Максим Горький
Creatures That Once Were Men
"And may the righteous r-e-s-t!"
"You idiot!" hissed Abyedok. "What are you howling for?"
"Fool!" said Tyapa's hoarse voice. "When a man is dying one must be quiet.. so that he may have peace."
Silence reigned once more. The cloudy sky threatened thunder, and the earth was covered with the thick darkness of an autumn night.
"Let us go on drinking!" proposed Kuvalda, filling up the glasses.
"I will go and see if he wants anything," said Tyapa.
"He wants a coffin!" jeered the Captain.
"Don't speak about that," begged Abyedok in a low voice.
Meteor rose and followed Tyapa. The Deacon tried to get up, but fell and swore loudly.
When Tyapa had gone the Captain touched Martyanoff's shoulder and said in low tones:
"Well, Martyanoff.. You must feel it more then the others. You were.. But let that go to the Devil.. Don't you pity Philip?"
"No," said the ex-jailer, quietly, "I do not feel things of this sort, brother.. I have learned better this life is disgusting after all. I speak seriously when I say that I should like to kill someone."
"Do you?" said the Captain, indistinctly. "Well let's have another drink.. It's not a long job ours, a little drink and then."
The others began to wake up, and Simtsoff shouted in a blissful voice: "Brothers! One of you pour out a glass for the old man!"
They poured out a glass and gave it to him. Having drunk it he tumbled down again, knocking against another man as he fell. Two or three minutes' silence ensued, dark as the autumn night.
"What do you say?"
"I say that he was a good man.. a quiet and good man," whispered a low voice.
"Yes, and he had money, too.. and he never refused it to a friend.."
Again silence ensued.
"He is dying!" said Tyapa, hoarsely, from behind the Captain's head. Aristid Fomich got up, and went with firm steps into the dosshouse.
"Don't go!" Tyapa stopped him. "Don't go! You are drunk!
It is not right." The Captain stopped and thought.
"And what is right on this earth? Go to the Devil!" And he pushed Tyapa aside.
On the walls of the dosshouse the shadows were creeping, seeming to chase each other. The teacher lay on the board at full length and snored. His eyes were wide open, his naked breast rose and fell heavily, the corners of his mouth foamed, and on his face was an expression as if he wished to say something very important, but found it difficult to do so. The Captain stood with his hands behind him, and looked at him in silence. He then began in a silly way:
"Philip! Say something to me.. a word of comfort to a friend.. come.. I love you, brother! All men are beasts.. You were the only man for me.. though you were a drunkard. Ah! how you did drink vodki, Philip! That was the ruin of you I You ought to have listened to me, and controlled yourself.. Did I not once say to you.."
The mysterious, all-destroying reaper, called Death, made up his mind to finish the terrible work quickly, as if insulted by the presence of this drunken man at the dark and solemn struggle. The teacher sighed deeply, and quivered all over, stretched himself out, and died. The Captain stood shaking to and fro, and continued to talk to him.
"Do you want me to bring you vodki? But it is better that you should not drink, Philip.. control yourself or else drink! Why should you really control yourself? For what reason, Philip? For what reason?"
He took him by the foot and drew him closer to himself.
"Are you dozing, Philip? Well, then, sleep Good-night.
To-morrow I shall explain all this to you, and you will understand that it is not really necessary to deny yourself anything.
But go on sleeping now.. if you are not dead."
He went out to his friends, followed by the deep silence, and informed them:
"Whether he is sleeping or dead, I do not know I am a little drunk."
Tyapa bent further forward than usual and crossed himself respectfully. Martyanoff dropped to the ground and lay there. Abyedok moved quietly, and said in a low and wicked tone:
"May you all go to the Devil! Dead? What of that? Why should I care? Why should I speak about it? It will be time enough when I come to die myself.. I am not worse than other people."
"That is true," said the Captain, loudly, and fell to the ground. "The time will come when we shall all die like others.. Ha! ha! How shall we live? That is nothing.. But we shall die like everyone else, and this is the whole end of life, take my word for it. A man lives only to die, and he dies.. and if this be so what does it matter how or where he died or how he lived? Am I right, Martyanoff? Let us therefore drink.. while we still have life!"
The rain began to fall. Thick, close darkness covered the figures that lay scattered over the ground, half drunk, half asleep. The light in the windows of the dosshouse flickered, paled, and suddenly disappeared. Probably the wind blew it out or else the oil was exhausted. The drops of rain sounded strangely on the iron roof of the dosshouse. Above the mountain where the town lay the ringing of bells was heard, rung by the watchers in the churches. The brazen sound coming from the belfry rang out into the dark and died away, and before its last indistinct note was drowned another stroke was heard and the monotonous silence was again broken by the melancholy clang of bells.
* * * * * * * * * *
The next morning Tyapa was the first to wake up. Lying on his back he looked up into the sky. Only in such a position did his deformed neck permit him to see the clouds above his head.
This morning the sky was of a uniform gray. Up there hung the damp, cold mist of dawn, almost extinguishing the sun, hiding the unknown vastness behind and pouring despondency over the earth. Tyapa crossed himself, and leaning on his elbow, looked round to see whether there was any vodki left. The bottle was there, but it was empty. Crossing over his companions he looked into the glasses from which they had drunk, found one of them almost full, emptied it, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and began to shake the Captain.
The Captain raised his head and looked at him with sad eyes.
"We must inform the police.. Get up!"
"Of what?" asked the Captain, sleepily and angrily.
"What, is he not dead?"
"Who?"
"The learned one."
"Philip? Ye-es!"
"Did you forget?.. Alas!" said Tyapa, hoarsely.
The Captain rose to his feet, yawned and stretched himself till all his bones cracked.
"Well, then! Go and give information.
"I will not go.. I do not like them," said the Captain morosely.
"Well, then, wake up the Deacon.. I shall go, at any rate."
"All right!.. Deacon, get up!"
The Captain entered the dosshouse, and stood at the teacher's feet. The dead man lay at full length, his left hand on his breast, the right hand held as if ready to strike some one.
The Captain thought that if the teacher got up now, he would be as tall as Paltara Taras. Then he sat by the side of the dead man and sighed, as he remembered that they had lived together for the last three years. Tyapa entered holding his head like a goat which is ready to butt.
He sat down quietly and seriously on the opposite side of the teacher's body, looked into the dark, silent face, and began to sob.
"So.. he is dead.. I too shall die soon.."
"It is quite time for that!" said the Captain, gloomily.
"It is," Tyapa agreed. "You ought to die too. Anything is better than this.."
"But perhaps death might be worse? How do you know?"
"It could not be worse. When you die you have only God to deal with.. but here you have to deal with men.. and men – what are they?"
"Enough!.. Be quiet!" interrupted Kuvalda angrily.
And in the dawn, which filled the dosshouse, a solemn stillness reigned over all. Long and silently they sat at the feet of their dead companion, seldom looking at him, and both plunged in thought. Then Tyapa asked:
"Will you bury him?"
"I? No, let the police bury him!"
"You took money from Vaviloff for this petition.. and I will give you some if you have not enough."
"Though I have his money.. still I shall not bury him."
"That is not right. You are robbing the dead. I will tell them all that you want to keep his money.".. Tyapa threatened him.
"You are a fool, you old devil!" said Kuvalda, contemptuously.
"I am not a fool.. but it is not right nor friendly."
"Enough! Be off!"
"How much money is there?"
"Twenty-five roubles,".. said Kuvalda, absently.
"So!.. You might gain a five-rouble note.."
"You old scoundrel!." And looking into Tyapa's face the Captain swore.
"Well, what? Give.."
"Go to the Devil!.. I am going to spend this money in erecting a monument to him."
"What does he want that for?"
"I will buy a stone and an anchor. I shall place the stone on the grass, and attach the anchor to it with a very heavy chain."
"Why? You are playing tricks.."
"Well.. It is no business of yours."
"Look out! I shall tell." again threatened Tyapa.
Aristid Fomich looked at him sullenly and said nothing. Again they sat there in that silence which, in the presence of the dead, is so full of mystery.
"Listen.. They are coming!" Tyapa got up and went out of the dosshouse.
Then there appeared at the door the Doctor, the Police Inspector of the district, and the examining Magistrate or Coroner. All three came in turn, looked at the dead teacher, and then went out, throwing suspicious glances at Kuvalda. He sat there, without taking any notice of them, until the Police Inspector asked him:
"Of what did he die?"
"Ask him.. I think his evil life hastened his end."
"What?" asked the Coroner.
"I say that he died of a disease to which he had not been accustomed.."
"H'm, yes. Had he been ill long?"
"Bring him over here, I cannot see him properly," said the Doctor, in a melancholy tone. "Probably there are signs of."
"Now, then, ask someone here to carry him out!" the Police Inspector ordered Kuvalda.
"Go and ask them yourself! He is not in my way here." the Captain replied, indifferently.
"Well!".. shouted the Inspector, making a ferocious face.
"Phew!" answered Kuvalda, without moving from his place and gnashing his teeth restlessly.
"The Devil take it!" shouted the Inspector, so madly that the blood rushed to his face. "I'll make you pay for this! I'll – "
"Good-morning, gentlemen!" said the merchant Petunikoff, with a sweet smile, making his appearance in the doorway.
He looked round, trembled, took off his cap and crossed himself. Then a pompous, wicked smile crossed his face, and, looking at the Captain, he inquired respectfully:
"What has happened? Has there been a murder here?"
"Yes, something of that sort," replied the Coroner.
Petunikoff sighed deeply, crossed himself again, and spoke in an angry tone.
"By Cod! It is just as I feared. It always ends in your having to come here.. Ay, ay, ay! God save everyone. Times without number have I refused to lease this house to this man, and he has always won me over, and I was afraid. You know.. They are such awful people.. better give it them, I thought, or else.."
He covered his face with his hands, tugged at his beard, and sighed again.
"They are very dangerous men, and this man here is their leader.. the ataman of the robbers."
"But we will make him smart!" promised the Inspector, looking at the Captain with revengeful eyes.
"Yes, brother, we are old friends of yours." said Kuvalda in a familiar tone. "How many times have I paid you to be quiet?"
"Gentlemen!" shouted the Inspector, "did you hear him? I want you to bear witness to this. Aha, I shall make short work of you, my friend, remember!"
"Don't count your chickens before they are hatched.. my friend," said Aristid Fomich.
The Doctor, a young man with eye-glasses, looked at him curiously, the Coroner with an attention that boded him no good, Petunikoff with triumph, while the Inspector could hardly restrain himself from throwing himself upon him.
The dark figure of Martyanoff appeared at the door of the dosshouse. He entered quietly, and stood behind Petunikoff, so that his chin was on a level with the merchant's head. Behind him stood the Deacon, opening his small, swollen, red eyes.
"Let us be doing something, gentlemen," suggested the Doctor. Martyanoff made an awful grimace, and suddenly suddenly sneezed on Petunikoff's head. The latter gave a yell, sat down hurriedly, and then jumped aside, almost knocking down the Inspector, into whose open arms he fell.
"Do you see," said the frightened merchant, pointing to Martyanoff, "do you see what kind of men they are."
Kuvalda burst out laughing. The Doctor and the Coroner smiled too, and at the door of the dosshouse the group of figures was increasing.. sleepy figures, with swollen faces, red, inflamed eyes, and dishevelled hair, staring rudely at the Doctor, the Coroner, and the Inspector.
"Where are you going?" said the policeman on guard at the door, catching hold of their tatters and pushing them aside. But he was one against many, and, without taking any notice, they all entered and stood there, reeking of vodki, silent and evil-looking.
Kuvalda glanced at them, then at the authorities, who were angry at the intrusion of these ragamuffins, and said, smilingly, "Gentlemen, perhaps you would like to make the acquaintance of my lodgers and friends? Would you? But, whether you wish it or not, you will have to make their acquaintance sooner or later in the course of your duties."
The Doctor smiled in an embarrassed way. The Coroner pressed his lips together, and the Inspector saw that it was time to go. Therefore, he shouted:
"Sideroff! Whistle! Tell them to bring a cart here."
"I will go," said Petunikoff, coming forward from a corner.
"You had better take it away to-day, sir, I want to pull down this hole.
Go away! or else I shall apply to the police!"
The policeman's whistle echoed through the courtyard. At the door of the dosshouse its inhabitants stood in a group, yawning, and scratching themselves.
"And so you do not wish to be introduced? That is rude of you!" laughed Aristid Fomich.
Petunikoff took his purse from his pocket, took out two five-kopeck pieces, put them at the feet of the dead man, and crossed himself.
"God have mercy.. on the burial of the sinful.."
"What!" yelled the Captain, "you give for the burial?
"Take them away, I say, you scoundrel! How dare you give your stolen kopecks for the burial of an honest man? I will tear you limb from limb!"
"Your Honor!" cried the terrified merchant to the Inspector, seizing him by the elbow.
The Doctor and the Coroner jumped aside. The Inspector shouted:
"Sideroff, come here!"
"The creatures that once were men" stood along the wall, looking and listening with an interest, which put new life into their broken-down bodies.
Kuvalda, shaking his fist at Petunikoff's head, roared and rolled his eyes like a wild beast.
"Scoundrel and thief! Take back your money! Dirty worm!
Take it back, I say.. or else I shall cram it down your throat.
.. Take your five-kopeck pieces!"
Petunikoff put out his trembling hand toward his mite, and protecting his head from Kuvalda's fist with the other hand, said:
101 CREATURES THAT ONCE WERE MEN
"You are my witnesses, Sir Inspector, and you good people!"
"We are not good people, merchant!" said the voice of Abyedok, trembling with anger.
The Inspector whistled impatiently, with his other hand protecting Petunikoff, who was stooping in front of him as if trying to enter his belly.
"You dirty toad! I shall compel you to kiss the feet of the dead man.
How would you like that?" And catching Petunikoff by the neck, Kuvalda hurled him against the door, as if he bad been a cat.
The "creatures that once were men" sprang aside quickly to let the merchant fall. And down he fell at their feet, crying wildly:
"Murder! Help! Murder!"
Martyanoff slowly raised his foot, and brought it down heavily on the merchant's head. Abyedok spat in his face with a grin. The merchant, creeping on all-fours, threw himself into the courtyard, at which everyone laughed. But by this time the two policemen had arrived, and pointing to Kuvalda, the Inspector said, pompously:
"Arrest him, and bind him hand and foot!"
"You dare not!.. I shall not run away.. I will go wherever you wish,." said Kuvalda, freeing himself from the policemen at his side.
The "creatures that once were men" disappeared one after the other. A cart entered the yard. Some ragged wretches brought out the dead man's body.
"I'll teach you! You just wait!" thundered the Inspector at Kuvalda.
"How now, ataman?" asked Petunikoff maliciously, excited and pleased at the sight of his enemy in bonds. "That, you fell into the trap? Eh? You just wait.."
But Kuvalda was quiet now. He stood strangely straight and silent between the two policemen, watching the teacher's body being placed in the cart. The man who was holding the head of the corpse was very short, and could not manage to place it on the cart at the same time as the legs. For a moment the body hung as if it would fall to the ground, and hide itself beneath the earth, away from these foolish and wicked disturbers of its peace.
"Take him away!" ordered the Inspector, pointing to the Captain.
Kuvalda silently moved forward without protestation, passing the cart on which was the teacher's body. He bowed his head before it without looking. Martyanoff, with his strong face, followed him. The courtyard of the merchant Petunikoff emptied quickly.
"Now then, go on!" called the driver, striking the horses with the whip. The cart moved off over the rough surface of the courtyard. The teacher was covered with a heap of rags, and his belly projected from beneath them. It seemed as if he were laughing quietly at the prospect of leaving the dosshouse, never, never to return. Petunikoff, who was following him with his eyes, crossed himself, and then began to shake the dust and rubbish off his clothes, and the more he shook himself the more pleased and self-satisfied did he feel. He saw the tall figure of Aristid Fomich Kuvalda, in a gray cap with a red band, with his arms bound behind his back, being led away. Petunikoff smiled the smile of the conqueror, and went back into the dosshouse, but suddenly he stopped and trembled. At the door facing him stood an old man with a stick in his hand and a large bag on his back, a horrible old man in rags and tatters, which covered his bony figure. He bent under the weight of his burden, and lowered his head on his breast, as if he wished to attack the merchant.
"What are you? Who are you?" shouted Petunikoff.
"A man." he answered in a hoarse voice. This hoarseness pleased and tranquillized Petunikoff, he even smiled.
"A man! And are there really men like you?" Stepping aside he let the old man pass. He went, saying slowly:
"Men are of various kinds.. as God wills.. There are worse than me.. still worse.. Yes.."
The cloudy sky hung silently over the dirty yard and over the cleanly-dressed man with the pointed beard, who was walking about there, measuring distances with his steps and with his sharp eyes. On the roof of the old house a crow perched and croaked, thrusting its head now backward, now forward. In the lowering gray clouds, which hid the sky, there was something hard and merciless, as if they had gathered together to wash all the dirt off the face of this unfortunate, suffering, and sorrowful earth.
TWENTY-SIX MEN AND A GIRL
There were six-and-twenty of us – six-and-twenty living machines in a damp, underground cellar, where from morning till night we kneaded dough and rolled it into kringels. Opposite the underground window of our cellar was a bricked area, green and mouldy with moisture. The window was protected from outside with a close iron grating, and the light of the sun could not pierce through the window panes, covered as they were with flour dust.
Our employer had bars placed in front of the windows, so that we should not be able to give a bit of his bread to passing beggars, or to any of our fellows who were out of work and hungry. Our employer called us rogues, and gave us half-rotten tripe to eat for our mid-day meal, instead of meat. It was swelteringly close for us cooped up in that stone underground chamber, under the low, heavy, soot-blackened, cobwebby ceiling. Dreary and sickening was our life between its thick, dirty, mouldy walls.
Unrefreshed, and with a feeling of not having had our sleep out, we used to get up at five o'clock in the morning; and before six, we were already seated, worn out and apathetic, at the table, rolling out the dough which our mates had already prepared while we slept.
The whole day, from ten in the early morning until ten at night, some of us sat round that table, working up in our hands the yielding paste, rolling it to and fro so that it should not get stiff; while the others kneaded the swelling mass of dough. And the whole day the simmering water in the kettle, where the kringels were being cooked, sang low and sadly; and the baker's shovel scraped harshly over the oven floor, as he threw the slippery bits of dough out of the kettle on the heated bricks.
From morning till evening wood was burning in the oven, and the red glow of the fire gleamed and flickered over the walls of the bake-shop, as if silently mocking us. The giant oven was like the misshapen head of a monster in a fairy tale; it thrust itself up out of the floor, opened wide jaws, full of glowing fire, and blew hot breath upon us; it seemed to be ever watching out of its black air-holes our interminable work. Those two deep holes were like eyes: the cold, pitiless eyes of a monster. They watched us always with the same darkened glance, as if they were weary of seeing before them such eternal slaves, from whom they could expect nothing human, and therefore scorned them with the cold scorn of wisdom.
In meal dust, in the mud which we brought in from the yard on our boots, in the hot, sticky atmosphere, day in, day out, we rolled the dough into kringels, which we moistened with our own sweat. And we hated our work with a glowing hatred; we never ate what had passed through our hands, and preferred black bread to kringels.
Sitting opposite each other, at a long table – nine facing nine – we moved our hands and fingers mechanically during endlessly long hours, till we were so accustomed to our monotonous work that we ceased to pay any attention to it.
We had all studied each other so constantly, that each of us knew every wrinkle of his mates' faces. It was not long also before we had exhausted almost every topic of conversation; that is why we were most of the time silent, unless we were chaffing each other; but one cannot always find something about which to chaff another man, especially when that man is one's mate. Neither were we much given to finding fault with one another; how, indeed, could one of us poor devils be in a position to find fault with another, when we were all of us half dead and, as it were, turned to stone? For the heavy drudgery seemed to crush all feeling out of us. But silence is only terrible and fearful for those who have said everything and have nothing more to say to each other; for men, on the contrary, who have never begun to communicate with one another, it is easy and simple.
Sometimes, too, we sang; and this is how it happened that we began to sing: one of us would sigh deeply in the midst of our toil, like an overdriven horse, and then we would begin one of those songs whose gentle swaying melody seems always to ease the burden on the singer's heart.
At first one sang by himself, and we others sat in silence listening to his solitary song, which, under the heavy vaulted roof of the cellar, died gradually away, and became extinguished, like a little fire in the steppes, on a wet autumn night, when the gray heaven hangs like a heavy mass over the earth.
Then another would join in with the singer, and now two soft, sad voices would break into song in our narrow, dull hole of a cellar. Suddenly others would join in, and the song would roll forward like a wave, would grow louder and swell upward, till it would seem as if the damp, foul walls of our stone prison were widening out and opening. Then, all six-and-twenty of us would be singing; our loud, harmonious song would fill the whole cellar, our voices would travel outside and beyond, striking, as it were, against the walls in moaning sobs and sighs, moving our hearts with soft, tantalizing ache, tearing open old wounds, and awakening longings.
The singers would sigh deeply and heavily; suddenly one would become silent and listen to the others singing, then let his voice flow once more in the common tide. Another would exclaim in a stifled voice, "Ah!" and would shut his eyes, while the deep, full sound waves would show him, as it were, a road, in front of him – a sunlit, broad road in the distance, which he himself, in thought wandered along.
But the flame flickers once more in the huge oven, the baker scrapes incessantly with his shovel, the water simmers in the kettle, and the flicker of the fire on the wall dances as before in silent mockery. While in other men's words we sing out our dumb grief, the weary burden of live men robbed of the sunlight, the burden of slaves.
So we lived, we six-and-twenty, in the vault-like cellar of a great stone house, and we suffered each one of us, as if we had to bear on our shoulders the whole three storys of that house.
But we had something else good, besides the singing – something we loved, that perhaps took the place of the sunshine.
In the second story of our house there was established a gold-embroiderer's shop, and there, living among the other embroidery girls, was Tanya, a little maid-servant of sixteen. Every morning there peeped in through the glass door a rosy little face, with merry blue eyes; while a ringing, tender voice called out to us:
"Little prisoners! Have you any knugels, please, for me?"
At that clear sound, we knew so well, we all used to turn round, gazing with simple-hearted joy at the pure girlish face which smiled at us so sweetly. The sight of the small nose pressed against the window-pane, and of the white teeth gleaming between the half-open lips, had become for us a daily pleasure. Tumbling over each other we used to jump up to open the door, and she would step in, bright and cheerful, holding out her apron, with her head thrown on one side, and a smile on her lips. Her thick, long chestnut hair fell over her shoulder and across her breast. But we, ugly, dirty and misshapen as we were, looked up at her – the threshold door was four steps above the floor – looked up at her with heads thrown back, wishing her good-morning, and speaking strange, unaccustomed words, which we kept for her only.
Our voices became softer when we spoke to her, our jests were lighter. For her – everything was different with us. The baker took from his oven a shovel of the best and the brownest kringels, and threw them deftly into Tanya's apron.
"Be off with you now, or the boss will catch you!" we warned her each time. She laughed roguishly, called out cheerfully: "Good-bye, poor prisoners!" and slipped away as quick as a mouse.
That was all. But long after she had gone we talked about her to one another with pleasure. It was always the same thing as we had said yesterday and the day before, because everything about us, including ourselves and her, remained the same – as yesterday – and as always.
Painful and terrible it is when a man goes on living, while nothing changes around him; and when such an existence does not finally kill his soul, then the monotony becomes with time, even more and more painful. Generally we spoke about women in such a way, that sometimes it was loathsome to us ourselves to hear our rude, shameless talk. The women whom we knew deserved perhaps nothing better. But about Tanya we never let fall an evil word; none of us ever ventured so much as to lay a hand on her, even too free a jest she never heard from us. Maybe this was so because she never remained for long with us; she flashed on our eyes like a star falling from the sky, and vanished; and maybe because she was little and very beautiful, and everything beautiful calls forth respect, even in coarse people.
And besides – though our life of penal labor had made us dull beasts, oxen, we were still men, and, like all men, could not live without worshipping something or other. Better than her we had none, and none but her took any notice of us, living in the cellar – no one, though there were dozens of people in the house. And then, to – most likely, this was the chief thing – we all regarded her as something of our own, something existing as it were only by virtue of our kringels. We took on ourselves in turns the duty of providing her with hot kringels, and this became for us like a daily sacrifice to our idol, it became almost a sacred rite, and every day it bound us more closely to her. Besides kringels, we gave Tanya a great deal of advice to wear warmer clothes, not to run upstairs too quickly, not to carry heavy bundles of wood. She listened to all our counsels with a smile, answered them by a laugh, and never took our advice, but we were not offended at that; all we wanted was to show how much care we bestowed upon her.
Often she would apply to us with different requests, she asked us, for instance; to open the heavy door into the store-cellar, and to chop wood: with delight and a sort of pride, we did this for her, and everything else she wanted.
But when one of us asked her to mend his solitary shirt for him, she said, with a laugh of contempt:
"What next! A likely idea!"
We made great fun of the queer fellow who could entertain such an idea, and – never asked her to do anything else. We loved her – all is said in that.
111 TWENTY-SIX MEN AND A GIRL
Man always wants to lay his love on someone, though sometimes he crushes, sometimes he sullies, with it; he may poison another life because he loves without respecting the beloved. We were bound to love Tanya, for we had no one else to love.
At times one of us would suddenly begin to reason like this:
"And why do we make so much of the wench? What is there in her? eh?
