrily)
No, Lipa, they play very well. Misha is very good at the game, and I have a hard time holding up my end of it. I lost him three pairs yesterday.
LIPA
Why, he is only ten years old.—
SAVVA
Well, what of it? The children are the only human beings here. They are the wisest part of the—
LIPA (with a smile)
And I? How about me?
SAVVA (looking at her)
You? Why, you are like the rest.
[A pause. Being offended, Lipa's languor disappears to some extent.
LIPA
Maybe I bore you.
SAVVA
No, you make no difference to me one way or another. I am never bored.
LIPA (with a constrained smile)
Thank you, I am glad of that at least. Were you in the monastery to-day? You go there often, don't you?
SAVVA
Yes, I was there. Why?
LIPA
I suppose you don't remember—I love our monastery. It is so beautiful. At times it looks so pensive. I like it because it's so old. Its age gives it a solemnity, a stern serenity and detachment.
SAVVA
Do you read many books?
LIPA (blushing)
I used to read a lot. You know I spent four winters in Moscow with
Aunt Glasha. Why do you ask?
SAVVA
Never mind. Go on.
LIPA
Does what I say sound ridiculous?
SAVVA
No, go on.
LIPA
The monastery is really a remarkable place. There are nice spots there which no one ever visits, somewhere between the mute walls, where there is nothing but grass and fallen stones and a lot of old, old litter. I love to linger there, especially at twilight, or on hot sunny days like to-day. I close my eyes, and I seem to look far, far into the distant past—at those who built it and those who first prayed in it. There they walk along the path carrying bricks and singing something, so softly, so far away. (Closing her eyes) So softly, so softly.
SAVVA
I don't like the old. As to the building of the monastery, it was done by serfs, of course; and when they carried bricks they didn't sing, but quarrelled and cursed one another. That's more like it.
LIPA (opening her eyes)
Those are my dreams. You see, Savva, I am all alone here. I have nobody to talk to. Tell me—You won't be angry, will you?—Tell me, just me alone, why did you come here to us? It wasn't to pray. It wasn't for the feast-day. You don't look like a pilgrim.
SAVVA (frowning)
I don't like you to be so curious.
LIPA
How can you think I am? Do I look as if I were curious? You have been here for two weeks, and you ought to see that I am lonely. I am lonely, Savva. Your coming was to me like manna fallen from the sky. You are the first living human being that has come here from over there, from real life. In Moscow I lived very quietly, just reading my books; and here—you see the sort of people we have here.
SAVVA
Do you think it's different in other places?
LIPA
I don't know. That's what I should like to find out from you. You have seen so much. You have even been abroad.
SAVVA
Only for a short time.
LIPA
That makes no difference. You have met many cultured, wise, interesting people. You have lived with them. How do they live? What kind of people are they? Tell me all about it.
SAVVA
A mean, contemptible lot.
LIPA
Is that so? You don't say so!
SAVVA
They live just as you do here—a stupid, senseless existence. The only difference is in the language they speak. But that makes it still worse. The justification for cattle is that, they are without speech. But when the cattle become articulate, begin to speak, defend themselves and express ideas then the situation becomes intolerable, unmitigatedly repulsive. Their dwelling-places are different too—yes—but that's a small thing. I was in a city inhabited by a hundred thousand people. The windows in the house of that city are all small. Those living in them are all fond of light, but it never occurs to anyone that the windows might be made larger. And when a new house is built, they put in the same kind of windows, just as small, just as they have always been.
LIPA
The idea! I never would have thought it. But they can't all be like that. You must have met good people who knew how to live.
SAVVA
I don't know how to make you understand. Yes, I did meet, if not altogether good people, yet—The last people with whom I lived were a pretty good sort. They didn't accept life ready-made, but tried to make it over to suit themselves. But—
LIPA
Who were they—students?
SAVVA
No. Look here—how about your tongue—is it of the loose kind?
LIPA
Savva, you ought to be ashamed!
SAVVA
All right. Now then. You've read of people who make bombs—little bombs, you understand? Now if they see anybody who interferes with life, they take him off. They're called anarchists. But that isn't quite correct. (Contemptuously) Nice anarchists they are!
LIPA (starting back, awestruck)
What are you talking about? You can't possibly be in earnest. It isn't true. And you in it, too? Why, you look so simple and talk so simply, and suddenly—I was hot a moment ago, but now I am cold, (The rooster crows-under the window, calling the chickens to share some seed he has found)
SAVVA
There now—you're frightened. First you want me to tell you, and then—
LIPA