Old Izergil and other stories / Старуха Изергиль и другие рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Максим Горький
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Автор: Максим Горький
Издательство: КАРО
Жанр: Русская классика
Серия: Russian Classic Literature
isbn: 978-5-9925-1335-6
isbn:
“Let’s go,” said Gavrilla, dipping an oar into the water.
“Let’s.” Chelkash pushed off hard with the steering oar, sending the boat into the lanes between the barges. It glided swiftly over the water, which gave off a blue phosphorescent glow wherever the oars struck it and formed a glowing ribbon in the wake of the boat.
“How’s your head? Ache?” asked Chelkash solicitously.
“Something fierce. And it’s heavy as lead. Here, I’ll wet it.”
“What for? Wet your insides; that’ll bring you round quicker,” said Chelkash, holding out a bottle.
“Ah, God be thanked.”
There was a gurgling sound.
“Hey! That’s enough!” interrupted Chelkash.
Once more the boat darted forward, weaving its way among the other craft swiftly and soundlessly. Suddenly it was beyond them, and the sea – the mighty boundless sea – stretched far away to the dark-blue horizon, from which sprang billowing clouds: grey-and-mauve with fluffy yellow edges; greenish, the colour of sea water; leaden-hued, throwing dark and dreary shadows. Slowly moved the clouds across the sky, now overtaking each other, merging in colour and form, annihilating each other only to appear again in new aspects, grimly magnificent. There was something fatal in the slow movement of these inanimate forms. It seemed as if there were endless numbers of them at the rim of the sea, and as if they would go on crawling across the sky for ever, impelled by a vicious desire to keep the sky from gazing down upon the slumbering sea with its millions of golden orbs, the many-hued stars, that hung there alive and pensively radiant, inspiring lofty aspirations in the hearts of men to whom their pure shine was a precious thing.
“Nice, the sea, isn’t it?” asked Chelkash.
“I suppose so, but it makes me afraid,” said Gavrilla as he pulled hard and evenly on the oars. The water let out a faint ring and splash as the oars struck it, and it still gave off that blue phosphorescent glow.
“Afraid! You are a boob,” grunted Chelkash.
He, a thief, loved the sea. His nervous, restive nature, always thirsting for new impressions, never had enough of contemplating its dark expanses, so free, so powerful, so boundless. And he resented such a tepid response to his question about the beauty of the thing he loved. As he sat there in the stern of the boat letting his steering oar cut through the water while he gazed calmly ahead, he was filled with the one desire to travel as long and as far as he could over that velvety surface.
He always had a warm expansive feeling when he was on the sea. It filled his whole being, purging it of the dross of daily life. He appreciated this and liked to see himself a better man hero among the waves and in the open air, where thoughts about life lose their poignancy and life itself loses its value. At night the soft breathing of the slumbering sea is wafted gently over the waters, and this unencompassing sound fills the heart of man with peace, crams away its evil impulses, and gives birth to great dreams.
“Where’s the fishing tackle?” asked Gavrilla suddenly, glancing anxiously about the boat.
Chelkash gave a start.
“The tackle? I’ve got it here in the stern.”
He did not wish to lie to this green youth and he regretted having his thoughts and feelings dispelled in this abrupt way. It made him angry. Again ho had that burning sensation in his throat and chest and said to Gavrilla in a hard and impressive voice:
“Listen, sit where you are and mind your own business. I hired you to row, so you row; and if you start wagging your tongue it will go hard with you. Understand?”
The boat gave a little jerk and came to a halt, the oars dragging and stirring up the water. Gavrilla shifted uneasily on his seat.
“Row!”
A fierce oath shook the air. Gavrilla lifted the oars and the boat, as if frightened, leaped ahead in quick nervous spurts that made the water splash.
“Steady!”
Chelkash half rose without letting go of the steering oar and fastened cold eyes on Gavrilla’s white face. He was like a cat about to spring as he stood there bent forward. The grinding of his teeth could be heard, as could the chattering of Gavrilla’s teeth.
“Who’s shouting there?” came a stern cry from out at sea.
“Row, you bastard! Row! Shhh! I’ll kill you, damn your hide! Row, I tell you! One, two! Just you dare to make a sound! I’ll rip you to pieces!” hissed Chelkash.
“Holy Virgin, Mother of God!” murmured Gavrilla, trembling with fear and exertion.
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