My Childhood
"There 's one you love, but her love you will miss,
Seek on! another you must find. And you will find her — for reward a kiss —
Seven times as beautiful and kind. Oh, what a glo — or — i — ous reward!"
The soldier, round as a ball, sat at the window and puffed out his blue face, and roguishly turned his reddish eyes from side to side, as he smoked his everlast-
ing pipe, and occasionally coughed, and giggled with a strange, doglike sound:
"Vookh! Voo — kh!"
In the comfortable room which had been built over the cellar and the stables, lodged two draymen — little, gray-haired Uncle Peter and his dumb nephew Stepa — a smooth, easy-going fellow, whose face reminded me of a copper tray — and a long-limbed, gloomy Tartar, Valei, who was an officer's servant. All these people were to me a complete novelty — magnificent "unknowns." But the one who attracted my attention and held it in a special degree, was the boarder, nicknamed "Good-business." He rented a room at the back of the house, next to the kitchen — a long room with two windows, one looking on the garden, the other on the yard. He was a lean, stooping man with a white face and a black beard, cleft in two, with kind eyes over which he wore spectacles. He was silent and unobtrusive, and when he was called to dinner or tea, his invariable reply was "Good-business!'r so grandmother began to call him that both to his face and behind his back. It was: "Lenka! Call 'Good-business' to tea," or " 'Good-business,' you are eating nothing!"
His room was blocked up and encumbered with all sorts of cases and thick books, which looked strange to me, in Russian characters. Here were also bottles containing liquids of different colors, lumps of copper and
iron, and bars of lead; and from morning till night, dressed in a reddish leather jacket, with gray check trousers all smeared with different kinds of paint, and smelling abominable, and looking both untidy and uncomfortable, he melted lead, soldered some kind of brass articles, weighed things in small scales, roared out when he burned his fingers, and then patiently blew on them. Or he would stumblingly approach a plan on the wall, and polishing his glasses, sniff at it, almost touching the paper with his straight, curiously pallid nose; or he would suddenly stand still for a long time in the middle of the room, or at the window, with his eyes closed, and his head raised — as if he were in a state of immobile stupefaction.
I used to climb on the roof of the shed, whence I could look across the yard; and in at the open window I could see the blue light of the spirit-lamp on the table, and his dark figure as he wrote something in a tattered notebook, with his spectacles gleaming with a bluish light, like ice. The wizard-like employment of this man often kept me on the roof for hours together, with my curiosity excited to a tormenting pitch. Sometimes he stood at the window, as if he were framed in it, with his hands behind him, looking straight at the roof; but apparently he did not see me, a fact which gave me great offense. Suddenly he would start back to the
table, and bending double, would begin to rummage about.
I think that if he had been rich and better dressed I should have been afraid of him; but he was poor — a dirty shirt collar could be seen above the collar of his coat, his trousers were soiled and patched, and the slippers on his bare feet were down-trodden — and the poor are neither formidable nor dangerous. I had unconsciously learned this from grandmother's pitiful respect, and grandfather's contempt for them.
Nobody in the house liked "Good-business." They all made fun of him. The soldier's lively wife nicknamed him "Chalk-nose," Uncle Peter used to call him "The Apothecary" or "The Wizard," and grandfather described him as "The Black Magician" or "That Freemason."
"What does he do?" I asked grandmother.
"That is no business of yours. Hold your tongue!"
But one day I plucked up courage to go to his window, and concealing my nervousness with difficulty, I asked him, "What are you doing1?"
He started, and looked at me for a long time over the top of his glasses; then stretching out his hand, which was covered with scars caused by burns, he said:
"Climb up!"
His proposal that I should enter by the window in-
stead of the door raised him still higher in my estimation. He sat on a case, and stood me in front of him; then he moved away and came back again quite close to me, and asked in a low voice:
"And where do you come from?"
This was curious, considering that I sat close to him at table in the kitchen four times a day.
"I am the landlord's grandson," I replied.
"Ah — yes," he said, looking at his fingers.
He said no more, so I thought it necessary to explain to him:
"I am not a Kashmirin — my name is Pyeshkov."
"Pyeshkov?" he repeated incredulously. "Good-business!"
Moving me on one side, he rose, and went to the table, saying:
"Sit still now."
I sat for a long, long time watching him as he scraped a filed piece of copper, put it through a press, from under which the filings fell, like golden groats, on to a piece of cardboard. These he gathered up in the palm of his hand and shook them into a bulging vessel, to which he added white dust, like salt, which he took from a small bowl, and some fluid out of a dark bottle. The mixture in the vessel immediately began to hiss and to smoke, and a biting smell rose to my nostrils which caused me to cough violently.
"Ah!" said the wizard in a boastful tone. "That smells nasty, doesn't it?"
"Yes!"
"That 's right! That shows that it has turned out well, my boy."
"What is there to boast about?" I said to myself; and aloud I remarked severely:
"If it is nasty it can't have turned out well."
"Really!" he exclaimed, with a wink. "That does not always follow, my boy. However — Do you play knuckle-bones'?"
"You mean dibs?"
"That 's it."
"Yes."
"Would you like me to make you a thrower?"
"Very well, let me have the dibs then."
He came over to me again, holding the steaming vessel in his hand; and peeping into it with one eye, he said:
"I '11 make you a thrower, and you promise not to come near me again — is that agreed?"
I was terribly hurt at this.
"I will never come near you again, never!" And I indignantly left him and went out to the garden, where grandfather was bustling about, spreading manure round the roots of the apple trees, for it was autumn and the leaves had fallen long ago.
"Here! you go and clip the raspberry bushes," said grandfather, giving me the scissors.
"What work is it that 'Good-business' does'?" I asked.
"Work — why, he is damaging his room, that 's all. The floor is burned, and the hangings soiled and torn. I shall tell him he 'd better shift."
"That 's the best thing he can do," I said, beginning to clip the dried twigs from the raspberry bushes.
But I was too hasty.
On wet evenings, whenever grandfather went out, grandmother used to contrive to give an interesting little party in the kitchen, and invited all the occupants of the house to tea. The draymen, the officer's servant, the robust Petrovna often came, sometimes even the merry little lodger, but always "Good-business" was to be found in his corner by the stove, motionless and mute. Dumb Stepa used to play cards with the Tartar. Valei would bang the cards on the deaf man's broad nose and yell:
"Your deal!"
Uncle Peter brought an enormous chunk of white bread, and some jam in large, tall pots; he cut the bread hi slices, which he generously spread with jam, and distributed the delicious raspberry-strewn slices to all, presenting them on the palm of his hand and bowing low.
"Do me the favor of eating this," he would beg courteously; and after any one had accepted a slice, he would look carefully at his dark hand, and if he noticed any drops of jam on it, he would lick them off.
Petrovna brought some cherry liqueur in a bottle, the merry lady provided nuts and sweets, and so the feast would begin, greatly to the content of the dear, fat grandmother.
Very soon after "Good-business" had tried to bribe me not to go and see him any more, grandmother gave one of her evenings.
A light autumn rain was falling; the wind howled, the trees rustled and scraped the walls with their branches; but in the kitchen it was warm and cozy as we all sat close together, conscious of a tranquil feeling of kindness towards one another, while grandmother, unusually generous, told us story after story, each one better than the other. She sat on the ledge of the stove, resting her feet on the lower ledge, bending towards her audience with the light of a little tin lamp thrown upon her. Always when she was in a mood for story-telling she took up this position.
"I must be looking down on you," she would explain. "I can always talk better that way."
I placed myself at her feet on the broad ledge, almost on a level with the head of "Good-business," and grandmother told us the fine story of Ivan the Warrior,
and Miron the Hermit, in a smooth stream of pithy, well-chosen words.
"Once lived a wicked captain — Gordion, His soul was black, his conscience was of stone; He hated truth, victims he did not lack, Fast kept in chains, or stretched upon the rack, And, like an owl, in hollow tree concealed, So lived this man, in evil unrevealed. But there was none who roused his hate and fear Like Hermit Miron, to the people dear. Mild and benign, but fierce to fight for truth, His death was planned without remorse or ruth. The captain calls — most trusted of his band — Ivan the Warrior, by whose practiced hand The Monk, unarmed and guileless, must be slain. 'Ivan!' he said, 'too long that scheming brain Of Hermit Miron has defied my power. This proud Monk merits death, and now the hour Has struck when he must say farewell to earth. A curse he has been to it, from his birth. Go, seize him by his venerable beard, And to me bring the head which cowards have feared. My dogs with joy shall greedily devour The head of him who thirsted after power.' Ivan, obedient, went upon his way; But to himself he bitterly did say: 'It is not I who do this wicked deed; I go because my master I must heed.' His sharp word he hid lest it should betray The evil designs in his mind that day. The Monk he salutes with dissembling voice: 'To see you in health I greatly rejoice!
Your blessing, my Father! And God bless you!'
The Monk laughed abrutly, his words were few:
'Enough, Ivan! Your lies do not deceive.
That God knows all, I hope you do believe.
Against His will, nor good nor ill is done.
I know, you see, why you to me have come.'
In shame before the Monk Ivan stood still;
In fear of this man he had come to kill.
From leathern sheath his sword he proudly drew;
The shining blade he rubbed till it looked new.
'I meant to take you unawares,' he said;
'To kill you prayerless; now I am afraid.
To God you now shall have some time to pray.
I '11 give you time for all you want to say,
For me, for you, for all, born and unborn,
And then I '11 send you where your prayers have gone.'
The Hermit knelt; above him spread an oak
Which bowed its head before him. Then he spoke,
In archness smiling. 'Oh, Ivan, think well!
How long my prayer will take I cannot tell.
Had you not better kill me straight away
Lest waiting tire you, furious at delay?'
Ivan in anger frowned, and said in boast,
'My word is given, and though at my post
You keep me a century, I will wait.
So pray in peace, nor your ardor abate.'
The shadows of even fell on the Monk,
And all through the night in prayer he was sunk;
From dawn till sunset, through another night;
From golden summer days to winter's blight
So ran on, year by year, old Miron's prayer.
And to disturb him Ivan did not dare.
The sapling oak its lofty branches reared
Into the sky, while all around appeared
i8o MY CHILDHOOD
Its offshoots, into a thick forest grown.
And all the time the holy prayer went on,
And still continues to this very day.
The old man softly to his God doth pray,
And to Our Lady, the mother of all,
To help men and women who faint and fall,
To succor the weak, to the sad give joy.
Ivanushka, Warrior, stands close by,
His bright sword long has been covered with dust,
Corroded his armor by biting rust,
Long fallen to pieces his brave attire.
His body is naked and covered with mire.
The heat does but sear, no warmth does impart;
Such fate as his would freeze the stoutest heart.
Fierce wolves and savage bears from him do flee,
From snowstorm and from frost alike he 's free;
No strength has he to move from that dread spot
Or lift his hands. To speak is not his lot.
Let us be warned by his terrible fate,
Nor of meek obedience let us prate.
If we are ordered to do something wrong,
Our duty is then to stand firm and be strong.
But for us sinners still the Hermit prays,
Still flows his prayer to God, e'en in these days —
A dear, bright river, flowing to the sea."
Before grandmother had reached the end of her story, I had noticed that "Good-business" was, for some reason, agitated; he was fidgeting restlessly with his hands, taking off his spectacles and putting them on again, or waving^them to keep time with the rhythm of the words, nodding his head, putting his fingers into
his eyes, or rubbing them energetically, and passing the palms of his hands over his forehead and cheeks, as if he were perspiring freely. When any one of the others moved, coughed, or scraped his feet on the floor, the boarder hissed: "Ssh!"; and when grandmother ceased speaking, and sat rubbing her perspiring face with the sleeve of her blouse, he jumped up noisily, and putting out his hands as if he felt giddy, he babbled:
"I say! That 's wonderful! It ought to be written down; really, it ought. It is terribly true too... Our ..."
Every one could see now that he was crying; his eyes were full of tears, which flowed so copiously that his eyes were bathed in them — it was a strange and pitiful sight. He looked so comical as he ran about the kitchen, or rather clumsily hopped about — swinging his glasses before his nose; desirous of putting them on again but unable to slip the wires over his ears — that Uncle Peter laughed, and the others were silent from embarrassment. Grandmother said harshly:
"Write it down by all means, if you like. There 's no harm in that. And I know plenty more of the same kind."
"No, that is the only one I want. It is — so — dreadfully Russian!" cried the boarder excitedly; and standing stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, he began to talk loudly, clearing the air with his right hand,
and holding his glasses in the other. He spoke for some time in a frenzied manner, his voice rising to a squeak, stamping his feet, and often repeating himself:
"If we are ordered to do something wrong our duty is then to be firm and strong. True! True!"
Then suddenly his voice broke, he ceased speaking, looked round on all of us, and quietly left the room, hanging his head with a guilty air.
The other guests laughed, and glanced at each other with expressions of embarrassment. Grandmother moved farther back against the stove, into the shadow, and was heard to sigh heavily.
Rubbing the palm of her hand across her thick red lips, Petrovna observed:
"He seems to be in a temper."
"No," replied Uncle Peter; "that 's only his way."
Grandmother left the stove, and in silence began to heat the samovar; and Uncle Peter added, in a slow voice:
"The Lord makes people like that sometimes — freaks."
"Bachelors always play the fool," Valei threw out gruffly, at which there was a general laugh; but Uncle Peter drawled:
"He was actually in tears. It is a case of the pike nibbling what the roach hardly — "
I began to get tired of all this. I was conscious of a heartache. I was greatly astonished by the behavior of "Good-business," and very sorry for him. I could not get his swimming eyes out of my mind.
That night he did not sleep at home, but he returned the next day, after dinner — quiet, crushed, obviously embarrassed.
"I made a scene last night," he said to grandmother, with the air of a guilty child. "You are not angry?"
"Why should I be angry T
"Why, because I interrupted ...and talked ..."
"You offended no one."
I felt that grandmother was afraid of him. She did not look him in the face, and spoke in a subdued tone, and was quite unlike herself.
He drew near to her and said with amazing simplicity:
"You see, I am so terribly lonely. I have no one belonging to me. I am always silent — silent; and then, all on a sudden, my soul seems to boil over, as if it had been torn open. At such times I could speak to stones and trees — "
Grandmother moved away from him.
"If you were to get married now," she began.
"Eh?" he cried, wrinkling up his face, and ran out, throwing his arms up wildly.
Grandmother looked after him frowning, and took a
pinch of snuff; after which she sternly admonished me:
"Don't you hang round him so much. Do you hear? God knows what sort of a man he is!"
But I was attracted to him afresh. I had seen how his face changed and fell when he said "terribly lonely"; there was something in those words which I well understood, and my heart was touched. I went to find him.
I looked, from the yard, into the window of his room; it was empty, and looked like a lumber-room into which had been hurriedly thrown all sorts of unwanted things — as unwanted and as odd as its occupier. I went into the garden, and there I saw him by the pit. He was bending over, with his hands behind his head, his elbows resting on his knees, and was seated uncomfortably on the end of a half-burnt plank. The greater part of this plank was buried in the earth, but the end of it struck out, glistening like coal, above the top of the pit, which was grown over with nettles.
The very fact of his being in such an uncomfortable place made me look upon this man in a still more favorable light. He did not notice me for some time; he was gazing beyond me with his half-blind, owl-like eyes, when he suddenly asked in a tone of vexation:
"Did you want me for anything?"
"No."
"Why are you here then?"
"I couldn't say."
He took off his glasses, polished them with his red and black spotted handkerchief, and said:
"Well, climb up here."
When I was sitting beside him, he put his arm round my shoulders and pressed me to him.
"Sit down. Now let us sit still and be quiet. Will that suit you? This is the same — Are you obstinate?"
"Yes."
"Good-business!"
We were silent a long time. It was a quiet, mild evening, one of those melancholy evenings of late summer, when, in spite of the profusion of flowers, signs of decay are visible, and every hour brings impoverishment; when the earth, having already exhausted its luxuriant summer odors, smells of nothing but a chill dampness; when the air is curiously transparent, and the daws dart aimlessly to and fro against the red sky, arousing a feeling of unhappiness. Silence reigned; and any sound, such as the fluttering of birds or the rustling of fallen leaves, struck one as being unnaturally loud, and caused a shuddering start, which soon died away into that torpid stillness which seemed to encompass the earth and cast a spell over the heart. In such moments as these are born thoughts of a peculiar
i86 MY CHILDHOOD
purity — ethereal thoughts, thin, transparent as a cobweb, incapable of being expressed in words. They come and go quickly, like falling stars, kindling a flame of sorrow in the soul, soothing and disturbing it at the same time; and the soul is, as it were, on fire, and, being plastic, receives an impression which lasts for all time.
Pressed close to the boarder's warm body, I gazed, with him, through the black branches of the apple tree, at the red sky, following the flight of the flapping rooks, and noticing how the dried poppy-heads shook on their stems, scattering their coarse seeds; and I observed the ragged, dark blue clouds with livid edges, which stretched over the fields, and the crows flying heavily under the clouds to their nests in the burial-ground.
It was all beautiful; and that evening it all seemed especially beautiful, and in harmony with my feelings. Sometimes, with a heavy sigh, my companion said:
"This is quite all right, my boy, isn't it1? And you don't feel it damp or cold?"
But when the sky became overcast, and the twilight, laden with damp, spread over everything, he said:
"Well, it can't be helped. We shall have to go in."
He halted at the garden gate and said softly:
"Your grandmother is a splendid woman. Oh, what a treasure!" And he closed his eyes with a smile and recited in a low, very distinct voice:
" 'Let us be warned by his terrible fate, Nor of meek obedience let us prate. If we are ordered to do something wrong, Our duty is then to stand firm and be strong.' "
"Don't forget that, my boy!"
And pushing me before him, he asked:
"Can you write?'
"No."
"You must learn; and when you have learned, write down grandmother's stories. You will find it worth while, my boy."
And so we became friends; and from that day I went to see "Good-business" whenever I felt inclined; and sitting on one of the cases, or on some rags, I used to watch him melt lead and heat copper till it was red-hot, beat layers of iron on a little anvil with an eleganthandled, light hammer, or work with a smooth file and a saw of emery, which was as fine as a thread. He weighed everything on his delicately adjusted copper scales; and when he had poured various liquids into bulging, white vessels, he would watch them till they smoked and filled the room with an acrid odor, and then with a wrinkled-up face he would consult a thick book, biting his red lips, or softly humming in his husky voice:
"O Rose of Sharon — !"
"What are you doing?"
i88 MY CHILDHOOD
"I am making something, my boy."
"What?"
"Ah — that I can't tell you. You wouldn't understand."
"Grandfather says he would not be surprised if you were coining false money."
"Your grandfather? M'm! Well, he says that for something to say. Money 's all nonsense, my boy."
"How should we buy bread without it?"
"Well, yes; we want it for that, it is true."
"And for meat too."
"Yes, and for meat."
He smiled quietly, with a kindness which astonished me; and pulling my ear, said:
"It is no use arguing with you. You always get the best of it. I 'd better keep quiet."
Sometimes he broke off his work, and sitting beside me he would gaze for a long time out of the window, watching the rain patter down on the roof, and noting how the grass was growing over the yard, and how the apple trees were being stripped of their leaves. "Good-business" was niggardly with his words, but what he said was to the point; more often than not, when he wished to draw my attention to something, he nudged me and winked instead of speaking. The yard had never been particularly attractive to me, but his nudges
and his brief words seemed to throw a different complexion on it, and everything within sight seemed worthy of notice. A kitten ran about, and halting before a shining pool gazed at its own reflection, lifting its soft paw as if it were going to strike it.
"Cats are vain and distrustful," observed "Good-business" quietly.
Then there was the red-gold cock Mamae, who flew on to the garden hedge, balanced himself, shook out his wings, and nearly fell; whereupon he was greatly put out, and muttered angrily, stretching out his neck:
"A consequential general, and not over-clever at that."
Clumsy Valei passed, treading heavily through the mud, like an old horse; his face, with its high cheek-bones, seemed inflated as he gazed, blinking, at the sky, from which the pale autumn beams fell straight on his chest, making the brass buttons on his coat shine brilliantly. The Tartar stood still and touched them with his crooked fingers — "just as if they were medals bestowed on him."
My attachment to "Good-business" grew apace, and became stronger every day, till I found that he was indispensable both on days when I felt myself bitterly aggrieved, and in my hours of happiness. Although he was taciturn himself, he did not forbid me to talk about
anything which came into my head; grandfather, on the other hand, always cut me short by his stern exclamation:
"Don't chatter, you mill of the devil!"
Grandmother, too, was so full of her own ideas that she neither listened to other people's ideas nor admitted them into her mind; but "Good-business" always listened attentively to my chatter, and often said to me smilingly:
"No, my boy, that is not true. That is an idea of your own."
And his brief remarks were always made at the right time, and only when absolutely necessary; he seemed to be able to pierce the outer covering of my heart and head, and see all that went on, and even to see all the useless, untrue words on my lips before I had time to utter them — he saw them and cut them off with two gentle blows:
"Untrue, boy."
Sometimes I tried to draw out his wizard-like abilities. I made up something and told it to him as if it had really happened; but after listening for a time, he would shake his head.
"Now — that 's not true, my boy."
"How do you know?"
"I can feel it, my boy."
When grandmother went to fetch water from Syeniu
Square, she often used to take me with her; and on one occasion we saw five citizens assault a peasant, throwing him on the ground, and dragging him about as dogs might do to another dog. Grandmother slipped her pail off the yoke, which she brandished as she flew to the rescue, calling to me as she went:
"You run away now!"
But I was frightened, and, running after her, I began to hurl pebbles and large stones at the citizens, while she bravely made thrusts at them with the yoke, striking at their shoulders and heads. When other people came on the scene they ran away, and grandmother set to work to bathe the injured man's wounds. His face had been trampled, and the sight of him as he pressed his dirty fingers to his torn nostrils and howled and coughed, while the blood spurted from under his fingers over grandmother's face and breast, filled me with repugnance; she uttered a cry too, and trembled violently.
As soon as I returned home I ran to the boarder and began to tell him all about it. He left off working, and stood in front of me looking at me fixedly and sternly from under his glasses; then he suddenly interrupted me, speaking with unusual impressiveness:
"That 's a fine thing, I must say — very fine!"
I was so taken up by the sight I had witnessed that his words did not surprise me, and I went on with
my story; but he put his arm round me, and then left me and walked about the room uncertainly.
"That will do," he said; "I don't want to hear any more. You have said all that is needful, my boy — all. Do you understand?"
I felt offended, and did not answer; but on thinking the matter over afterwards, I have still a lively recollection of my astonishment at the discovery that he had stopped me at exactly the right time. I had, in truth, told all there was to tell.
"Do not dwell on this incident, child; it is not a good thing to remember," he said.
Sometimes on the spur of the moment he uttered words which I have never forgotten. I remember telling him about my enemy Kliushnikov, a warrior from New Street — a fat boy with a large head, whom I could not conquer in battle, nor he me. "Good-business" listened attentively to my complaint, and then he said:
"That 's all nonsense! That sort of strength does not count. Real strength lies in swift movements. He who is swiftest is strongest. See?"
The next Sunday I used my fists more quickly, and easily conquered Kliushnikov, which made me pay still more heed to what the boarder said.
"You must learn to grasp all kinds of things, do you see"? It is very difficult to learn how to grasp."
I did not understand him at all, but I involuntarily
remembered this, with many other similar sayings; but this one especially, because in its simplicity it was provokingly mysterious. Surely it did not require any extraordinary cleverness to be able to grasp stones, a piece of bread, a cup or a hammer!
In the house, however, "Good-business" became less and less liked; even the friendly cat of the merry lady would not jump on his knees as she jumped on the knees of the others, and took no notice when he called her kindly. I beat her for that and pulled her ears, and, almost weeping, told her not to be afraid of the man.
"It is because my clothes smell of acids — that is why he will not come to me," he explained; but I knew that every one else, even grandmother, gave quite a different explanation — uncharitable, untrue, and injurious to him.
"Why are you always hanging about him 9" demanded grandmother angrily. "He '11 be teaching you something bad — you '11 see!"
And grandfather hit me ferociously whenever I visited the boarder, who, he was firmly convinced, was a rogue.
Naturally I did not mention to "Good-business" that I was forbidden to make a friend of him, but I did tell him frankly what was said about him in the house:
"Grandmother is afraid of you; she says you are a
black magician. And grandfather too — he says you are one of God's enemies, and that it is dangerous to have you here."
He moved his hand about his head as if he were driving away flies; but a smile spread like a blush over his chalk-white face, and my heart contracted, and a mist seemed to creep over my eyes.
"I see!" he said softly. "It is a pity, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"It 's a pity, my lad — yes."
Finally they gave him notice to quit. One day, when I went to him after breakfast, I found him sitting on the floor packing his belongings in cases, and softly singing to himself about the Rose of Sharon.
"Well, it 's good-by now, my friend; I am going."
"Why?"
He looked at me fixedly as he said:
"Is it possible you don't know? This room is wanted for your mother."
"Who said so?'
"Your grandfather."
"Then he told a lie!"
"Good-business" drew me towards him; and when I sat beside him on the floor, he said softly:
"Don't be angry. I thought that you knew about it and would not tell me; and I thought you were not treating me well."
So that was why he had been sad and vexed in his manner.
"Listen!" he went on, almost in a whisper. "You remember when I told you not to come and see me?"
I nodded.
"You were offended, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"But I had no intention of offending you, child. I knew, you see, that if you became friendly with me, you would get into trouble with your family. And wasn't I right? Now, do you understand why I said it?"
He spoke almost like a child of my own age, and I was beside myself with joy at his words. I felt that I had known this all along, and I said:
"I understood that long ago."
"Well, there it is. It has happened as I said, my little dove!"
The pain in my heart was almost unbearable.
"Why do none of them like you?"
He put his arm round me, and pressed me to him and answered, blinking down at me:
"I am of a different breed — do you see? That's what it is. I am not like them — "
I just held his hands, not knowing what to say; incapable, in fact, of saying anything.
"Don't be angry!" he said again; and then he whispered in my ear: "And don't cry either." But all the
time his own tears were flowing freely from under his smeared glasses.
After that we sat, as usual, in silence, which was broken at rare intervals by a brief word or two; and that evening he went, courteously bidding farewell to every one, and hugging me warmly. I accompanied him to the gate, and watched him drive away in the cart, and being violently jolted as the wheels passed over the hillocks of frozen mud.
Grandmother set to work immediately to clean and scrub the dirty room, and I wandered about from corner to corner on purpose to hinder her.
"Go away!" she cried, when she stumbled over me.
"Why did you send him away then?"
"Don't talk about things you don't understand."
"You are fools — all of you!" I said.
She flicked me with her wet floorcloth, crying:
"Are you mad, you little wretch?"
"I did not mean you, but the others," I said, trying to pacify her; but with no success.
At supper grandfather exclaimed:
"Well, thank God he has gone! I should never have been surprised, from what I saw of him, to find him one day with a knife through his heart. Och! It was time he went."
I broke a spoon out of revenge, and then I relapsed
into my usual state of sullen endurance. Thus ended my friendship with the first one of that endless chain of friends belonging to my own country — the verv best of her people.
CHAPTER IX
I IMAGINE myself, in my childhood, as a hive to which all manner of simple, undistinguished people brought, as the bees bring honey, their knowledge and thoughts about life, generously enriching my soul with what they had to give. The honey was often dirty, and bitter, but it was all the same knowledge — and honey.
After the departure of "Good-business," Uncle Peter became my friend. He was in appearance like grandfather, in that he was wizened, neat, and clean; but he was shorter and altogether smaller than grandfather. He looked like a person hardly grown-up dressed up like an old man for fun. His face was creased like a square of very fine leather, and his comical, lively eyes, with their yellow whites, danced amidst these wrinkles like siskins in a cage. His raven hair, now growing gray, was curly, his beard also fell into ringlets, and he smoked a pipe, the smoke from which — the same color as his hair — curled upward into rings too; his style of speech was florid, and abounded in quaint sayings. He
always spoke in a buzzing voice, and sometimes very
kindly, but I always had an idea that he was making fun of everybody.
"When I first went to her, the lady-countess Tatian — her name was Lexievna — said to me, 'You shall be blacksmith'; but after a time she orders me to go and help the gardener. 'All right, I don't mind, only I didn't engage to work as a laborer, and it is not right that I should have to.' Another time she 'd say 'Now, Petrushka, you must go fishing.' It was all one to me whether I went fishing or not, but I preferred to say 'good-by' to the fish, thank you! — and I came to the town as a drayman. And here I am, and have never been anything else. So far I have not done much good for myself by the change. The only thing I possess is the horse, which reminds me of the Countess."
This was an old horse, and was really white, but one day a drunken house painter had begun to paint it in various colors, and had never finished his job. Its legs were dislocated, and altogether it looked as if it were made of rags sewn together; the bony head, with its dim, sadly drooping eyes, was feebly attached to the carcass by swollen veins and old, worn-out skin. Uncle Peter waited upon the creature with much respect, and called it "Tankoe."
"Why do you call that animal by a Christian name?" asked grandfather one day.
"Nothing of the kind, Vassili Vassilev, nothing of
the kind — in all respect I say it. There is no such Christian name as Tanka — but there is 'Tatiana'!"
Uncle Peter was educated and well-read, and he and grandfather used to quarrel as to which of the saints was the most holy; and sit in judgment, each more severely than the other, on the sinners of ancient times. The sinner who was most hardly dealt with was Absalom. Sometimes the dispute took a purely grammatical form, grandfather saying that it ought to be "sogryeshiM0#z, bezzakonnovaM0w, nepravdavakhom" and Uncle Peter insisting that it was "sogry-
"I say it one way, and you say it another!" said grandfather angrily, turning livid. Then he jeered: "Vaska! Skiska!"
But Uncle Peter, enveloped in smoke, asked maliciously:
"And what is the use of your 'Idioms'? Do you think God takes any notice of them? What God says when He listens to our prayers is: Tray how you like, pray what you like.' '
"Go away, Lexei!" shrieked grandfather in a fury, with his green eyes flashing.
Peter was very fond of cleanliness and tidiness. When he went into the yard he used to kick to one side any shavings, or pieces of broken crockery, or bones that were lying about, with the scornful remark:
"These things are no use, and they get in the way."
Although he was usually talkative, good-natured, and merry, there were times when his eyes became bloodshot and grew dim and fixed, like the eyes of a dead person, and he would sit, huddled up in a corner, morose and as dumb as his nephew.
"What is the matter with you, Uncle Peter?"
"Let me alone!" he would say darkly and grimly.
In one of the little houses in our street there lived a gentleman, with wens on his forehead, and the most extraordinary habits; on Sundays he used to sit at the window and shoot from a shot-gun at dogs and cats, hens and crows, or whatever came in his way that did not please him. One day he fired at the side of "Good-business"; the shots did not pierce his leather coat, but some of them fell into his pocket. I shall never forget the interested expression with which the boarder regarded the dark-blue shots. Grandfather tried to persuade him to make a complaint about it, but, throwing the shots into a corner of the kitchen, he replied:
"It is not worth while."
Another time our marksman planted a few shots in grandfather's leg, and he, much enraged, got up a petition to the authorities, and set to work to get the names of other sufferers and witnesses in the street; but the culprit suddenly disappeared.
As for Uncle Peter, every time he heard the sound
of shooting in the street — if he were at home — he used to hastily cover his iron-gray head with his glossy Sunday cap, which had large ear-flaps, and rush to the gate. Here he would hide his hands behind his back under his coat-tails, which he would lift up in imitation of a cock, and sticking out his stomach, would strut solemnly along the pavement quite close to the marksman, and then turn back. He would do this over and over again, and our whole household would be standing at the gate; while the purple face of the warlike gentleman could be seen at his window, with the blonde head of his wife over his shoulder, and people coming out of Betlenga yard — only the gray, dead house of the Ovsyanikovs showed no signs of animation.
Sometimes Uncle Peter made these excursions without any result, the hunter evidently not looking upon him as game worthy of his skill in shooting; but on other occasions the double-barrelled gun was discharged over and over again.
"Boom! Boom!"
With leisurely steps Uncle Peter came back to us and exclaimed, in great delight:
"He sent every shot into the field!"
Once he got some shot into his shoulder and neck; and grandmother gave him a lecture while she was getting them out with a needle:
"Why on earth do you encourage the beast1? He will blind you one of these days."
"Impossible, Akulina Ivanna," drawled Peter contemptuously. "He 's no marksman!"
"But why do you encourage him1?"
"Do you think I am encouraging him1? No! I like teasing the gentleman."
And looking at the extracted shot in his palm, he said:
"He 's no marksman. But up there, at the house of my mistress, the Countess Tatiana Lexievna, there was an Army man — Marmont Ilich. He was taken up most of the time with matrimonial duties — husbands were in the same category as footmen with her — and so he was kept busy about her; but he could shoot, if you like — only with bullets though, grandmother; he wouldn't shoot with anything else. He put Ignashka the Idiot at forty paces or thereabouts from him, with a bottle tied to his belt and placed so that it hung between his legs; and while Ignashka stood there with his legs apart laughing in his foolish way, Marmont Ilich took his pistol and — bang! — the bottle was smashed to pieces. Only, unfortunately Ignashka swallowed a gadfly, or something, and gave a start, and the bullet went into his knee, right into the knee-cap. The doctor was called and he took the
leg off; it was all over in a minute, and the leg was buried ..."
"But what about the idiot1?"
"Oh, he was all right! What does an idiot want with legs and arms? His idiocy brings him in more than enough to eat and drink. Every one loves idiots; they are harmless enough. You know the saying: 'It is better for underlings to be fools; they can do less harm then.' "
This sort of talk did not astonish grandmother, she had listened to it scores of times, but it made me rather uncomfortable, and I asked Uncle Peter:
"Would that gentleman be able to kill any one1?"
"And why not? Of cou — rse he could! ...He even fought a duel. A Uhlan, who came on a visit to Tatiana Lexievna, had a quarrel with Marmont, and in a minute they had their pistols in their hands, and went out to the park; and there on the path by the pond that Uhlan shot Marmont bang through the liver. Then Marmont was sent to the churchyard, and the Uhlan to the Caucasus ...and the whole affair was over in a very short time. That is how they did for themselves. And amongst the peasants, and the rest of them, he is not talked of now. People don't regret him much; they never regretted him for himself ...but all the same they did grieve at one time — for his property."
"Well, then they didn't grieve much," said grandmother.
Uncle Peter agreed with her:
"That 's true! ...His property...yes, that wasn't worth much."
He always bore himself kindly towards me, spoke to me good-naturedly, and as if I were a grown person, and looked me straight in the eyes; but all the same there was something about him which I did not like. Having regaled me with my. favorite jam, he would spread my slice of bread with what was left, he would bring me malted gingerbread from the town, and always conversed with me in a quiet and serious tone.
"What are you going to do, young gentleman, when you grow up? Are you going into the Army or the Civil Service?'
"Into the Army."
"Good! A soldier's life is not a hard one in these days. A priest's life isn't bad either ... all he has to do is to chant, and pray to God, and that does not take long. In fact, a priest has an easier job than a soldier ...but a fisherman's job is easier still; that does not require any education at all, it is simply a question of habit."
He gave an amusing imitation of the fish hovering round the bait, and of the way perch, mugil, and
bream throw themselves about when they get caught on the hook.
"Now, you get angry when grandfather whips you," he would say soothingly, "but you have no cause to be angry at that, young gentleman; whippings are a part of your education, and those that you get are, after all, mere child's play. You should just see how my mistress, Tatiana Lexievna, used to thrash! She could do it all right, she could! And she used to keep a man especially for that — Christopher his name was — and he did his work so well that sometimes neighbors from other manor-houses sent a message to the Countess: 'Please, Tatiana Lexievna, send Christopher to thrash our footman.' And she used to let him go."
In his artless manner, he would give a detailed account of how the Countess, in a white muslin frock with a gauzy, sky-colored handkerchief over her head, would sit on the steps, by one of the pillars, in a red armchair, while Christopher flogged the peasants, male and female, in her presence.
"And this Christopher was from Riazan, and he looked like a gipsy, or a Little Russian, with mustaches sticking out beyond his ears, and his ugly face all blue where he had shaved his beard. And either he was a fool, or he pretended to be one so that he should not be asked useless questions. Sometimes he used
to pour water into a cup to catch flies and cockroaches, which are a kind of beetle, and then he used to boil them over the fire."
I was familiar with many such stories, which I had heard from the lips of grandmother and grandfather. Though they were different, yet they were all curiously alike; each one told of people being tormented, jeered at, or driven away, and I was tired of them, and as I did not wish to hear any more, said to the cab-driver:
"Tell me another kind of story."
All his wrinkles were gathered about his mouth for a space, then they spread themselves to his eyes, as he said obligingly:
"All right, Greedy! Well, we once had a cook — "
"Who had?"
"The Countess Tatian Lexievna."
"Why do you call her Tatian ? She wasn't a man, was she?"
He laughed shrilly.
"Of course she wasn't. She was a lady; but all the same she had whiskers. Dark she was ...she came of a dark German race ...people of the negro type they are. Well, as I was saying, this cook — this is a funny story, young gentleman."
And this "funny story" was that the cook had spoiled
a fish pasty, and had been made to eat it all up himself, after which he had been taken ill.
"It is not at all funny!" I said angrily.
"Well, what is your idea of a funny story? Come on! Let 's have it."
"I don't know — "
"Then hold your tongue!" And he spun out another dreary yarn.
Occasionally, on Sundays and holidays, we received a visit from my cousins — the lazy and melancholy Sascha Michhailov, and the trim, omniscient Sascha Jaakov. Once, when the three of us had made an excursion up to the roof, we saw a gentleman in a green fur-trimmed coat sitting in the Betlenga yard upon a heap of wood against the wall, and playing with some puppies; his little, yellow, bald head was uncovered. One of the brothers suggested the theft of a puppy, and they quickly evolved an ingenious plan by which the brothers were to go down to the street and wait at the entrance to Betlenga yard, while I did something to startle the gentleman; and when he ran away in alarm they were to rush into the yard and seize a puppy.
"But how am I to startle him?'
"Spit on his bald head," suggested one of my cousins.
But was it not a grievous sin to spit on a person's
head"? However, I had heard over and over again, and had seen with my own eyes, that they had done many worse things than that, so I faithfully performed my part of the contract, with my usual luck.
There was a terrible uproar and scene; a whole army of men and women, headed by a young, good-looking officer, rushed out of Betlenga House into the yard, and as my two cousins were, at the very moment when the outrage was committed, quietly walking along the street, and knew nothing of my wild prank, I was the only one to receive a thrashing from grandfather, by which the inhabitants of Betlenga House were completely satisfied.
And as I lay, all bruised, in the kitchen, there came to me Uncle Peter, dressed in his best, and looking very happy.
"That was a jolly good idea of yours, young gentleman," he whispered. "That 's just what the silly old goat deserved — to be spit upon! Next time — throw a stone on his rotten head!"
Before me rose the round, hairless, childlike face of the gentleman, and I remembered how he had squeaked feebly and plaintively, just like the puppies, as he had wiped his yellow pate with his small hands, and I felt overwhelmed with shame, and full of hatred for my cousins; but I forgot all this in a moment when I gazed on the drayman's wrinkled face, which quivered
with a half-fearful, half-disgusted expression, like grandfather's face when he was beating me.
"Go away!" I shrieked, and struck at him with my hands and feet.
He tittered, and winking at me over his shoulder, went away.
From that time I ceased to have any desire for intercourse with him; in fact, I avoided him. And yet I began to watch his movements suspiciously, with a confused idea that I should discover something about him. Soon after the incident connected with the gentleman of Betlenga House, something else occurred. For a long time I had been very curious about Ovsyanikov House, and I imagined that its gray exterior hid a mysterious romance.
Betlenga House was always full of bustle and gaiety; many beautiful ladies lived there, who were visited by officers and students, and from it sounds of laughter and singing, and the playing of musical instruments, continually proceeded. The very face of the house looked cheerful, with its brightly polished window-panes.
Grandfather did not approve of it.
"They are heretics ...and godless people, all of them!" he said about its inhabitants, and he applied to the women an offensive term, which Uncle Peter
explained to me in words equally offensive and malevolent.
But the stern, silent Ovsyanikov House inspired grandfather with respect.
This one-storied but tall house stood in a well-kept yard overgrown with turf, empty save for a well with a roof supported by two pillars, which stood in the middle. The house seemed to draw back from the street as if it wished to hide from it. Two of its windows, which had chiselled arches, were at some distance from the ground, and upon their dustsmeared panes the sun fell with a rainbow effect. And on the other side of the gateway stood a storehouse, with a facade exactly like that of the house, even to the three windows, but they were not real ones; the outlines were built into the gray wall, and the frames and sashes painted on with white paint. These blind windows had a sinister appearance, and the whole storehouse added to the impression which the house gave, of having a desire to hide and escape notice. There was a suggestion of mute indignation, or of secret pride, about the whole house, with its empty stables, and its coachhouse, with wide doors, also empty.
Sometimes a tall old man, with shaven chin and white mustache, the hair of which stuck out stiffly
like so many needles, was to be seen hobbling about the yard. At other times another old man, with whiskers and a crooked nose, led out of the stables a gray mare with a long neck — a narrow-chested creature with thin legs, which bowed and scraped like an obsequious nun as soon as she came out into the yard. The lame man slapped her with his palms, whistling, and drawing in his breath noisily; and then the mare was again hidden in the dark stable. I used to think that the old man wanted to run away from the house, but could not because he was bewitched.
Almost every day from noon till the evening three boys used to play in the yard all dressed alike in gray coats and trousers, with caps exactly alike, and all of them with round faces and gray eyes; so much alike that I could only tell one from the other by their height.
I used to watch them through a chink in the fence; they could not see me, but I wanted them to know I was there. I liked the way they played together, so gaily and amicably, games which were unfamiliar to me; I liked their dress, and their consideration for each other, which was especially noticeable in the conduct of the elder ones to their little brother, a funny little fellow, full of life. If he fell down, they laughed — it being the custom to laugh when any one has a fall — but there was no malice in their laughter,
and they ran to help him up directly; and if he made his hands or knees dirty, they wiped his fingers and trousers with leaves or their handkerchiefs, and the middle boy said good-naturedly:
"There, clumsy!"
They never quarreled amongst themselves, never cheated, and all three were agile, strong and indefatigable.
One day I climbed up a tree and whistled to them; they stood stock-still for a moment, then they calmly drew close together, and after looking up at me, deliberated quietly amongst themselves. Thinking that they were going to throw stones at me, I slipped to the ground, filled my pockets and the front of my blouse with stones, and climbed up the tree again; but they were playing in another corner of the yard, far away from me, and apparently had forgotten all about me. I was very sorry for this; first, because I did not wish to be the one to begin the war, and secondly, because just at that moment some one called to them out of the window:
"You must come in now, children."
They went submissively, but without haste, in single file, like geese.
I often sat on the tree over the fence hoping that they would ask me to play with them; but they never did. But in spirit I was always playing with them,
and I was so fascinated by the games sometimes that I shouted and laughed aloud; whereupon all three would look at me and talk quietly amongst themselves, whilst I, overcome with confusion, would let myself drop to the ground.
One day they were playing hide-and-seek, and when it came to the turn of the middle brother to hide, he stood in the corner by the storehouse and shut his eyes honestly, without attempting to peep, while his brothers ran to hide themselves. The elder one nimbly and swiftly climbed into a broad sledge which was kept in a shed against the storehouse, but the youngest one ran in a comical fashion round and round the well, flustered by not knowing where to hide.
"One — " shouted the elder one. "Two — "
The little boy jumped on the edge of the well, seized the rope, and stepped into the bucket, which, striking once against the edge with a dull sound, disappeared. I was stupefied, as I saw how quickly and noiselessly the well-oiled wheel turned, but I realized in a moment the possibilities of the situation, and I jumped down into the yard crying:
"He has fallen into the well!"
The middle boy and I arrived at the edge of the well at the same time; he clutched at the rope and, feeling himself drawn upwards, loosed his hands. I
was just in time to catch the rope, and the elder brother, having come up, helped me to draw up the bucket, saying:
"Gently, please!"
We quickly pulled up the little boy, who was very frightened; there were drops of blood on the fingers of his right hand, and his cheek was severely grazed. He was wet to the waist, and his face was overspread with a bluish pallor; but he smiled, then shuddered, and closed his eyes tightly, then smiled again, and said slowly:
"Howe — ver did I fa — all?'
"You must have been mad to do such a thing!" said the middle brother, putting his arm round him and wiping the blood off his face with a handkerchief; and the elder one said frowning:
"We had better go in. We can't hide it anyhow — "
"Will you be whipped?" I asked.
He nodded, and then he said, holding out his hand:
"How quickly you ran here!"
I was delighted by his praise, but I had no time to take his hand for he turned away to speak to his brothers again.
"Let us go in, or he will take cold. We will say that he fell down, but we need not say anything about the well."
"No," agreed the youngest, shuddering. "We will say I fell in a puddle, shall we?" And they went away.
All this happened so quickly that when I looked at the branch from which I had sprung into the yard, it was still shaking and throwing its yellow leaves about.
The brothers did not come into the yard again for a week, and when they appeared again they were more noisy than before; when the elder one saw me in the tree he called out to me kindly:
"Come here and play with us."
We gathered together, under the projecting roof of the storehouse, in the old sledge, and having surveyed one another thoughtfully, we held a long conversation.
"Did they whip you?" I asked.
"Rather!"
It was hard for me to believe that these boys were whipped like myself, and I felt aggrieved about it for their sakes.
"Why do you catch birds'?" asked the youngest.
"Because I like to hear them sing."
"But you ought not to catch them; why don't you let them fly about as they like to?"
"Well, I 'm not going to, so there!"
"Won't you just catch one then and give it to me?"
"To you! ...What kind?"
"A lively one, in a cage."
"A siskin ...that 's what you want."
"The cat would eat it," said the youngest one; "and besides, papa would not allow us to have it."
"No, he wouldn't allow it," agreed the elder.
"Have you a mother?"
"No," said the eldest, but the middle one corrected him:
"We have a mother, but she is not ours really. Ours is dead."
"And the other is called a stepmother?" I said, and the elder nodded "Yes."
And they all three looked thoughtful, and their faces were clouded. I knew what a stepmother was like from the stories grandmother used to tell me, and I understood that sudden thoughtfulness. There they sat, all close together, as much alike as a row of peas in a pod; and I remembered the witch-stepmother who took the place of the real mother by means of a trick.
"Your real mother will come back to you again, see if she doesn't," I assured them.
The elder one shrugged his shoulders.
"How can she if she is dead? Such things don't happen."
"Don't happen"? Good Lord! how many times have the dead, even when they have been hacked to pieces, come to life again when sprinkled with living water?
How many times has death been neither real, nor the work of God, but simply the evil spell cast by a wizard or a witch!"
I began to tell grandmother's stories to them excitedly; but the eldest laughed at first, and said under his breath:
"We know all about those fairy-tales!"
His brothers listened in silence; the little one with his lips closely shut and pouting, and the middle one with his elbows on his knees, and holding his brother's hand which was round his neck.
The evening was far advanced, red clouds hung over the roof, when suddenly there appeared before us the old man with the white mustache and cinnamon-colored clothes, long, like those worn by a priest, and a rough fur cap.
"And who may this be?" he asked, pointing to me.
The elder boy stood up and nodded his head in the direction of grandfather's house:
"He comes from there."
"Who invited him in here?"
The boys silently climbed down from the sledge, and went into the house, reminding me more than ever of a flock of geese.
The old man gripped my shoulder like a vice and propelled me across the yard to the gate. I felt like crying through sheer terror, but he took such long,
quick steps that before I had time to cry we were in the street, and he stood at the little gate raising his finger at me threateningly, as he said:
"Don't you dare to come near me again!"
I flew into a rage.
"I never did want to come near you, you old devil!"
Once more I was seized by his long arm and he dragged me along the pavement as he asked in a voice which was like the blow of a hammer on my head:
"Is your grandfather at home?"
To my sorrow he proved to be at home, and he stood before the minacious old man, with his head thrown back and his beard thrust forward, looking up into the dull, round, fishy eyes as he said hastily:
"His mother is away, you see, and I am a busy man, so there is no one to look after him; so I hope you will overlook it this time, Colonel."
The Colonel raved and stamped about the house like a madman, and he was hardly gone before I was thrown into Uncle Peter's cart.
"In trouble again, young gentleman1?" he asked as he unharnessed the horse. "What are you being punished for now?"
When I told him, he flared up.
"And what do you want to be friends with them for?" he hissed. "The young serpents! Look what
they have done for you! It is your turn now to blow on them; see you do it."
He whispered like this for a long time, and all sore from my beating as I was, I was inclined to listen to him at first; but his wrinkled face quivered in a way which became more and more repellent to me every moment, and reminded me that the other boys would be beaten too, and undeservedly, in my opinion.
"They ought not to be whipped; they are all good boys. As for you, every word you say is a lie," I said.
He looked at me, and then without any warning cried:
"Get out of my cart!"
"You fool!" I yelled, jumping down to the ground.
He ran after me across the yard, making unsuccessful attempts to catch me, and yelling in an uncanny voice:
"I am a fool, am I? I tell lies, do I? You wait till I get you!"
At this moment grandmother came out of the kitchen, and I rushed to her.
"This little wretch gives me no peace! I am five times older than he is, yet he dares to come and revile me ...and my mother ...and all."
Hearing him lie like this so brazenly, I lost my presence of mind, and could do nothing but stand
staring at him stupidly; but grandmother replied sternly:
"Now you are telling lies, Peter, there is no doubt about it. He would never be offensive to you or any one."
Grandfather would have believed the drayman!
From that day there was silent but none the less bitter warfare between us; he would try to hit me with his reins, without seeming to do it, he would let my birds out of their cage, and sometimes the cat would catch and eat them, and he would complain about me to grandfather on every possible occasion, and was always believed. I was confirmed in my first impression of him — that he was just a boy like myself disguised as an old man. I unplaited his bast shoes, or rather I ripped a little inside the shoes so that as soon as he put them on they began to fall to pieces; one day I put some pepper in his cap which set him sneezing for a whole hour, and trying with all his might not to leave off his work because of it.
On Sundays he kept me under observation, and more than once he caught me doing what was forbidden — talking to the Ovsyanikovs, and went and told tales to grandfather.
My acquaintance with the Ovsyanikovs progressed, and gave me increasing pleasure. On a little winding pathway between the wall of grandfather's house and
the Ovsyanikovs' fence grew elms and lindens, with some thick elder bushes, under cover of which I bored a semicircular hole in the fence, and the brothers used to come in turns, or perhaps two of them together, and, squatting or kneeling at this hole, we held long conversations in subdued tones; while one of them watched lest the Colonel should come upon us unawares.
They told me how miserable their existence was, and it made me sad to listen to them; they talked about my caged birds, and of many childish matters, but they never spoke a single word about their stepmother or their father, at least, as far as I can remember. More often than not they asked me to tell them a story, and I faithfully reproduced one of grandmother's tales, and if I forgot anything, I would ask them to wait while I ran to her and refreshed my memory. This pleased her.
"I told them a lot about grandmother, and the eldest boy remarked once with a deep sigh:
"Your grandmother seems to be good in every way. ...We had a good grandmother too, once."
He often spoke sadly like this, and spoke of things which had happened as if he had lived a hundred years instead of eleven. I remember that his hands were narrow, and his ringers very slender and delicate, and that his eyes were kind and bright, like the lights of the church lamps. His brothers were lovable too; they
seemed to inspire confidence and to make one want to do the things they liked; but the eldest one was my favorite.
Often I was so absorbed in our conversations that I did not notice Uncle Peter till he was close upon us, and the sound of his voice sent us flying in all directions as he exclaimed:
"A — gai — n<?"
I noticed that his fits of taciturnity and moroseness became more frequent, and I very soon learned to see at a glance what mood he was in when he returned from work. As a rule he opened the gate in a leisurely manner, and its hinges creaked with a long-drawn-out, lazy sound; but when he was in a bad mood, they gave a sharp squeak, as if they were crying out in pain.
His dumb nephew had been married some time and had gone to live in the country, so Peter lived alone in the stables, in a low stall with a broken window and a close smell of hides, tar, sweat and tobacco; and because of that smell I would never enter his dwellingplace. He had taken to sleep with his lamp burning, and grandfather greatly objected to the habit.
"You see! You '11 burn me out, Peter."
"No, I shan't. Don't you worry. I stand the lamp in a basin of water at night," he would reply, with a sidelong glance.
He seemed to look askance at every one now, and had long given over attending grandmother's evenings and bringing her jam; his face seemed to be shriveling, his wrinkles became much deeper, and as he walked he swayed from side to side and shuffled his feet like a sick person.
One week-day morning grandfather and I were clearing away the snow in the yard, there having been a heavy fall that night, when suddenly the latch of the gate clanged loudly and a policeman entered the yard, closing the gate by setting his back against it while he beckoned to grandfather with a fat, gray finger. When grandfather went to him the policeman bent down so that his long-pointed nose looked exactly as if it were chiseling grandfather's forehead, and said something, but in such a low tone that I could not hear the words; but grandfather answered quickly:
"Here? When? Good God!"
And suddenly he cried, jumping about comically:
"God bless us! Is it possible?"
"Don't make so much noise," said the policeman sternly.
Grandfather looked round and saw me.
"Put away your spade, and go indoors," he said.
I hid myself in a corner and saw them go to the drayman's stall, and I saw the policeman take off his
right glove and strike the palm of his left hand with it as he said:
"He knows we 're after him. He left the horse to wander about, and he is hiding here somewhere."
I rushed into the kitchen to tell grandmother all about it; she was kneading dough for bread, and her floured he'ad was bobbing up and down as she listened to me, and then said calmly:
"He has been stealing something, I suppose. You run away now. What is it to do with you?"
When I went out into the yard again grandfather was standing at the gate with his cap off, and his eyes raised to heaven, crossing himself. His face looked angry; he was bristling with anger, in fact, and one of his legs was trembling.
"I told you to go indoors!" he shouted, stamping at me; but he came with me into the kitchen, calling: "Come here, Mother!"
They went into the next room, and carried on a long conversation in whispers; but when grandmother came back to the kitchen I saw at once from her expression that something dreadful had happened.