My reading commenced in 1887 after the arrival at Yanovka of Moissey Filippovich, who brought with him a pile of books, including some of Tolstoy’s writings for the people. At first reading was more of a task than a pleasure. Every new book brought with it new obstacles, such as unfamiliar3 words, unintelligible4 human relationships, and the vagueness and instability which separate fancy from reality. Usually there was nobody at hand to answer my questions, and so I was often at sea beginning a book, giving it up and beginning it again joining the uncertain joy of knowledge with the fear of the unknown. One might perhaps liken my reading experiences during that period to a night drive on the steppes: squeaking5 wheels and voices crossing one another, bonfires along the road flaring6 up in the darkness; everything seems familiar and yet one does not quite grasp its meaning. What is happening? Who is driving past and carrying what? Even oneself where is one going, forward or backward? Nothing is clear, and there is nobody like Uncle Gregory to explain: “These are drivers carrying wheat.”
In Odessa the choice of books was vastly greater, and with it went attentive8 and sympathetic guidance. I devoured9 books ravenously10 and had to be forced to go out for walks. On my walks I would live through again in my mind what I had read, and then would hurry home to resume the reading. In the evenings I would beg to be allowed to stay up another quarter of an hour, or even only five minutes to finish the chapter. Hardly an evening passed without an argument of this kind.
The awakened11 hunger to see, to know, to absorb, found relief in this insatiable swallowing of printed matter, in the hands and lips of a child ever reaching out for the cup of ver bal fancy. Everything in my later life that was interesting or thrilling, gay or sad, was already present in my reading experiences as a hint, a promise, a slight and timid sketch12 in pencil or water-color.
During the first years of my stay in Odessa, reading aloud in the evenings, after I finished my home work and until I went to bed, gave me my happiest hours, or rather half-hours.
Moissey Filippovich usually read Pushkin or Nekrassov, more often the latter. But at the hour set, Fanny Solomonovna would say, “It’s time to go to bed, Lyova.” I would look at her with imploring13 eyes. “It’s time to sleep, little boy,” Moissey Filippovich would say. “Another five minutes,” I begged, and the five minutes were granted. After that, I kissed them good-night and went off with the feeling that I could listen to their reading all night, though I had scarcely laid my head on the pillow before I was fast asleep.
A girl in the last grade of high school, a distant relative called Sophia, came to stay with the Schpentzers for a few weeks until her family got over an attack of scarlet14 fever. She was a very capable and well-read girl, although, since she lacked originality15 and character, she soon faded away for me. But I admired her tremendously, and every day found in her new stores of knowledge and new qualities; by contrast I appeared in my own eyes as utterly16 insignificant17. I helped her by copying her examination programme, and generally in various other small ways. In return, when the grown-ups were resting after dinner, she would read aloud to me. Before long we began to compose together a satirical poem, A Journey to the Moon. In this work I always lagged behind. No sooner had I made some modest suggestion than the senior collaborator18 would catch the idea “on the wing,” develop it, introduce variations, and pick up rhymes without effort, what time I was, so to speak, being hauled in tow. When the six weeks were up and Sophia returned to her home, I felt that I had grown older.
Among the more notable friends of the family there was Sergey Ivanovich Sychevsky, an old journalist and a romantic personality, who was known in the South of Russia as an authority on Shakespeare. He was a gifted man but was addicted19 to drink. Because of this weakness, he wore a guilty air toward people, even toward children. He had known Fanny Solomonovna since her early youth, and called her “Fannyushka.” Sergey Ivanovich became attached to me at the very first meeting. After asking what we were studying at school, the old man told me to write a paper comparing Pushkin’s Poet and Bookseller with Nekrassov’s Poet and Citizen. This nearly took my breath away. I had never even read the second work and, what was still more important, I was intimidated20 by the fact that Sychevsky was an author. The very word “author” sounded to me as if it was uttered from some unattainable height. “We will read it right away,” said Sergey Ivanovich, and began instantly to read. He read superbly. “Did you understand? Well, put it all into your essay.” They seated me in the study, gave me Pushkin’s and Nekrassov’s works, paper and ink.
“I tell you, I can’t do it,” I swore in a tragic21 whisper to Fanny Solomonovna. “What can I write here?”
“Now, don’t you get excited,” she answered, stroking my head. “You write just as you understand it that’s all.”
Her hand was tender, and so was her voice. I calmed down a little, or rather got my frightened vanity under control, and began to write. About an hour later, I was summoned to show the result. I brought in a large sheet of paper, written all over, and, shaking in my boots as I never did at school, handed it to the “author.” Sergey Ivanovich ran over a few lines in silence, and, turning his sparkling eyes to me, exclaimed: “Just listen to what he wrote. He is a smart fellow, I swear!” And then he read: “‘The poet lived with his beloved nature, whose every sound, both gay and sad, echoed in the Poet’s heart.’ Didn’t he word it beautifully, ‘whose every sound’ just listen to this ‘both gay and sad, echoed in the Poet’s heart’” And so deeply did those words engrave22 themselves that day on my own mind that I have remembered them ever since.
At dinner, Sergey Ivanovich joked a great deal, delved23 into memories of the past, and told stories, finding inspiration in the glass of vodka which was always ready at his call. Now and again he looked at me across the table and said: “Where ever did you learn to put it so well? Really, I must give you a kiss.” Then, wiping his mustache carefully with a napkin, he rose and with unsteady steps set out on a trip around the table. I sat as if waiting for some catastrophic blow; a gladsome blow, it is true, but catastrophic all the same. “Go and meet him, Lyova,” Moissey Filippovich whispered to me. After dinner Sergey Ivanovich recited from memory the satirical Popov’s Dream. Tensely I watched his gray mustache, from under which there escaped such funny words. The author’s half-drunken state did not in the least impair24 his eminence25 in my eyes. Children possess a remarkable26 power of abstraction.
In the evenings before it was dark I sometimes went for walks with Moissey Filippoyich, and when he was in a good humor we talked about all sorts of things. On one occasion he told me the story of the opera Faust, which he liked very much. As I eagerly followed the story, I hoped that one day I might hear the opera on the stage. From a change in his tone, however, I became aware that the story was approaching a delicate point. I was quite disturbed by his embarrassment28 and began to fear that I should not hear the end of the story. But Moissey Filippovich recovered his calm and continued: “Then a baby was born to Gretchen before marriage . . . ” We both felt relieved when we had passed this point; after that the story was safely brought to its conclusion.
I was in bed with a bandaged throat, and by way of consolation29 was given Dickens’ Oliver Twist. The remark of the doctor in the nursing home about the woman’s not having a wedding-ring perplexed30 me utterly.
“What does it mean?” I asked Moissey Filippovich. “What has the wedding-ring to do with it?”
“Oh,” said he, somewhat haltingly, “it is simply that when people are not married, they wear no wedding-ring.”
I recalled Gretchen. And the fate of Oliver Twist was spun31 out in my imagination from a ring, a ring which did not exist. The forbidden world of human relations burst into my consciousness fitfully from books, and much that I had heard spoken of in a casual, and usually coarse and gross manner, now through literature became generalized and ennobled, rising to some higher plane.
At that time, public opinion was stirred up over Tolstoy’s Power of Darkness, which had just appeared. People discussed it with great earnestness and were unable to come to any definite conclusion. Pobedonostzev succeeded in inducing Czar Alexander III to prohibit the play from being performed. I knew that Moissey Filippovich and Fanny Solomonovna, after I had gone to bed, read the play in the adjoining room. I could hear the murmur32 of their voices. “May I read it, too?” I asked. “No, dear, you are too young for that,” came the answer, and it sounded so categorical that I made no attempt to argue. At the same time I noticed that the slim new volume found its way to the familiar book-shelf. Seizing an opportunity when my guardians33 were out, I read Tolstoy’s play in a few hurried instalments. It impressed me much less vividly34 than my mentors35 apparently36 feared it would. The most tragic scenes, such as the strangling of the child and the conversation about the creaking bones, were accepted not as a terrible reality, but as a literary invention, a stage trick; in other words, I did not really grasp them at all.
During a vacation in the country, while I was exploring a book-shelf high up under the ceiling, I came across a booklet brought home from Elizavetgrad by my elder brother. I opened it and instantly sensed something extraordinary and secret. This was a court report of a murder case in which a little girl was the victim of a sexual crime. I read the book, strewn with medical and legal details, with my mind all astir and alarmed, as if I had found myself in a wood at night, stumbling against ghostlike, moonlit trees and not able to find my way out. Human psychology37, particularly in the case of children, has its own buffers38, brakes, and safety-valves an extensive and well-devised system which stands guard against untimely and too drastic shocks.
My first visit to the theatre took place when I was in the preparatory class at school. It was like no other experience, and beggars description. I was sent, under the chaperonage of the school janitor39, Gregory Kholod, to see a Ukrainian play. I sat pale as a sheet so Gregory afterward40 reported to Fanny Solomonovna and was tortured by a joy which was more than I could bear. During the intermissions I did not leave my seat, lest God forbid! I might miss something. The performance ended with a comic sketch: A Tenant41 with a Trombone. The tension of drama was now relieved by riotous42 laughter. I swayed in my seat, now throwing back my head, and now again riveting43 my eyes on the stage. At home I related the story of the tenant with a trombone, adding more and more details every time, hoping to arouse the laughter which I had just experienced. To my great disappointment, I found my efforts quite wasted. “It seems you did not like the Nazar Stodolya at all did you?” asked Moissey Filippovich. I felt these words as an inner reproach. I thought of Nazar’s sufferings and said: “No, it was quite remarkable.”
Before passing to the third grade, I lived for a short time outside Odessa in the summer home of my engineer uncle. There I attended an amateur theatrical44 in which a boy from our school, Kruglyakov, played the part of a servant. Kruglyakov was a weak-chested, freckled45 boy, with intelligent eyes, but in a very poor state of health. I became greatly attached to him and begged him to stage some play with me. We chose Pushkin’s The Niggardly46 Knight47. I had to act the role of the son, and Kruglyakov that of the father. I unreservedly accepted his guidance, and spent whole days learning Pushkin’s lines. What delicious excitement this was! Soon, however, everything went to pieces: Kruglyakov’s parents vetoed his participation48 in the theatrical on account of his health. When school opened again, he attended classes only the first few weeks. I always tried to catch him after school so that I could engage him in literary conversation on the way home. Soon after that, Kruglyakov disappeared altogether. I learned that he was ill. A few months later came the report that he had died of consumption.
The magic of the theatre held its spell over me for several years. Later I developed a fondness for Italian opera, which was the pride of Odessa. In the sixth grade I even did some tutoring to earn money for the theatre. For several months I was mutely in love with the coloratura soprano bearing the mysterious name of Giuseppina Uget, who seemed to me to have descended49 from heaven to the stage-boards of the Odessa theatre.
I was not supposed to read newspapers. But the rule was not very strictly50 observed, and gradually, with a few setbacks, I won the right to read papers, more particularly the feuilleton columns. The centre of interest in the press of Odessa was occupied by the theatre, especially the opera, and such public divisions of opinion as occurred were mainly inspired by theatrical preferences. This was the only sphere in which the newspapers were allowed to display any semblance51 of temperament52.
In those days the star of Doroshevich, the feuilleton-columnist, shone particularly brightly. Within a short time he became the idol53 of the city, although he wrote of small and, not infrequently, trivial things. But unquestionably he had talent, and by the daring form of his actually innocent articles he let fresh air into an Odessa oppressed to a state of strangulation by the governor, Zelenoy 2d. When I opened the morning paper, I immediately looked for the name of Doroshevich. This enthusiasm for his articles was then shared both by the moderate fathers and by their children who had not yet become immoderate.
From early years my love for words had now been losing now gaining in force, but generally putting down ever firmer roots. In my eyes, authors, journalists, and artists always stood for a world which was more attractive than any other, one open only to the elect.
In the second grade we started a magazine. Moissey Filippovich and I had many talks on this subject, and Moissey Filippovich even devised a title: The drop the idea being that the second grade of the St. Paul realschule was contributing its “drop” to the ocean of literature. I embodied54 this in a poem which took the place of an introductory article. There were other poems and stories, likewise mostly mine. One of our draftsmen decorated the cover with an involved ornamental55 design. Somebody suggested showing The drop to Krizhanovsky. The commission was undertaken by the boy Y., who lived in Krizhanovsky’s house. He performed his task with real brilliance56: he rose from his seat, walked up to the master’s desk, firmly laid The drop upon it, ceremoniously bowed, and returned to his seat. We all held our breath. Krizhanovsky looked at the cover, made a few grimaces58 with his mustache, eyebrows59, and beard, and silently began to read. There was complete quiet in the room; only the leaves of The drop rustled60. Then he got up from his desk and with great feeling read aloud my “Pure little drop.” “Good?” he asked. “Good,” answered the boys in chorus. “Yes, it may be good, but the author knows nothing about versification. Now, tell me, what is a dactyl?” he turned to me, having guessed the author behind the thinly disguised nom-de-plume. “I don’t know,” I had to confess. “Then I’ll tell you.” And neglecting several lessons in grammar and syntax, Krizhanovsky explained to the little second-grade boys the mysteries of metric versification. “And as for the magazine,” he said at the end, “it will be better if you don’t bother about it or the ocean of literature either, but let this be just your exercise-book.” It must be explained that school magazines were forbidden at that time. The question, however, found a different solution. The peaceful course of my studies was suddenly interrupted by my expulsion from the St. Paul realschule.
From the days of my childhood I had many conflicts in life, which sprang, as a jurist would say, out of the struggle against injustice61. The same motive62 not infrequently determined63 my making or breaking of friendships. It would take too long to go through all the numerous episodes. But there were two which assumed considerable proportions.
My biggest conflict occurred in the second grade with Burnande, whom we nicknamed “The Frenchman,” though he was really a Swiss. In the school the German language, to some extent, rivaled the Russian. Our French, on the other hand, showed very little progress. Most of the boys learned French for the first time at school, but the German colonists64 found it particularly difficult. Burnande waged a relentless65 war against the Germans. His favorite victim was Vakker. The latter was really a very poor scholar. But this time many if not all of us got the impression that the boy did not deserve the lowest marks that Burnande gave him. And that day Burnande was even more ferocious66 than ever, swallowing a double dose of dyspepsia tablets.
“Let’s give him a concert,” the boys began whispering around, winking67 at and nudging one another. Among them I occupied not the least place, perhaps even the first. Such concerts had occasionally been arranged before, particularly in honor of the drawing-master, who was disliked for his spiteful stupidity. To give a concert meant to accompany the steps of the teacher while he was leaving the classroom with a howling sound made with a closed mouth, so that one could not tell who was actually doing it. Once or twice Burnande got it, but in a mild and considerably68 muffled69 form, as he was feared. This time, however, we mustered70 all our courage. The moment the Frenchman put the school “journal” under his arm, there came, from the extreme flank, a howl which spread in a rolling wave to the desks in front. I, for my part, did what I could. Burnande, who had already stepped through the door, instantly turned back, and stood in the middle of the room, face to face with his enemies, his face pale-green and his eyes darting73 fire, but without uttering a word. The boys behind the desks, particularly those in the front seats, looked innocence74 itself. Those in the back seats were busy with their kits76 as if nothing had happened. After staring at us for half a minute Burnande turned to the door in such a fury that the tails of his coat blew out like sails. The Frenchman was accompanied this time by a unanimous and enthusiastic howl which followed him far down the corridor.
Before the next lesson began there came into the classroom Burnande, Schwannebach, and the class monitor Mayer, who was known among the boys as “Ram” on account of his bulging77 eyes, strong forehead, and torpid78 brain. Schwannebach essayed something resembling an introductory speech, all the while circumnavigating with extreme care the hidden reefs of the Russian declensions and conjugations. Burnande breathed revenge. And Mayer scrutinized79 the boys’ faces with his protruding80 eyes, calling out those known to be sportive, and saying: “You are sure to have been in it.” Some boys mildly protested their innocence; others maintained silence. In this way ten or fifteen boys were picked out for detention81 “without dinner,” some for one hour, and some for two hours. The rest were allowed to go home, and I was of their number, although I believe I saw Burnande cast an intensely prying82 glance at me during the roll-call. I did nothing to obtain exemption83. Neither did I accuse myself. I left the school rather with a feeling of regret, as staying with the other boys would have promised a jolly time.
Next morning, when I was on my way to school with the memory of the previous day’s incident barely present in my mind, I was stopped at the gate by one of the punished boys. “Look here,” he said, “you’re in for trouble. Yesterday Danilov accused you before Mayer, Mayer called Burnande, then the head master came, and they all tried to find out if you were the ringleader.”
My heart sank into my boots. And at the same moment the monitor, Peter Pavlovich, emerged. “Go to the head master,” he said. The fact that he had waited for me at the entrance, and the tone in which he addressed me, augured84 ill. Inquiring of one doorman after another, I found my way into the mystery-wrapt corridor where the head master’s room was, and there I stopped outside his door. The head master passed me, looked at me gravely and shook his head. I stood there, more dead than alive. The head master came out of his room again and only let fall: “All right! All right!” I realized that in point of fact it was not all right at all. A few minutes later teachers began to come out of their room next door, the majority of them hurrying to their classrooms with out so much as noticing me. Krizhanovsky answered my bow with a sly grimace57 which seemed to say: “Got in a mess, my boy. I’m sorry for you, but such is fate.” And Burnande, after my courteous85 bow, came right up to me, bent86 his spiteful little beard over me, and waving his hands said: “The star student of the second grade is a moral outcast,” then turned and walked away. A few minutes later the “Ram” straddled up. “That’s the sort of bird you are,” he said with apparent satisfaction. “We’ll teach you a lesson.” Then my long torture commenced. In my classroom, from which I was kept away, there was no lesson: a cross-examination was going on there. Burnande, the head master, Mayer, and the “inspector87” Kaminsky formed a supreme88 investigating committee to inquire into the case of the moral outcast.
It began, as transpired89 afterward, with one of the punished boys complaining to Mayer during the detention in school:
“We have been unjustly punished. The one who made the most noise went scot-free. B. egged the other boys on and shouted himself, and he was allowed to go home. And Carlson, he will tell you so, too.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mayer, “B. is a well-behaved boy.”
But Carlson, the boy who recommended Binneman to me as the cleverest man in Odessa, corroborated90 the accusation91, as did a few others. Mayer called Burnande. Encouraged and urged on by their superiors, infecting one another with their example, there emerged ten or twelve informers from the entire body of boys.
They began to search their memories. A year before B. had said something during a walk about the head master. B. had repeated it to somebody else. B. had taken part in the “concert” to Zmigordsky. Vakker, who was the cause of all the trouble, said in a moving voice: “I cried, as you know, because Gustave Samoilovich gave me the lowest marks, and B. came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and said: ‘Don’t cry, Vakker, we will write the inspector-general such a letter that he will dismiss Burnande.’”
“Write to whom?”
“The inspector-general.”
“Is that so! And what did you say?”
“I said nothing, of course.”
Danilov picked up the story: “That’s quite true. B. suggested writing a letter to the inspector-general, but not to sign it, so as not to get expelled, but to let every one write one character in the letter in turn.”
“I see,” gloated Burnande, “every one a character in turn!”
All of the boys, without exception, were cross-examined. A number of them flatly denied everything, both what did not happen, and what did. One of them was Kostya R., who wept bitterly at seeing his best friend, the star student, so shamefully92 betrayed. The informers denounced these stubborn deniers as my friends. Panic reigned93 in the classroom. The majority of the boys closed up and said nothing. For once Danilov was playing first-fiddle, which had never happened to him before, and never did again. I stood in the corridor near the head master’s room, next to a yellow polished cupboard, like a man who had committed a grave crime against the state. There the principal witnesses were brought in turn to confront the accused. In the end I was told to go home.
“Go and tell your parents to come here.”
“My parents are way down in the country.”
“Then tell your guardians.”
Only the day before, I had held the undisputed rank of star student, quite a distance ahead of the next boy. Even Mayer had never so much as suspected me. To-day I lay prostrate94 on the ground, and Danilov, who was known for his laziness and naughtiness, was reviling95 me in front of the entire class and the authorities of the school. What had happened? Had I come too rashly to the aid of an injured boy who was not my friend and for whom otherwise I had no feeling of sympathy? Or had I placed too much confidence in the united support of the class? I was in no mood for these generalizations96, how ever, while I was returning to the Pokrovsky Alley97. With a distorted face and beating heart, in a flood of words and tears, I related what happened. My guardians tried to console me as best they could, though they themselves were greatly perturbed98. Fanny Solomonovna went to see the head master, the inspector Krizhanovsky, and Yurchenko, trying to explain, to persuade, and quoting her own experience as a teacher. All this was being done without my knowledge. I sat in my room, with my kit75 unopened on the table, and moped. Days passed. How would it end? The head master said: “A meeting of the teachers’ council will be called to consider the question in its entirety.” This sounded awe-inspiring.
The meeting took place. Moissey Filippovich went to hear the decision. I waited for his return with greater excitement than I did in later years for the sentence of the Czar’s court.
The entry downstairs resounded99 with the familiar bang, familiar footsteps mounted the iron staircase, the dining-room door opened, and simultaneously100 from another room appeared Fanny Solomonovna. Gently I lifted my curtain. “Expelled,” said Moissey Filippovich in a voice that betrayed fatigue101. “Expelled?” asked Fanny Solomonovna, catching102 her breath. “Expelled,” repeated Moissey Filippovich in a still lower tone. I said nothing, only glanced at Moissey Filippovich and Fanny Solomonovna, and withdrew behind my curtain. During the summer vacation, on a visit to Yanovka, Fanny Solomonovna described the scene: “When this word was uttered he turned all green, so that I became very alarmed about him.” I did not cry. I merely pined.
At the teachers’ council, three degrees of expulsion were debated: without the right of joining any school; without the right of re-entering the St. Paul realschule; and finally, with the right of re-entering the latter. The last and most lenient103 form was selected. I shuddered104 at the thought of the effect that breaking the news would have on my parents. My guardians did everything in their power to soften105 the blow. Fanny Solomonovna wrote a long letter to my elder sister, with instructions as to how the news should be broken. I stayed on in Odessa until the end of the school year, and went home for the vacation as usual. During the long evenings, when my father and mother were already asleep, I would relate to my sister and oldest brother how it all happened, impersonating the teachers and the boys. The memory of their own school life was still fresh with my sister and brother. At the same time they regarded themselves as my superiors. Now they shook their heads, and then they burst out laughing over my story. From laughter my sister went on to tears and cried copiously106, with her head resting on the table. It was decided107 then that I was to go on a visit somewhere for a week or two, and while I was away my sister would tell Father everything. She herself was rather frightened by her commission. After the academic failure of my oldest brother, my father’s ambition had centred in me. The first years seemed to bear out his hopes, and then suddenly all had gone down with a crash.
Returning to my home from the visit with a boy friend Grisha, the grandson of Moissey Kharitonovich, the right-handed musician I instantly perceived that everything was known. Mother welcomed Grisha very cordially, but pretended that she did not see me at all. On the contrary, Father behaved as if nothing had happened. But a few days later, while he was resting in the cool hall after coming home from the fields, he suddenly asked me in the presence of Mother: “Show me how you whistled at your head master. Like this? With two fingers in the mouth?” And illustrating108, he burst out laughing. Mother, greatly surprised, kept moving her eyes from Father to myself. On her face a smile struggled with indignation; how could one talk with such levity109 about such dreadful things? But Father persisted in his demand: “Show how you whistled.” And his laughter grew still merrier. Pained as he was, he obviously relished110 the idea that his offspring, despite his title of the star student, had daring enough to whistle at high officials. In vain did I try to convince him that there was no whistling, but only a peaceful and perfectly111 innocent howl. He insisted that it was whistling. It ended up with Mother bursting into tears.
I made hardly any effort to prepare for the examinations. What had taken place made me lose, for the time being, all interest in study. I spent a restless summer with ever-recurring flare-ups of ill temper, and about a fortnight before the examinations returned to Odessa, but even there worked very badly. Perhaps the greatest effort I made was in the study of French. At the actual examination, however, Burnande confined himself to a few cursory112 questions. Other teachers asked even less. I was admitted to the third grade. There I met most of the boys who had either betrayed me, or defended me, or had remained neutral. This determined my personal relations for a long time. Some boys I cut completely; with others who had supported me during these trying moments, I became even more friendly.
Such, one might say, was the first political test I underwent. These were the groups that resulted from that episode: the tale-bearers and the envious113 at one pole, the frank, courageous114 boys at the other, and the neutral, vacillating mass in the middle. These three groups never quite disappeared even during the years that followed. I met them again and again in my life, in the most varied115 circumstances.
The snow was not yet all cleared from the streets but it was already warm. The housetops, the trees, and the sparrows proclaimed the spring. The fourth-grade boy was walking home, carrying in his hand, against all regulations, a strap116 from his kit, the reason being that the hook was torn off. The long coat seemed useless and heavy, merely causing one’s body to perspire117. Fatigue went with it. The boy saw everything in a new light, himself above all. The spring sun stimulated118 the feeling that there was something immeasurably mightier119 than the school, the inspector, and the kit hanging aslant120 on the back mightier than studying, chess, dinners and even reading and the theatre; in short, than all of one’s every-day life. And the longing121 after this something unfathomed, commanding obedience122 and rising high above the individual, seized upon the boy’s entire being down to the marrow123 of his bones and called forth124 the sweet pain of exhaustion125.
He came home with a buzzing head, with painful music in his temples. Dropping the kit on the table, he lay down on the bed and, hardly realizing what he was doing, began to weep into the pillow. To find an excuse for his tears, he recalled pitiful scenes from books and from his own life, as if to feed the furnace with fresh fuel, and wept and wept with tears of spring longing. He was in the fourteenth year of his life.
From his childhood the boy had suffered from a disease which the doctors in their official certificates described as chronic126 catarrh of the digestive tract27, and which was closely intertwined with his entire life. Often he had to take medicine, and go on a diet. Nervous shocks nearly always affected127 his digestion128. In the fourth grade, the disease became so acute that it crippled his studies. After a long but unsuccessful course of treatment, the doctors passed sentence: the invalid129 must be sent to the country.
I received the doctors’ verdict with pleasure rather than with regret. But it was necessary to gain the consent of my parents. It was necessary to get a tutor to stay with me in the country to avoid losing a year at school. This meant extra expense, and they did not like extra expense at Yanovka. With the help of Moissey Filippovich, however, the matter was finally ar ranged. The student G. was engaged as a tutor a little man with a huge mane of hair, grown noticeably gray on the sides. He was slightly vain, and slightly fantastic, very talkative and utterly lacking in character, one of that type of former undergraduate with an uncompleted education which never succeeds in life. He wrote verse and even had two poems published in the local paper. The two issues were always with him, and he was only too pleased to show them. His relations with me were subject to spasmodic outbursts tending constantly to get worse. At first G. established with me a relationship of ever growing familiarity, insisting on every occasion that he wanted to be my friend. To this end he showed me the photograph of a certain Claudia and described their rather complicated relations. Then he would suddenly draw back and demand from me the respectful attitude due the teacher from his pupil. This grotesque130 situation ended badly; there was a violent quarrel, and a final break between us. But even the episode with the tutor was not without effect, whatever one may think of it. Here was a man with graying hair confiding131 to me the secrets of his association with a woman who in her photograph looked very imposing132. This made me feel older.
In the upper grades the teaching of literature passed from Krizhanovsky to the hands of Gamov. The latter was still a young man, fair-haired, rather plump, very short-sighted, and without the least spark of interest in his subject. We dismally133 tottered134 along after him from chapter to chapter. To top this off, Gamov was also not punctual and would put off indefinitely the reviewing of our papers. In the fifth grade we were supposed to do four home papers on literature. I began to regard the task with an ever-growing attachment135. I read not only the sources indicated by the teacher, but a number of other books as well, copying out facts and passages, altering and appropriating the sentences that caught my imagination, and in general working with a great enthusiasm which did not always stop at the threshold of innocent plagiarism136. There were a few other boys who did not regard composition merely as an odious137 task.
Excitedly some with fear, others with hope the fifth-grade boys waited for the grading of their work. But the marks never arrived. The same thing happened in the second quarter of the school year. In the third quarter I handed in a paper which filled an entire pad. A week passed, then a second, and a third but there was no trace of our work. Cautiously we brought the fact to Gamov’s attention. His answer was evasive. At the next lesson Yablonovsky, also an eager composition-writer, put the question pointblank to Gamov: what was the reason for our never learning the fate of our papers, and what did actually happen to them? Gamov sharply told him to shut up. But Yablonovsky would not give up. Knitting his eyebrows still closer together, he began nervously138 to pull at the top of his desk, and, raising his voice, kept repeating that it was “impossible to go on working like this.”
“I must ask you again to keep silent and sit down,” answered Gamov. But Yablonovsky would neither sit down nor stop talking. “Please leave the room,” shouted Gamov. My relations with Yablonovsky had not been friendly for some time. The affair with Burnande in the second grade taught me to be more circumspect139. But here I felt that I could not keep silent. “Anton Mikailovich,” I cried, “Yablonovsky is right and we all support him.”
“He’s right, he’s right,” echoed other boys. Gamov at first seemed somewhat taken aback, but immediately recovered, and flying into a rage shouted at the top of his voice: “I know myself what to do and when to do it . . . I don’t take orders from you. You are violating the rules . . . ” We had evidently touched some sore spot.
“We only want to see our papers, that’s all,” a third one chimed in. Gamov was fuming140. “Yablonovsky, leave the room at once!” he shouted. Yablonovsky did not budge141. “Go out, do go out,” came whispers from all sides. Shrugging his shoulders, rolling the whites of his eyes, and stamping heavily with his boots, Yablonovsky left the room, banging the door with all the force he could muster71. At the beginning of recess142 Kaminsky slid into the room on his noiseless rubber soles. This was a bad omen72. The room became very quiet. In a husky falsetto voice like a drunkard’s, he administered a short, but very stern reproof143 containing a threat of expulsion from the school, and announced the punishment: Yablonovsky to be put in solitary144 confinement145 for twenty-four hours, and to be given a “three” in conduct; for me, twenty-four hours in solitary confinement; and for the third protestant, twelve hours. That was the second hole on my academic road. The case brought no other important consequences. Gamov did not return our papers, in spite of everything. And we too tried to forget the matter.
That year was marked by the death of the Czar. The event seemed tremendous, even incredible, but very distant, like an earthquake in another country. Neither I nor the people about me were at all moved by the Czar’s illness, felt any sympathy for him, or any sorrow on account of his death. When I came to school the following morning, the place seemed gripped by something like a great, but causeless panic. “The Czar is dead,” said the boys one to another, and did not know what to say next, or how to express their feelings, for they did not realize themselves what this feeling was. But they knew well that there would be no classes, and, without showing it, were pleased at the prospect146, particularly those who had not done their homework, or who were afraid of being called down. The janitor directed all comers into the big hall where requiem147 services were being arranged. The priest in gold spectacles said a few appropriate words: children are grieved when their father dies how much greater must be the grief when the father of the whole people dies! But there was no grief. The requiem dragged on. It was trying and dull. Everybody was ordered to put a mourning-band around his left arm and to cover the badge on his cap with black muslin. Everything else went on as before.
In the fifth grade, the boys were already exchanging views about going to college and choosing their vocations148. A great deal of talk centred on the competitive entrance examinations, on the sternness of the St. Petersburg professors toward the applicants149, the tricky150 problems that were asked, and the specialists in St. Petersburg who coached boys for their examinations. Among the older boys we knew, there were some who went to St. Petersburg year after year, flunked151 the examinations, prepared again, and again went through the same experience. At the thought of these future trials many a boy felt his heart freeze two years before the time.
The sixth grade passed without incident. Everybody was anxious to escape from the school drudgery152 as soon as possible. The matriculation examinations were staged with all pomp in the great hall, and with the participation of university professors sent especially by the educational authorities. The head master would open with great solemnity the package received from the inspector-general, which contained the subject for the papers. Its announcement was usually followed by a general sigh of fear, as if everybody had been dipped into icy water. The nervous suspense153 made one think that the task was utterly beyond one’s powers. But further consideration soon revealed that the fears were much exaggerated. As the time drew toward the end of the two hours allotted154 for each paper, the teachers themselves would help us deceive the vigilance of the regional authorities. Having finished my paper, I did not hand it in immediately but remained in the hall, by a tacit agreement with the inspector Krizhanovsky, and engaged in animated155 correspondence with those who found themselves in difficulties.
The seventh grade was considered a supplementary156 one. There was no seventh grade in the St. Paul realschule and this necessitated157 a transfer to another school. In the interim158 we found ourselves free citizens. For the occasion everybody outfitted159 himself in civilian160 attire161. The very evening of the day we received our diplomas, a large group of us disported162 ourselves in the Summer Garden, where gay cabaret actresses sang on the open stage and where schoolboys were strictly forbidden to enter. We all wore neckties and smoked cigarettes, and there were two bottles of beer adorning163 the table. Deep in our hearts we were afraid of our own daring. No sooner had we opened the first bottle when the school monitor Wilhelm, nicknamed “the goat” because of his bleating164 voice, sprang up right before our table. Instinctively165 we made an effort to rise, and felt our hearts jump. But everything came off well. “You are already here?” said Wilhelm with a tinge166 of regret in his voice, and graciously shook hands with us. The eldest167 of the boys, K., wearing a ring on his little finger, nonchalantly invited the monitor to have a glass of beer with us. This was carrying it too far. Wilhelm, with a show of dignity, declined and, hurriedly saying “good-by,” walked away in search of the boys who ventured to step over the forbidden threshold of the Garden. With redoubled awareness168 of our own status we attacked the beer.
The seven years I spent in the school, beginning with the preparatory class, had their joys too. But it would seem that these were not as plentiful169 as sorrows. The color of my memory of the school, taken as a whole, has remained if not quite black, at least decidedly gray. Above all the episodes of school life, whether gay or sad, towered the regime of soulless, official formalism. It would be difficult to name a single teacher of whom I could think with genuine affection. And yet our school was not the worst. It certainly did teach me a few things: elementary knowledge, the habit of methodical work, and out ward7 discipline. All these came in advantageously in my later life. The same school, however, sowed in me, contrary to its direct purpose, the seeds of enmity for the existing order. These seeds, at any rate, did not fall on barren ground.
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1
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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3
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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5
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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7
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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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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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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13
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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14
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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16
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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17
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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18
collaborator
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| n.合作者，协作者 | |
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19
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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engrave
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| vt.（在...上）雕刻，使铭记，使牢记 | |
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23
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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26
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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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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29
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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30
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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31
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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32
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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33
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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35
mentors
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| n.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的名词复数 )v.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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36
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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38
buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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39
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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40
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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41
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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42
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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43
riveting
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| adj.动听的，令人着迷的，完全吸引某人注意力的；n.铆接（法） | |
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44
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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45
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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47
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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48
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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49
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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50
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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51
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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52
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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53
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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54
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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55
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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56
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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57
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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58
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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60
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
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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62
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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64
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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65
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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66
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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67
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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68
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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69
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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70
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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71
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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72
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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73
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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74
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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75
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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76
kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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78
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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79
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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80
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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81
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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82
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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83
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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84
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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85
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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86
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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87
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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88
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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89
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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90
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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91
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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92
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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93
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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94
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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95
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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96
generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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97
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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98
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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100
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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101
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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102
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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103
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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104
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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105
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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106
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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107
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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108
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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109
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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110
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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111
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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112
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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113
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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114
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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115
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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116
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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117
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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118
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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119
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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120
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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121
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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122
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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123
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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124
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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125
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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126
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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127
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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128
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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129
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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130
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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131
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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132
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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133
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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134
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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135
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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136
plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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137
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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138
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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139
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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140
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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141
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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142
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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143
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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144
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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145
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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146
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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147
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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148
vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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149
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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150
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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151
flunked
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| v.( flunk的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）（考试、某学科的成绩等）不及格；评定（某人）不及格；（因不及格而） 退学 | |
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152
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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153
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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154
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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156
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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157
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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159
outfitted
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| v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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161
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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162
disported
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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164
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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165
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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166
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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167
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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168
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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169
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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