" Yes, very nice, the lieutenant draws plans all the day and you sit in the kitchen and pine for home. . . . Plans indeed I . . . It is not plans that matter, but a human life. Life is not given twice, it must be treated mercifully."
11 Of course, Pavel Ivanitch, a bad man gets no 'flercy anywhere, neither at home nor in the army, but if you live as you ought and obey orders, who has any need to insult you? The officers are edu- cated gentlemen, they understand. . . . In five years I was never once in prison, and I was 11ever struck a blow, so help me God, but once."
" What for ? "
" For fighting. I have a heavy hand, Pavel Ivan- itch. Four Chinamen came into our yard; they were bringing firewood or something, I don't re- member. Well, I was bored and I knocked them about a bit, one's nose began bleeding, damn the fellow. . . . The lieutenant saw it through the little window, he was angry and gave me a box on the ear."
" Foolish, pitiful man . . ." whispered Pavel Ivanitch. " You don't understand anything."
He was utterly exhausted by the tossing of the ship and closed his eyes; his head alternately fell back and dropped forward on his breast. Several times he tried to lie down but nothing came of it; his difficulty in breathing prevented it.
" And what did you hit the four Chinamen for? " he asked a little while afterwards.
" Oh, nothing. They came into the yard and I hit them."
And a stillness followed. . . . The card-players had been playing for two hours with enthusiasm and loud abuse of one another, but the motion of the ship overcame them, too; they threw aside the cards and lay down. Again Gusev saw the big pond, the brick building, the village. . . . Again the sledge was coming along, again Vanka was laugh- ing and Akulka, silly little thing, threw open her fur coat and stuck her feet out, as much as to say: " Look, good people, my snowboots are not like Vanka's, they are new ones."
" Five years old, and she has no sense yet," Gusev muttered in delirium. " Instead of kicking your legs you had better come and get your soldier uncle a drink. I will give you something nice."
Then Andron with a flintlock gun on his shoulder was carrying a hare he had killed, and he was fol- lowed by the decrepit old Jcw Isaitchik, who offers to barter the hare for a piece of soap; then the black calf in the shed, then Domna sewing at a shirt and crying about something, and then again the bull's head without eyes, black smoke. . . .
Overhead someone gave a loud shout, several sailors ran by, they seemed to be dragging some- thing bulky over the deck, something fell with a crash. Again they ran by. . . . Had something gone wrong? Gusev raised his head, listened, and saw that the two soldiers and the sailor were play- ing cards again; Pavel Ivanitch was sitting up mov- ing his lips. It was stifling, one hadn't strength to breathe, one was thirsty, the water was warm, dis- gusting. The ship heaved as much as ever.
Suddenly something strange happened to one of the soldiers playing cards. . . . He called hearts diamonds, got muddled in his score, and dropped his cards, then with a frightened, foolish smile looked round at aU of them.
" I shan't be a minute, mates, I'll . . ." he said, and lay down on the floor.
Everybody was amazed. They called to him, he did not answer.
" Stephan, maybe you are feeling bad, eh?" the soldier with his arm in a sling asked him. " Per- haps we had better bring the priest, eh? "
" Have a drink of water, Stepan . . ." said the sailor. " Here, lad, drink."
" Why are you knocking the jug against his teeth? " said Gusev angrily. " Don't you see, tur- nip head?' " What?"
" What? " Gusev repeated, mimicking him. " There is no breath in him, he is dead! That's what I What nonsensical people, Lord have mercy on us . . • I "
III
The ship was not rocking and Pavel Ivanitch was more cheerful. He was no longer ill-humoured. His face had a boastful, defiant, mocking expres- sion. He looked as though he wanted to say: " Yes, in a minute I will tell you something that will make you split your sides with laughing." The lit- tle round window was open and a soft breeze was blowing on Pavel Ivanitch. There was a sound of voices, of the plash of oars in the water. . . . Just under the little window someone began droning in a high, unpleasant voice: no doubt it was a China- man singing.
" Here we are in the harbour," said Pavel Ivan- itch, smiling ironically. " Only another month and we shall be in Russia. Well, worthy gentlemen and warriors I I shall arrive at Odessa and from there go straight to Harkov. In Harkov I have a friend, a literary man. I shall go to him and say, 1 Come, old man, put aside your horrid subjects, ladies' amours and the beauties of nature, and show up human depravity.' "
For a minute he pondered, then said: " Gusev, do you know how I took them in? " " Took in whom, Pavel Ivanitch? " " Why, these fellows. . . . You know that on this steamer there is only a first-class and a third- class, and they only allow peasants — that is the riff-raff — to go in the third. If you have got on a reefer jacket and have the faintest resemblance to a gentleman or a bourgeois you must go first- class, if you please. You must fork out five hun- dred roubles if you die for it. Why, I ask, have you made such a rule? Do you want to raise the prestige of educated Russians thereby? Not a bit of it. We don't let you go third-class simply be- cause a decent person can't go third-class; it is ^very horrible and disgusting. Yes, indeed. I am very grateful for such solicitude for decent people's wel- fare. But in any case, whether it is nasty there or nice, five hundred roubles I haven't got. I haven't pilfered government money. I haven't exploited the natives, I haven't trafficked in contraband, I have flogged no one to death, so judge whether I have the right to travel first-class and even less to reckon myself of the educated class? But you won't catch them with logic. . . . One has to resort to decep- tion. I put on a workman's coat and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the agents: ' Give us a little ticket, your honour,' said
I. . . ."
" Why, what class do you belong to? " asked a sailor.
" Clerical. My father was an honest priest, he always told the great ones of the world the truth to their faces; and he had a great deal to put up with in consequence."
Pavel Ivanitch was exhausted with talking and gasped for breath, but still went on:
" Yes, I always tell people the truth to their faces. I am not afraid of anyone or anything. There is a vast difference between me and all of you in that respect. You are in darkness, you are blind, crushed; you see nothing and what you do see you don't understand. . . . You are told the wind breaks loose from its chain, that you are beasts, Petchenyegs, and you believe it; they punch you in the neck, you kiss their hands; some animal in a sable-lined coat robs you and then tips you fifteen kopecks and you: ' Let me kiss your hand, sir.' You are pariahs, pitiful people. ... I am a differ- ent sort. My eyes are open, I see it all as clearly as a hawk or an eagle when it floats over the earth, and I understand it all. I am a living protest. I see irresponsible tyranny — I protest. I see cant and hypocrisy—I protest. I see swine triumphant — I protest. And I cannot be suppressed, no Span- ish Inquisition can make me hold my tongue. No. . . . Cut out my tongue and I would protest in dumb show; shut me up in a cellar — I will shout from it to be heard half a mile away, or I will starve myself to death that they may have another weight on their black consciences. Kill me and I will haunt them with my ghost. All my acquaintances say to me: ' You are a most insufferable person, Pavel Ivanitch.' I am proud of such a reputation. I have served three years in the far East, and I shall be remembered there for a hundred years: I had rows with everyone. My friends write to me from Russia, ' Don't come back,' but here I am going back to spite them . . . yes. . . . That is life as I understand it. That is what one can call life.''