He ceased to think of
them. His son Iakov came to seek him and to procure work for himself
for a season. He had the true soul of a peasant.
Later he falls, like the others, under the spell of this easy, free
life, and one feels that Iakov will never more return to the village.
In Gorky's eyes, his work is tainted by a capital vice. It is unsuited
to producing the joy that quickens. Humanity has forgotten joy; what
has he done beyond pitying or rallying suffering? . . . These
reflections haunt him, and this doubt of his beneficent efficacy
imparts extreme sadness to his genius.
IVAN STRANNIK.
CONTENTS
Preface
Twenty-Six and One
Tchelkache
Malva
Twenty-Six and One
BY MAXIME GORKY
There were twenty-six of us--twenty-six living machines, locked up in
a damp cellar, where we patted dough from morning till night, making
biscuits and cakes. The windows of our cellar looked out into a
ditch, which was covered with bricks grown green from dampness, the
window frames were obstructed from the outside by a dense iron
netting, and the light of the sun could not peep in through the
panes, which were covered with flour-dust.
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