  PROSE POEM BY MAXIM GORKY TRANSLATED BY ABRAHAM CAHAN [Note: The following prose poem by Maxim Gorky was written a few years ago in prophecy of the present crisis in Russia and was published only in Life, the leading literary magazine of St. Petersburg. In consequence the periodical was immediately suppressed. The editor and his entire staff voluntarily expatriated themselves and re-established the magazine in London, whence, during the few months of its existence in exile, thousands of copies were smuggled over the frontier for secret circulation. Gorky was arrested for complicity in the strikers’ movement that resulted in the St. Petersburg massacre of January 22 last. The rumor that the Russian Government purposed to sentence him to death excited so much feeling, that the foremost literary men of Germany, England and the United States concerted in an appeal for clemency, on the ground that the life and work of a great writer belong not alone to his country but to the world. Gorky has risen from the depths of poverty and ignorance to literary eminence as the interpreter of life among the masses. His first successful short stories appeared in the newspapers and attracted attention for their truth and vigor. Since 1893 he has made his literary position secure by the production of various novels and plays. He is now thirty-six years old. Abraham Cahan, translator of the poem, is a Russian who has attained distinction among American writers of fiction through short stories and the novels, “Yekl” and “The White Terror and the Red.”—Editors.] OVER the gray expanse of sea the wind is gathering the clouds. Circling between the clouds and the sea, like a black flash of lightning, is the storm-petrel on high. Now touching a wave with his wing, now shooting heavenward, dart-like, he is crying, and the clouds hear glad tidings in his cry. There is thirst for storm in that cry. The force of rage, the flame of passion, the confidence of victory do the clouds hear in that cry. The gulls are groaning before the storm, groaning and tossing over the sea; ready to hide their terror at the bottom of the sea. The cargeese, too, are groaning. The joy of the struggle is unknown to them; the din of strife awes them. The silly albatross hides his fat body in the cliffs. The proud storm-petrel alone is soaring boldly, freely over the sea, the waves singing, dancing on high, coming to meet the thunder. The thunder roars. Foaming with fury, the waves are raging, battling with the wind. Now the wind seizes a flock of waves in gigantic embrace, now hurls them with savage hate to the rocks, shattering them to dust and masses of emerald spray. Shouting joyously, the storm-petrel is circling like a black flash of lightning, piercing the clouds like a spear, brushing foam off the waves with its wings. There he is, flying like a demon, a proud, black storm-demon, laughing and sobbing at once. It is at the clouds he is laughing; it is for joy he is sobbing. In the thunder’s rage the sensitive demon perceives a weary note, the voice of defeat. He knows that the clouds cannot conceal the sun—not they! The wind is sighing; the thunder is pealing. Hundreds of clouds gleam bluish over the precipice of the sea. The sea is catching darts of lightning and smothering them in its bosom. Like serpents of fire the reflections of the lightning are writhing, vanishing one after the other. The storm is advancing! Another minute and the storm will come with a crash. It is the intrepid storm-petrel who is proudly careering among the flashes of lightning over the roaring, infuriated sea; it is the prophet of victory who is shouting. Let the storm blow and roar with all its might! |
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