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    Konovalov
    Konovalov
    Konovalov
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    Konovalov

    By Maksim Gorkij

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The short story "Konovalov" (1897) is an example of Maxim Gorky's autobiographical writing, depicting the suicide of a quiet prisoner, Konovalov, whom Gorky decides to immortalize on the page. The narrative follows the chronological life of the main character, constructed from the memory of the narrator himself, adding a tinge of authenticity. The story brings some existentialist philosophies to mind, coating the ordinary situations with an air of nostalgia and universality, so characteristic of Gorky's entire oeuvre. -
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSAGA Egmont
    Release dateOct 9, 2020
    ISBN9788726501773
    Konovalov

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      Book preview

      Konovalov - Maksim Gorkij

      Maksim Gorkij

      Konovalov

      SAGA Egmont

      Konovalov

      Isabel Florence Hapgood

      Коновалов

      The characters and use of language in the work do not express the views of the publisher. The work is published as a historical document that describes its contemporary human perception.

      Copyright © 1897, 2020 Maxim Gorky and SAGA Egmont

      All rights reserved

      ISBN: 9788726501773

      1. e-book edition, 2020

      Format: EPUB 2.0

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievial system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor, be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      SAGA Egmont www.saga-books.com – a part of Egmont, www.egmont.com

      Konováloff

      As I carelessly ran my eye over the newspaper, it fell upon the name of Konováloff, and as it arrested my attention, I read the following:

      Last night, Alexánder Ivánovitch Konováloff, petty burgher of the town of Muróm, aged forty, hanged himself to the ventilator of the stove in the general ward of the local prison. The suicide was arrested in Pskóff, for vagrancy, and was forwarded by stages, under police escort, to his native place. The prison authorities state that he was always a quiet, reticent, thoughtful man. The prison doctor decided that melancholia must be regarded as the cause which incited Konováloff to suicide. I read this brief announcement in brevier type—it is the custom to print notes about the destruction of insignificant people in small type—I read it through, and reflected that I might be able to throw a somewhat clearer light upon the cause which had led that meditative man to go out of life, because I had known him, and, at one time, had lived with him. Indeed, I had not even the right to remain silent concerning him:—he was a splendid young fellow, and such as he are not often met with on life's highway.

      I was eighteen years old when I first met Konováloff. At that time, I was working in a bakery, as assistant baker. The baker was a soldier from the musical division, a terrible vódka-drinker, who frequently spoiled the dough, and when he was drunk, was fond of playing tunes on his lips, and strumming out various pieces with his fingers on anything that came handy. When the proprietor of the bakery reprimanded him for having spoiled his wares, or for being behindhand with them in the morning, he flew into a rage, and cursed the proprietor, cursed him mercilessly, always calling his attention, at the same time, to his musical talent.

      The dough has stood too long!—he shouted, bristling up his long red mustache, and making a noise with his thick lips, which were always moist, for some reason or other.—"The crust is burned! The bread is raw! Akh, the devil take you, you cock-eyed spectre! Was I born into the world to do this work? Curse you and your work—I'm a musician! Do you understand? If the viola-player got drunk, I used to play the viola: if the hautboy man was under arrest, I blew the hautboy; if the cornet-à-piston has fallen ill, who can take his place? Sutchköff, I! Glad to do my best, your Well-Born! ¹ Tim-tarram-ta-ddi! But you're a p-peasant, katzáp!² Pay me my wages and discharge me!"

      And the proprietor, a corpulent, bloated man, with small squinting eyes which were buried in fat, and a feminine face, stamped about the floor with his short, fat legs, his huge body swaying heavily the while, and roared, in a squealing voice:

      Ruiner! Destroyer! Christ-seller of a Judas! Oh Lord, why hast Thou chastised me with such a man! Spreading his short fingers wide apart, he raised his hands to heaven, and all of a sudden roared loudly, in an ear-splitting voice:—

      And what if I hand you over to the police for your mutiny?

      Hand the servitor of the Tzar and the Fatherland over to the police? bellowed the soldier, and started to administer a drubbing to the proprietor. The latter beat a retreat, spitting to one side in disgust, snorting wrathfully and cursing. This was all that he could do—it was summer, a season when it is extremely difficult to find a good baker in the Volga river-town.

      Such scenes were of almost every day occurrence. The soldier drank, spoiled the dough and played various marches and waltzes or numbers, as he expressed it; the proprietor gnashed his teeth, and the result of it all was, that I was obliged to work for two, which was not very logical, and was very fatiguing.

      And I was highly delighted when, one day, the following scene took place between the proprietor and the soldier. Well, soldier, said the proprietor, making his appearance in the bakery with a beaming and satisfied countenance, and his little eyes sparkled with a malicious smile,— well, soldier, puff out your lips, and play the campaign march!

      What's that for?! gloomily said the soldier, who was lying on the tub with the dough, and, as usual, was half drunk.

      Prepare to march, corporal! said the proprietor exultantly.

      Whither? inquired the soldier, lowering his legs off the tub, and feeling that something was wrong.

      Wherever you like—to a Turkish woman or an English woman, as you please.

      How am I to understant that? shouted the soldier vehemently.

      You are to understand that I won't keep you another hour. Go upstairs, get your wages, and take yourself off—march!

      The soldier had become accustomed to feel his strength, and the helpless position of his master, and the latter's announcement somewhat sobered him: he could not help understanding how difficult it would be for him, with his knowledge of the trade, to find another place.

      Come now, you're lying!… he said with alarm, rising to his feet.

      Get out with you,—get out….

      Get out?

      Clear out!

      That means, I have worked myself out, and the soldier shook his head sadly…. You have sucked the blood out of me, sucked me dry, and now you turn me out. That's clever! That's good! Akh, you … spider!

      I'm a spider, am I? boiled up the proprietor.

      Yes, you are! A blood-sucking spider—that's what you are! said the soldier with conviction, and walked, reeling, toward the door.

      The proprietor looked after him with a spiteful laugh, and his little eyes glittered joyfully.

      Go along with you, now, and get a place with somebody! Ye-es! I've given you such a character everywhere, my dear little dove, that you may beg as you will—no one will take you! They won't hire you anywhere…. I've settled your hash for you, you rottenheaded, stupid, infernal creature!

      Have you already hired a new baker? I inquired.

      "A new one? No, he isn't new—he's the old one. He was my friend. Ah, what a baker! Regular gold! But he's a drunkard also, eh, what a drunkard! Only, he has long fits of hard drinking…. Now he'll come, and set to work, and for three or four months he'll strain

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