Chelkash and Other Stories (2 page)

“Hey, fisherman! Do you often go on the booze?” he began, but the “fisherman” suddenly turned his face towards him and asked:

“Listen, baby! Do you want to do a job of work with me tonight? Tell me quick!”

“What kind of job?” the lad asked suspiciously.

“What do you mean, what kind? Any kind I give you.... We'll go fishing. You'll row the boat.”

“Oh, all right. Not so bad. I don't mind taking a job. But ... I won't get into trouble with you, will I? You're a dark one.... There's no understanding you.”

Chelkash again became conscious of a feeling like heartburn rising in his chest. In a low voice of cold anger he said:

“Then don't chatter about what you don't understand.... If you're not careful I'll give you a crack over the head that'll make you understand.”

His eyes flashed. He jumped up from the curbstone, twirled his moustache with the fingers of his left hand and clenched his right hand into a hard brawny fist.

The boy was frightened. He glanced round rapidly, blinked timidly, and also sprang to his feet. The two stood looking each other up and down in silence.

“Well!” asked Chelkash sternly. He was burning and trembling with rage at the insult he had received from this callow youth whom he had despised when talking to him, but whom he now hated because he had such a healthy, tanned face, bright blue eyes and short sturdy arms, and because he lived in a village somewhere, had a home there, and some rich farmer was asking him to be his son-in-law; because of his whole past and present, but most of all because this lad, who was only a baby compared with himself, dared to love freedom, the value of which he did not appreciate, and which he did not need. It is always unpleasant to see a man whom you regard as being inferior to and lower than yourself love or hate the same things that you love and hate and thereby resemble you.

The lad glared at Chelkash and felt that the latter was his master.

“Oh ... I don't mind,” he said, “I'm looking for a job, ain't I? It's all the same to me who I work for, you or somebody else. All I wanted to say was ... you don't look like a working man, you're ... er ... so ragged. Of course, I know it might happen to anybody. Lord, haven't I seen enough drunkards! Lots of them! And some even worse than you.”

“All right, all right! So you agree?” Chelkash interrupted in a milder tone.

“Me? Why, of course! With pleasure! But how much will you pay me?”

“I pay according to results. It depends on the results.... On the catch. D'you understand? You might get a fiver. Will that be all right?”

Now that it was a question of money the peasant wanted to be definite, and he wanted his employer to be definite too. Again distrust and suspicion awoke in his mind.

“No, that doesn't suit me, brother!”

Chelkash also began to play the part.

“Don't argue. Wait! Let's go to the pub!” he said.

They walked down the street side by side. Chelkash twirled his moustache with the important air of an employer. The lad's face expressed complete readiness to obey, and at the same time complete distrust and apprehension.

“What's your name?” Chelkash asked him.

“Gavrila,” the boy answered.

When they entered the dingy smoke-begrimed tavern, Chelkash walked up to the bar and in the familiar tone of a frequenter ordered a bottle of vodka, some shchi, roast meat, and tea. When all this was served, he curtly said to the barman: “On tick!” The barman silently nodded his head. This scene impressed Gavrila and roused in him a profound respect for this man, his master, who was so well known and enjoyed such credit in spite of his disreputable appearance.

“Well, we'll have a bite now and then talk business. But wait here a moment, I have somewhere to go,” said Chelkash.

He went out. Gavrila looked around him. The tavern was in a basement; it was damp and dismal, and a suffocating smell of vodka fumes, stale tobacco smoke, tar, and of some other pungent substance pervaded the place. At a table, opposite Gavrila, sat a red-bearded drunken man in seaman's dress, covered from head to foot with coal dust and tar. Hiccoughing every now and again, he sang a song in twisted and broken words that sometimes sounded like a hiss and sometimes were deeply guttural. He was evidently not a Russian.

Behind him sat two Moldavian women, ragged, black-haired and sunburnt, and they too were drunkenly singing a song.

Out of the gloom other figures emerged, all strangely dishevelled, and half drunk, noisy and restless....

Gavrila began to feel afraid and longed for the return of his master. All the noises of the tavern merged in one monotonous tone, and it seemed as though some enormous beast was growling, as though, possessing hundreds of different voices, it was angrily and blindly struggling to get out of this stone pit, but was unable to find the exit. Gavrila felt as though his body was absorbing something intoxicating and heavy, which made him dizzy and dimmed his eyes, which were roaming round the tavern with curiosity mixed with fear....

Chelkash came back and they began to eat and drink, talking as they proceeded with their meal. After the third glass of vodka, Gavrila was drunk. He felt merry and wanted to say something to please his master, who was such a fine fellow and had given him this splendid treat. But the words which welled up in his throat in waves could not, for some reason, slip off his tongue, which had suddenly become so strangely heavy.

Chelkash looked at him and said with an ironic smile:

“Half seas over already! Ekh, you milksop! What will you be like after the fifth glass? ... Will you be able to work?”

“Don't ... be ... afraid ... brother,” stammered Gavrila. “You'll... be ... satisfied. I love you! Let me kiss you, eh?”

“Now then, none of that! Here, have another drink!”

Gavrila took another drink, and another, until everything around him began to float in even, undulating waves. This made him feel unwell and he wanted to vomit. His face looked foolishly solemn. When he tried to talk he smacked his lips in a comical way and mooed like a cow. Chelkash gazed at him absently, as if recalling something, thoughtfully twirling his moustache and smiling sadly.

The tavern rang with a drunken roar. The red-haired seaman was sleeping with his head resting on his elbows.

“All right, let's go,” said Chelkash, getting up from the table.

Gavrila tried to get up too, but could not. He swore, and laughed idiotically as drunken men do.

“What a wash-out!” muttered Chelkash, resuming his seat at the table opposite Gavrila.

Gavrila kept on chuckling and gazing stupidly at his master. The latter stared back at him, keenly and thoughtfully. He saw before him a man whose life had fallen into his wolfish clutches. He felt that this life was in his power to turn in any direction he pleased. He could crumple it like a playing card, or could help place it in a firm peasant groove. He felt that he was the other one's master, but through his mind ran the thought that this lad would never have to drain the cup of bitterness that fate had compelled him, Chelkash, to do. . . . He both envied and pitied this young life, he despised it, and was even conscious of a feeling of regret as he pictured the possibility of it falling into other hands like his own. . . . But in the end all these feelings merged into one that was both paternal and practical. He was sorry for the lad, but he needed him. He took Gavrila under the armpits, lifted him up and gently prodding him from behind with his knee, he pushed him out into the tavern yard, laid him in the shade of a wood-pile, sat down beside him and lit his pipe. Gavrila wriggled about for a while, moaned, and fell asleep.

“Are you ready?” Chelkash in an undertone asked Gavrila, who was fumbling with the oars.

“In a minute! This rowlock's loose. Can I give it just one bang with the oar?”

“No! Don't make a sound! Force it down with your hand and it will slip into its place.”

Both were noiselessly handling a boat that was moored to the stern of one of a whole flotilla of small sailing barges laden with oak staves, and of large Turkish feluccas laden with palm and sandal wood and thick cyprus logs.

The night was dark. Heavy banks of ragged clouds floated across the sky. The sea was calm. The water, black and thick, like oil, gave off a humid, saline smell and lazily lapped against the ship's sides and the beach, gently rocking Chelkash's boat. Far from the shore loomed the dark hulls of ships, their masts pointing to the sky, tipped with different coloured lights. The sea, reflecting these lights, was dotted with innumerable coloured patches, which shimmered on its soft, black, velvety surface. The sea was sound asleep, like a labourer after a hard day's work.

“We're off!” said Gavrila, dropping his oars into the water.

“Aye, aye!” said Chelkash, pulling hard with his steering oar to bring the boat into the strip of water between the barges. The boat sped swiftly over the slippery water, and with each stroke of the oars the water was lit up with a bluish phosphorescent radiance that trailed like a long, soft, fluttering ribbon from the boat's stern.

“Does your head still ache?” Chelkash asked in a kindly voice.

“Something awful! ... It's ringing like a bell.... I'll splash some water over it in a minute.”

“There's no need to do that. Take this. It'll help your inside, and you'll soon get better,” said Chelkash, handing Gavrila a flask.

“I doubt it.... Well, God bless us....”

A soft gurgling sound was heard.

“Hey, you! That's enough!” said Chelkash, stopping the boy from drinking more.

The boat pushed ahead again, noiselessly and swiftly winding its way among the ships.... Suddenly it shot out from among the crowd of ships, and the sea—infinite and mighty—spread out before them into the blue distance, where mountains of clouds towered out of the water—some violet and grey with puffy yellow borders, others greenish, the colour of sea water, and others of a dull, leaden hue, of the kind which throw heavy, mournful shadows. The clouds moved slowly, now merging with and now skirting each other, mingling their colours and forms, absorbing each other and again emerging in new shapes, majestic and frowning.... There was something sinister in the slow movement of this soulless mass. It seemed as though over there, on the edge of the sea, their number was infinite, and that they would eternally creep across the sky in this indifferent manner with the malicious object of preventing it from shining again over the slumbering sea with its millions of golden eyes—the multi-coloured stars, living and dreamily radiant, exciting lofty desires in men to whom their pure radiance is precious.

“The sea's fine, isn't it?” asked Chelkash.

“Not bad! Only it makes me feel afraid,” answered Gavrila, pulling strongly and steadily at the oars. The water was barely audible as it splashed under the strokes of the long oars and shone with the warm bluish light of phosphorus.

“Afraid! You boob!” exclaimed Chelkash contemptuously.

He, the thief, loved the sea. His vibrating nervous nature, thirsting for impressions, could not contemplate enough the dark, boundless, free and mighty expanse. He felt hurt when he heard this answer to his enquiry about the beauty of the thing he loved. Sitting in the stern, he cleaved the water with his oar and calmly gazed ahead, feeling that he would like to glide far away over its velvety surface.

The sea always gave him a warm expansive feeling which filled his whole soul and purged it somewhat of the dross of everyday life. He appreciated this, and loved to see himself a better man, here, amidst the water and the air, where thoughts of life, and life itself, always lose, the former their painful acuteness, and the latter all value. At night, the sound of the sea's soft breathing as it slept floats evenly over its surface, and this limitless sound fills a man's soul with serenity, and gently subduing its evil impulses rouses in it mighty dreams....

“Where's the tackle?” Gavrila suddenly asked, looking anxiously into the bottom of the boat.

Chelkash started.

“The tackle? I've got it here, in the stern.”

He felt ashamed at having to lie to this boy, and he also regretted the thoughts and feelings that had been disturbed by this boy's question. It made him angry. The familiar sense of burning rose in his breast and throat, and this irritated him still more.

“Now look here!” he said to Gavrila in a hard, stern voice. “You sit still and mind your own business. I hired you to row. Do the job I hired you for. If you wag your tongue too much, you'll be sorry for it! Do you understand me?”

The boat shivered for a moment and stopped. The oars remained in the water, causing it to foam. Gavrila wriggled uncomfortably on his seat.

“Row! ”

A foul oath shook the air. Gavrila swung back his oars. The boat shot forward, as if with fright, and sped on at a rapid, jerky pace, noisily cleaving the water.

“Steady now, steady!”

Chelkash stood up in the stern, and keeping hold of the steering oar, he glared coldly into Gavrila's pale face. Bending forward, he looked like a cat crouching for a spring. In his rage he ground his teeth so hard that it could be distinctly heard, and Gavrila's teeth, chattering with fear, were no less audible.

“Who's that shouting?” came a stern cry from the sea.

“Row! Row, you devil! ... Quieter! ... I'll murder you, you dog! ... Go on! ... Row! ... One! Two! Make a sound, and I'll tear you limb from limb!” hissed Chelkash. And then he went on in a jeering tone: “Afraid! Booby!”

“Mother of God.... Holy Mary ...” whispered Gavrila, trembling with fear and exertion.

The boat swung round smoothly and returned to the docks, where the ship's lights crowded in multi-coloured groups, and the tall masts were visible.

“Hey! Who's that shouting?” came the voice again, but it sounded more distant this time. Chelkash became calmer.

“It's you that's shouting,” he said in answer to the distant voice, and then he turned to Gavrila, who was still muttering his prayers, and said: “Well, brother, you're lucky! If that devil had come after us, it would have been all up with you. Do you understand what I mean? I'd have put you over to feed the fishes!”

Chelkash now spoke calmly and even good-humouredly, but Gavrila still trembling with fear, begged of him:

“Let me go! I ask you in the name of Christ, let me go! Put me ashore somewhere! Ay-ay-ay! ... I'm lost! I'm a lost man! Remember God and let me go! What do you want me for? I'm no good for this sort of job.... I've never been on one like this before.... This is the first time.... Lord! I'm lost. I'm lost! Christ, how you fooled me, brother, eh? It's a sin.... You are damning your own soul! ... Some business....”

“What business?” Chelkash asked sternly. “What business, eh?”

The lad's fear amused him, and he delighted in it as well as in the thought of what a terrible fellow he, Chelkash, was.

“Shady business, brother! ... Let me go, for God's sake! ... What do you want me for? ... Please.... Be good....”

“Shut up! If I didn't need you, I wouldn't have taken you. Do you understand? ... Well, shut up!”

“Lord!” sighed Gavrila.

“Stop snivelling, or you'll get it in the neck!” snapped Chelkash.

But Gavrila, unable to restrain himself any longer, sobbed quietly, wept, sniffed, wriggled on his seat, but rowed strongly, desperately.

The boat shot forward like an arrow. Again the dark hulls of the ships loomed before them, and soon the boat was lost among them, winding like a shuttle in and out of the narrow strips of water between them.

“Now listen! If anybody asks you about anything, you're to keep mum, if you want to keep alive, that is! Do you understand me?”

“Ekh!” sighed Gavrila resignedly in answer to this stern command. Then he added bitterly: “I'm done for, I am!”

“Stop snivelling, I tell you!” said Chelkash in an angry whisper.

This whisper robbed Gavrila of all capacity to think; his mind was benumbed by a chill foreboding of evil. He mechanically dropped the oars, leaned far back, raised the oars and dropped them again, all the time keeping his eyes riveted on the tips of his bast shoes.

The sleepy murmur of the waves sounded angry and terrifying. They entered the docks.... From beyond its granite walls came sounds of human voices, the splashing of water, singing and shrill whistling.

“Stop!” whispered Chelkash. “Ship your oars! Hold on to the wall! Quieter, you devil!”

Gavrila clutched at the wall and worked the boat along; the thick coating of slime that covered the masonry deadened the sound of the gunwale as it scraped along its side.

“Stop! ... Give me the oars! Come this way! Where's your passport? In your knapsack? Give me your knapsack! Look sharp! That's to prevent your running away, my friend.... You won't run away now. You might have bolted without the oars, but you'd be afraid to run away without your passport. Wait here! Mind! If you blab—I'll find you even if you're at the bottom of the sea!”

Suddenly clutching at something with his hands, Chelkash leaped upwards and vanished over the wall.

Gavrila shuddered.... All this had happened so quickly. He felt the accursed burden of fear which weighed upon him in the presence of this bewhiskered, skinny thief, dropping, slipping off his shoulders.... Here was a chance to get away! ... He breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. On the left towered a black, mastless hull; it looked like an enormous coffin, deserted and empty.... Every wave that struck its side awoke a hollow, muffled echo that sounded like a sigh. On the right, the grey stone wall of the mole stretched above the surface of the water, like a cold, heavy serpent. Behind him loomed some black piles, and in front, in the space between the wall and the coffin, he could see the sea, silent, desolate, and the black clouds floating above it. The clouds moved across the sky slowly, large and ponderous, spreading horror out of the darkness and seeming ready to crush one with their weight. All was cold, black and sinister. Gavrila grew frightened again, and this fright was worse than that with which Chelkash imbued him; it gripped his breast in its powerful embrace, reduced him to a helpless clod and held him fast to the seat of the boat.

Silence reigned all around. Not a sound was heard, except for the sighing of the sea. The clouds still crept across the sky slowly and lazily, but they rose out of the sea in infinite numbers. The sky too looked like a sea, but a restless one, suspended over the calm, smooth and slumbering sea below. The clouds seemed to be descending upon the earth in grey, curly waves, into the chasms from which the wind had torn them, and upon the newly-rising waves, not yet crested with angry greenish foam.

Gavrila felt crushed by this gloomy silence and beauty and yearned to see his master again. Suppose he didn't come back? ... Time passed slowly, more slowly than the clouds creeping across the sky.... And as time passed the silence became more sinister.... At last the sounds of splashing and rustling and something resembling a whisper came from the other side of the mole. Gavrila thought he would die on the spot.

“P'st! Are you asleep? Hold this.... Careful now!” It was Chelkash's muffled voice.

Something heavy and cube-shaped dropped from the wall. Gavrila caught it and put it in the bottom of the boat. A second object of the same kind followed. And then Chelkash's tall figure appeared over the wall, the oars appeared out of somewhere, Gavrila's knapsack fell at his feet, and breathing heavily, Chelkash slipped into the stern of the boat.

Gavrila gazed at him with a pleased but timid smile.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Yes, a bit! Now then take to the oars and pull! Pull with all your might! You've done well, my lad! Half the job's done. The only thing now is to slip past those devils out there—and then you can get your share and go home to your Masha. I suppose you have a Masha, haven't you?”

“N-no!” answered Gavrila, pulling at the oars with all his might. His chest heaved like a pair of bellows and his arms worked like steel springs. The water swirled from under the boat's keel, and the blue track at its stern was wider now. Gavrila was drenched with his own perspiration, but he continued to row with all his might. Twice that night he had had a terrible fright; he did not wish to have a third one. All he longed for was to get over this accursed job as quickly as possible, to go ashore and run away from this man before he did indeed kill him, or get him landed in jail. He decided not to discuss anything with him, not to contradict him, to do all he told him to do, and if he succeeded in escaping from him, to offer a prayer to St. Nicholas the Miracle-Worker the very next morning. An ardent prayer was ready to burst from his breast at this very moment, but he restrained himself. He puffed like a steam engine and now and again glanced at Chelkash from under his brows.

But Chelkash, tall, thin, his body bent forward, looking like a bird ready to take to flight, peered with hawkish eyes into the darkness ahead and twitched his beaklike nose. He grasped the steering oar tightly with one hand and with the other twirled his moustache, which also twitched from the smiles that twisted his thin lips. He was pleased with his haul, with himself, and with this lad who was so terribly frightened of him, and whom he had converted into his slave. He watched Gavrila putting every ounce of strength into his oars and felt sorry for him. He wanted to cheer him up.

“Hey!” he said softly with a laugh. “You were frightened, weren't you?”