“Hello, boy,” said Moissey Filippovich, “come here.”
“Hello,” the boy answered, but did not budge9 from his place. They explained to the guest, with a guilty laugh, why I did not stir. He gaily10 relieved me of my embarrassment11 by lifting me across the threshold and embracing me heartily12.
Monya was the centre of attention at dinner. Mother served him the best cuts, asking how he enjoyed his food and what his favorite dishes were. In the evening, after the herd13 had been driven into the cowpen, Monya said to me: “Come on, let’s get some fresh milk. Take along some glasses . . . Now darling, you should hold the glasses with your fingers on the outside, not on the inside”
From Monya I learned many things I did not know: how to hold a glass, how to wash, how to pronounce certain words, and why milk fresh from the cow is good for the chest. He walked a lot, he wrote, he played ninepins, he taught me arithmetic and Russian grammar, preparing me for the first class of the gymnasium. He enraptured14 me but at the same time disquieted16 me. One sensed in him the element of a more exacting17 discipline in life — the element of city civilization.
Monya was friendly to his country relatives. He jested a lot and sometimes hummed in a soft tenor19 voice. At times he seemed gloomy and at the dinner-table would sit silent, sunk in meditation20. He would get anxious glances and would be asked if something ailed21 him. His answers were brief and evasive. Only toward the end of his stay in the village, and then only vaguely22, did I begin to surmise23 the cause of his moody24 spells. Monya was upset by the rude manners of the village or by some injustice25. It was not that his uncle or aunt were especially stern masters that cannot be said under any circumstances. The nature of the prevailing26 relations with the laborers27 and peasants was in no sense worse than on other estates. But it was not much better and this means that it was oppressive. When the overseer once struck a shepherd with a long knout because he had kept the horses out late, Monya grew pale and hissed28 between his teeth, “How shameful29!” And I felt that it was shameful. I do not know if I would have felt the same way if he had not made his remark I am inclined to think I would. But in any event he helped me to feel that way, and this alone was enough to instil30 in me a lifelong sense of gratitude31.
Schpentzer was about to marry the principal of the State School for Jewish Girls. No one in Yanovka knew her, but everybody assumed that she must be out of the ordinary, because she was a school principal and Monya’s bride. It was decided32 to send me to Odessa the following spring; there I would live with the Schpentzers and attend the gymnasium. The tailor of the colony somehow fitted me out. A large trunk was packed with vessels34 containing butter, jars full of jam and other gifts for the city relatives. The farewell was a long one. I wept copiously35, so did my mother, and so did my sisters, and for the first time I felt how dear to me was Yanovka, with all it held. We drove to the station across the steppe, and I wept until we came out on the main road.
From Novy Bug36 we took the train to Nikolayev, where we transferred to a steamboat. The siren sent shivers down my spine37; it sounded like the call to a new life. The sea was ahead of us, for we were still on the River Bug. A great deal indeed was ahead. There was the pier38, the cabman, the Pokrovsky Alley39, and a big old house where the School for Girls and its principal were lodged40. I was scrutinized41 from every angle. First a young woman, then an older one, her mother, kissed me on the forehead and both cheeks. Moissey Filippovich jested in his usual manner, inquiring about Yanovka, its inhabitants, and even the familiar cows. To me the cows seemed such insignificant42 beings that I was embarrassed to discuss them in such select company. The apartment was none too large. I was assigned a corner in the dining-room, behind a curtain. And it was here that I spent the first four years of my school life.
All at once I found myself in the grip of that alluring43 but exacting discipline which Moissey Filippovich radiated when he was with us in the country. The regime was not stern but it was regular; it was on that account that it seemed severe in the beginning. I had to go to bed at nine. This hour gradually receded44 as I advanced in the school. I was reminded at every turn not to fail to say good-morning, to keep my hands and finger-nails tidy, not to eat with a knife, not to be tardy45, always to thank the servants, and not to speak ill of people behind their backs. I learned that scores of words which seemed beyond question at home were not Russian but Ukrainian jargon46. Every day there was revealed to me some aspect of a cultural environment greater than that in which I had passed the first nine years of my life. Even the shop at home began to dim and to lose its magic as compared with the spell of classical literature and the charm of the theatre. I was becoming a little urbanite47. Occasionally, however, the village would flare48 up in my consciousness and draw me on like a lost paradise. Then I would pine, wander about, and trace with my finger on the window-pane messages to my mother, or I would cry into my pillow.
Life in the home of Moissey Filippovich was modest. He had barely means enough to make ends meet. The head of the family had no steady work. He did translations of the Greek tragedies with commentaries, he wrote tales for children, he studied Schloesser and other historians, planning to compile graphic49 chronological50 tables, and he helped his wife to conduct the school. It was later that he formed a small publishing house which grew with difficulty in the first years but rose to a high position subsequently. In about ten or twelve years he became the outstanding publisher in southern Russia, the owner of a large printing establishment and of a private residence. I lived for six years with this family, during the first period of the publishing concern. I became very familiar with type, make-up, lay-out, printing, paging, and binding52. Proof reading was my favorite pastime. My love for the freshly printed page has its origin in those far-away years as a school boy.
As would be the case in bourgeois53, especially petty bourgeois, homes, the servant occupied not a small although not a noticeable r?le in my life. The first maid, Dasha, made me her secret confidant, entrusting54 her various secrets to me. After dinner, when everybody was resting, I would stealthily make for the kitchen. There Dasha would give me fragrants of her life and tell me of her first love. Dasha was followed by a divorced Jewess from Jitomir. “What a rascal56 he was,” she would complain of her former husband. I began to teach her how to read. Every day she would spend not less than half an hour at my desk, trying to penetrate57 into the mystery of the alphabet and the formation of words. By this time there was an infant in the family, and a wet-nurse was taken in. I wrote letters for her. She complained of her troubles to her husband, who was in America. At her request I painted them in the darkest colors, adding that “our baby is the only bright star on the dark sky line of my life.” The nurse was in ecstasy58. I myself reread the letter aloud with some satisfaction, although the closing part, where there was something about sending dollars, embarrassed me. Then she added:
“And now, one more letter.”
“To whom?” I asked, preparing for the creative task.
“To my cousin,” replied the nurse somewhat uncertainly. This letter also spoke59 of her dark life, but said nothing about the star, and ended with a suggestion that she visit him if he so desired. Hardly had the nurse left with the letters when my pupil, the maid, who had apparently60 been eavesdropping61, appeared. “But he isn’t at all a cousin of hers,” she whispered to me indignantly. “What is he then?” I asked. “Just somebody,” she replied. And I had occasion to contemplate62 the complexity63 of human relations.
At dinner Fanny Solomonovna 1 said to me, smiling strangely: “How about some more soup, author?”
“What?” I asked, alarmed.
“Oh nothing, you composed a letter for the wet-nurse, so you are an author. How did you put it: a star on the dark sky-line? — an author, indeed!” And no longer able to restrain herself, she burst out laughing.
“It’s well written,” said Moissey Filippovich soothingly64, “but you know, you shouldn’t write letters for her any more; let Fanny herself write them.”
The bewildering wrong side of life, recognized neither at home nor at school, did not however cease to exist because of that, and proved sufficiently65 powerful and all-pervading to command attention even from a ten-year-old boy. Barred from the schoolroom as well as from the front door of the home, it found its way in through the kitchen.
The law limiting the admission of Jews to the state schools to ten per cent of the entire number was first introduced in 1887. It was an almost hopeless effort to gain entrance into a gymnasium, requiring “pull” or bribery66. The realschule differed from the gymnasium in the absence from its curriculum of ancient languages and in its broader course in mathematics, natural sciences and modern languages. The ten per cent statute67 applied68 also to the realschule. In the case of the latter, the stream of applicants69 was smaller and the chances for admission were therefore greater. For a long time a debate raged in the newspapers and magazines as to the merits of a classical vs. a realschule education. The conservatives held that classicism fosters discipline — it was more likely a hope that the citizen who had endured Greek in his childhood would be able to endure the Czarist regime the rest of his life. The liberals, on the other hand, without repudiating70 classicism, which is a sort of a foster-brother to liberalism, since both trace their origin to the Renaissance71, still favored the realschule. When I was about to start my high-school education, these debates had died down, the result of a special order prohibiting discussion as to which was the more desirable type of education.
In the fall, I took my examinations for the first class of the St. Paul realschule. I passed the entrance examination with average marks: a “3” in Russian, a “4” in arithmetic. 2 This was not enough, as the ten per cent statute meant the most rigid72 selection complicated, of course, by bribery. It was decided to put me in the preparatory class, attached to the school as a private institution. Jews were transferred from there to the first class according to the statute, it is true, but with preference over outsiders.
The St. Paul School had originally been a German institution. It had been founded by the Lutheran parish to serve the numerous German residents of Odessa and of the southern district in general. Although the St. Paul School was endowed with all state rights, it was necessary, because it had only six grades, to take the seventh year at another realschule in order to be admitted to a university. Apparently the assumption was that in the last grade the remnants of the German spirit would be wiped out. This spirit, by the way, waned73 in the St. Paul School year by year. Germans formed less than half of the student body. The Germans on the staff were persistently74 being forced out.
The first days of study at school were days of sorrow; then they became days of joy. I started for school in a brand-new uniform, wearing a new cap with a yellow border and a remarkable75 metal badge which contained, between two trefoils, the complicated monogram76 of the school. On my back was a brand-new leather school-bag, holding new text-books in bright bindings and a handsome pencil-case stuffed with freshly sharpened pencils, a new penholder, and an eraser. In transports, I carried this entire, magnificent load through the long Uspensky Street, happy that the distance to the school was great. It seemed to me that the passers-by looked with amazement77 and sometimes even with envy at my astonishing equipment. Trustingly and with interest I surveyed everybody I met. Then, quite suddenly, a tall skinny boy of about thirteen, evidently a shop-apprentice, for he carried some tin object, stopped in front of this superb schoolboy and coming within a step or two, threw his head back, made a loud noise and spat78 amply at the shoulder of my new jacket. Looking contemptuously at me, he passed on without a word. What made him do it? I know the reason now. The impoverished79 boy, dressed a tattered80 shirt, with broken boots on bare feet, the boy whose job it was to carry out the dirty errands of his masters while their pampered81 sons flaunted82 school uniforms, vented83 upon me his sense of social protest. But at the time I was not interested in generalities. I wiped my shoulder for a long time with some leaves, boiling within from the helpless insult, and completed the last part of my journey in a gloomy mood.
The second blow awaited me in the courtyard of the school. “Peter Pavlovich,” the boys cried, “here is another from the preparatory class in uniform!” What did that mean? It appeared that the preparatory school was a private affair, and its members were strictly84 forbidden to don the St. Paul uniform. Peter Pavlovich, the black-bearded monitor, explained to me that I must remove the badge, the braid and the belt-buckle, and must replace the buttons, which had an eagle stamped on them, with ordinary ones. This was my second misfortune.
That day there were no classes at school. The German pupils and many others were all gathered in the Lutheran church whose name the school bore. I found myself under the guidance of a thick-set boy who had been left in the preparatory class for a second year and who knew the system. He put me next to him on a bench at the church. For the first time I heard an organ, and its sounds filled me with quivers. Then appeared a tall, shaven man, the facing of his coat all white; his voice reverberated85 through the church like a series of waves. The strangeness of his speech accentuated86 tenfold the grandeur87 of his sermon. “Who is that speaking?” I asked, all agitated88. “It’s Pastor89 Binneman himself,” explained my new friend, Carlson. “He’s a terribly wise man, the wisest in Odessa.
“And what is he saying?”
“Well, you know, the regular things,” said Carlson with much less enthusiasm. “That one should be a good pupil, study hard, get along well with the boys.” This heavy-jawed admirer of Binneman turned out to be a most obstinate90 sluggard91 and a terrible scrapper92 who, during recesses93, distributed black eyes right and left.
The second day brought its comforts. I promptly94 distinguished95 myself in arithmetic, and copied the lesson from the blackboard well. The teacher, Rudyenko, praised me before the entire class and gave me two “fives.” This reconciled me to the plain buttons on my jacket. The director himself, Christian96 Christianovich Schwannebach, taught German to the junior classes. He was a sleek97 official who had attained98 his high position only because he was the brother-in-law of Binneman himself. Christian Christianovitch began by examining the hands of all the pupils. He found that mine were clean. Then, when I had copied his lesson from the blackboard accurately99, the director voiced his approval and gave me a “5.” Thus it came about that after the first actual day of school I was returning with a load of three “excellent” marks. I carried them in my leather kit55 like a treasure, and ran rather than walked into the Pokrovsky Alley, driven by the thirst for home glory.
So I became a schoolboy. I would rise early, drink my morning tea in a hurry, thrust a package containing my lunch into my overcoat pocket, and run to school in order to reach there in time for the morning prayer. I was not tardy. I was quiet at my desk. I listened attentively100 and copied carefully. I worked diligently102 at home over my lessons. I went to bed at the prescribed hour, in order to hurry through my tea the following morning and run to school for fear of being late for the prayer. I passed from grade to grade without difficulty. Whenever I met one of my teachers in the street, I bowed with all possible deference103.
The percentage of freaks among people in general is very considerable, but it is especially high among teachers. In the St. Paul realschule the level of the teachers was perhaps above the average. The standing51 of the school was high, and not without reason. The regime was stern and exacting; the reins104 were drawn105 tighter and tighter every year, especially after the director’s power had passed from the hands of Schwannebach into those of Nikolay Antonovich Kaininsky. He was a physicist106 by profession, a humanity-hater by temperament107 He never looked at the person with whom he talked; he moved about the corridors and the classrooms noiselessly on rubber heels. He spoke in a small, hoarse108, falsetto voice which, without being raised, could be terrifying. Outwardly Kaminsky seemed even in temper, but inwardly he was always in a state of habitual109 irritation110. His attitude toward even the best students was one of armed neutrality. That, incidentally, was his attitude toward me.
In his capacity of physicist, Kaminsky invented a special apparatus111 to demonstrate the Boyle-Mariotte law of the resistance of gases. After each demonstration112, there were always two or three boys who in a studied whisper would exchange the words, “Well done!” Some one would rise and in a doubtful tone inquire: “And who is the inventor of this apparatus?” Kaminsky would answer casually113 in his frozen falsetto: “I built it.” Everybody would exchange glances, and the two-mark boys would emit as loud a sigh of rapture15 as possible.
After Schwannebach had been replaced by Kaminsky as a measure for Russification, the teacher of literature, Anton Vasilyevich Krizhanovsky, became the inspector114 of the school. He was a red-bearded, crafty115 fellow, an ex-theologian, a great lover of gifts a man with a slightly liberal tendency, very clever at disguising his designs under an assumed kindliness116. As soon as he was appointed inspector he became more rigorous and conservative. Krizhanovsky taught Russian from the first grade upward. He singled me out for my grammar and love of the language. He made it a fixed117 rule to read my written works aloud to the class, giving me a mark of “5 plus.”
The mathematician118, Yurchenko, was a stubby, phlegmatic119, shrewd person, who was known as the “bindyuzhnik,” which in Odessa slang meant a “heavy truck-driver.” Yurchenko addressed everybody, from the first grade to the last, by the familiar “thou,” and was not finicky about his expressions. With his consistent gruffness, he inspired a certain amount of respect which melted away, however, in the course of time, for the boys learned that Yurchenko took bribes120. The other teachers were also susceptible121 to bribery in one form or another. A backward pupil, if he was from out of town, would be lodged with that teacher whom he needed most. If the pupil happened to be a local resident, he would employ the threatening pedagogue122 as a private tutor at a high price.
The second mathematician, Zlotchansky, was the opposite of Yurchenko. He was thin, with a prickly mustache on a greenish-yellow face; his eyeballs were muddy, his movements as sluggish124 as if he had just awakened125. He coughed noisily and spat in the classroom. It was known that he had had an unhappy love-affair, that he was dissipating and drinking. Although not a bad mathematician, Zlotchansky would stare beyond his pupils, beyond his studies, and even beyond his mathematics. Several years later he cut his throat with a razor.
My relations with the two mathematicians126 were smooth and pleasant, since I was strong in the subject. When I was in the last grades of the realschule, I planned to go in for higher mathematics.
The teacher of history was Lyubimov, a large and imposing127 man with gold-rimmed glasses on a small nose, and with a manly128 young beard around his full face. Only when he smiled did it suddenly appear, clearly even to us boys, that the impressiveness of the man was superficial, that he was weak-willed, timid, torn within himself, and fearful lest people find out something about him.
I plunged129 into history with an increasing though diffused130 interest. Gradually I widened the circle of my studies, abandoning the poor official text-books for the university courses or the solid, tomes of Schloesser. There was undoubtedly131 some element of sport in my fascination132 for history. I learned by heart many unnecessary names and details, burdensome to the memory, in order to give occasional embarrassment to the teacher. Lyubimov was unable to cope with his class. Some times he would suddenly flare up during the lesson and look angrily about, catching133 a whisper that he imagined to be an insulting remark concerning himself. The class would prick123 up its ears in astonishment134. Lyubimov also taught at a gymnasium for girls, and there, too, it was observed that he was acting18 strangely. The end was an attack of insanity135, as a result of which Lyubimov hanged himself from a window-frame.
The geography teacher, Zhukovsky, was feared more than fire. He mowed136 the boys down like an automatic meat-axe. Zhukovsky demanded an entirely137 impossible silence in his classroom. Not infrequently stopping a student in the midst of his recitation, he would look up sharply like a bird of prey138 listening to the sound of distant danger. Everybody knew what it meant: not to stir and if possible not to breathe. I recall only one occasion when Zhukovsky loosed his reins somewhat I think it was on his birthday. One of the students said some thing to him that was semi-private, that is, with no bearing on the lesson. Zhukovsky tolerated it. This in itself was an event. Immediately Vakker, the fawner, arose and, with a smirk139, remarked: “It’s common talk that Lyubimov can’t hold a candle to Zhukovsky.” Zhukovsky suddenly grew tense. “What’s that? Sit down!” At once there descended140 that special silence known only in the geography class. Vakker sat, down as if crushed by a blow. Glances full of reproach and disgust were turned upon him from all sides. “I swear, it’s the truth,” Vakker replied in a whisper, hoping to touch the heart of the geographer141, with whom his standing was low.
The full-fledged teacher of German at the school was Struve, a huge German with a large head and a beard which reached to his waistline. This man carried his heavy body, which seemed a vessel33 of kindliness, on almost childlike limbs. Struve was a most honest person; he suffered over the failures of his pupils, he shared their agitation142, he coaxed143 them, and was pained over every “2.” He never descended as low as a “1”; he tried never to leave a pupil behind for another year. It was he who had obtained admission to the school for the nephew of his cook, the Vakker boy, who turned out, however, to be ungifted and unattractive. Struve was a bit droll144, but on the whole a sympathetic figure.
The teacher of French was Gustave Samoylovich Burnande, a Swiss — a lean person with a profile so flat that it seemed to have just been squeezed in a press. He had a small bald spot, thin, blue, unkindly lips, a sharp nose, and a mysterious large scar in the form of the letter X on his forehead. Burnande was disliked unanimously, and with reason. A sufferer from indigestion, he kept swallowing tablets during the classroom hours, and regarded every pupil as a personal enemy. The scar on his forehead was a constant source of conjecture145 and theory. It was said that Gustave in his youth had fought a duel146, and that his opponent succeeded in tracing a twisted cross on his forehead with a rapier. This was denied several months later. It was then asserted that there had been no duel but instead a surgical147 operation, in the course of which part of his forehead was employed to repair his nose. The boys carefully scrutinized his nose, and the more venturesome ones affirmed that they could see the stitches. Then there were more judicial148 minds who sought to explain the scar as an accident of his early childhood a fall down stairs. But this explanation was repudiated149 as too prosaic150. Moreover, it was altogether impossible to imagine Burnande as a child.
The chief janitor151, who played a not unimportant r?le in our life, was the imperturbable152 German Anton, with imposing and graying side-whiskers. When it came to tardiness153, being kept after school, incarceration154, Anton’s authority was merely a routine affair, but actually it was great, and it was necessary to keep on friendly terms with him. My attitude toward him was one of indifference, as was his toward me, for I was not among his clients. I came to school on time, my kit was in order, my card was always in the left pocket of my jacket. But scores of pupils were daily at the mercy of Anton and courted his benevolence155 in every way. In any event, he was for all of us one of the pillars of the St. Paul realschule. Imagine our amazement when, on our return from the summer vacation, we learned that old man Anton had shot the eighteen-year-old daughter of another janitor in a fit of passion and jealousy156, and was lodged in jail.
In this way the regulated life of the school and the suppressed, crushed public life of the period would be punctured157 by individual personal calamities158 which always made an exaggerated impression, like a sob159 in an empty vault160.
There was an orphanage161 attached to the church of St. Paul. It occupied a corner of our courtyard. Dressed in blue, wash-worn denim163, the inmates164 appeared in the yard with unhappy faces, wandering dejectedly in their corner and droopingly climbing the stairs. In spite of the fact that the courtyard was common ground and the orphanage not segregated165, the schoolboys and the inmates represented two completely separate worlds. Once or twice I tried to converse166 with the boys in blue denim, but they answered gruffly, unwillingly167, hurrying to their own section. They were under strict orders not to interfere168 in the affairs of the students. For seven years I played in this courtyard, and never knew the name of a single orphan162. One must suppose that Pastor Binneman blessed them at the beginning of the year, according to the abbreviated169 mass-book.
In the part of the courtyard which adjoined the orphanage was the complicated apparatus for gymnastics: rings, poles, ladders both vertical170 and inclined trapezes, parallel bars, etcetera. Soon after I entered school, I wanted to repeat a stunt171 performed before me by one of the orphanage boys. Climbing the vertical ladder and suspending myself by my shoe-tips from the upper bar, head downward, I caught the lowest rung within reach and, releasing my feet, let myself go, expecting to make a loop of 180 degrees and land on the ground in one bound. But I failed to let go my hands in time and, after describing the loop, struck the ladder with my body. My chest was crushed, my breath stifled172; I wriggled173 on the ground like a worm, grasping at the legs of the boys around me, and then losing consciousness. From then on I was more careful with my gymnastics.
My life was not of the street, of the market-place, of sports and outdoor exercises. I made up for these deficiencies when on vacation in the village. The city seemed to me created for study and reading. The boys’ street brawls174 seemed to me dis graceful175. Yet there was never any lack of cause for a fight.
The gymnasium students, on account of their silver buttons and badges, were dubbed176 “herrings,” while the brass-buttoned realschule boys were called “kippers.” Returning home along the Yamskaya, I was accosted177 once by a long-bodied gymnasium student who kept asking: “What do you charge for kippers?” Getting no answer to his question, he shoved me along with his shoulder. “What do you want of me?” I asked in a tone of extreme courtesy. The student was taken aback.
He hesitated for a moment and then asked:
“Have you got a sling-shot?”
“A sling-shot,” I asked in turn, “what’s that?”
The long-bodied student silently pulled out of his pocket a small apparatus consisting of a rubber band on a pronged stick, and a piece of lead. “From the window I kill pigeons on the roof, and then fry them,” he said. I looked at my new acquaintance with surprise. Such an occupation was not uninviting, but it seemed nevertheless somewhat out of place and almost indecent in city surroundings.
Many of the boys went boating on the sea, many fished from the breakwater. These pleasures I did not know. Strangely enough, the sea had no part in my life in that period, although I spent seven years on its shores. During all that time I never was in a boat at sea, never fished, and generally encountered the sea only during my trips to the village and back. When Carlson showed up on Monday with a sunburned nose from which the skin was peeling, and boasted of catching chubs from a boat, his joys seemed remote and did not touch me at all. The passionate178 hunter and fisherman in me had not yet awakened in those days.
While in the preparatory class I became very chummy with Kostya R., the son of a physician. Kostya was one year younger than I, smaller in size, quiet in appearance, but actually a scapegrace and a rogue179, with keen little eyes. He knew the town well and in this respect had a great advantage over me. He did not excel in his studies, whereas I had from the beginning maintained a record of the highest marks. At home Kostya did nothing but talk of his new friend. The result was that his mother, a little, dried-up woman, came to Fanny Solomonovna with the request that the two boys study together. After the conference, in which I participated, permission was granted. For two or three years we occupied the same bench. Then Kostya was left a grade behind, and we parted. Our relations, however, continued in later years.
Kostya had a sister in the gymnasium about two years his senior. The sister had girl friends. These friends had brothers. The girls studied music. The boys hung around their sisters’ friends. On birthdays the parents invited guests. There was a little world of sympathies, jealousies180, dancing, games, envies, and animosities. The centre of this little world was the family of the wealthy merchant A., who occupied an apartment in the same house and on the same floor where Kostya lived. The corridors of the apartments all faced the same balcony in the courtyard. It was on the balcony that all sorts of meetings took place, casual and otherwise. In the home of A. there was an atmosphere altogether different from the one to which I had grown accustomed at the Schpentzers’. Here were many schoolboys and schoolgirls practising the art of flirtation181 under the patronizing smile of the mistress of the house. In the course of conversation, it would crop out who was interested in whom. For such matters I always displayed the greatest contempt, which was, however, a bit hypocritical. “When you fall in love with any one,” the fourteen-year-old daughter of A. would instruct me, “you must tell me.”
“I can promise you that, since I am in no danger of doing it,” I would answer with the assumed pride of a man who knows his value — I was then already in the second grade. A couple of weeks later the girls gave an exhibition of tableaux182 vivants. The younger daughter, with her hands raised, represented Night, against the background of a large black shawl sprinkled with stars made from silver paper.
“Look how pretty she is,” remarked the older sister, nudging me. I looked, agreed in my heart, and right there and then made a decision: the hour had come to fulfil the promise. Soon the older sister began to question me. “Have you nothing to tell me?” Dropping my eyes, I replied: “I have.”
“Who is she, then?”
But my tongue would not move. She proposed that I give the first letter of her name. This made it easier. The name of the older girl was Anna. The younger sister was named Bertha. I gave the second letter of the alphabet, and not the first.
“B?” she repeated, obviously disappointed, and there the conversation ended.
The following day, I was on my way to Kostya to study, walking as usual through the long corridor of the third floor. From the staircase, I had already observed that the two sisters were sitting on the balcony with their mother. When I was within a few feet of the group, I felt myself pierced by their needle like glances of irony183. The younger girl did not smile, but on the contrary looked away from me, her face wearing an expression of terrifying indifference. This convinced me at once that I had been betrayed. The mother and the older girl shook hands with me in a manner which clearly said: “Fine gosling, now we know what is underneath184 your seriousness.” The younger sister stretched out her hand, flat as a little board, without looking at me and without answering my handclasp. I still had quite a walk along the balcony to negotiate, in full sight of my tormentors. All the time I felt their murderous arrows in my back. After that unheard-of treachery, I decided to sever4 my relations completely with this perfidious185 clan186, not to call on them, to forget them, tear them out of my heart for ever. I was helped by the vacation period, which came soon afterward187.
Unexpectedly for me, it appeared that I was near-sighted. I was taken to an eye-specialist, who supplied me with glasses. This did not hurt my pride at all, for the glasses gave me a sense of added importance. Not without some satisfaction did I anticipate my appearance in Yanovka wearing glasses. For my father, however, the glasses were a great blow. He held that it was affectation and swank on my part, and peremptorily188 demanded that I remove them. In vain did I protest that I could not read the writing on the blackboard and the signs on the streets. In Yanovka I wore the glasses only secretly.
And yet, in the country I was much more courageous189 and enterprising, and showed more abandon. I shook off the discipline of the city. I would go to Bobrinetz on horseback all alone, and return the same day toward evening. This was a journey of fifty kilometres. In Bobrinetz I displayed my glasses publicly and had no doubt as to the impression they made. There was but one municipal boys’ school in Bobrinetz. The nearest gymnasium was in Elizavetgrad, fifty kilometres away. There was a junior girls’ high school in Bobrinetz, and during the school season the girls recruited their friends from among the students of the municipal school. In the summer things were different. The high-school boys would return from Elizavetgrad, and the magnificence of their uniforms and the finesse190 of their manners would push the municipal pupils into the background. The antagonism191 was bitter. The offended Bobrinetz schoolboys would form fighting groups and on occasion would resort not only to sticks and stones but to knives as well. As I was sitting nonchalantly eating berries on the branch of a mulberry tree in the garden of some friends, some one threw a stone at me from behind a fence, hitting me on the head. This was but one small incident in a long and not entirely bloodless warfare192, interrupted only by the departure of the privileged class from Bobrinetz. Things were different in Elizavetgrad. There the high-school students dominated both streets and hearts. In the summer, however, the university students would arrive from Kharkoff, Odessa and more distant cities, and shove the high-school boys into their back yards. Here the struggle was likewise fierce, and the perfidy193 of the girls was indescribable. But the fight, as a rule, was waged only with spiritual or moral weapons.
In the country I played croquet and ninepins, led in forfeits194, and was insolent195 to the girls. It was there that I learned to ride a bicycle made entirely by Ivan Vasilyevich. Because of that, I dared later to exercise on the Odessa track. In the village, moreover, I managed all alone a blooded stallion in a two-wheeled gig. By this time there were already fine driving-horses in Yanovka. I offered to take my uncle Brodsky, the brewer196, for a ride. “I won’t be thrown out?” asked my uncle, who was not inclined to daring enterprise. “How can you, uncle?” I replied, so indignantly that with a meek197 sigh he sat down behind me. I made for the ravine and passed the mill, going along a road fresh from a summer rain. The bay stallion was seeking the open spaces, and, irritated by the necessity of going up-hill, suddenly tore ahead. I pulled on the reins, pushing against the foot-bar, and raised myself high enough so that my uncle could not see that I was hanging onto the reins. But the stallion had his mind made up. He was three times younger than I, only four years old. Annoyed, he pulled the gig up the hill like a cat trying to run away from a tin can tied to its tail. I began to sense that my uncle had stopped smoking behind me, that he was breathing faster and was about to issue an ultimatum198. I settled down more solidly, loosening the reins on the bay stallion, and to appear fully101 confident, I clicked my tongue in time with the spleen, which was pounding beautifully in the bay. “Now don’t you play, boy,” I admonished199 him patronizingly when he tried to gallop200. I spread my arms more at ease and felt that my uncle had calmed down and had taken up his cigarette again. The game was won, although my heart was beating like the spleen of the horse.
Returning to town, I again bent201 my neck to the yoke202 of discipline. It was no great effort. Exercises and sports gave way to books and occasionally the theatre. I surrendered to the city, but hardly came in contact with it. Its life almost passed by me. And not by me alone even the grown-ups dared not stick their heads too far out the windows. Odessa was perhaps the most police-ridden city in police-ridden Russia. The main personage in town was the governor, the former Admiral Zelenoy 2d. He combined absolute power with an uncurbed temper. Innumerable anecdotes203, which the Odessites exchanged in whispers, circulated about him. At that time there appeared abroad, printed in a free plant, a whole book of tales of the heroic deeds of Admiral Zelenoy 2d. I saw him but once, and then only his back. But that was enough for me. The governor was standing in his carriage, fully erect204, and was cursing in his throaty voice across the street, shaking his fist. Policemen with their hands at attention and janitors205 with their caps in hand passed by him in review, and from behind curtained windows frightened faces looked out. I adjusted my school kit and hurried home.
Whenever I want to restore in my memory the scene of official Russia in the years of my early youth, I visualize206 the back of that governor, his fist stretched into space, and I hear his throaty curses, not usually found in dictionaries.
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1
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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21
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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23
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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28
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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33
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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39
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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40
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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41
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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43
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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44
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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45
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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46
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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47
urbanite
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| n.都市人 | |
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48
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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49
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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50
chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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52
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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53
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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54
entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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55
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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56
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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57
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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58
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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61
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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62
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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63
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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64
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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65
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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66
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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67
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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68
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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70
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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71
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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72
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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73
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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74
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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75
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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76
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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77
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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78
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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80
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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81
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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83
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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85
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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86
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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87
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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88
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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89
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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90
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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91
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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92
scrapper
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| 好打架的人，拳击手； 爱吵架的人 | |
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93
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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94
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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98
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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99
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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100
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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101
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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102
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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103
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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104
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
physicist
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| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
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107
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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108
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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109
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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110
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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111
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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112
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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113
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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114
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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115
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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116
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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117
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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118
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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119
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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120
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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121
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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122
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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123
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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124
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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125
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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126
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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127
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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128
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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129
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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130
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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131
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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132
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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133
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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134
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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135
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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136
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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138
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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139
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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140
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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141
geographer
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| n.地理学者 | |
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142
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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143
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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144
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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145
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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146
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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147
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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148
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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149
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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150
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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151
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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152
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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153
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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154
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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155
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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156
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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157
punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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158
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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159
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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160
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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161
orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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162
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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163
denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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164
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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165
segregated
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| 分开的； 被隔离的 | |
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166
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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167
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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168
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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169
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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170
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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171
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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172
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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173
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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174
brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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175
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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176
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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177
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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178
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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179
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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180
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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181
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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182
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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183
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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184
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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185
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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186
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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187
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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188
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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189
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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190
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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191
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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192
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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193
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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194
forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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195
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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196
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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197
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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198
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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199
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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200
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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201
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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202
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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203
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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204
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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205
janitors
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| n.看门人( janitor的名词复数 )；看管房屋的人；锅炉工 | |
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206
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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