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

themselves, and sometimes visitors came to see them, ate, drank and, frequently—fought. And then again the colorless days dragged by, like the links of an invisible chain of toil which burdened the lives of these people, of tediousness, and senseless irritation against each other.

      Sometimes Gríshka said:

      "What a life—a witch is its grandmother! And why was it ever given to me? Work and tediousness, tediousness and work. … " And after a pause, with eyes cast upward toward the ceiling, and a wavering smile, he resumed:—"My mother bore me, by the will of God … there's no gainsaying that! I learned my trade … and why? Weren't there shoemakers enough without me? Well, all right, I'm a shoemaker, and what then? What satisfaction is there for me in that? … I sit in a pit and sew. … Then I shall die. Now, there's the cholera coming, they say. … Well, what of that? Grigóry Orlóff lived, made shoes—and died of the cholera. What virtue is there in that? And why was it necessary that I should live, make shoes and die, hey?"

      Matréna made no reply, conscious that there was something terrible about her husband's words; but, now and then, she begged him not to utter such words, because they were contrary to God, Who must know how to arrange a man's life. And sometimes, when she was not in good spirits, she sceptically announced to her husband:

      "You'd better stop drinking liquor—then you'd find life more cheerful, and such thoughts wouldn't creep into your head. Other folks live—they don't complain, and they hoard up a little pile of money, and with it set up their own work-shops, and then they live after their own hearts, like lords!"

      "And you come out with those nonsensical words of yours, you devil's doll! Use your brains—can I help drinking, if that is my only joy? Others! How many such successful folks do you know? And was I like that before my marriage? If you speak according to your conscience, it's you who are sucking me, and harassing my life. … Ugh, you toad!"

      Matréna was angered, but felt that her husband was right. In a state of intoxication he was jolly and amiable—the other people were the fruit of her imagination—and he had not been like that before his marriage. He had been a jolly fellow then, engaging and kind. And now he had become a regular wild beast.

      "Why is it so? Am I really a burden to him?" she thought.

      Her heart contracted at that bitter reflection, she felt sorry for herself, and for him; she went up to him, and caressingly, affectionately gazing into his eyes, pressed close to his breast.

      "Well, now you're going to lick yourself, you cow. … " said Gríshka surlily, and pretended that he wished to thrust her from him; but she knew that he would not do it, and pressed closer and harder against him.

Then his eyes flashed, he flung his work on the floor, and setting his wife on his knees, he kissed her much and long, sighing from a full heart, and saying, in a low voice, as though afraid that someone would overhear him: "E-ekh, Mótrya![7] Aï, aï, how ill you and I live together … we snarl at each other like wild beasts … and why? Such is my star … a man is born beneath a star, and the star is his fate!"

[7] Mótrya is the diminutive for Matréna.—Translator.

      But this explanation did not satisfy him, and straining his wife to his breast, he sank into thought.

      They sat thus for a long time, in the murky light and close air of their cellar. She held her peace and sighed, but sometimes in such fair moments as these, she recalled the undeserved insults and beatings administered by him, and with quiet tears she complained to him of them.

      Then he, abashed by her fond reproaches, caressed her yet more ardently, and she poured forth her heart in more and more complaints. At last, this irritated him.

      "Stop your jawing! How do you know but that it hurts me a thousand times more than it does you when I thrash you. Do you understand? Well, then, stop your noise! Give you and the dike of you free sway, and they'd fly at one's throat. Drop the subject. What can you say to a man if life has made a devil of him?"

      At other times he softened under the flood of her quiet tears, and passionate remonstrances, and explained, sadly and thoughtfully:

      "What am I, with my character, to do? I insult you … that's true. I know that you and I are one soul—but sometimes I forget that. Do you understand, Mótrya, that there are times when I can't bear the sight of you?! Just as though I had had a surfeit of you. And, at such times, such a vicious feeling comes up under my heart—I could tear you to bits, and myself along with you. And the more in the right you are, as against me, the more I want to thrash you. … "

      She hardly understood him, but the repentant, affectionate tone soothed her.

      "God grant, that we may get straight somehow, that we may get used to each other"—she said, not recognizing the fact that they had long ago got used to each other, and had drained each other.

      "Now, if we only had had some children born to us—we should get along better," she sometimes added, with a sigh.—"We should have had an amusement, and an anxiety."

      "Well, what ails you? Bear some. … "

      "Yes … you see, I can't bear any, with these thrashings of yours. Yon beat me awfully hard on the body and ribs. … If only you wouldn't use your feet on me. … "

      "Come now—" Grigóry gruffly and in confusion defended himself—"can a man stop to consider at such a time, where and with what he ought to thrash? And I'm not the hangman, either, … and I don't beat you for my amusement, but from grief. … "

      "And how was this grief bred in you?"—asked Matréna mournfully.

      "Such is my fate, Mótrya!—" philosophized Gríshka. "My fate, and the character of my soul. … Look, am I any worse than the rest, than that Little Russian, for example? Only, the Little Russian lives on and does not feel melancholy. He's alone, he has no wife, nothing I should perish without you. … But he doesn't mind it! … He smokes his pipe and smiles; he's contented, the devil, just because he's smoking his pipe. But I can't do like that. … I was born, evidently, with uneasiness in my heart. That's the sort of character I have. … The Little Russian's is—like a stick, but mine is like—a spring; when you press it, it shakes. … I go out, for instance, into the street, I see this thing, that thing, a third thing, but I have nothing myself. This angers me. The Little Russian—he wants nothing, but I get mad, also, because he, that mustached devil, doesn't want anything, while I. … I don't even know what I want … everything! So there now! Here I sit in a hole, and work all the time, and have nothing. And there, again, it's your fault. … You're my wife, and what is there about you that's interesting? One womans just like another woman, with the whole lot of females. … I know everything in you; how you will sneeze to-morrow—and I know it, because you have sneezed before me a thousand times, probably. … . And so what sort of life, and what interest can I have? There's no interest. Well, and so I go and sit in the dram-shop, because it's cheerful there."

      "But why did you marry?"—asked Matréna.

      "Why?"—Gríshka laughed.—"The devil knows why I did. … I oughtn't to have done it, to tell the truth. It would have been better to start out as a tramp. … Then, if you are hungry, you're free—go where you like! March all over the world!"

      "Then go, and set me at liberty," blurted out Matréna, on the verge of bursting into tears.

      "Where are you going?"—inquired Gríshka insinuatingly.

      "That's my business."

      "Whe-ere?" and his eyes lighted up with an evil glare. "Say!"

      "Don't yell—I'm not afraid of you. … "

      "Have you got your eye on somebody else? Say?"

      "Let me go!"

      "Let you go where?"—bellowed Gríshka.

      He had