Orlóff and His Wife: Tales of the Barefoot Brigade. Maksim Gorky

it with delight on the sly, when opportunity offered, finding that the inhalation of ether had almost as agreeable an action as a good glass of vódka. Catching the meaning of the medical staff at half a word, always amiable and talkative, understanding how to entertain the patients, he became more and more of a favorite with the doctors and the medical students, and thus, under the combined influence of all the impressions of his new mode of existence, a strange, exalted mood was formed within him. He felt himself to be a man of special qualities. In him beat the desire to do something which should attract to him the attention of everyone, should astonish everyone, and force them to the conviction that he had a right to the ambition which had elevated him to such a pitch in his own eyes. This was the singular ambition of the man who had suddenly realized that he was a man, and who, as it were, still not quite firmly assured of the fact, wished to confirm it, in some way, to himself and to others; this was ambition, gradually transformed into a thirst for some disinterested exploit.

      As the result of this incentive, Orlóff performed various risky feats, such as straining himself by carrying a heavily-built patient from his cot to the bath-tub single-handed, without waiting for assistance from his fellow-orderlies, nursing the very dirtiest of the patients, behaving in a daring sort of way in regard to the possibility of contagion, and handling the dead with a simplicity which sometimes passed over into cynicism. But all this did not satisfy him; he longed for something on a greater scale, and this longing burned incessantly within him, tortured him, and, at last, drove him to anguish.

      Then he poured out his soul to his wife, because he had no one else.

      One evening, when he and his wife were relieved from duty, they went out into the fields, after they had drunk tea. The barracks stood far away from the town, in the middle of a long, green plain, bounded on one side by a dark strip of forest, on the other by the line of buildings in the town; on the north the plain extended into the far distance, and there its verdure became merged with the dull-blue horizon; on the south it was intersected by a precipitous descent to the river, and along the verge of this precipice ran the highway, along which, at equal distances one from another, stood aged, wide-spreading trees. The sun was setting, and the crosses on the churches of the town, rising above the dark-green of the gardens, flamed in the sky, reflecting sheaves of golden rays, and on the window-panes of the houses which lay on the edge of the town the red glow of the sunset was reflected also. A band of music was playing somewhere or other; from the ravine, thickly overgrown with a fir-grove, a resinous fragrance was wafted aloft; the forest, also, shed abroad on the air its complicated, succulent perfume; light, fragrant waves of warm wind floated caressingly toward the town, and in the wide, deserted plain everything was very delightful, quiet and sweetly-melancholy.

      The Orlóffs walked across the grass in silence, with pleasure inhaling the pure air in place of the hospital odors.

      "Where's that band playing, in the town, or in the camp?" inquired Matréna softly, of her pensive husband.

      She did not like to see him thoughtful—he seemed a stranger to her, and far away from her at such moments. Of late, they had chanced to be together so very little, and she prized these moments all the more.

      "The band?"—Grigóry replied with another question, as though freeing himself from a dream.—"Well, the devil take that band! You just ought to hear the music in my soul … that's something like!"

      "What is it?" she asked tremulously, looking into his eyes.

"I don't know. … That is, I can't tell you … and even if I could would you be able to understand? My soul burns. … It pines for space … so that I might develop myself to my full strength. … Ekhma! I feel within myself invincible strength! That is to say, if this cholera, for instance, could be transformed into a man … into an epic hero … even Ilyá of Muróm himself;[16]—I'd grapple with it; 'Come on, I'll fight thee to the death! Thou art a power, and I, Gríshka Orlóff, am a power also—now, let's see who'll get the best of the other?' And I'd strangle it, even if it killed me too. … There'd be a cross over me in the field, with the inscription: 'Grigóry Andréeff Orlóff. … He freed Russia from the cholera.' Nothing more would be necessary."

[16] For Ilyá of Muróm and the other famous epic heroes (bogatyry) see: "The Epic Songs of Russia," by Isabel F. Hapgood. Charles Scribner's Sons.

      As he spoke, his face burned, and his eyes flashed.

      "You're my strong man!" whispered Matréna, nestling close to his side.

      "Do you understand … I'd hurl myself on a hundred knives, if only it would be of any use! If life could be lightened in that way. Because I see people: Doctor Váshtchenko, student Khokhryakóff—it's wonderful how they work! They ought to have died long ago of fatigue. … Do you think they do it for money? A man can't work like that for money! The doctors, thank the Lord! have something of their own, and get a little in addition. … Why, an old man fell ill lately, and so Doctor Váshtchenko hammered away at him for four days, and never went home once the whole time. … Money doesn't count in such a case; pity is the cause. He's sorry for people—well, and so he doesn't spare himself … for whose sake, you ask? For everybody's sake … for the sake of Míshka Úsoff, … Míshka's proper place is in jail, for everybody knows that Míshka is a thief, and, perhaps, even worse. … They're curing Míshka. … And they were glad when he got up from his cot, they laughed. … So I want to feel that same joy, also … and to have a great deal of it. … I'd like to choke with it! Because it gives me the heart-ache to see how they laugh over their work. I ache all over, and catch fire. I will do something! … But how? Oh … the devil!"

      Orlóff waved his hand hopelessly, and again fell into thought.

      Matréna said nothing, but her heart beat anxiously—this excitement of her husband alarmed her, and in his words she plainly felt the great passion of his longing, which she did not understand, because she did not try to understand it. It was her husband, not a hero, who was dear and necessary to her.

      They reached the verge of the precipice, and sat down, side by side. … The tufted crests of the young birch-trees looked down upon them, and in the bottom of the ravine there already lay a bluish mist, which sent forth an odor of dampness, rotting leaves and pine-needles. From time to time a puff of wind swept along the ravine, the branches of the birch-trees, the little fir-trees, rocked, rocked to and fro—the whole ravine became filled with anxious, timorous whispering, and it seemed as though someone who was tenderly beloved and guarded by the trees had fallen asleep in the ravine, beneath their canopy, and they were whispering together about him very, very softly, in order not to awaken him. And in the town, lights shone forth, and stood out like reddish flowers against the dark background of its gardens. And in the sky the stars began to kindle their fires. The Orlóffs sat on in silence—he thoughtfully drummed on his knee with his fingers, she gazed at him and sighed softly.

      And suddenly clasping her arms about his neck, she laid her head on his breast, and said in a whisper:

      "My darling Gríshka! My dear one! How good you have become to me once more, my brave man! You see, it seems as though it were the good time … after our wedding, … you and I were living along … you never utter an unkind word to me, you are always talking with me, you open your soul to me … you don't bawl at me."

      "And have you been fretting over that? I'll give you a thrashing, if you want it,"—jested Grigóry affectionately, feeling in his soul an influx of tenderness and pity for his wife.

      He began softly to stroke her head with his hand, and this caress pleased him—it was so paternal—the caress of a father for a grown-up child. Matréna did in fact resemble a child: she now climbed up on his knees, and seated herself in his lap, in a soft, warm little ball.

      "My dear one!"—she whispered.

      He heaved a profound sigh, and words which were new both to his wife and to himself flowed of themselves from his tongue.

      "Eh, you poor little kitten! You're affectionate … you see, anyway, and there is no friend nearer