And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence1!”
“Foma Gordyeeff” is a big book — not only is the breadth of Russia in it, but the expanse of life. Yet, though in each land, in this world of marts and exchanges, this age of trade and traffic, passionate2 figures rise up and demand of life what its fever is, in “Foma Gordyeeff” it is a Russian who so rises up and demands. For Gorky, the Bitter One, is essentially3 a Russian in his grasp on the facts of life and in his treatment. All the Russian self-analysis and insistent4 introspection are his. And, like all his brother Russians, ardent5, passionate protest impregnates his work. There is a purpose to it. He writes because he has something to say which the world should hear. From that clenched6 fist of his, light and airy romances, pretty and sweet and beguiling7, do not flow, but realities — yes, big and brutal8 and repulsive9, but real.
He raises the cry of the miserable10 and the despised, and in a masterly arraignment11 of commercialism, protests against social conditions, against the grinding of the faces of the poor and weak, and the self-pollution of the rich and strong, in their mad lust12 for place and power. It is to be doubted strongly if the average bourgeois13, smug and fat and prosperous, can understand this man Foma Gordyeeff. The rebellion in his blood is something to which their own does not thrill. To them it will be inexplicable14 that this man, with his health and his millions, could not go on living as his class lived, keeping regular hours at desk and stock exchange, driving close contracts, underbidding his competitors, and exulting15 in the business disasters of his fellows. It would appear so easy, and, after such a life, well appointed and eminently16 respectable, he could die. “Ah,” Foma will interrupt rudely — he is given to rude interruptions —“if to die and disappear is the end of these money-grubbing years, why money-grub?” And the bourgeois whom he rudely interrupted will not understand. Nor did Mayakin understand as he laboured holily with his wayward godson.
“Why do you brag17?” Foma, bursts out upon him. “What have you to brag about? Your son — where is he? Your daughter — what is she? Ekh, you manager of life! Come, now, you’re clever, you know everything — tell me, why do you live? Why do you accumulate money? Aren’t you going to die? Well, what then?” And Mayakin finds himself speechless and without answer, but unshaken and unconvinced.
Receiving by heredity the fierce, bull-like nature of his father plus the passive indomitableness and groping spirit of his mother, Foma, proud and rebellious18, is repelled19 by the selfish, money-seeking environment into which he is born. Ignat, his father, and Mayakin, the godfather, and all the horde20 of successful merchants singing the paean21 of the strong and the praises of merciless, remorseless laissez faire, cannot entice22 him. Why? he demands. This is a nightmare, this life! It is without significance! What does it all mean? What is there underneath23? What is the meaning of that which is underneath?
“You do well to pity people,” Ignat tells Foma, the boy, “only you must use judgment24 with your pity. First consider the man, find out what he is like, what use can be made of him; and if you see that he is a strong and capable man, help him if you like. But if a man is weak, not inclined to work — spit upon him and go your way. And you must know that when a man complains about everything, and cries out and groans25 — he is not worth more than two kopeks, he is not worthy26 of pity, and will be of no use to you if you do help him.”
Such the frank and militant27 commercialism, bellowed28 out between glasses of strong liquor. Now comes Mayakin, speaking softly and without satire29:
“Eh, my boy, what is a beggar? A beggar is a man who is forced, by fate, to remind us of Christ; he is Christ’s brother; he is the bell of the Lord, and rings in life for the purpose of awakening30 our conscience, of stirring up the satiety31 of man’s flesh. He stands under the window and sings, ‘For Christ’s sa-ake!’ and by that chant he reminds us of Christ, of His holy command to help our neighbour. But men have so ordered their lives that it is utterly32 impossible for them to act in accordance with Christ’s teaching, and Jesus Christ has become entirely33 superfluous34 to us. Not once, but, in all probability, a thousand times, we have given Him over to be crucified, but still we cannot banish35 Him from our lives so long as His poor brethren sing His name in the streets and remind us of Him. And so now we have hit upon the idea of shutting up the beggars in such special buildings, so that they may not roam about the streets and stir up our consciences.”
But Foma will have none of it. He is neither to be enticed36 nor cajoled. The cry of his nature is for light. He must have light. And in burning revolt he goes seeking the meaning of life. “His thoughts embraced all those petty people who toiled37 at hard labour. It was strange — why did they live? What satisfaction was it to them to live on the earth? All they did was to perform their dirty, arduous39 toil38, eat poorly; they were miserably40 clad, addicted41 to drunkenness. One was sixty years old, but he still toiled side by side with young men. And they all presented themselves to Foma’s imagination as a huge heap of worms, who were swarming42 over the earth merely to eat.”
He becomes the living interrogation of life. He cannot begin living until he knows what living means, and he seeks its meaning vainly. “Why should I try to live life when I do not know what life is?” he objects when Mayakin strives with him to return and manage his business. Why should men fetch and carry for him? be slaves to him and his money?
“Work is not everything to a man,” he says; “it is not true that justification44 lies in work . . . Some people never do any work at all, all their lives long — yet they live better than the toilers. Why is that? And what justification have I? And how will all the people who give their orders justify45 themselves? What have they lived for? But my idea is that everybody ought, without fail, to know solidly what he is living for. Is it possible that a man is born to toil, accumulate money, build a house, beget46 children, and — die? No; life means something in itself. . . . A man has been born, has lived, has died — why? All of us must consider why we are living, by God, we must! There is no sense in our life — there is no sense at all. Some are rich — they have money enough for a thousand men all to themselves — and they live without occupation; others bow their backs in toil all their life, and they haven’t a penny.”
But Foma can only be destructive. He is not constructive47. The dim groping spirit of his mother and the curse of his environment press too heavily upon him, and he is crushed to debauchery and madness. He does not drink because liquor tastes good in his mouth. In the vile48 companions who purvey49 to his baser appetites he finds no charm. It is all utterly despicable and sordid50, but thither51 his quest leads him and he follows the quest. He knows that everything is wrong, but he cannot right it, cannot tell why. He can only attack and demolish52. “What justification have you all in the sight of God? Why do you live?” he demands of the conclave53 of merchants, of life’s successes. “You have not constructed life — you have made a cesspool! You have disseminated54 filth55 and stifling56 exhalations by your deeds. Have you any conscience? Do you remember God? A five-kopek piece — that is your God! But you have expelled your conscience!”
Like the cry of Isaiah, “Go to, now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your misfortunes that shall come upon you,” is Foma’s: “You blood-suckers! You live on other people’s strength; you work with other people’s hands! For all this you shall be made to pay! You shall perish — you shall be called to account for all! For all — to the last little tear-drop!”
Stunned57 by this puddle58 of life, unable to make sense of it, Foma questions, and questions vainly, whether of Sofya Medynsky in her drawing-room of beauty, or in the foulest59 depths of the first chance courtesan’s heart. Linboff, whose books contradict one another, cannot help him; nor can the pilgrims on crowded steamers, nor the verse writers and harlots in dives and boozingkens. And so, wondering, pondering, perplexed60, amazed, whirling through the mad whirlpool of life, dancing the dance of death, groping for the nameless, indefinite something, the magic formula, the essence, the intrinsic fact, the flash of light through the murk and dark — the rational sanction for existence, in short — Foma Gordyeeff goes down to madness and death.
It is not a pretty book, but it is a masterful interrogation of life — not of life universal, but of life particular, the social life of to-day. It is not nice; neither is the social life of to-day nice. One lays the book down sick at heart — sick for life with all its “lyings and its lusts61.” But it is a healthy book. So fearful is its portrayal62 of social disease, so ruthless its stripping of the painted charms from vice63, that its tendency cannot but be strongly for good. It is a goad64, to prick65 sleeping human consciences awake and drive them into the battle for humanity.
But no story is told, nothing is finished, some one will object. Surely, when Sasha leaped overboard and swam to Foma, something happened. It was pregnant with possibilities. Yet it was not finished, was not decisive. She left him to go with the son of a rich vodka-maker. And all that was best in Sofya Medynsky was quickened when she looked upon Foma with the look of the Mother–Woman. She might have been a power for good in his life, she might have shed light into it and lifted him up to safety and honour and understanding. Yet she went away next day, and he never saw her again. No story is told, nothing is finished.
Ah, but surely the story of Foma Gordyeeff is told; his life is finished, as lives are being finished each day around us. Besides, it is the way of life, and the art of Gorky is the art of realism. But it is a less tedious realism than that of Tolstoy or Turgenev. It lives and breathes from page to page with a swing and dash and go that they rarely attain66. Their mantle67 has fallen on his young shoulders, and he promises to wear it royally.
Even so, but so helpless, hopeless, terrible is this life of Foma Gordyeeff that we would be filled with profound sorrow for Gorky did we not know that he has come up out of the Valley of Shadow. That he hopes, we know, else would he not now be festering in a Russian prison because he is brave enough to live the hope he feels. He knows life, why and how it should be lived. And in conclusion, this one thing is manifest: Foma Gordyeeff is no mere43 statement of an intellectual problem. For as he lived and interrogated68 living, so in sweat and blood and travail69 has Gorky lived.
Piedmont, California.
November 1901.
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1
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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4
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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6
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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9
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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11
arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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12
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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13
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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14
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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15
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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16
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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19
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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20
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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paean
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| n.赞美歌，欢乐歌 | |
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22
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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23
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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24
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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25
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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26
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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28
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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29
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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30
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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32
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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33
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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34
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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35
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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36
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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38
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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39
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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40
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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41
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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42
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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43
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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44
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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45
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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46
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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47
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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48
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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49
purvey
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| v.（大量）供给，供应 | |
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50
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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51
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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52
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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53
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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54
disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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56
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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57
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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59
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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60
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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61
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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62
portrayal
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| n.饰演；描画 | |
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63
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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64
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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65
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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66
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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67
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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68
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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69
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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