Читать книгу The Essential Russian Plays & Short Stories - Максим Горький - Страница 88

—I wonder whether it'll be a boy or a girl.

—What difference does it make to you?

—I like boys.

—I like girls. They always sit at home waiting till you call on them.

—Do you like to go visiting?

[The Old Women titter.

—He knows.

—He knows. (Silence)

—Our friend would like to have a girl. She says boys are so restless and venturesome and are always seeking danger. Even when they are little, they like to climb tall trees and bathe in deep water. They often fall, and they drown. And when they get to be men, they make wars and kill one another.

—She thinks girls don't drown. I have seen many girls drowned. They look like all drowned people, wet and green.

—She thinks girls don't get killed by stones thrown at them.

—Poor woman, she has such a hard time giving birth to her child. We have been sitting here sixteen hours, and she is still crying. At first she cried out loud. Her screams pierced our ears. Then she cried more quietly, and now she is only moaning.

—The doctor says she'll die.

—No, the doctor says the child will die and she will live.

—Why do they bear children? It is so painful.

—And why do they die? It is still more painful.

[The Old Women laugh suppressedly.

—Yes, they bear children and die.

—And bear children again.

[They laugh. A subdued cry of the suffering woman is heard.

—Beginning again.

—She's recovered her voice. That's good.

—That's good.

—Poor husband. He's lost his head completely. You ought to see him. He's a sight. At first he was glad his wife was pregnant and said he wanted a boy. He thinks his son will be a cabinet minister or a general. Now he doesn't want anything, neither a boy nor a girl. He just goes about grieving and crying.

—Every time she is seized with pain he begins to labor, too, and gets red in the face.

—He was sent to the chemist's shop for medicine, and he hung about there for two hours without being able to remember what he was sent for. He returned without it.

[The Old Women titter. The cries grow louder and die away. Silence.

—What's the matter with her? Maybe she has died already.

—No. If she had, we'd hear crying, and the doctor would come running and begin to talk nonsense. They'd bring her husband out in a faint, and we'd have to work over him. No, she's not dead.

—Then what are we sitting here for?

—Ask Him. What do we know?

—He won't tell.

—He won't tell. He never tells anything.

—He orders us about as he pleases, gets us out of bed, and makes us watch; and then it turns out that our coming wasn't even needed.

—We came of our own accord, didn't we? We must tell the truth. There, she's screaming again.

—Haven't you had as much of it as you want?

—Are you satisfied?

—I keep my mouth shut and wait.

—You're an angel.

[They laugh. The cries grow louder.

—Listen to her. What fearful pain she must be suffering. Have you any idea of what the pain is like? It's as if your insides were being torn to pieces.

—We all have borne children.

—It's just as if she were not herself. I don't recognize our friend's voice. It's naturally so soft and gentle.

—Her screaming is more like the roar of a wild beast.

—You feel the night in it.

—You feel the boundless black forest and hopelessness and terror.

—You feel solitude and grief. There are other people with her. Why can't you hear other voices beside that savage, dismal wail?

—They are talking, but you can't hear them. Have you ever noticed how solitary man's cries are? Any number of men will talk, and you won't hear them. But let one human being cry, and it seems as if the others were all silent, listening.

—I once heard a man scream who had been run over by a Carriage and had his leg crushed. The street was full of people. Yet he seemed to be the only one there.

—But this is more terrible.

—Say rather it is louder.

—I should say it is more prolonged.

—No, it's more terrible. You feel death in it.

—You had a feeling of death then, too. In fact, the man did die.

—Don't dispute. It's all the same to you.

[Silence. Cries.

—How strange man's crying is! When you yourself are ill and cry, you don't notice how strange it is. I can't imagine the mouth that produces such sounds. Can it be a woman's mouth? I can't imagine it.

—It's as if it got twisted and crooked.

—As if the sound issued from some depth. Now it's like the cry of someone drowning. Listen, she's choking.

—A heavy person is sitting on her chest.

—Someone is choking her.

[The crying ceases.

—At last she has quieted down. You get tired of crying. It's monotonous and not beautiful.

—You're looking for beauty here too, are you?

[The Old Women titter.

—Hush! Is He here?

—I don't know.

—He seems to be.

—He doesn't like laughing.

—They say He laughs Himself.

—Whoever heard Him laugh? You are simply repeating hearsay. So many lies are told about Him.

—He hears us. Let us be serious.

[They laugh quietly.

—After all, I'd like to know whether it'll be a boy or a girl.

—I admit, it's interesting to know whom you'll have to deal with.

—I wish it died before it was born.

—What a kind creature you are.

—No better than you.

—I hope it turns out to be a general.

[They laugh.

—You are too merry. I don't like it.

—And you are too sad. I don't like that.

—Don't wrangle. Don't wrangle. We are all both sad and merry. Let each be what she pleases. (Silence)

—When they are born, they are so funny. Babies are very funny.

—And self-satisfied.

—And very exacting, I don't like them. They begin to cry at once and make demands, as if they expected everything to be ready for them. Even before looking, they know there is a breast and milk, and demand them. Then they demand to be put to sleep and rocked and dandled and patted on their red backs. I like them better when they die. Then they're less exacting. They stretch out of themselves and don't ask to be rocked.

—No, they are very funny. I like to wash them when they are born.

—I like to wash them when they are dead.

—Don't dispute. Don't dispute. Each will have her way. One will wash the child when it is born, another when it dies.

—But why do they think they have a right to make demands the moment they are born? I don't like it. They don't think they have. It's their stomachs that make the demands.

—They're forever demanding.

—But their demands are never granted.

[The Old Women laugh. The cries begin again.

—She is screaming again.

—Animals give birth to their offspring more easily.

—And they die more easily, and live more easily; I have a cat. You ought to see how fat and happy she is.

—I have a dog, and I tell him every day: "You are going to die." His only reply is to show his teeth and to wag his tail gayly.

—But they are animals.

—And these are human beings.

[They laugh.

—Now she'll either die or be delivered. I feel that the whole remnant of her strength is in that wail.

—Eyes wide open.

—Cold perspiration on her forehead.

[They listen.

—She is giving birth to the child.

—No, she is dying.

[The cries cease.

—I tell you—

SOMEONE IN GRAY (speaks in a resonant, powerful voice)

Silence! Man is born.

_[Almost simultaneously with His announcement the crying of an infant is heard and the candle in His hand lights. A tall candle. It burns hesitatingly and feebly. Gradually the flame grows stronger. The corner in which Someone in Gray stands motionless is always darker than the other corners, and the yellow flame illumines His blunt chin, His tightly closed lips, and His massive, bony face. The upper part of His face is concealed by His cap. He is somewhat taller than an ordinary man.

He puts the long, thick candle in an antique candlestick. His hand comes into relief against the green bronze. It is gray, firm, with long, thin fingers.

Gradually the room grows brighter. The figures of five hunch-backed Old Women emerge from the gloom, and the room becomes visible. It is rectangular, with high, smooth, monotonously colored walls. Two curtainless windows in the background and two on the right. The night glooms through them. Straight, high-backed chairs against the walls._

THE OLD WOMEN (talking rapidly)

—Hear them running about. They're coming here.

—How bright it is! Let's go.

—Look, the candle is tall and bright.

—Let's go, let's go. Quick!

—But we'll come back. We'll come back.

_[They laugh quietly, mockingly, and disappear into the dusk with odd, zigzagging movements. As they leave, the light grows brighter, but still it remains dim, lifeless, and cold. The corner in which Someone in Gray stands motionless with the burning candle is darker than the others.

Enter the Doctor in a white uniform, and Man's Father, whose face wears an expression of extreme exhaustion and joy. There are lines under his eyes; his cheeks are sunken and his hair is dishevelled; he is very negligently dressed. The Doctor looks very learned._