Chapter 1
    I WENT out into the world as “shop-boy” at a fashionable boot-shop in themain street of the town.
　　My master was a small, round man. He had a brown, rugged face, greenteeth, and watery, mud-colored eyes. At first I thought he was blind, and tosee if my supposition was correct, I made a grimace.
　　“Don’t pull your face about!” he said to me gently, but sternly. Thethought that those dull eyes could see me was unpleasant, and I did not wantto believe that this was the case. Was it not more than probable that he hadguessed I was making grimaces ?
　　“I told you not to pull your face about,” he said again, hardly moving histhick lips.
　　“Don’t scratch your hands,” his dry whisper came to me, as it were,stealthily. “You are serving in a first-class shop in the main street of thetown, and you must not forget it. The door-boy ought to stand like a statue.”
　　I did not know what a statue was, and I couldn’t help scratching myhands, which were covered with red pimples and sores, for they had beensimply devoured by vermin.
　　“What did you do for a living when you were at home?” asked my master,looking at my hands.
　　I told him, and he shook his round head, which was closely covered withgray hair, and said in a shocked voice :
　　“Rag-picking! Why, that is worse than begging or stealing!”
　　I informed him, not without pride :
　　“But I stole as well.”
　　At this he laid his hands on his desk, looking just like a cat with her pawsup, and fixed his eyes on my face with a terrified expression as hewhispered :
　　“Wha — a — t? How did you steal?”
　　I explained how and what I had stolen.
　　“Well, well, I look upon that as nothing but a prank. But if you rob me ofboots or money, I will have you put in prison, and kept there for the rest ofyour life.”
　　He said this quite calmly, and I was frightened, and did not like him anymore.
　　Besides the master, there were serving in the shop my cousin, SaschaJaakov, and the senior assistant, a competent, unctuous person with a redface. Sascha now wore a brown frock-coat, a false shirt-front, a cravat, andlong trousers, and was too proud to take any notice of me.
　　When grandfather had brought me to my master, he had asked Sascha tohelp me and to teach me. Sascha had frowned with an air of importance ashe said warningly:
　　“He will have to do what I tell him, then.”
　　Laying his hand on my head, grandfather had forced me to bend myneck.
　　“You are to obey him; he is older than you both in years and experience.”
　　And Sascha said to me, with a nod :
　　“Don’t forget what grandfather has said.” He lost no time in profiting byhis seniority.
　　“Kashirin, don’t look so goggle-eyed,” his master would advise him.
　　“I— I ‘m all right,” Sascha would mutter, putting his head down. But themaster would not leave him alone.
　　“Don’t butt; the customers will think you are a goat.”
　　The assistant smiled respectfully, the master stretched his lips in ahideous grin, and Sascha, his face flushing, retreated behind the counter. Idid not like the tone of these conversations. Many of the words they usedwere unintelligible to me, and sometimes they seemed to be speaking in astrange language. When a lady customer came in, the master would take hishands out of his pockets, tug at his mustache, and fix a sweet smile upon hisface — a smile which wrinkled his cheeks, but did not change the expressionof his dull eyes. The assistant would draw himself up, with his elbowspressed closely against his sides, and his wrists respectfully dangling. Saschawould blink shyly, trying to hide his protruding eyes, while I would stand atthe door, surreptitiously scratching my hands, and observing the ceremonialof selling.
　　Kneeling before the customer, the assistant would try on shoes withwonderfully deft fingers. He touched the foot of the woman so carefully thathis hands trembled, as if he were afraid of breaking her leg. But the leg wasstout enough. It looked like a bottle with sloping shoulders, turned neckdownward.
　　One of these ladies pulled her foot away one day, shrieking :
　　“Oh, you are tickling me!”
　　“That is — because — you are so sensitive,” the assistant explainedhastily, with warmth.
　　It was comical to watch him fawning upon the customers, and I had toturn and look through the glass of the door to keep myself from laughing.
　　But something used to draw me back to watcli the sale. The proceedings ofthe assistant were very interesting, and while I looked at him I was thinkingthat I should never be able to make my fingers move so delicately, or sodeftly put boots on other people’s feet.
　　It often happened that the master went away from the shop into a littleroom behind it, and he would call Sascha to him, leaving the assistant alonewith the customer. Once, lingering over the foot of a red-haired woman, hetook it between his fingers and kissed it.
　　“Oh,” breathed the woman, “what a bold man you are!”
　　He puffed out his cheeks and emitted a long-drawn-out sound :
　　“0 — 0 — hi”
　　At this I laughed so much that, to keep my feet, I had to hang on to thehandle of the door. It flew open, and my head knocked against one of thepanes of glass and broke it. The assistant stamped his foot at me, my masterhit me on the head with his heavy gold ring, and Sascha tried to pull my ears.
　　In the evening, when we were on our way home, he said to me, sternly:
　　“You will lose your place for doing things like that. I ‘d like to knowwhere the joke comes in.” And then he explained: “If ladies take a fancy tothe assistant, it is good for trade. A lady may not be in need of boots, but shecomes in and buys what she does not want just to have a look at theassistant, who pleases her. But you — you can’t understand! One puts oneselfout for you, and — ”
　　This incensed me. No one put himself out for me, and he least of all.
　　In the morning the cook, a sickly, disagreeable woman, used to call mebefore him. I had to clean the boots and brush the clothes of the master, theassistant, and Sascha, get the samovar ready, bring in wood for all the stoves,and wash up. When I got to the shop I had to sweep the floor, dust, get thetea ready, carry goods to the customers, and go home to fetch the dinner, myduty at the door being taken in the meantime by Sascha, who, finding itlowering to his dignity, rated me.
　　“Lazy young wretch! I have to do all your work for you.”
　　This was a wearisome, dull life for me. I was accustomed to liveindependently in the sandy streets of Kunavin, on the banks of the turbidOka, in the fields or woods, from morning to night. I was parted fromgrandmother and from my comrades. I had no one to speak to, and life wasshowing me her seamy, false side. There were occasions on which a customerwent away without making ‘ a purchase, when all three would feelthemselves affronted. The master would put his sweet smile away in hispocket as he said :
　　“Kashirin, put these things away.” Then he would grumble :
　　“There’s a pig of a woman! The fool found it dull sitting at home, so shemust come and turn our shop upside down! If you were my wife, I ‘d give yousomething!”
　　His wife, a dried-up woman with black eyes and a large nose, simplymade a doormat of him. She used to scold him as if he were a servant.
　　Often, after he had shown out a frequent customer with polite bows andpleasant words, they would all begin to talk about her in a vile and shamelessmanner, arousing in me a desire to run into the street after her and tell herwhat they said. I knew, of course, that people generally speak evil of oneanother behind one another’s backs, but these spoke of every one in aparticularly revolting manner, as if they were in the front rank of goodpeople and had been appointed to judge the rest of the world. Envious ofmany of them, they were never known to praise any one, and knewsomething bad about everybody.
　　One day there came to the shop a young woman with bright, rosy cheeksand sparkling eyes, attired in a velvet cloak with a collar of black fur. Herface rose out of the fur like a wonderful flower. When she had thrown thecloak off her shoulders and handed it to Sascha, she looked still morebeautiful. Her fine figure was fitted tightly with a blue-gray silk robe;diamonds sparkled in her ears. She reminded me of “Vassilissa theBeautiful,” and I could have believed that she was in truth the governor’swife. They received her with particular respect, bending before her as if shewere a bright light, and almost choking themselves in their hurry to get outpolite words. All three rushed about the shop like wild things : theirreflections bobbed up and down in the glass of the cupboard. But when sheleft, after having bought some expensive boots in a great hurry, the master,smacking his lips, whistled and said :
　　“Hussy!”
　　“An actress — that sums her up,” said the assistant, contemptuously.
　　They began to talk of the lovers of the lady and the luxury in which she lived.
　　After dinner the master went to sleep in the room behind the shop, and I,opening his gold watch, poured vinegar into the works. It was a moment ofsupreme joy to me when he awoke and came into the shop, with his watch inhis hand, muttering wildly:
　　“What can have happened? My watch is all wet.
　　I never remember such a thing happening before. It is all wet; it will beruined.”
　　In addition to the burden of my duties in the shop and the housework, Iwas weighed down by depression. I often thought it would be a good idea tobehave so badly that I should get my dismissal. Snow-covered people passedthe door of the shop without making a sound. They looked as if on their wayto somebody’s funeral. Having meant to accompany the body to the grave,they had been delayed, and, being late for the funeral procession, werehurrying to the graveside. The horses quivered with the effort of makingtheir way through the snow-drifts. From the belfry of the church behind theshop the bells rang out with a melancholy sound every day. It was Lent, andevery stroke of the bell fell upon my brain as if it had been a pillow, nothurting, but stupefying and deafening, me. One day when I was in the yardunpacking a case of new goods just received, at the door of the shop, thewatchman of the church, a crooked old man, as soft as if he were made ofrags and as ragged as if he had been torn to pieces by dogs, approached me.
　　“Are you going to be kind and steal some goloshes for me?” he asked.
　　I was silent. He sat down on an empty case, yawned, made the sign of thecross over his mouth, and repeated:
　　“Will you steal them for me?”
　　“It is wrong to steal,” I informed him.
　　“But people steal all the same. Old age must have its compensations.”
　　He was pleasantly different from the people among whom I lived. I feltthat he had a firm belief in my readiness to steal, and I agreed to hand himthe goloshes through the window.
　　“That’s right,” he said calmly, without enthusiasm. “You are notdeceiving me? No, I see that you are not.”
　　He was silent for a moment, trampling the dirty, wet snow with the solesof his boots. Then he lit a long pipe, and suddenly startled me.
　　“But suppose it is I who deceive you? Suppose I take the goloshes to yourmaster, and tell him that you have sold them to me for half a ruble? Whatthen? Their price is two rubles, and you have sold them for half a ruble. As apresent, eh?”
　　I gazed at him dumbly, as if he had already done what he said he woulddo; but he went on talking gently through his nose, looking at his boots, andblowing out blue smoke.
　　“Suppose, for example, that your master has said to me, ‘Go and try thatyoungster, and see if he is a thief? What then?”
　　“I shall not give you the goloshes,” I said, angry and frightened.
　　“You must give them now that you have promised.”
　　He took me by the arm and drew me to him, and, tapping my foreheadwith his cold fingers, drawled:
　　“What are you thinking of, with your ‘take this’ and ‘take that’ ?”
　　“You asked me for them yourself.”
　　“I might ask you to do lots of things. I might ask you to come and rob thechurch. Would you do it? Do you think you can trust everybody? Ah, youyoung fool!” He pushed me away from him and stood up.
　　“I don’t want stolen goloshes. I am not a gentleman, and I don’t weargoloshes. I was only making fun of you. For your simplicity, when Eastercomes, I will let you come up into the belfry and ring the bells and look at thetown.”
　　“I know the town.”
　　“It looks better from the belfry.”
　　Dragging his broken boots in the snow, he went slowly round the cornerof the church, and I looked after him, wondering dejectedly and fearfullywhether the old man had really been making fun of me, or had been sent bymy master to try me. I did not want to go back to the shop.
　　Sascha came hurriedly into the yard and shouted:
　　“What the devil has become of you?”
　　I shook my pincers at him in a sudden access of rage. I knew that both heand the assistant robbed the master. They would hide a pair of boots orslippers in the stovepipe, and when they left the shop, would slip them intothe sleeves of their overcoats. I did not like this, and felt alarmed about it, forI remembered the threats of the master.
　　“Are you stealing?” I had asked Sascha.
　　“Not I, but the assistant,” he would explain crossly. “I am only helpinghim. He says, ‘Do as I tell you,’ and I have to obey. If I did not, he would dome some mischief. As for master, he was an assistant himself once, and heunderstands. But you hold your tongue.”
　　As he spoke, he looked in the glass and set his tie straight with just sucha movement of his naturally spreading fingers as the senior assistantemployed. He was unwearying in his demonstrations of his seniority andpower over me, scolding me in a bass voice, and ordering me about withthreatening gestures. I was taller than he, but bony and clumsy, while he wascompact, flexible, and fleshy. In his frock-coat and long trousers he seemedan important and substantial figure in my eyes, and yet there was somethingludicrous and unpleasing about him. He hated the cook, a curious woman, ofwhom it was impossible to decide whether she was good or bad.
　　“What I love most in the world is a fight,” she said, opening wide herburning black eyes. “I don’t care what sort of fight it is, cock-fights, dogfights,or fights between men. It is all the same to me.”
　　And if she saw cocks or pigeons fighting in the yard, she would throwaside her work and watch the fight to the end, standing dumb andmotionless at the window. In the evenings she would say to me and Sascha:
　　“Why do you sit there doing nothing, children ? You had far better befighting.”
　　This used to make Sascha angry.
　　“I am not a child, you fool; I am junior assistant.”
　　“That does not concern me. In my eyes, while you remain unmarried,you are a child.”
　　“Fool! Blockhead!”
　　“The devil is clever, but God does not love him.”
　　Her talk was a special source of irritation to Sascha, and he used to teaseher ; but she would look at him contemptuously, askance, and say:
　　“Ugh, you beetle! One of God’s mistakes!”
　　Sometimes he would tell me to rub blacking or soot on her face when shewas asleep, stick pins into her pillow, or play other practical jokes on her; butI was afraid of her. Besides, she slept very lightly and used to wake upfrequently. Lighting the lamp, she would sit on the side of her bed, gazingfixedly at something in the corner. Sometimes she came over to me, where Islept behind the stove, and woke me up, saying hoarsely :
　　“I can’t sleep, Leksyeka. I am not very well. Talk to me a little.”
　　Half asleep, I used to tell her some story, and she would sit withoutspeaking, swaying from side to side. I had an idea that her hot body smelt ofwax and incense, and that she would soon die. Every moment I expected tosee her fall face downward on the floor and die. In terror I would begin tospeak loudly, but she would check me.
　　“ ‘S-sh! You will wake the whole place up, and they will think that you aremy lover.”
　　She always sat near me in the same attitude, doubled up, with her wristsbetween her knees, squeezing them against the sharp bones of her legs. Shehad no chest, and even through the thick linen night-dress her ribs werevisible, just like the ribs of a broken cask. After sitting a long time in silence,she would suddenly whisper:
　　“What if I do die, it is a calamity which happens to all.” Or she would asksome invisible person, “Well, I have lived my life, haven’t If“Sleep!” she would say, cutting me short in the middle of a word, and,straightening herself, would creep noiselessly across the dark kitchen.
　　“Witch!” Sascha used to call her behind her back.
　　I put the question to him:
　　“Why don’t you call her that to her face?”
　　“Do you think that I am afraid to?” But a second later he said, with afrown: “No, I can’t say it to her face. She may really be a witch.”
　　Treating every one with the same scornful lack of consideration, sheshowed no indulgence to me, but would drag me out of bed at six o’clockevery morning, crying:
　　“Are you going to sleep forever? Bring the wood in! Get the samovarready! Clean the door-plate!”
　　Sascha would wake up and complain:
　　“What are you bawling like that for? I will tell the master. You don’t giveany one a chance to sleep.”
　　Moving quickly about the kitchen with her lean, withered body, shewould flash her blazing, sleepless eyes upon him.
　　“Oh, it’s you, God’s mistake? If you were my son, I would give yousomething!”
　　Sascha would abuse her, calling her “accursed one,” and when we weregoing to the shop he said to me: “We shall have to do something to get hersent away. We’ll put salt in everything when she’s not looking. If everythingis cooked with too much salt, they will get rid of her. Or paraffin would do.
　　What are you gaping about?”
　　“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
　　He snorted angrily :
　　“Coward!”
　　The cook died under our very eyes. She bent down to pick up thesamovar, and suddenly sank to the floor without uttering a word, just as ifsome one had given her a blow on the chest. She moved over on her side,stretched out her arms, and blood trickled from her mouth.
　　We both understood in a flash that she was dead, but, stupefied byterror, we gazed at her a long time without strength to say a word. At lastSascha rushed headlong out of the kitchen, and I, not knowing what to do,pressed close to the window in the light. The master came in, fussily squatteddown beside her, and touched her face with his finger.
　　“She is dead; that’s certain,” he said. “What can have caused it?” He wentinto the corner where hung a small image of Nikolai Chudovortz and crossedhimself; and, when he had prayed he went to the door and commanded:
　　“Kashirin, run quickly and fetch the police!”
　　The police came, stamped about, received money for drinks, and went.
　　They returned later, accompanied by a man with a cart, lifted the cook by thelegs and the head, and carried her into the street. The mistress stood in thedoorway and watched them. Then she said to me :
　　“Wash the floor!”
　　And the master said :
　　“It is a good thing that she died in the evening.”
　　I could not understand why it was a good thing. When we went to bedSascha said to me with unusual gentleness :
　　“Don’t put out the lamp!”
　　“Are you afraid?”
　　He covered his head with the blanket, and lay silent a long time. Thenight was very quiet, as if it were listening for something, waiting forsomething. It seemed to me that the next minute a bell rang out, andsuddenly the whole town was running and shouting in a great terrifieduproar.
　　Sascha put his nose out of the blanket and suggested softly:
　　“Let’s go and lie on the stove together.”
　　“It is hot there.”
　　After a silence he said:
　　“How suddenly she went off, didn’t she? I am sure she was a witch. Ican’t get to sleep.”
　　“Nor I, either.”
　　He began to tell tales about dead people — how they came out of theirgraves and wandered till midnight about the town, seeking the place wherethey had lived and looking for their relations.
　　“Dead people can only remember the town,” he said softly; “but theyforget the streets and houses at once.”
　　It became quieter and quieter and seemed to be getting darker. Sascharaised his head and asked :
　　“Would you like to see what I have got in my trunk?”
　　I had long wanted to know what he hid in his trunk. He kept it lockedwith a padlock, and always opened it with peculiar caution. If I tried to peephe would ask harshly :
　　“What do you want, eh?”
　　When I agreed, he sat up in bed without putting his feet to the floor, andordered me in a tone of authority to bring the trunk to the bed, and place it athis feet. The key hung round his neck with his baptismal cross. Glancinground at the dark corners of the kitchen, he frowned importantly, unfastenedthe lock, blew on the lid of the trunk as if it had been hot, and at length,raising it, took out several linen garments.
　　The trunk was half-full of chemist’s boxes, packets of variously coloredtea-paper, and tins which had contained blacking or sardines.
　　“What is it?”
　　“You shall see.”
　　He put a foot on each side of the trunk and bent over it, singing softly :
　　“Czaru nebesnui ”
　　I expected to see toys. I had never possessed any myself, and pretendedto despise them, but not without a feeling of envy for those who did possessthem. I was very pleased to think that Sascha, such a serious character, hadtoys, although he hid them shame-facedly; but I quite understood his shame.
　　Opening the first box, he drew from it the frame of a pair of spectacles,put them on his nose, and, looking at me sternly, said :
　　“It does not matter about there not being any glasses. This is a specialkind of spectacle.”
　　“Let me look through them.”
　　“They would not suit your eyes. They are for dark eyes, and yours arelight,” he explained, and began to imitate the mistress scolding; but suddenlyhe stopped, and looked about the kitchen with an expression of fear.
　　In a blacking tin lay many different kinds of buttons, and he explained tome with pride:
　　“I picked up all these in the street. All by myself! I already have thirty-seven.”
　　In the third box was a large brass pin, also found in the street; hobnails,worn-out, broken, and whole; buckles off shoes and slippers; brass door-handles, broken bone cane-heads; girls’ fancy combs, “The Dream Book andOracle”; and many other things of similar value.
　　When I used to collect rags I could have picked up ten times as manysuch useless trifles in one month. Sascha’s things aroused in me a feeling ofdisillusion, of agitation, and painful pity for him. But he gazed at every singlearticle with great attention, lovingly stroked them with his fingers, and stuckout his thick lips importantly. His protruding eyes rested on themaffectionately and solicitously ; but the spectacles made his childish face lookcomical.
　　“Why have you kept these things?”
　　He flashed a glance at me through the frame of the spectacles, andasked :
　　“Would you like me to give you something?”
　　“No; I don’t want anything.”
　　He was obviously offended at the refusal and the poor impression hisriches had made. He was silent a moment; then he suggested quietly:
　　“Get a towel and wipe them all; they are covered with dust.”
　　When the things were all dusted and replaced, he turned over in the bed,with his face to the wall. The rain was pouring down. It dripped from theroof, and the wind beat against the window. Without turning toward me,Sascha said :
　　“You wait! When it is dry in the garden I will show you a thing —something to make you gasp.”
　　I did not answer, as I was just dropping off to sleep.
　　After a few seconds he started up, and began to scrape the wall with hishands. With quivering earnestness, he said :
　　“I am afraid — Lord, I am afraid! Lord, have mercy upon me! What is it?”
　　I was numbed by fear at this. I seemed to see the cook standing at thewindow which looked on the yard, with her back to me, her head bent, andher forehead pressed against the glass, just as she used to stand when shewas alive, looking at a cock-fight. Sascha sobbed, and scraped on the wall. Imade a great effort and crossed the kitchen, as if I were walking on hot coals,without daring to look around, and lay down beside him. At length,overcome by weariness, we both fell asleep.
　　A few days after this there was a holiday. We were in the shop tillmidday, had dinner at home, and when the master had gone to sleep afterdinner, Sascha said to me secretly :
　　“Come along!”
　　I guessed that I was about to see the thing which was to make me gasp.
　　We went into the garden. On a narrow strip of ground between two housesstood ten old lime-trees, their stout trunks covered with green lichen, theirblack, naked branches sticking up lifelessly, and not one rook’s nest betweenthem. They looked like monuments in a graveyard. There was nothingbesides these trees in the garden; neither bushes nor grass. The earth on thepathway was trampled and black, and as hard as iron, and where the bareground was visible under last year’s leaves it was also flattened, and assmooth as stagnant water.
　　Sascha went to a corner of the fence which hid us from the street, stoodunder a lime-tree, and, rolling his eyes, glanced at the dirty windows of theneighboring house. Squatting on his haunches, he turned over a heap ofleaves with his hands, disclosing a thick root, close to which were placed twobricks deeply embedded in the ground. He lifted these up, and beneath themappeared a piece of roof iron, and under this a square board. At length alarge hole opened before my eyes, running under the root of the tree.
　　Sascha lit a match and applied it to a small piece of wax candle, which heheld over the hole as he said to me:
　　“Look in, only don’t be frightened.”
　　He seemed to be frightened himself. The piece of candle in his handshook, and he had turned pale. His lips drooped unpleasantly, his eyes weremoist, and he stealthily put his free hand behind his back. He infected mewith his terror, and I glanced very cautiously into the depths under the root,which he had made into a vault, in the back of which he had lit three littletapers that filled the cave with a blue light. It was fairly broad, though indepth no more than the inside of a pail. But it was broad, and the sides wereclosely covered with pieces of broken glass and broken earthenware. In thecenter, on an elevation, covered with a piece of red cloth, stood a little coffinornamented with silver paper, half covered with a fragment of materialwhich looked like a brocaded pall. From beneath this was thrust out a littlegray bird’s claw and the sharp-billed head of a sparrow. Behind the coffinrose a reading-stand, upon which lay a brass baptismal cross, and aroundwhich burned three wax tapers, fixed in candlesticks made out of gold andsilver paper which had been wrapped round sweets.
　　The thin flames bowed toward the entrance to the cave. The interior wasfaintly bright with many colored gleams and patches of light. The odor ofwax, the warm smell of decay and soil, beat against my face, made my eyessmart, and conjured up a broken rainbow, which made a great display ofcolor. All this aroused in me such an overwhelming astonishment that itdispelled my terror.
　　“Is it good?”
　　“What is it for?”
　　“It is a chapel,” he explained. “Is it like one?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“And the sparrow is a dead person. Perhaps there will be relics of him,because he suffered undeservedly.”
　　“Did you find him dead?”
　　“No. He flew into the shed and I put my cap over him and smotheredhim.”
　　“But why?”
　　“Because I chose to.”
　　He looked into my eyes and asked again :
　　“Is it good?”
　　“No.”
　　Then he bent over the hole, quickly covered it with the board, pressedthe bricks into the earth with the iron, stood up, and, brushing the dirt fromhis knees, asked sternly:
　　“Why don’t you like it?”
　　“I am sorry for the sparrow.”
　　He stared at me with eyes which were perfectly stationary, like those of ablind person, and, striking my chest, cried :
　　“Fool, it is because you are envious that you say that you do not like it! Isuppose you think that the one in your garden in Kanatnoe Street was betterdone.”
　　I remembered my summer-house, and said with conviction :
　　“Certainly it was better.”
　　Sascha pulled off his coat and threw it on the ground, and, turning up hissleeves, spat on his hands and said:
　　“If that is so, we will fight about it.”
　　I did not want to fight. My courage was undermined by depression; I feltuneasy as I looked at the wrathful face of my cousin. He made a rush at me,struck my chest with his head, and knocked me over. Then he sat astride ofme and cried :
　　“Is it to be life or death?”
　　But I was stronger than he and very angry. In a few minutes he was lyingface downward with his hands behind his head and a rattling in his throat.
　　Alarmed, I tried to help him up, but he thrust me away with his hands andfeet. I grew still more alarmed. I went away to one side, not knowing whatelse to do, and he raised his head and said :
　　“Do you know what you have brought on yourself? I will work things sothat when the master and mistress are not looking I shall have to complain ofyou, and then they will dismiss you.”
　　He went on scolding and threatening me, and his words infuriated me. Irushed to the cave, took away the stones, and threw the coffin containing thesparrow over the fence into the street. I dug Out all the inside of the cave andtrampled it under my feet.
　　Sascha took my violence strangely. Sitting on the ground, with his mouthpartly covered and his eyebrows drawn together, he watched me, sayingnothing. When I had finished, he stood up without any hurry, shook out hisclothes, threw on his coat, and then said calmly and ominously:
　　“Now you will see what will happen; just wait a little! I arranged all thisfor you purposely; it is witchcraft. Aha!”
　　I sank down as if his words had physically hurt me, and I felt quite coldinside. But he went away without glancing back at me, which accentuated hiscalm — ness still more. I made up my mind to run away from the town thenext day, to run away from my master, from Sascha with his witchcraft, fromthe whole of that worthless, foolish life.
　　The next morning the new cook cried out when she called me:
　　“Good gracious! what have you been doing to your face?’
　　“The witchcraft is beginning to take effect,” I thought, with a sinkingheart.
　　But the cook laughed so heartily that I also smiled involuntarily, andpeeped into her glass. My face was thickly smeared with soot.
　　“Sascha did this?” I asked.
　　“Or I,” laughed the cook.
　　When I began to clean the boots, the first boot into which I put my handhad a pin in the lining, which ran into my finger.
　　“This is his witchcraft!”
　　There were pins or needles in all the boots, put in so skilfully that theyalways pricked my palm. Then I took a bowl of cold water, and with greatpleasure poured it over the head of the wizard, who was either not awake orwas pretending to sleep.
　　But all the same I was miserable. I was always thinking of the coffincontaining the sparrow, with its gray crooked claws and its waxen billpathetically sticking upward, and all around the colored gleams whichseemed to be trying unsuccessfully to form themselves into a rainbow. In myimagination the coffin was enlarged, the claws of the bird grew, stretchedupward quivering, were alive.
　　I made up my mind to run away that evening, but in warming up somefood on an oil-stove before dinner I absentmindedly let it catch fire. When Iwas trying to put the flames out, I upset the contents of the vessel over myhand, and had to be taken to the hospital. I remember well that oppressivenightmare of the hospital. In what seemed to be a yellow — gray wildernessthere were huddled together, grum — bling and groaning, gray and whitefigures in shrouds, while a tall man on crutches, with eyebrows like whiskers,pulled his black beard and roared :
　　“I will report it to his Eminence!”
　　The pallet beds reminded me of the coffin, and the patients, lying withtheir noses upward, were like dead sparrows. The yellow walls rocked, theceiling curved outward like a sail, the floor rose and fell beside my cot.
　　Everything about the place was hope — less and miserable, and the twigs oftrees tapped against the window like rods in some one’s hand.
　　At the door there danced a red-haired, thin dead person, drawing hisshroud round him with his thin hands and squeaking:
　　“I don’t want mad people.”
　　The man on crutches shouted in his ear :
　　“I shall report it to his Eminence!”
　　Grandfather, grandmother, and every one had told me that they alwaysstarved people in hospitals, so I looked upon my life as finished. A womanwith glasses, also in a shroud, came to me, and wrote something on a slatehanging at the head of the bed. The chalk broke and fell all over me.
　　“What is your name?”
　　“I have no name.”
　　“But you must have one.”
　　“No.”
　　“Now, don’t be silly, or you will be whipped.”
　　I could well believe that they would whip me ; that was why I would notanswer her. She made a hissing sound like a cat, and went out noiselessly,also like a cat.
　　Two lamps were lit. The yellow globes hung down from the ceiling liketwo eyes, hanging and winking, dazzled, and trying to get closer together.
　　Some one in the corner said:
　　“How can I play without a hand?”
　　“Ah, of course; they have cut off your hand.”
　　I came to the conclusion at once that they cut off a man’s hand becausehe played at cards! What would they do with me before they starved me?
　　My hands burned and smarted just as if some one were pulling the bonesout of them. I cried softly from fright and pain, and shut my eyes so that thetears should not be seen; but they forced their way through my eyelids, and,trickling over my temples, fell into my ears.
　　The night came. All the inmates threw themselves upon their pallet beds,and hid themselves under gray blankets. Every minute it became quieter.
　　Only some one could be heard muttering in a comer, “It is no use ; both heand she are rotters.”
　　I would have written a letter to grandmother, telling her to come andsteal me from the hospital while I was still alive, but I could not write; myhands could not be used at all. I would try to find a way of getting out of theplace.
　　The silence of the night became more intense every moment, as if it weregoing to last forever. Softly putting my feet to the floor, I went to the doubledoor, half of which was open. In the corridor, under the lamp, on a woodenbench with a back to it, appeared a gray, bristling head surrounded bysmoke, looking at me with dark, hollow eyes. I had no time to hide myself.
　　“Who is that wandering about ? Come here!”
　　The voice was not formidable; it was soft. I went to him. I saw a roundface with short hair sticking out round it. On the head the hair was long andstuck out in all directions like a silver halo, and at the belt of this personhung a bunch of keys. If his beard and hair had been longer, he would havelooked like the Apostle Peter.
　　“You are the one with the burned hands? Why are you wandering aboutat night? By whose authority?”
　　He blew a lot of smoke at my chest and face, and, putting his warmhands on my neck, drew me to him.
　　“Are you frightened?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Every one is frightened when they come here first, but that is nothing.
　　And you need not be afraid of me, of all people. I never hurt any one. Wouldyou like to smoke”? No, don’t! It is too soon; wait a year or two. And whereare your parents? You have none? Ah, well, you don’t need them; you will beable to get along without them. Only you must not be afraid, do you see?”
　　It was a long time since I had come across any one who spoke to mesimply and kindly in language that I could understand, and it wasinexpressibly pleasant to me to listen to him. When he took me back to mycot I asked him :
　　“Come and sit beside me.”
　　“All right,” he agreed.
　　“Who are you?”
　　“I? I am a soldier, a real soldier, a Cossack. And I have been in the wars— well, of course I have! Soldiers live for war. I have fought with the Hun —garians, with the Circassians, and the Poles, as many as you like. War, myboy, is a great profession.”
　　I closed my eyes for a minute, and when I opened them, there, in theplace of the soldier, sat grandmother, in a dark frock, and he was standing byher. She was saying:
　　“Dear me! So they are all dead?”
　　The sun was playing in the room, now gilding every object, then hiding,and then looking radiantly upon us all again, just like a child frolicking.
　　Babushka bent over me and asked :
　　“What is it, my darling? They have been mutilating you? I told that oldred devil — ”
　　“I will make all the necessary arrangements,” said the soldier, goingaway, and grandmother, wiping the tears from her face, said:
　　“Our soldier, it seems, comes from Balakhna.”
　　I still thought that I must be dreaming, and kept silence. The doctorcame, bandaged my burns, and, behold! I was sitting with grandmother in acab, and driving through the streets of the town. She told me:
　　“That grandfather of ours he is going quite out of his mind, and he is sogreedy that it is sickening to look at him. Not long ago he took a hundredrubles out of the office-book of Xlist the furrier, a new friend of his. What aset-out there was! E-h-h-h!”
　　The sun shone brightly, and clouds floated in the sky like white birds. Wewent by the bridge across the Volga. The ice groaned under us, water wasvisible under the planks of the bridge, and the golden cross gleamed over thered dome of the cathedral in the market-place.
　　We met a woman with a broad face. She was carrying an armful ofwillow-branches. The spring was coming; soon it would be Easter.
　　“I love you very much. Grandmother!”
　　This did not seem to surprise her. She answered in a calm voice :
　　“That is because we are of the same family. But— and I do not say it boastfully — there are others who love me, too,thanks to thee, O Blessed Lady!” She added, smiling:
　　“She will soon be rejoicing; her Son will rise again! Ah, Variusha, mydaughter!”
　　Then she was silent.
Chapter 2
    GRANDFATHER met me in the yard; he was on his knees, chopping a wedgewith a hatchet. He raised the ax as if he were going to throw it at my head,and then took off his cap, saying mockingly:
　　“How do you do, your Holiness? Your Highness? Have you finished yourterm of service ? Well, now you can live as you like, yes. U-ugh! you — ”
　　“We know all about it, we know all about it!” said grandmother, hastilywaving him away, and when she went into her room to get the samovar readyshe told me:
　　“Grandfather is fairly ruined now. What money there was he lent atinterest to his godson Nikolai, but he never got a receipt for it. I don’t quiteknow yet how they stand, but he is ruined; the money is lost. And all thisbecause we have not helped the poor or had compassion on the unfortunate.
　　God has said to Himself, ‘Why should I do good to the Kashirins?’ and so Hehas taken everything from us.”
　　Looking round, she went on:
　　“I have been trying to soften the heart of the Lord toward us a little, sothat He may not press too hardly on the old man, and I have begun to give alittle in charity, secretly and at night, from what I have earned.
　　You can come with me today if you like. I have some money — ”
　　Grandfather came in blinking and asked :
　　“Are you going to have a snack ?”
　　“It is not yours,” said grandmother. “However, you can sit down with usif you like ; there’s enough for you.”
　　He sat down at the table, murmuring:
　　“Pour out —”
　　Everything in the room was in its old place. Only my mother’s corner wassadly empty, and on the wall over grandfather’s bed hung a sheet of paper onwhich was inscribed in large, printed letters:
　　“Jesus save. Life of the world! May Thy holy name be with me all thedays and hours of my life!”
　　“Who wrote that?”
　　Grandfather did not reply, and grandmother, waiting a little, said with asmile :
　　“The price of that paper is — a hundred rubles!”
　　“That is not your business!” cried grandfather. “I give away everything toothers.”
　　“It is all right to give now, but time was when you did not give,” saidgrandmother, calmly.
　　“Hold your tongue!” he shrieked.
　　This was all as it should be, just like old times.
　　In the corner, on a box, in a wicker basket, Kolia woke up and lookedout, his blue, washed-out eyes hardly visible under their lids. He was grayer,more faded and fragile-looking, than ever. He did not recognize me, and,turning away in silence, closed his eyes. Sad news awaited me in the street.
　　Viakhir was dead. He had breathed his last in Passion Week. Khabi had goneaway to live in town. Yaz’s feet had been taken off, and he would walk nomore.
　　As he was giving me this information, black-eyed Kostrom said angrily:
　　“Boys soon die!”
　　“Well, but only Viakhir is dead.”
　　“It is the same thing. Whoever leaves the streets is as good as dead. Nosooner do we make friends, get used to our comrades, than they either aresent into the town to work or they die. There are new people living in youryard at Chesnokov’s; Evsyenki is their name. The boy, Niushka, is nothingout of the ordinary. He has two sisters, one still small, and the other lame.
　　She goes about on crutches ; she is beautiful!”
　　After thinking a moment he added :
　　“Tchurka and I are both in love with her, and quarrel.”
　　“With her r“Why with her? Between ourselves. With her — very seldom.”
　　Of course I knew that big lads and even men fell in love. I was familiaralso with coarse ideas on this subject. I felt uncomfortable, sorry forKostrom, and reluctant to look at his angular figure and angry, black eyes.
　　I saw the lame girl on the evening of the same day. Coming down thesteps into the yard, she let her crutch fall, and stood helplessly on the step,holding on to the balustrade with her transparent, thin, fragile hands. I triedto pick up the crutch, but my bandaged hands were not much use, and I hada lot of trouble and vexation in doing it. Meanwhile she, standing above me,and laughing gently, watched me.
　　“What have you done to your hands?” she said.
　　“Scalded them.”
　　“And I— am a cripple. Do you belong to this yard? Were you long in thehospital ? I was there a lo-o-ong time.” She added, with a sigh, “A very longtime.”
　　She had a white dress and light blue overshoes, old, but clean; hersmoothly brushed hair fell across her breast in a thick, short plait. Her eyeswere large and serious; in their quiet depths burned a blue light which lit upthe pale, sharp-nosed face. She smiled pleasantly, but I did not care abouther. Her sickly figure seemed to say, “Please don’t touch me!” How could myfriends be in love with her?
　　“I have been lame a long time,” she told me, willingly and almostboastfully. “A neighbor bewitched me; she had a quarrel with mother, andthen bewitched me out of spite. Were you frightened in the hospital?’
　　“Yes.”
　　I felt awkward with her, and went indoors.
　　About midnight grandmother tenderly awoke me.
　　“Are you coming? If you do something for other people, your hand willsoon be well.”
　　She took my arm and led me in the dark, as if I had been blind. It was ablack, damp night; the wind blew continuously, making the river flow moreswiftly and blowing the cold sand against my legs. Grandmother cautiouslyapproached the darkened windows of the poor little houses, crossed herselfthree times, laid a five-copeck piece and three cracknel biscuits on thewindow-sills, and crossed herself again. Glancing up into the starless sky,she whispered :
　　“Holy Queen of Heaven, help these people! We are all sinners in thysight, Mother dear.”
　　Now, the farther we went from home, the denser and more intense thedarkness and silence became. The night sky was pitch black, unfathomable,as if the moon and stars had disappeared forever. A dog sprang out fromsomewhere and growled at us. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, and Icravenly pressed close to grandmother.
　　“It is all right,” she said; “it is only a dog. It is too late for the devil ; thecocks have already begun to crow.”
　　Enticing the dog to her, she stroked it and admonished it :
　　“Look here, doggie, you must not frighten my grandson.”
　　The dog rubbed itself against my legs, and the three of us went on.
　　Twelve times did grandmother place “secret alms” on a window-sill. It beganto grow light: gray houses appeared out of the darkness; the belfry of NapolniChurch rose up white like a piece of sugar; the brick wall of the cemeteryseemed to become transparent.
　　“The old woman is tired,” said grandmother; “it is time we went home.
　　When the women wake up they will find that Our Lady has provided a littlefor their children. When there is never enough, a very little comes in useful.
　　O Olesha, our people live so poorly and no one troubles about them!
　　“The rich man about God never thinks; Of the terrible judgment he doesnot dream; The poor man is to him neither friend nor brother ; All he caresabout is getting gold together. But that gold will be coal in hell!
　　“That’s how it is. But we ought to live for one another, while God is for usall. I am glad to have you with me again.”
　　And I, too, was calmly happy, feeling in a confused way that I had takenpart in something which I should never forget. Close to me shivered thebrown dog, with its bare muzzle and kind eyes which seemed to be beggingforgiveness.
　　“Will it live with us?”
　　“What? It can, if it likes. Here, I will give it a cracknel biscuit. I have twoleft. Let us sit down on this bench. I am so tired.”
　　We sat down on a bench by a gate, and the dog lay at our feet, eating thedry cracknel, while grandmother informed me :
　　“There’s a Jewess living here; she has about ten servants, more or less. Iasked her, ‘Do you live by the law of Moses?’ But she answered, I live as ifGod were with me and mine; how else should I live?’ ”
　　I leaned against the warm body of grandmother and fell asleep.
　　Once more my life flowed on swiftly and full of interest, with a broadstream of impressions bringing something new to my soul every day, stirringit to enthusiasm, disturbing it, or causing me pain, but at any rate forcing meto think. Before long I also was using every means in my power to meet thelame girl, and I would sit with her on the bench by the gate, either talking orin silence. It was pleasant to be silent in her company. She was very neat, andhad a voice like a singing bird. She used to tell me prettily of the way theCossacks lived on the Don, where she had lived with her uncle, who wasemployed in some oil-works. Then her father, a locksmith, had gone to live atNijni. “And I have another uncle who serves the czar himself.”
　　In the evenings of Sundays and festivals all the inhabitants of the streetused to stand “at the gate.” The boys and girls went to the cemetery, the mento the taverns, and the women and children remained in the street. Thewomen sat at the gate on the sand or on a small bench.
　　The children used to play at a sort of tennis, at skittles, and at sharmazLThe mothers watched the games, encouraging the skilful ones and laughingat the bad players. It was deafeningly noisy and gay. The presence andattention of the “grown-ups” stimulated us; the merest trifles brought intoour games extra animation and passionate rivalry. But it seemed that wethree, Kostrom, Tchurka, and I, were not so taken up with the game that wehad not time, one or the other of us, to run and show off before the lame girl.
　　“Ludmilla, did you see that I knocked down five of the ninepins in thatgame of skittles?”
　　She would smile sweetly, tossing her head.
　　In old times our little company had always tried to be on the same side ingames, but now I saw that Kostrom and Tchurka used to take opposite sides,trying to rival each other in all kinds of trials of skill and strength, oftenaggravating each other to tears and fights. One day they fought so fiercelythat the adults had to Interfere, and they had to pour water over thecombatants, as if they were dogs. Ludmilla, sitting on a bench, stamped hersound foot on the ground, and when the fighters rolled toward her, pushedthem away with her crutch, crying In a voice of fear:
　　“Leave off!”
　　Her face was white, almost livid; her eyes blazed and rolled like a personpossessed with a devil.
　　Another time Kostrom, shamefully beaten by Tchurka in a game ofskittles, hid himself behind a chest of oats In the grocer’s shop, and crouchedthere, weeping silently. It was terrible to see him. His teeth were tightlyclenched, his cheek-bones stood out, his bony face looked as if it had beenturned to stone, and from his black, surly eyes flowed large, round tears.
　　When I tried to console him he whispered, choking back his tears :
　　“You wait! I’ll throw a brick at his head. You’ll see.”
　　Tchurka had become conceited; he walked in the middle of the street, asmarriageable youths walk, with his cap on one side and his hands in hispocket. He had taught himself to spit through his teeth like a fine bold fellow,and he promised :
　　“I shall leam to smoke soon. I have already tried twice, but I was sick.”
　　All this was displeasing to me. I saw that I was losing my friends, and itseemed to me that the person to blame was Ludmilla. One evening when Iwas in the yard going over the collection of bones and rags and all kinds ofrubbish, she came to me, swaying from side to side and waving her righthand.
　　“How do you do?” she said, bowing her head three times. “Has Kostrombeen with you? And Tchurka?”
　　“Tchurka is not friends with us now. It is all your fault. They are both inlove with you and they have quarreled.”
　　She blushed, but answered mockingly :
　　“What next! How is it my fault?”
　　“Why do you make them fall in love with you?”
　　“I did not ask them to,” she said crossly, and as she went away sheadded: “It is all nonsense. I am older than they are ; I am fourteen. People donot fall in love with big girls.”
　　“A lot you know!” I cried, wishing to hurt her. “What about theshopkeeper, Xlistov’s sister? She is quite old, and still she has the boys afterher.”
　　Ludmilla turned on me, sticking her crutch deep into the sand of theyard.
　　“You don’t know anything yourself,” she said quickly, with tears in hervoice and her pretty eyes flashing finely. “That shopkeeper is a bad woman,and I— what am I? I am still a little girl; and — but you ought to read thatnovel, ‘Kamchadalka,” the second part, and then you would have somethingto talk about.”
　　She went away sobbing. I felt sorry for her. In her words was the ring of atruth of which I was ignorant. Why had she embroiled my comrades? Butthey were in love; what else was there to say?
　　The next day, wishing to smooth over my difference with Ludmilla, Ibought some barley sugar, her favorite sweet, as I knew well.
　　“Would you like some?”
　　She said fiercely:
　　“Go away! I am not friends with you!” But presently she took the barleysugar, observing : “You might have had it wrapped up in paper. Your handsare so dirty!”
　　“I have washed them, but it won’t come off.”
　　She took my hand in her dry, hot hand and looked at it.
　　“How you have spoiled it!”
　　“Well, but yours are roughened.”
　　“That is done by my needle. I do a lot of sewing.” After a few minutes shesuggested, looking round : “I say, let’s hide ourselves somewhere and read‘Kamchadalka.’ Would you like it?”
　　We were a long time finding a place to hide in, for every place seemeduncomfortable. At length we decided that the best place was the wash-house.
　　It was dark there, but we could sit at the window, which over-looked a dirtycorner between the shed and the neigh — boring slaughter-house. Peoplehardly ever looked that way. There she used to sit sidewise to the window,with her bad foot on a stool and the sound one resting on the floor, and,hiding her face with the torn book, nervously pronounced manyunintelligible and dull words. But I was stirred. Sitting on the floor, I couldsee how the grave eyes with the two pale-blue flames moved across the pagesof the book. Sometimes they were filled with tears, and the girl’s voicetrembled as she quickly uttered the unfamiliar words, running them into oneanother unintelligibly. However, I grasped some of these words, and tried tomake them into verse, turning them about in all sorts of ways, whicheffectually prevented me from understanding what the book said.
　　On my knees slumbered the dog, which I had named“Wind,” because he was rough and long, swift in running, and howledlike the autumn wind down the chimney.
　　“Are you listening?” the girl would ask. I nodded my head.
　　The mixing up of the words excited me more and more, and my desire toarrange them as they would sound in a song, in which each word lives andshines like a star in the sky, became more insistent. When it grew darkLudmilla would let her pale hand fall on the book and ask:
　　“Isn’t it good? You will see.”
　　After the first evening we often sat in the wash-house. Ludmilla, to myjoy, soon gave up reading “Kamchadalka.” I could not answer her questionsabout what she had read from that endless book — endless, for there was athird book after the second part which we had begun to read, and the girlsaid there was a fourth. What we liked best was a rainy day, unless it fell on aSaturday, when the bath was heated. The rain drenched the yard. No onecame out or looked at us in our dark comer. Ludmilla was in great fear thatthey would discover us.
　　I also was afraid that we should be discovered. We used to sit for hoursat a time, talking about one thing and another. Sometimes I told her some ofgrandmother’s tales, and Ludmilla told me about the lives of the Kazsakas,on the River Medvyedietz.
　　“How lovely it was there!” she would sigh. “Here, what is it? Onlybeggars live here.”
　　Soon we had no need to go to the wash-house. Ludmilla’s mother foundwork with a fur-dresser, and left the house the first thing in the morning. Hersister was at school, and her brother worked at a tile factory. On wet days Iwent to the girl and helped her to cook, and to clean the sitting-room andkitchen. She said laughingly :
　　“We live together — just like a husband and wife. In fact, we live better; ahusband does not help his wife.”
　　If I had money, I bought some cakes, and we had tea, afterward coolingthe samovar with cold water, lest the scolding mother of Ludmilla shouldguess that it had been heated. Sometimes grandmother came to see us, andsat down, making lace, sewing, or telling us wonderful stories, and whengrandfather went to the town, Ludmilla used to come to us, and we feastedwithout a care in the world.
　　Grandmother said :
　　“Oh, how happily we live! With our own money we can do what we like.”
　　She encouraged our friendship.
　　“It is a good thing when a boy and girl are friends. Only there must be notricks,” and she explained in the simplest words what she meant by “tricks.”
　　She spoke beautifully, as one inspired, and made me understand thoroughlythat it is wrong to pluck the flower before it opens, for then it will haveneither fragrance nor fruit.
　　We had no inclination for “tricks,” but that did not hinder Ludmilla andme from speaking of that subject, on which one is supposed to be silent. Suchsubjects of conversation were in a way forced upon us because therelationship of the sexes was so often and tiresomely brought to our notice intheir coarsest form, and was very offensive to us.
　　Ludmilla’s father was a handsome man of forty, curly-headed andwhiskered, and had an extremely masterful way of moving his eyebrows. Hewas strangely silent; I do not remember one word uttered by him. When hecaressed his children he uttered unintelligible sounds, like a dumb person,and even when he beat his wife he did it in silence.
　　On the evenings of Sundays and festivals, attired in a light-blue shirt,with wide plush trousers and highly polished boots, he would go out to thegate with a harmonica slung with straps behind his back, and stand thereexactly like a soldier doing sentry duty. Presently a sort of “promenade”
　　would be — gin past our gate. One after the other girls and women wouldpass, glancing at Evsyenko furtively from under their eyelashes, or quiteopenly, while he stood sticking out his lower lip, and also looking withdiscriminating glances from his dark eyes. There was something repugnantlydog-like in this silent conversation with the eyes alone, and from the slow,rapt movement of the women as they passed it seemed as if the chosen one,at an imperious flicker of the man’s eyelid, would humbly sink to the dirtyground as if she were killed.
　　“Tipsy brute! Brazen face!” grumbled Ludmilla’s mother. She was a tall,thin woman, with a long face and a bad complexion, and hair which had beencut short after typhus. She was like a worn-out broom.
　　Ludmilla sat beside her, unsuccessfully trying to turn her attention fromthe street by asking questions about one thing and another.
　　“Stop it, you monster!” muttered the mother, blinking restlessly. Hernarrow Mongol eyes were strangely bright and immovable, always fixed onsomething and always stationary.
　　“Don’t be angry, Mamochka; it doesn’t matter,” Ludmilla would say.
　　“Just look how the mat-maker’s widow is dressed up!”
　　“I should be able to dress better if it were not for you three. You haveeaten me up, devoured me,” said the mother, pitilessly through her tears,fixing her eyes on the large, broad figure of the mat-maker’s widow.
　　She was like a small house. Her chest stuck out like the roof, and her redface, half hidden by the green handkerchief which was tied round it, was likea dormer-window when the sun is reflected on it. Evsy — enko, drawing hisharmonica to his chest, began to play. The harmonica played many tunes;the sounds traveled a long way, and the children came from all the streetaround, and fell in the sand at the feet of the performer, trembling withecstasy.
　　“You wait; I’ll give you something!” the woman promised her husband.
　　He looked at her askance, without speaking. And the mat-maker’s widowsat not far off on the Xlistov’s bench, listening intently.
　　In the field behind the cemetery the sunset was red. In the street, as on ariver, floated brightly clothed, great pieces of flesh. The children rushedalong like a whirlwind; the warm air was caressing and intoxicating. Apungent odor rose from the sand, which had been made hot by the sunduring the day, and peculiarly noticeable was a fat, sweet smell from theslaughter-house — the smell of blood. From the yard where the fur-dresserlived came the salt and bitter odor of tanning. The women’s chatter, thedrunken roar of the men, the bell-like voices of the children, the bass melodyof the harmonica — all mingled together in one deep rumble. The earth,which is ever creating, gave a mighty sigh. All was coarse and naked, but itinstilled a great, deep faith in that gloomy life, so shamelessly animal. Attimes above the noise certain painful, never-to-be-forgotten words wentstraight to one’s heart :
　　“It is not right for you all together to set upon one. You must take turns.”
　　“Who pities us when we do not pity ourselves?” “Did God bring women intothe world in order to deride them?”
　　The night drew near, the air became fresher, the sounds became moresubdued. The wooden houses seemed to swell and grow taller, clothingthemselves with shadows. The children were dragged away from the yard tobed. Some of them were already asleep by the fence or at the feet or on theknees of their mothers. Most of the children grew quieter and more docilewith the night. Evsyenko disappeared unnoticed; he seemed to have meltedaway. The mat — maker’s widow was also missing. The bass notes of theharmonica could be heard somewhere in the distance, beyond the cemetery.
　　Ludmilla’s mother sat on a bench doubled up, with her back stuck out like acat. My grandmother had gone out to take tea with a neighbor, a midwife, agreat fat woman with a nose like a duck’s, and a gold medal “for saving lives”
　　on her flat, masculine-looking chest. The whole street feared her, regardingher as a witch, and it was related of her that she had carried out of theflames, when a fire broke out, the three children and sick wife of a certaincolonel. There was a friendship between grandmother and her. When theymet in the street they used to smile at each other from a long way off, as ifthey had seen something specially pleasant.
　　Kostrom, Ludmilla, and I sat on the bench at the gate. Tchurka hadcalled upon Ludmilla’s brother to wrestle with him. Locked in each other’sarms they trampled down the sand and became angry.
　　“Leave off!” cried Ludmilla, timorously.
　　Looking at her sidewise out of his black eyes, Kostrom told a story aboutthe hunter Kalinin, a gray-haired old man with cunning eyes, a man of evilfame, known to all the village. He had not long been dead, but they had notburied him in the earth in the grave-yard, but had placed his coffin aboveground, away from the other graves. The coffin was black, on tall trestles ; onthe lid were drawn in white paint a cross, a spear, a reed, and two bones.
　　Every night, as soon as it grew dark, the old man rose from his coffin andwalked about the cemetery, looking for something, till the first cock crowed.
　　“Don’t talk about such dreadful things!” begged Ludmilla.
　　“Nonsense!” cried Tchurka, breaking away from her brother. “What areyou telling lies for? I saw them bury the coffin myself, and the one aboveground is simply a monument. As to a dead man walking about, the drunkenblacksmith set the idea afloat.”
　　Kostrom, without looking at him, suggested:
　　“Go and sleep in the cemetery; then you will see.”
　　They began to quarrel, and Ludmilla, shaking her head sadly, asked:
　　“Mamochka, do dead people walk about at night?”
　　“They do,” answered her mother, as if the question had called her backfrom a distance.
　　The son of the shopkeeper Valek, a tall, stout, red-faced youth of twenty,came to us, and, hearing what we were disputing about, said:
　　“I will give three greven and ten cigarettes to whichever of you three willsleep till daylight on the coffin, and I will pull the ears of the one who isafraid — as long as he likes. Well?”
　　We were all silent, confused, and Ludmilla’s mother said :
　　“What nonsense! What do you mean by putting the children up to suchnonsense?”
　　“You hand over a ruble, and I will go,” announced Tchurka, gruffly.
　　Kostrom at once asked spitefully :
　　“But for two greven — you would be afraid?” Then he said to Valek: “Givehim the ruble. But he won’t go; he is only making believe.”
　　“Well, take the ruble.”
　　Tchurka rose, and, without saying a word and without hurrying, wentaway, keeping close to the fence. Kostrom, putting his fingers in his mouth,whistled piercingly after him.; but Ludmilla said uneasily :
　　“O Lord, what a braggart he is! I never!”
　　“Where are you going, coward?” jeered Valek. “And you call yourself thefirst fighter in the street!”
　　It was offensive to listen to his jeers. We did not like this overfed youth;he was always putting up little boys to do wrong, told them obscene stories ofgirls and women, and taught them to tease them. The children did what hetold them, and suffered dearly for it. For some reason or other he hated mydog, and used to throw stones at it, and one day gave it some bread with aneedle in it. But it was still more offensive to see Tchurka going away,shrinking and ashamed.
　　I said to Valek:
　　“Give me the ruble, and I will go.”
　　Mocking me and trying to frighten me, he held out the ruble toLudmilla’s mother, who would not take it, and said sternly :
　　“I don’t want it, and I won’t have it!” Then she went out angrily.
　　Ludmilla also could not make up her mind to take the money, and thismade Valek jeer the more. I was going away without obtaining the moneywhen grandmother came along, and, being told all about it, took the ruble,saying to me softly :
　　“Put on your overcoat and take a blanket with you, for it grows coldtoward morning.”
　　Her words raised my hopes that nothing terrible would happen to me.
　　Valek laid it down on a condition that I should either lie or sit on thecoffin until it was light, not leaving it, whatever happened, even if the coffinshook when the old man Kalinin began to climb out of the tomb. If I jumpedto the ground I had lost.
　　“And remember,” said Valek, “that I shall be watching you all night.”
　　When I set out for the cemetery grandmother made the sign of the crossover me and kissed me.
　　“If you should see a glimpse of anything, don’t move, but just say, ‘Hail,Mary.’ ”
　　I went along quickly, my one desire being to begin and finish the wholething. Valek, Kostrom, and another youth escorted me thither. As I wasgetting over the brick wall I got mixed up in the blanket, and fell down, butwas up in the same moment, as if the earth had ejected me. There was achuckle from the other side of the wall. My heart contracted; a cold chill randown my back.
　　I went stumblingly on to the black coffin, against one side of which thesand had drifted, while on the other side could be seen the short, thick legs.
　　It looked as if some one had tried to lift it up, and had succeeded only inmaking it totter. I sat on the edge of the coffin and looked around. The hillycemetery was simply packed with gray crosses; quivering shadows fell uponthe graves.
　　Here and there, scattered among the graves, slender willows stood up,uniting adjoining graves with their branches. Through the lace-work of theirshadows blades of grass stuck up.
　　The church rose up in the sky like a snow-drift, and in the motionlessclouds shone the small setting moon.
　　The father of Yaz, “the good-for-nothing peasant,” was lazily ringing hisbell in his lodge. Each time, as he pulled the string, it caught in the iron plateof the roof and squeaked pitifully, after which could be heard the metallicclang of the little bell. It sounded sharp and sorrowful.
　　“God give us rest!” I remembered the saying of the watchman. It wasvery painful and somehow it was suffocating. I was perspiring freelyalthough the night was cool. Should I have time to run into the watchman’slodge if old Kalinin really did try to creep out of his gravedI was well acquainted with the cemetery. I had played among the gravesmany times with Yaz and other comrades. Over there by the church mymother was buried.
　　Every one was not asleep yet, for snatches of laughter and fragments ofsongs were borne to me from the village. Either on the railway embankment,to which they were carrying sand, or in the village of Katizovka a harmonicagave forth a strangled sound. Along the wall, as usual, went the drunkenblacksmith Myachov, singing. I recognized him by his song :
　　“To our mother’s door One small sin we lay. The only one she loves Isour Papasha.”
　　It was pleasant to listen to the last sighs of life, but at each stroke of thebell it became quieter, and the quietness overflowed like a river over ameadow, drowning and hiding everything. One’s soul seemed to float inboundless and unfathomable space, to be extinguished like the light of acatch in the darkness, be — coming dissolved without leaving a trace in thatocean of space in which live only the unattainable stars, shining brightly,while everything on earth disappears as being useless and dead. Wrappingmyself in the blanket, I sat on the coffin, with my feet tucked under me andmy face to the church. Whenever I moved, the coffin squeaked, and the sandunder it crunched.
　　Something twice struck the ground close to me, and then a piece of brickfell near by. I was frightened, but then I guessed that Valek and his friendswere throwing things at me from the other side of the wall, trying to scareme. But I felt all the better for the proximity of human creatures.
　　I began unwillingly to think of my mother. Once she had found me tryingto smoke a cigarette. She began to beat me, but I said :
　　“Don’t touch me; I feel bad enough without that. I feel very sick.”
　　Afterward, when I was put behind the stove as a punishment, she said tograndmother :
　　“That boy has no feeling; he doesn’t love any one.”
　　It hurt me to hear that. When my mother punished me I was sorry forher. I felt uncomfortable for her sake, because she seldom punished medeservedly or justly. On the whole, I had received a great deal of ill treatmentin my life. Those people on the other side of the fence, for example, mustknow that I was frightened of being alone in the cemetery, yet they wanted tofrighten me more. Why?
　　I should like to have shouted to them, “Go to the devil!” but that mighthave been disastrous. Who knew what the devil would think of it, for nodoubt he was somewhere near. There was a lot of mica in the sand, and itgleamed faintly in the moonlight, which reminded me how, lying one day ona raft on the Oka, gazing into the water, a bream suddenly swam almost inmy face, turned on its side, looking like a human cheek, and, looking at mewith its round, bird-like eyes, dived to the bottom, fluttering like a leaf fallingfrom a maple-tree.
　　My memory worked with increasing effort, recalling different episodes ofmy life, as if it were striving to protect itself against the imaginations evokedby terror.
　　A hedgehog came rolling along, tapping on the sand with its strong paws.
　　It reminded me of a hob-goblin; it was just as little and as disheveled-looking.
　　I remembered how grandmother, squatting down beside the stove, said,“Kind master of the house, take away the beetles.”
　　Far away over the town, which I could not see, it grew lighter. The coldmorning air blew against my cheeks and into my eyes. I wrapped myself inmy blanket. Let come what would!
　　Grandmother awoke me. Standing beside me and pulling off the blanket,she said :
　　“Get up! Aren’t you chilled? Well, were you frightened?”
　　“I was frightened, but don’t tell any one; don’t tell the other boys.”
　　“But why not?” she asked in amazement. “If you were not afraid, youhave nothing to be proud about.”
　　As he went home she said to me gently :
　　“You have to experience things for yourself in this world, dear heart. Ifyou can’t teach yourself, no one else can teach you.”
　　By the evening I was the “hero” of the street, and every one asked me, “Isit possible that you were not afraid?” And when I answered, “I was afraid,”
　　they shook their heads and exclaimed, “Aha I you see!”
　　The shopkeeper went about saying loudly :
　　“It may be that they talked nonsense when they said that Kalinin walked.
　　But if he did, do you think he would have frightened that boy? No, he wouldhave driven him out of the cemetery, and no one would know v/here hewent.”
　　Ludmilla looked at me with tender astonishment. Even grandfather wasobviously pleased with me. They all made much of me. Only Tchurka saidgruffly :
　　“It was easy enough for him; his grandmother is a witch!”
Chapter 3
    IMPERCEPTIBLY, like a little star at dawn, my brother Kolia faded away.
　　Grandmother, he, and I slept in a small shed on planks covered with variousrags. On the other side of the chinky wall of the out-house was the familypoultry-house. We could hear the sleepy, overfed fowls fluttering andclucking in the evening, and the golden, shrill-voiced cock awoke us in themorning.
　　“Oh, I should like to tear you to pieces!” grandmother would grumblewhen they woke her.
　　I was already awake, watching the sunbeams falling through the chinksupon my bed, and the silver specks of dust which danced in them. Theselittle specks seemed to me just like the words in a fairy-tale. Mice hadgnawed the planks, and red beetles with black spots ran about there.
　　Sometimes, to escape from the stifling fumes which arose from the soilin the fowl-house, I crept out of the wooden hut, climbed to the roof, andwatched the people of the house waking up, eyeless, large, and swollen withsleep. Here appeared the hairy noddle of the boatman Phermanov, a surlydrunkard, who gazed at the sun with blear, running eyes and grunted like abear. Then grandfather came hurrying out into the yard and hastened to thewash-house to wash himself in cold water. The garrulous cook of the land —lord, a sharp-nosed woman, thickly covered with freckles, was like a cuckoo.
　　The landlord himself was like an old fat dove. In fact, they were all like somebird, animal, or wild beast.
　　Although the morning was so pleasant and bright, it made me feel sad,and I wanted to get away into the fields where no one came, for I had alreadylearned that human creatures always spoil a bright day.
　　One day when I was lying on the roof grandmother called me, and said ina low voice, shaking her head as she lay on her bed :
　　“Kolia is dead.”
　　The little boy had slipped from the pillow, and lay livid, lanky on the feltcover. His night-shirt had worked itself up round his neck, leaving bare hisswollen stomach and crooked legs. His hands were curiously folded behindhis back, as if he had been trying to lift himself up. His head was bent on oneside.
　　“Thank God he has gone!” said grandmother as she did her hair. “Whatwould have become of the poor little wretch had he lived?”
　　Treading almost as if he were dancing, grandfather made hisappearance, and cautiously touched the closed eyes of the child with hisfingers.
　　Grandmother asked him angrily:
　　“What do you mean by touching him with unwashen hands?”
　　He muttered:
　　“There you are! He gets born, lives, and eats, and all for nothing.”
　　“You are half asleep,” grandmother cut him short.
　　He looked at her vacantly, and went out in the yard, saying :
　　“I am not going to give him a funeral; you can do what you like about it.”
　　“Phoo! you miserable creature!”
　　I went out, and did not return until it was close upon evening. Theyburied Kolia on the morning of the following day, and during the mass I satby the reopened grave with my dog and Yaz’s father. He had dug the gravecheaply, and kept praising himself for it before my face.
　　“I have only done this out of friendship; for any one else I should havecharged so many rubles.”
　　Looking into the yellow pit, from which arose a heavy odor, I saw somemoist black planks at one side. At my slightest movement the heaps of sandaround the grave fell to the bottom in a thin stream, leaving wrinkles in thesides. I moved on purpose, so that the sand would hide those boards.
　　“No larks now!” said Yaz’s father, as he smoked.
　　Grandmother carried out the little coffin. The “trashy peasant” spranginto the hole, took the coffin from her, placed it beside the black boards, and,jumping out of the grave, began to hurl the earth into it with his feet and hisspade. Grandfather and grandmother also helped him in silence. There wereneither priests nor beggars there ; only we four amid a dense crowd ofcrosses. As she gave the sexton his money, grandmother said reproachfully:
　　“But you have disturbed Varina’s coffin.”
　　“What else could I do? If I had not done that, I should have had to takesome one else’s piece of ground. But there’s nothing to worry about.”
　　Grandmother prostrated herself on the grave, sobbed and groaned, andwent away, followed by grandfather, his eyes hidden by the peak of his cap,clutching at his worn coat.
　　“They have sown the seed in unplowed ground,” he said suddenly,running along in front, just like a crow on the plowed field.
　　“What does he mean?” I asked grandmother.
　　“God bless him! He has his thoughts,” she answered.
　　It was hot. Grandmother went heavily; her feet sank in the warm sand.
　　She halted frequently, mopping her perspiring face with her handkerchief.
　　“That black thing in the grave,” I asked her, “was it mother’s coffin?”
　　“Yes,” she said angrily. “Ignorant dog! It is not a year yet, and our Variais already decayed! It is the sand that has done it; it lets the water through. Ifthat had to happen, it would have been better to — ”
　　“Shall we all decay?”
　　“All. Only the saints escape it.”
　　“You — you will not decay!”
　　She halted, set my cap straight, and said to me seriously :
　　“Don’t think about it; it is better not. Do you hear?’
　　But I did think of it. How offensive and revolting death was! How odious!
　　I felt very badly about itWhen we reached home grandfather had already prepared the samovarand laid the table.
　　“Come and have some tea. I expect you are hot,” he said. “I have put inmy own tea as well. This is for us all.”
　　He went to grandmother and patted her on the shoulder.
　　“Well, Mother, well?”
　　Grandmother held up her hands.
　　“Whatever does it all mean?”
　　“This is what it means: God is angry with us; He is tearing everythingaway from us bit by bit. If families lived together in unity, like fingers on ahand —”
　　It was long since he had spoken so gently and peaceably. I listened,hoping that the old man would extinguish my sense of injury, and help me toforget the yellow pit and the black moist boards in protuberance in its side.
　　But grandmother cut him short harshly :
　　“Leave off, Father! You have been uttering words like that all your life,and I should like to know who is the better for them? All your life you haveeaten into every one as rust corrodes iron.”
　　Grandfather muttered, looked at her, and held his tongue.
　　In the evening, at the gate, I told Ludmilla sorrowfully about what I hadseen in the morning, but it did not seem to make much impression on her.
　　“Orphans are better off. If my father and mother were to die, I shouldleave my sister to look after my brother, and I myself would go into a conventfor the rest of my life. Where else should I go? I don’t expect to get married,being lame and unable to work. Besides, I might bring crippled children intothe world.”
　　She spoke wisely, like all the women of our street, and it must have beenfrom that evening that I lost interest in her. In fact, my life took a turn whichcaused me to see her very seldom.
　　A few days after the death of my brother, grandfather said to me :
　　“Go to bed early this evening, while it is still light, and I will call you. Wewill go into the forest and get some logs.”
　　“And I will come and gather herbs,” declared grandmother.
　　The forest of fir — and birch — trees stood on a marsh about three verstsdistant from the village. Abounding in withered and fallen trees, it stretchedin one direction to the Oka, and in the other to the high road to Moscow.
　　Beyond it, with its soft, black bristles looking like a black tent, rose the fir-thicket on the “Ridge of Savelov.”
　　All this property belonged to Count Shuvalov, and was badly guarded.
　　The inhabitants of Kunavin regarded it as their own, carried away the fallentrees and cut off the dried wood, and on occasion were not squeamish aboutcutting down living trees. In the autumn, when they were laying in a stock ofwood for the winter, people used to steal out here by the dozen, with hatchetsand ropes on their backs.
　　And so we three went out at dawn over the silver-green, dewy fields. Onour left, beyond the Oka, above the ruddy sides of the Hill of Dyatlov, abovewhite Nijni-Novgorod, on the hillocks in the gardens, on the golden domesof churches, rose the lazy Russian sun in its leisurely manner. A gentle windblew sleepily from the turbid Oka; the golden buttercups, bowed down by thedew, sway to and fro; lilac-colored bells bowed dumbly to the earth;everlasting flowers of different colors stuck up dryly in the barren turf; theblood-red blossoms of the flower called “night beauty” opened like stars. Thewoods came to meet us like a dark army; the fir-trees spread out their wingslike large birds; the birches looked like maidens. The acrid smell of themarshes flowed over the fields. My dog ran beside me with his pink tonguehanging out, often halting and snuffing the air, and shaking his fox-like head,as if in perplexity. Grandfather, in grand — mother’s short coat and an oldpeakless cap, blinking and smiling at something or other, walked ascautiously as if he were bent on stealing. Grandmother, wearing a blueblouse, a black skirt, and a white handkerchief about her head, waddledcomfortably. It was difficult to hurry when walking behind her.
　　The nearer we came to the forest, the more animated grandfatherbecame. Walking with his nose in the air and muttering, he began to speak,at first disjointedly and inarticulately, and afterward happily and beautifully,almost as if he had been drinking.
　　“The forests are the Lord’s gardens. No one planted them save the windof God and the holy breath of His mouth. When I was working on the boatsin my youth I went to Jegoulya. Oh, Lexei, you will never have theexperiences I have had! There are forests along the Oka, from Kasimov toMouron, and there are forests on the Volga, too, stretching as far as theUrals. Yes; it is all so boundless and wonderful.”
　　Grandmother looked at him askance, and winked at me, and he,stumbling over the hillocks, let fall some disjointed, dry words that haveremained forever fixed in my memory.
　　“We were taking some empty oil-casks from Saratov to Makara on theYamarka, and we had with us as skipper Kyril of Poreshka. The mate was aTatar — Asaph, or some such name. When we reached Jegulia the wind wasright in our faces, blowing with all its force; and as it remained in the samequarter and tossed us about, we went on shore to cook some food forourselves. It was Maytime. The sea lay smooth around the land, and thewaves just floated on her, like a flock of birds — like thousands of swanswhich sport on the Caspian Sea. The hills of Jegulia are green in thespringtime; the sun floods the earth with gold. We rested; we becamefriendly; we seemed to be drawn to one another. It was gray and cold on theriver, but on shore it was warm and fragrant. At eventide our Kyril — he wasa harsh man and well on in years — stood up, took off his cap, and said :
　　‘Well, children, I am no longer either chief or servant. Go away byyourselves, and I will go to the forest.’ We were all startled. What was it thathe was saying? We ought not to be left without some one responsible to bemaster. You see, people can’t get on without a head, although it is only on theVolga, which is like a straight road. It is possible to lose one’s way, for peoplealone are only like a senseless beast, and who cares what becomes of them?
　　We were frightened; but he — he had made up his mind. T have no desire togo on living as your shepherd; I am going into the forest.’ Some of us hadhalf a mind to seize and keep him by force, but the others said, ‘Wait!’ Thenthe Tatar mate set up a cry: T shall go, too!’ It was very bad luck. The Tatarhad not been paid by the proprietors for the last two journeys; in fact, he haddone half of a third one without pay, and that was a lot of money to lose inthose days. We wrangled over the matter until night, and then seven of ourcompany left us, leaving only sixteen or fourteen of us. That’s what yourforests do for people!” “Did they go and join the brigands?”
　　“Maybe, or they may have become hermits. We did not inquire into thematter then.”
　　Grandmother crossed herself.
　　“Holy Mother of God! When one thinks of people, one cannot help beingsorry for them.”
　　“We are all given the same powers of reason, you know, where the devildraws.”
　　We entered the forest by a wet path between marshy hillocks and frailfir-trees. I thought that it must be lovely to go and live in the woods as Kyrilof Poreshka had done. There are no chattering human creatures there, nofights or drunkenness. There I should be able to forget the repulsivegreediness of grandfather and mother’s sandy grave, all of which things hurtme, and weighed on my heart with an oppressive heaviness. When we cameto a dry place grandmother said:
　　“We must have a snack now. Sit down.”
　　In her basket there were rye bread, onions, cucumbers, salt, and curdswrapped in a cloth. Grandfather looked at all this in confusion and blinked.
　　“But I did not bring anything to eat, good Mother.”
　　“There is enough for us all.”
　　We sat down, leaning against the mast-like trunk of a fir-tree. The airwas laden with a resinous odor; from the fields blew a gentle wind; theshave-grass waved to and fro. Grandmother plucked the herbs with her darkhands, and told me about the medicinal properties of St. John’s-wort,betony, and rib-wort, and of the secret power of bracken. Grandfather hewedthe fallen trees in pieces, and it was my part to carry the logs and put themall in one place; but I stole away unnoticed into the thicket aftergrandmother. She looked as if she were floating among the stout, hardy tree-trunks, and as if she were diving when she stooped to the earth, which wasstrewn with fir-cones. She talked to herself as she went along.
　　“We have come too early again. There will be hardly any mushrooms.
　　Lord, how badly Thou lookest after the poor! Mushrooms are the treat of thepoor.”
　　I followed her silently and cautiously, not to attract her attention. I didnot wish to interrupt her conversation with God, the herbs, and the frogs.
　　But she saw me.
　　“Have you run away from grandfather?” And stooping to the black earth,splendidly decked in flowered vestments, she spoke of the time when God,enraged with mankind, flooded the earth with water and drowned all livingcreatures. “But the sweet Mother of God had beforehand collected the seedsof everything in a basket and hidden them, and when it was all over, shebegged the sun: ‘Dry the earth from end to end, and then will all the peoplesing thy praises.’ The sun dried the earth, and she sowed the seed. Godlooked. Once more the earth was covered with living creatures, herbs, cattle,and people. ‘Who has done this against My will?’ He asked. And here sheconfessed, and as God had been sorry Himself to see the earth bare, He saidto her, ‘You have done well.’ ”
　　I liked. this story, but it surprised me, and I said very gravely :
　　“But was that really so? The Mother of God was born long after theflood.”
　　It was now grandmother’s turn to be surprised.
　　“Who told you that?’
　　“It was written in the books at school.”
　　This reassured her, and she gave me the advice:
　　“Put all that aside; forget it. It is only out of books; they are lies, thosebooks.” And laughing softly, gayly, “Think for a moment, silly! God was; andHis Mother was not? Then of whom was He born?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Good! You have learned enough to be able to say 1 don’t know.’ ”
　　“The priest said that the Mother of God was bom of Joachim and Anna.”
　　Then grandmother was angry. She faced about, and looked sternly intomy eyes.
　　“If that is what you think, I will slap you.” But in the course of a fewminutes she explained to me. “The Blessed Virgin always existed before anyone and anything. Of Her was God born, and then — ”
　　“And Christ, what about Him?”
　　Grandmother was silent, shutting her eyes in her confusion.
　　“And what about Christ ? Eh? thVI saw that I was victor, that I had caused the divine mysteries to be asnare to her, and it was not a pleasant thought.
　　We went farther and farther into the forest, into the dark-blue hazepierced by the golden rays of the sun. There was a peculiar murmur, dreamy,and arousing dreams. The crossbill chirped, the titmouses uttered their bell-like notes, . the goldfinch piped, the cuckoo laughed, the jealous song of thechaffinch was heard unceasingly, and that strange bird, the hawfinch, sangpensively. Emerald-green frogs hopped around our feet; among the roots,guarding them, lay an adder, with his golden head raised; the squirrelcracked nuts, his furry tail peeping out among the fir-trees. The deeper onewent into the forest, the more one saw.
　　Among the trunks of the fir-trees appeared transparent, aerial figures ofgigantic people, which dis appeared into the green mass through which theblue and silver sky shone. Under one’s feet there was a splendid carpet ofmoss, sown with red bilberries, and moor-berries shone in the grass likedrops of blood. Mushrooms tantalized one with their strong smell.
　　“Holy Virgin, bright earthly light,” prayed grandmother, drawing a deepbreath.
　　In the forest she was like the mistress of a house with all her familyround her. She ambled along like a bear, seeing and praising everything andgiving thanks. It seemed as if a certain warmth flowed from her through theforest, and when the moss, crushed by her feet, raised itself and stood up inher wake, it was peculiarly pleasing to me to see it.
　　As I walked along I thought how nice it would be to be a brigand; to robthe greedy and give the spoil to the poor; to make them all happy andsatisfied, neither envying nor scolding one another, like bad-tempered curs.
　　It was good to go thus to grand — mother’s God, to her Holy Virgin, and tellthem all the truth about the bad lives people led, and how clumsily andoffensively they buried one another in rubbishy sand. And there was so muchthat was un necessarily repulsive and torturing on earth! If the Holy Virginbelieved what I said, let her give me such an intelligence as would enable meto construct everything differently and improve the condition of things. Itdid not matter about my not being grown-up. Christ had been only a yearolder than I was when the wise men listened to Him.
　　Once in my preoccupation I fell into a deep pit, hurting my side andgrazing the back of my neck. Sitting at the bottom of this pit in the cold mud,which was as sticky as resin, I realized with a feeling of intense humiliationthat I should not be able to get out by myself, and I did not like the idea offrightening grandmother by calling out. However, I had to call her in the end.
　　She soon dragged me out, and, crossing herself, said:
　　“The Lord be praised! It is a lucky thing that the bear’s pit was empty.
　　What would have happened to you if the master of the house had been lyingthere?” And she cried through her laughter.
　　Then she took me to the brook, washed my wounds and tied them upwith strips of her chemise, after laying some healing leaves upon them, andtook me into the railway signal-box, for I had not the strength to get all theway home.
　　And so it happened that almost every day I said to grandmother :
　　“Let us go into the forest.”
　　She used to agree willingly, and thus we lived all the summer and far intothe autumn, gathering herbs, berries, mushrooms, and nuts. Grandmothersold what we gathered, and by this means we were able to keep ourselves.
　　“Lazy beggars!” shrieked grandfather, though we never had food fromhim.
　　The forest called up a feeling of peace and solace in my heart, and in thatfeeling all my griefs were swallowed up, and all that was unpleasant wasobliterated. During that time also my senses acquired a peculiar keenness,my hearing and sight became more acute, my memory more retentive, mystorehouse of impressions widened.
　　And the more I saw of grandmother, the more she amazed me. I hadbeen accustomed to regard her as a higher being, as the very best and thewisest creature upon the earth, and she was continually strengthening thisconviction. For instance, one evening we had been gathering whitemushrooms, and when we arrived at the edge of the forest on our way homegrandmother sat down to rest while I went behind the tree to see if therewere any more mushrooms. Suddenly I heard her voice, and this is what Isaw : she was seated by the footpath calmly putting away the root of amushroom, while near her, with his tongue hanging out, stood a gray,emaciated dog.
　　“You go away now! Go away!” said grandmother. “Go, and God be withyou!”
　　Not long before that Valek had poisoned my dog, and I wanted verymuch to have this one. I ran to the path. The dog hunched himself strangelywithout moving his neck, and, looking at me with his green, hungry eyes,leaped into the forest, with his tail between his legs. His movements were notthose of a dog, and when I whistled, he hurled himself wildly into the bushes.
　　“You saw?” said grandmother, smiling. “At first I was deceived. I thoughtit was a dog. I looked again and saw that I was mistaken. He had the fangs ofa wolf, and the neck, too. I was quite frightened. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you are awolf, take yourself off!’ It is a good thing that wolves are not dangerous in thesummer.”
　　She was never afraid in the forest, and always found her way homeunerringly. By the smell of the grass she knew what kind of mushroomsought to be found in such and such a place, what sort in another, and oftenexamined me in the subject.
　　“What sort of trees do this and that fungus love? How do you distinguishthe edible from the poisonous?”
　　By hardly visible scratches on the bark of a tree she showed me wherethe squirrel had made his home in a hollow, and I would climb up and ravagethe nest of tlie animal, robbing him of his winter store of nuts. Sometimesthere were as many as ten pounds in one nest. And one day, when I was thusengaged, a hunter planted twenty-seven shot in the right side of my body.
　　Grandmother got eleven of them out with a needle, but the rest remainedunder my skin for many years, coming out by degrees.
　　Grandmother was pleased with me for bearing pain patiently.
　　“Brave boy!” she praised me. “He who is most patient will be thecleverest.”
　　Whenever she had saved a little money from the sale of mushrooms andnuts, she used to lay it on window-sills as “secret alms,” and she herself wentabout in rags and patches even on Sundays.
　　“You go about worse than a beggar. You put me to shame,” grumbledgrandfather.
　　“What does it matter to you? I am not your daughter. I am not lookingfor a husband.”
　　Their quarrels had become more frequent.
　　“I am not more sinful than others,” cried grandfather in injured tones,“but my punishment is greater.”
　　Grandmother used to tease him.
　　“The devils know what every one is worth.” And she would say to meprivately: “My old man is frightened of devils. See how quickly he is aging! Itis all from fear; eh, poor man!”
　　I had become very hardy during the summer, and quite savage throughliving in the forest, and I had lost all interest in the life of mycontemporaries, such as Ludmilla. She seemed to me to be tiresomelysensible.
　　One day grandfather returned from the town very wet. It was autumn,and the rains were falling. Shaking himself on the threshold like a sparrow,he said triumphantly:
　　“Well, young rascal, you are going to a new situation tomorrow.”
　　“Where now?” asked grandmother, angrily.
　　“To your sister Matrena, to her son.”
　　“O Father, you have done very wrong.”
　　“Hold your tongue, fool! They will make a man of him.”
　　Grandmother let her head droop and said nothing more.
　　In the evening I told Ludmilla that I was going to live in the town.
　　“They are going to take me there soon,” she informed me, thoughtfully.
　　“Papa wants my leg to be taken off altogether. Without it I should get well.”
　　She had grown very thin during the summer; the skin of her face hadassumed a bluish tint, and her eyes had grown larger.
　　“Are you afraid?” I asked her.
　　“Yes,” she replied, and wept silently.
　　I had no means of consoling her, for I was frightened myself at theprospect of life in town. We sat for a long time in painful silence, pressedclose against each other. If it had been summer, I should have askedgrandmother to come begging with me, as she had done when she was a girl.
　　We might have taken Ludmilla with us; I could have drawn her along in alittle cart. But it was autumn. A damp wind blew up the streets, the sky washeavy with rain-clouds, the earth frowned. It had begun to look dirty andunhappy.
Chapter 4
    ONCE more I was in the town, in a two-storied white house which remindedme of a coffin meant to hold a lot of people. It was a new house, but it lookedas if were in ill health, and was bloated like a beggar who has suddenlybecome rich and has over-eaten. It stood sidewise to the street, and had eightwindows to each floor, but where the face of the house ought to have beenthere were only four windows. The lower windows looked on a narrowpassage and on the yard, and the upper windows on the laundress’s littlehouse and the causeway.
　　No street, as I understood the term, existed. In front of the house a dirtycauseway ran in two directions, cut in two by a narrow dike. To the left, itextended to the House of Detention, and was heaped with rubbish and logs,and at the bottom stood a thick pool of dark-green filth. On the right, at theend of the causeway, the slimy Xvyexdin Pond stagnated. The middle of thecauseway was exactly opposite the house, and half of it was strewn with filthand over-grown with nettles and horse sorrel, while in the other half thepriest Doriedont Pokrovski had planted a garden in which was a summerhouseof thin lathes painted red. If one threw stones at it, the lathes splitwith a crackling sound.
　　The place was intolerably depressing and shamelessly dirty. The autumnhad ruthlessly broken up the filthy, rotten earth, changing it into a sort of redresin which clung to one’s feet tenaciously. I had never seen so much dirt inso small a space before, and after being accustomed to the cleanliness of thefields and forests, this corner of the town aroused my disgust.
　　Beyond the causeway stretched gray, broken-down fences, and in thedistance I recognized the little house in which I had lived when I was shop-boy. The nearness of that house depressed me still more. I had known mymaster before; he and his brother used to be among mother’s visitors. Hisbrother it was who had sung so comically :
　　“Andrei — papa, Andrei — papa — ”
　　They were not changed. The elder, with a hook nose and long hair, waspleasant in manner and seemed to be kind; the younger, Victor, had thesame horse-like face and the same freckles. Their mother, grandmother’ssister, was very cross and fault-finding. The elder son was married. His wifewas a splendid creature, white like bread made from Indian corn, with verylarge, dark eyes. She said to me twice during the first day:
　　“I gave your mother a silk cloak trimmed with jet.”
　　Somehow I did not want to believe that she had given, and that mymother had accepted, a present. When she reminded me of it again, I said:
　　“You gave it to her, and that is the end of the matter; there is nothing toboast about.”
　　She started away from me. “Wh-a-at? To whom are you speaking?”
　　Her face came out in red blotches, her eyes rolled, and she called herhusband.
　　He came into the kitchen, with his compasses in his hand and a pencilbehind his ear, listened to what his wife had to say, and then said to me :
　　“You must speak properly to her and to us all. There must be noinsolence.” Then he said to his wife, impatiently, “Don’t disturb me with yournonsense!”
　　“What do you mean — nonsense? If your relatives — ”
　　“The devil take my relatives!” cried the master, rushing away.
　　I myself was not pleased to think that they were relatives ofgrandmother. Experience had taught me that relatives behave worse to oneanother than do strangers. Their gossip is more spiteful, since they knowmore of the bad and ridiculous sides of one another than strangers, and theyfall out and fight more often.
　　I liked my master. He used to shake back his hair with a gracefulmovement, and tuck it behind his ears, and he reminded me somehow of“Good Business.” He often laughed merrily; his gray eyes looked kindly uponme, and funny wrinkles played divertingly about his aquiline nose.
　　“You have abused each other long enough, wild fowl,” he would say to hismother and his wife, showing his small, closely set teeth in a gentle smile.
　　The mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law abused each other all day. Iwas surprised to see how swiftly and easily they plunged into a quarrel. Thefirst thing in the morning, with their hair unbrushed and their clothesunfastened, they would rush about the rooms as if the house were on fire,and they fussed about all day, only pausing to take breath in the dining-roomat dinner, tea, or supper. They ate and drank till they could eat and drink nomore, and at dinner they talked about the food and disputed lethargically,preparing for a big quarrel. No matter what it was that the mother-in-lawhad prepared, the daughter-in-law was sure to say:—“My mother did not cook it this way.”
　　“Well, if that is so, she did it badly, that’s all.”
　　“On the contrary, she did it better.”
　　“Well, you had better go back to your mother.”
　　“I am mistress here.”
　　“And who am I?”
　　Here the master would intervene.
　　“That will do, wild fowl! What is the matter with you? Are you mad?”
　　For some inexplicable reason everything about that house was peculiarand mirth-provoking. The way from the kitchen to the dining-room laythrough a small closet, the only one in the house, through which they carriedthe samovar and the food into the dining-room. It was the cause of merrywitticisms and often of laughable misunderstandings. I slept in the kitchen,between that door and the one leading to the stairs. My head was hot fromthe heat of the cooking-stove, but the draft from the stairs blew on my feet.
　　When I retired to bed, I used to take all the mats off the floor and wrap themround my feet.
　　The large reception-room, with its two pier-glasses, its pictures in giltframes, its pair of card-tables, and its dozen Vienna chairs, was a dreary,depressing place. The small drawing-room was simply packed with a medleyof soft furniture, with wedding presents, silver articles, and a tea-service. Itwas adorned with three lamps, one larger than the other two.
　　In the dark, windowless bedroom, in addition to the wide bed, therewere trunks and cupboards from which came the odors of leaf tobacco andPersian camomile. These three rooms were always unoccupied, while theentire household squeezed itself into the little dining-room. Directly afterbreakfast, at eight o’clock, the master and his brother moved the table, and,laying sheets of white paper upon it, with cases, pencils, and saucerscontaining Indian ink, set to work, one at each end of the table. The table wasshaky, and took up nearly the whole of the room, and when the mistress andthe nurse came out of the nursery they had to brush past the corners.
　　“Don’t come fussing about here!” Victor would cry.
　　“Vassia, please tell him not to shout at me,” the mistress would say to herhusband in an offended tone.
　　“All right; but don’t come and shake the table,” her husband would replypeaceably.
　　“I am stout, and the room is so small.”
　　“Well, we will go and work in the large drawing-room.”
　　But at that she cried indignantly:
　　“Lord! why on earth should you work in the large drawing-room?”
　　At the door of the closet appeared the angry face of Matrena Ivanovna,flushed with the heat of the stove. She called out :
　　“You see how it is, Vassia? She knows that you are working, and yet shecan’t be satisfied with the other four rooms.”
　　Victor laughed maliciously, but the master said:
　　“That will do!”
　　And the daughter-in-law, with a venomously eloquent gesture, sank intoa chair and groaned :
　　“I am dying! I am dying!”
　　“Don’t hinder my work, the devil take you!” roared the master, turningpale with the exertion. “This is nothing better than a mad-house. Here am Ibreaking my back to feed you. Oh, you wild fowl!”
　　At first these quarrels used to alarm me, especially when the mistress,seizing a table knife, rushed into the closet, and, shutting both the doors,began to shriek like a mad thing. For a minute the house was quiet, then themaster, having tried to force the door, stooped down, and called out to me :
　　“Climb up on my back and unfasten the hook.” I swiftly jumped on hisback, and broke the pane of glass over the door; but when I bent down, themistress hit me over the head with the blade of the knife. However, Isucceeded in opening the door, and the master, dragging his wife into thedining-room after a struggle, took the knife away from her. As I sat in thekitchen rubbing my bruised head, I soon came to the conclusion that I hadsuffered for nothing. The knife was so blunt that it would hardly cut a pieceof bread, and it would certainly never have made an incision in any one’sskin. Besides, there had been no need for me to climb on the master’s back. Icould have broken the glass by standing on a chair, and in any case it wouldhave been easier for a grown person to have unfastened the hook, since hisarms would have been longer. After that episode the quarrels in the houseceased to alarm me.
　　The brothers used to sing in the church choir; sometimes they used tosing softly over their work. The elder would begin in a baritone :
　　“The ring, which was the maiden’s heart, I cast from me into the sea.”
　　And the younger would join with his tenor:
　　“And I with that very ring Her earthly joy did ruin.”
　　The mistress would murmur from the nursery: “Have you gone out ofyour minds? Baby is asleep,” or: “How can you, Vassia, a married man, besinging about girls? Besides, the bell will ring for vespers in a minute.”
　　“What’s the matter now? We are only singing a church tune.”
　　But the mistress intimated that it was out ox place to sing church tuneshere, there, and everywhere. Besides, and she pointed eloquently to the littledoor.
　　“We shall have to change our quarters, or the devil knows what willbecome of us,” said the master.
　　He said just as often that he must get another table, and he said it forthree years in succession.
　　When I listened to my employers talking about people, I was alwaysreminded of the boot-shop. They used to talk in the same way there. It wasevident to me that my present masters also thought themselves better thanany one in the town. They knew the rules of correct conduct to the minutestdetail, and, guided by these rules, which were not at all clear to me, theyjudged others pitilessly and unsparingly. This sitting in judgment aroused inme a ferocious resentment and anger against the laws of my employers, andthe breaking of those laws became a source of pleasure to me.
　　I had a lot of work to do. I fulfilled all the duties of a housemaid, washedthe kitchen over on Wednesday, cleaning the samovar and all the coppervessels, and on Saturday cleaned the floor of the rest of the house and bothstaircases. I had to chop and bring in the wood for the stoves, wash up,prepare vegetables for cooking, and go marketing with the mis — tress,carrying her basket of purchases after her, be — sides running errands to theshops and to the chemist.
　　My real mistress, grandmother’s sister, a noisy, indomitable, implacablyfierce old woman, rose early at six o’clock, and after washing herself in ahurry, knelt before the icon with only her chemise on, and complained longto God about her life, her children, and her daughter-in-law.
　　“Lord,” she would exclaim, with tears in her voice, pressing her two firstfingers and her thumbs against her forehead — “Lord, I ask nothing, I wantnothing; only give me rest and peace, Lord, by Thy power!”
　　Her sobs used to wake me up, and, half asleep, I used to peep from underthe blanket, and listen with terror to her passionate prayers. The autumnmorning looked dimly in at the kitchen window through panes washed by therain. On the floor in the cold twilight her gray figure swayed from side toside; she waved her arms alarmingly. Her thin, light hair fell from her smallhead upon her neck and shoulders from under the swathing handkerchief,which kept slipping off. She would replace it angrily with her left hand,muttering “Oh, bother you!”
　　Striking her forehead with force, beating her breast and her shoulders,she would wail:
　　“And my daughter-in-law — punish her, O Lord, on my account! Makeher pay for all that she has made me suffer! And open the eyes of my son —open his eyes and Victor’s! Lord, help Victor; be merciful to him!”
　　Victorushka also slept in the kitchen, and, hearing the groans of hismother, would cry in a sleepy voice :
　　“Mamasha, you are running down the young wife again. It is reallydreadful.”
　　“All right; go to sleep,” the old woman would whisper guiltily. She wouldbe silent for a minute perhaps, and then she would begin to murmurvindictively, “May their bones be broken, and may there be no shelter forthem on earth. Lord!”
　　Even grandfather had never prayed so terribly.
　　When she had said her prayers she used to wake me up.
　　“Wake up! You will never get on if you do not get up early. Get thesamovar ready! Bring the wood in! Didn’t you get the sticks ready overnight?’
　　I tried to be quick in order to escape hearing the frothy whisper of theold woman, but it was impossible to please her. She went about the kitchenlike a winter snow-storm, hissing:
　　“Not so much noise, you little devil! Wake Victorushka up, and I will giveyou something! Now run along to the shop!”
　　On weekdays I used to buy two pounds of wheaten bread and twocopecks’ worth of rolls for the young mistress. When I brought it in, thewomen would look at it suspiciously, and, weighing it in the palms of theirhands, would ask :
　　“Wasn’t there a make-weight? No? Open your mouth!” And then theywould cry triumphantly: “He has gobbled up the make-weight; here are thecrumbs in his teeth! You see, Vassia?”
　　I worked willingly enough. It pleased me to abolish dirt from the house,to wash the floors, to clean the copper vessels, the warm-holes, and the door-handles. More than once I heard the women remark about me in theirpeaceful moments:
　　“He is zealous.”
　　“And clean.”
　　“Only he is very impudent.”
　　“Well, Mother, who has educated him?’
　　They both tried to educate me to respect them, but I regarded them ashalf witted. I did not like them; I would not obey them, and I used to answerthem back. The young mistress must have noticed what a bad effect theirspeeches had upon me, for she said with increasing frequency:
　　“You ought to remember from what a poor family you have been taken. Igave your mother a silk cloak trimmed with jet.”
　　One day I said to her:
　　“Do you want me to skin myself to pay for the cloak?”
　　“Good gracious!” she cried in a tone of alarm, “this boy is capable ofsetting fire to the place!”
　　I was extremely surprised. Why did she say that?
　　They both complained to the master about me on this occasion, and hesaid to me sternly:
　　“Now, my boy, you had better look out.” But one day he said coolly to hiswife and his mother: “You are a nice pair! You ride the boy as if he were agelding! Any other boy would have run away long ago if you had not workedhim to death first.”
　　This made the women so angry that they wept, and his wife stamped herfoot, crying:
　　“How can you speak like that before him, you long-haired fool? What canI do with him after this? And in my state of health, too!”
　　The mother cried sadly:
　　“May God forgive you, Vassia Vassilich! Only, mark my words, you arespoiling that boy.”
　　When they had gone away raging, the master said to me sternly:
　　“You see, you little devil, what rows you cause! I shall take you back toyour grandfather, and you can be a rag-picker again.”
　　This insult was more than I could bear, and I said:
　　“I had a better life as a rag-picker than I have with you. You took me as apupil, and what have you taught me ? To empty the dish-water!”
　　He took me by the hair, but not roughly, and looked into my eyes, sayingin a tone of astonishment :
　　“I see you are rebellious. That, my lad, won’t suit me. N-o-o.”
　　I thought that I should be sent away for this, but a few days later he cameinto the kitchen with a roll of thick paper, a pencil, a square, and a ruler inhis hands.
　　“When you have finished cleaning the knives, draw this.”
　　On one sheet of paper was outlined the fagade of a two-storied house,with many windows and absurd decorations.
　　“Here are compasses for you. Place dots on the paper where the ends ofthe lines come, and then draw from point to point with a ruler, lengthwisefirst — that will be horizontal — and then across — that will be vertical. Nowget on with it.”
　　I was delighted to have some clean work to do, but I gazed at the paperand the instruments with reverent fear, for I understood nothing aboutthem. However, after washing my hands, I sat down to learn. I drew all thehorizontal lines on the sheet and compared them. They were quite good,although three seemed superfluous. I drew the vertical lines, and observedwith astonishment that the face of the house was absurdly disfigured. Thewindows had crossed over to the partition wall, and one came out behind thewall and hung in mid-air. The front steps were raised in the air to the heightof the second floor; a cornice appeared in the middle of the roof; and adormer-window on the chimney.
　　For a long time, hardly able to restrain my tears, I gazed at thosemiracles of inaccuracy, trying to make out how they had occurred; and notbeing able to arrive at any conclusion, I decided to rectify the mistakes by theaid of fancy. I drew upon the fagade of the house, upon the cornices, and theedge of the roof, crows, doves, and sparrows, and on the ground in front ofthe windows, people with crooked legs, under umbrellas which did not quitehide their deformities. Then I drew slanting lines across the whole, and tookmy work to my master.
　　He raised his eyebrows, ruffled his hair, and gruffly inquired :
　　“What is all this about?”
　　“That is rain coming down,” I explained. “When it rains, the house lookscrooked, because the rain itself is always crooked. The birds — you see, theseare all birds — are taking shelter. They always do that when it rains. Andthese people are running home. There — that is a lady who has fallen down,and that is a peddler with lemons to sell.”
　　“I am much obliged to you,” said my master, and bending over the tabletill his hair swept the paper, he burst out laughing as he cried:
　　“Och! you deserve to be torn up and thrown away yourself, you wildsparrow!”
　　The mistress came in, and having looked at my work, said to herhusband:
　　“Beat him!”
　　But the master said peaceably:
　　“That’s all right; I myself did not begin any better.”
　　Obliterating the spoiled house with a red pencil, he gave me some paper.
　　“Try once more.”
　　The second copy came out better, except that a window appeared inplace of the front door. But I did not like to think that the house was empty,so I filled it with all sorts of inmates. At the windows sat ladies with fans intheir hands, and cavaliers with cigarettes. One of these, a non-smoker, wasmaking a “long nose” at all the others. A cabman stood on the steps, and nearhim lay a dog.
　　“Why, you have been scribbling over it again!” the master exclaimedangrily.
　　I explained to him that a house without inhabitants was a dull place, buthe only scolded me.
　　“To the devil with all this foolery! If you want to learn, learn! But this isrubbish!”
　　When at length I learned to make a copy of the fagade which resembledthe original he was pleased.
　　“There, you see what you can do! Now, if you choose, we shall soon geton,” and he gave me a lesson.
　　“Make a plan of this house, showing the arrangement of the rooms, theplaces of the doors and win — dows, and the rest. I shall not show you how.
　　You must do it by yourself.”
　　I went to the kitchen and debated. How was I to do it? But at this pointmy studies in the art of drawing came to a standstill.
　　The old mistress came to me and said spitefully:
　　“So you want to draw?”
　　Seizing me by the hair, she bumped my head on the table so hard thatmy nose and lips were bruised. Then she darted upon and tore up the paper,swept the instruments from the table, and with her hands on her hips saidtriumphantly:
　　“That was more than I could stand. Is an outsider to do the work whilehis only brother, his own flesh and blood, goes elsewhere?”
　　The master came running in, his wife rushed after him, and a wild scenebegan. All three flew at one another, spitting and howling, and it ended inthe women weeping, and the master saying to me :
　　“You will have to give up the idea for a time, and not learn. You can seefor yourself what comes of it!”
　　I pitied him. He was so crushed, so defenseless, and quite deafened bythe shrieks of the women. I had realized before that the old woman did notlike my studying, for she used to hinder me purposely, so I always asked herbefore I sat down to my drawing:
　　“There is nothing for me to do?”
　　She would answer frowningly:
　　“When there is I will tell you,” and in a few minutes she would send meon some errand, or she would say: “How beautifully you cleaned the staircasetoday! The corners are full of dirt and dust. Go and sweep them!”
　　I would go and look, but there was never any dust.
　　“Do you dare to argue with me?” she would cry.
　　One day she upset kvass all over my drawings, and at another time shespilt oil from the image lamp over them. She played tricks on me like a younggirl, with childish artfulness, and with childish ignorance trying to concealher artfulness. Never before or since have I met a person who was so soonput into a temper and for such trivial reasons, nor any one so passionatelyfond of complaining about every one and everything. People, as a rule, aregiven to complaining, but she did it with a peculiar delight, as if she weresinging a song.
　　Her love for her son was like an insanity. It amused me, but at the sametime it frightened me by what I can only describe as its furious intensity.
　　Sometimes, after her morning prayers, she would stand by the stove, withher elbows resting on the mantel-board, and would whisper hotly:
　　“My luck! My idol! My little drop of hot blood, like a jewel! Light as anangel! He sleeps. Sleep on, child! Clothe thy soul with happy dreams! Dreamto thyself a bride, beautiful above all others, a princess and an heiress, thedaughter of a merchant! As for your enemies, may they perish as soon asthey are born! And your friends, may they live for a hundred years, and maythe girls run after you like ducks after the drake!”
　　All this was inexpressibly ludicrous to me. Coarse, lazy Victor was like awoodpecker, with a woodpecker’s large, mottled nose, and the samestubborn and dull nature. Sometimes his mother’s whispers awoke him, andhe muttered sleepily:
　　“Go to the devil, Mamasha! What do you mean by snorting right in myface? You make life unbearable.”
　　Sometimes she stole away humbly, laughing:
　　“Well, go to sleep! Go to sleep, saucy fellow!”
　　But sometimes her legs seemed to give way, her feet came down heavilyon the edge of the stove, and she opened her mouth and panted loudly, as ifher tongue were on fire, gurgling out caustic words.
　　“So-o? It’s your mother you are sending to the devil. Ach! you! Myshame! Accursed heart-sore! The devil must have set himself in my heart toruin you from birth!”
　　She uttered obscene words, words of the drunken streets. It was painfulto listen to her. She slept little, fitfully jumping down from the stovesometimes several times in the night, and coming over to the couch to wakeme.
　　“What is it?”
　　“Be quiet!” she would whisper, crossing herself and looking at somethingin the darkness. “O Lord, Elias the prophet, great martyr Varvara, save mefrom sudden death!”
　　She lighted the candle with a trembling hand. Her round, nosy face wasswollen tensely; her gray eyes, blinking alarmingly, gazed fixedly at thesurroundings, which looked different in the twilight. The kitchen, which waslarge, but encumbered with cupboards and trunks, looked small by night.
　　There the moonbeams lived quietly; the flame of the lamp burning before theicon quivered; the knives gleamed like icicles on the walls ; on the floor theblack frying-pans looked like faces without eyes.
　　The old woman would clamber down cautiously from the stove, as if shewere stepping into the water from a river-bank, and, slithering along withher bare feet, went into the corner, where over the wash-stand hung a ewerthat reminded me of a severed head. There was also a pitcher of waterstanding there. Choking and panting, she drank the water, and then lookedout of the window through the pale-blue pattern of hoar-frost on the panes.
　　“Have mercy on me, O God! have mercy on me!” she prayed in a whisper.
　　Then putting out the candle, she fell on her knees, and whispered in anaggrieved tone : “Who loves me, Lord? To whom am I necessary?’
　　Climbing back on the stove, and opening the little door of the chimney,she tried to feel if the flue-plate lay straight, soiling her hands with soot, andfell asleep at that precise moment, just as if she had been struck by aninvisible hand. When I felt resentful toward her I used to think what a pity itwas that she had not married grandfather. She would have led him a life!
　　She often made me very miserable, but there were days when her puffyface became sad, her eyes were suffused with tears, and she said verytouchingly :
　　“Do you think that I have an easy time? I brought children into theworld, reared them, set them on their feet, and for what”? To live with themand be their general servant. Do you think that is sweet to me”?
　　My son has brought a strange woman and new blood into the family. Is itnice for me? Well?”
　　“No, it is not,” I said frankly.
　　“Aha! there you are, you seel” And she began to talk shamelessly abouther daughter-in-law. “Once I went with her to the bath and saw her. Do youthink she has anything to flatter herself about? Can she be called beautiful?”
　　She always spoke objectionably about the relations of husband and wife.
　　At first her speeches aroused my disgust, but I soon accustomed myself tolisten to them with attention and with great interest, feeling that there wassomething painfully true about them.
　　“Woman is strength; she deceived God Himself. That is so,” she hissed,striking her hand on the table. “Through Eve are we all condemned to hell.
　　What do you think of that?”
　　On the subject of woman’s power she could talk endlessly, and it alwaysseemed as if she were trying to frighten some one in these conversations. Iparticularly remembered that “Eve deceived God.”
　　Overlooking our yard was the wing of a large building, and of the eightflats comprised in it, four were occupied by officers, and the fifth by theregimental chaplain. The yard was always full of officers’ servants andorderlies, after whom ran laundresses, house — maids, and cooks. Dramasand romances were being carried on in all the kitchens, accompanied bytears, quarrels, and fights. The soldiers quarreled among themselves andwith the landlord’s workmen; they used to beat the women.
　　The yard was a seething pot of what is called vice, immorality, the wild,untamable appetites of healthy lads. This life, which brought out all the cruelsensuality, the thoughtless tyranny, the obscene boastful — ness of theconqueror, was criticized in every detail by my employers at dinner, tea, andsupper. The old woman knew all the stories of the yard, and told them withgusto, rejoicing in the misfortunes of others. The younger woman listened tothese tales in silence, smiling with her swollen lips. Victor used to burst outlaughing, but the master would frown and say:
　　“That will do, Mamasha!”
　　“Good Lord! I mustn’t speak now, I suppose!” the story-tellercomplained; but Victor encouraged her.
　　“Go on, Mother! What is there to hinder you? We are all your ownpeople, after all.”
　　I could never understand why one should talk shamelessly before one’sown people.
　　The elder son bore himself toward his mother with contemptuous pity,and avoided being alone with her, for if that happened, she would surelyoverwhelm him with complaints against his wife, and would never fail to askhim for money. He would hastily press into her hand a ruble or so or severalpieces of small silver.
　　“It is not right, Mother; take the money. I do not grudge it to you, but itis unjust.”
　　“But I want it for beggars, for candles when I go to church.”
　　“Now, where will you find beggars there ? You will end by spoilingVictor.”
　　“You don’t love your brother. It is a great sin on your part.”
　　He would go out, waving her away.
　　Victor’s manner to his mother was coarse and derisive. He was verygreedy, and he was always hun — gry. On Sundays his mother used to bakecustards, and she always hid a few of them in a vessel under the couch onwhich I slept. When Victor left the dinner-table he would get them out andgrumble:
　　“Couldn’t you have saved a few more, you old fool?”
　　“Make haste and eat them before any one sees you.”
　　“I will tell how you steal cakes for me behind their backs.”
　　Once I took out the vessel and ate two custards, for which Victor nearlykilled me. He disliked me as heartily as I disliked him. He used to jeer at meand make me clean his boots about three times a day, and when I slept in theloft, he used to push up the trap-door and spit in the crevice, trying to aim atmy head.
　　It may be that in imitation of his brother, who often said “wild fowl,”
　　Victor also needed to use some catch-words, but his were all senseless andparticularly ab — surd.
　　“Mamasha! Left wheel! where are my socks?”
　　And he used to follow me about with stupid questions.
　　“Alesha, answer me. Whv do we write ‘sinenki’ and pronounce it‘phiniki? Why do we say ‘Kolokola’ and not ‘Okolokola”? Why do we say‘K’derevou’ and not ‘gdye plachou?”
　　I did not like the way any of them spoke, and having been educated inthe beautiful tongue which grand — mother and grandfather spoke, I couldnot understand at first how words that had no sort of connection came to becoupled together, such as “terribly funny,” “I am dying to eat,” “awfullyhappy.” It seemed to me that what was funny could not be terrible, that to behappy could not be awful, and that people did not die for something to eat.
　　“Can one say that?” I used to ask them; but they jeered at me:
　　“I say, what a teacher! Do you want your ears plucked?”
　　But to talk of “plucking” ears also appeared incorrect to me. One could“pluck” grass and flowers and nuts, but not ears. They tried to prove to methat ears could be plucked, but they did not convince me, and I saidtriumphantly:
　　“Anyhow, you have not plucked my ears.”
　　All around me I saw much cruel insolence, filthy shamelessness. It wasfar worse here than in the Kunavin streets, which were full of “houses ofresort” and “street-walkers.” Beneath the filth and brutality in Kunavin therewas a something which made itself felt, and which seemed to explain it all —a strenuous, half-starved existence and hard work. But here they wereoverfed and led easy lives, and the work went on its way without fuss orworry. A corrosive, fretting weariness brooded over all.
　　My life was hard enough, anyhow, but I felt it still harder whengrandmother came to see me. She would appear from the black flight ofsteps, enter the kitchen, cross herself before the icon, and then bow low toher younger sister. That bow bent me down like a heavy weight, and seemedto smother me.
　　“Ah, Akulina, is it you?” was my mistress’s cold and negligent greeting tograndmother.
　　I should not have recognized grandmother. Her lips modestlycompressed, her face changed out of knowledge, she set herself quietly on abench near the door, keeping silence like a guilty creature, except when sheanswered her sister softly and submissively. This was torture to me, and Iused to say angrily :
　　“What are you sitting there for?”
　　Winking at me kindly, she replied:
　　“You be quiet. You are not master here.”
　　“He is always meddling in matters which do not concern him, howeverwe beat him or scold him,” and the mistress was launched on her complaints.
　　She often asked her sister spitefully:
　　“Well, Akulina, so you are living like a beggar?”
　　“That is a misfortune.”
　　“It is no misfortune where there is no shame.”
　　“They say that Christ also lived on charity.”
　　“Blockheads say so, and heretics, and you, old fool, listen to them! Christwas no beggar, but the Son of God. He will come, it is said, in glory, to judgethe quick and dead — and dead, mind you. You will not be able to hideyourself from Him, Matushka, although you may be burned to ashes. He ispunishing you and Vassili now for your pride, and on my account, because Iasked help from you when you were rich.”
　　“And I helped you as much as it was in my power to do,” answeredgrandmother, calmly, “and God will pay us back, you know.” <“It was little enough you did, little enough.”
　　Grandmother was bored and worried by her sister’s untiring tongue. Ilistened to her squeaky voice and wondered how grandmother could put upwith it. In that moment I did not love her.
　　The young mistress came out of her room and nodded affably tograndmother.
　　“Come into the dining-room. It is all right; come along!”
　　The master would receive grandmother joyfully.
　　“Ah, Akulina, wisest of all, how are you? Is old man Kashirin still alive?”
　　And grandmother would give him her most cordial smile.
　　“Are you still working your hardest?”
　　“Yes; always working, like a convict.”
　　Grandmother conversed with him affectionately and well, but in the toneof a senior. Sometimes he called my mother to mind.
　　“Ye-es, Varvara Vassilievna. What a woman! A heroine, eh?”
　　His wife turned to grandmother and put in:
　　“Do you remember my giving her that cloak — black silk trimmed withjet?”
　　“Of course I do.”
　　“It was quite a good one.”
　　“Ye-es,” muttered the master, “a cloak, a palm ; and life is a trickster.”11 A play on the words “ tal’ma, cloak ; pal’ma, palm ; shelma, trickster.
　　“What are you talking about?” asked his wife, suspiciously.
　　“I? Oh, nothing in particular. Happy days and good people soon passaway.”
　　“I don’t know what is the matter with you,” said my mistress, uneasily.
　　Then grandmother was taken to see the new baby, and while I wasclearing away the dirty cups and saucers from the table the master said to me:
　　“She is a good old woman, that grandmother of yours.”
　　I was deeply grateful to him for those words, and when I was alone withgrandmother, I said to her, with a pain in my heart:
　　“Why do you come here? Why? Can’t you see how they — ”
　　“Ach, Olesha, I see everything,” she replied, looking at me with a kindsmile on her wonderful face, and I felt conscience-stricken. Why, of courseshe saw everything and knew everything, even what was going on in my soulat that moment. Looking round carefully to see that no one was coming, sheembraced me, saying feelingly:
　　“I would not come here if it were not for you. What are they to me? As amatter of fact, grandfather is ill, and I am tired with looking after him. I havenot been able to do any work, so I have no money, and my son Mikhail hasturned Sascha out. I have him now to give food and drink, too. Theypromised to give you six rubles a month, and I don’t suppose you have had aruble from them, and you have been here nearly half a year.” Then shewhispered in my ear : “They say they have to lecture you, scold you, they saythat you do not obey ; but, dear heart, stay with them. Be patient for twoshort years while you grow strong. You will be patient, yes?”
　　I promised. It was very difficult. That life oppressed me; it was athreadbare, depressing existence. The only excitement was about food, and Ilived as in a dream. Sometimes I thought that I would have to run away, butthe accursed winter had set in. Snow-storms raged by night, the wind rushedover the top of the house, and the stanchions cracked with the pressure ofthe frost. Whither could I run away?
　　They would not let me go out, and in truth it was no weather for walking.
　　The short winter day, full of the bustle of housework, passed with elusiveswiftness. But they made me go to church, on Saturday to vespers and onSunday to high mass.
　　I liked being in church. Standing somewhere in a corner where there wasmore room and where it was darker, I loved to gaze from a distance at theiconastasis, which looked as if it were swimming in the candlelight flowing inrich, broad streams over the floor of the reading-desk. The dark figures of theicons moved gently, the gold embroidery on the vestments of the priestsquivered joyfully, the candle flames burned in the dark-blue atmosphere likegolden bees, and the heads of the women and children looked like flowers.
　　All the surroundings seemed to blend harmoniously with the singing thechoir. Everything seemed to be imbued with the weird spirit of legends. Thechurch seemed to oscillate like a cradle, rocking in pitch-black space.
　　Sometimes I imagined that the church was sunk deep in a lake in whichit lived, concealed, a life peculiar to itself, quite different from any other formof life. I have no doubt now that this idea had its source in grandmother’sstories of the town of Kitej, and I often found myself dreamily swaying,keeping time, as it were, with the movement around me. Lulled intosomnolence by the singing of the choir, the murmur of prayers, the breath ofthe congregation, I concentrated myself upon the melodious, melancholystory:
　　“They are closing upon us, the accursed Tatars. Yes, these unclean beastsare closing in upon Kitej The glorious ; yea, at the holy hour of matins.
　　O Lord, our God!
　　Holy Mother of God!
　　Save Thy servantsTo sing their morning praises,To listen to the holy chants!
　　Oi, let not the TatarsJeer at holy church;Let them not put to shameOur women and maidens;Seize the little maids to be their toys,And the old men to be put to a cruel death!
　　And the God of Sabaoth heard,The Holy Mother heard,These human sighs,These Christians’ plaints.
　　And He said, the Lord of Sabaoth,To the Holy Angel Michael,‘Go thou, Michael,Make the earth shake under Kitej ;Let Kitej sink into the lake!’
　　And there to this dayThe people do pray.
　　Never resting, and never wearyFrom matins to vespers.
　　Through all the holy offices.
　　Forever and evermore!”
　　At that time my head was full of grandmother’s poetry, as full as a beehive ofhoney. I used even to think in verse.
　　I did not pray in church. I felt ashamed to utter the angry prayers andpsalms of lamentation of grandfather’s God in the presence of grandmother’sGod, Who, I felt sure, could take no more pleasure in them than I did myself,for the simple reason that they were all printed in books, and of course Heknew them all by heart, as did all people of education. And this is why, whenmy heart was oppressed by a gentle grief or irritated by the petty grievancesof every day, I tried to make up prayers for myself. And when I began tothink about my uncongenial work, the words seemed to form themselves intoa complaint without any effort on my part :
　　“Lord, Lord! I am very miserable! Oh, let me grow up quickly. For thislife I can’t endure. O Lord, forgive! From my studies I get no benefit. For thatdevil’s puppet. Granny Matrena, Howls at me like a wolf, And my life is verybitter!”
　　To this day I can remember some of these prayers. The workings of thebrain in childhood leave a very deep impression; often they influence one’swhole life.
　　I liked being in church; I could rest there as I rested in the forests andfields. My small heart, which was already familiar with grief and soiled by themire of a coarse life, laved itself in hazy, ardent dreams. But I went to churchonly during the hard frosts, or when a snow-storm swept wildly up thestreets, when it seemed as if the very sky were frozen, and the wind sweptacross it with a cloud of snow, and the earth lay frozen under the snow-driftsas if it would never live again.
　　When the nights were milder I used to like to wander through the streetsof the town, creeping along by all the darkest corners. Sometimes I seemedto walk as if I had wings, flying along like the moon in the sky. My shadowcrept in front of me, extinguishing the sparkles of light in the snow, bobbingup and down comically. The night watchman patrolled the streets, rattle inhand, clothed in a heavy sheepskin, his dog at his side. Vague outlines ofpeople came out of yards and flitted along the streets, and the dog gavechase. Sometimes I met gay young ladies with their escorts. I had an ideathat they also were playing truant from vespers.
　　Sometimes through a lighted fortochka 2 there came a peculiar smell,faint, unfamiliar, suggestive of a kind of life of which I was ignorant. I usedto stand under the windows and inhale it, trying to guess what it was to livelike the people in such a house lived. It was the hour of vespers, and yet theywere singing merrily, laughing, and playing on a sort of guitar. The deep,stringy sound flowed through the fortochka.
　　2 A small square of glass in the double window which is set on hinges andserves as a ventilator.
　　Of special interest to me were the one-storied, dwarfed houses at thecorners of the deserted streets, Tikhonovski and Martinovski. I stood thereon a moonlight night in mid-Lent and listened to the weird sounds — itsounded as if some one were singing loudly with his mouth closed — whichfloated out through the fortochka together with a warm steam. The wordswere indistinguishable, but the song seemed to be familiar and intelligible tome; but when I listened to that, I could not hear the stringy sound whichlanguidly interrupted the flow of song. I sat on the curbstone thinking what awonderful melody was being played on some sort of insupportable violin —in supportable because it hurt me to listen to it. Some — times they sang soloudly that the whole house seemed to shake, and the panes of the windowsrattled. Like tears, drops fell from the roof, and from my eyes also.
　　The night watchman had come close to me without my being aware of it,and, pushing me off the curbstone, said:
　　“What are you stuck here for?”
　　“The music,” I explained.
　　“A likely tale! Be off now!”
　　I ran quickly round the houses and returned to my place under thewindow, but they were not playing now. From the fortochka proceededsounds of revelry, and it was so unlike the sad music that I thought I must bedreaming. I got into the habit of running to this house every Saturday, butonly once, and that was in the spring, did I hear the violoncello again, andthen it played without a break till midnight. When I reached home I got athrashing.
　　These walks at night beneath the winter sky througn the deserted streetsof the town enriched me greatly. I purposely chose streets far removed fromthe center, where there were many lamps, and friends of my master whomight have recognized me. Then he would find out how I played truant fromvespers. No “drunkards,” “street-walkers,” or policemen interfered with mein the more remote streets, and I could see into the rooms of the lower floorsif the windows were not frozen over or curtained.
　　Many and diverse were the pictures which I saw through those windows.
　　I saw people praying, kissing, quarreling, playing cards, talking busily andsoundlessly the while. It was a cheap panoramic show representing a dumb,fish-like life.
　　I saw in one basement room two women, a young one and another whowas her senior, seated at a table ; opposite them sat a school-boy reading tothem. The younger woman listened with puckered brows, leaning back in herchair; but the elder, who was thin, with luxuriant hair, suddenly covered herface with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. The school-boy threw downthe book, and when the younger woman had sprung to her feet and goneaway, he fell on his knees before the woman with the lovely hair and began tokiss her hands.
　　Through another window I saw a large, bearded man with a woman in ared blouse sitting on his knee. He was rocking her as if she had been a baby,and was evidently singing something, opening his mouth wide and rolling hiseyes. The woman was shaking with laughter, throwing herself backward andswinging her feet. He made her sit up straight again, and again began to sing,and again she burst out laughing. I gazed at them for a long time, and wentaway only when I realized that they meant to keep up their merriment allnight.
　　There were many pictures of this kind which will always remain in mymemory, and often I was so attracted by them that I was late in returninghome. This aroused the suspicions of my employers, who asked me :
　　“What church did you go to? Who was the officiating priest?”
　　They knew all the priests of the town; they knew what gospel would beread, in fact, they knew everything. It was easy for them to catch me in a lie.
　　Both women worshiped the wrathful God of my grandfather — the GodWho demanded that we should approach Him in fear. His name was ever ontheir lips; even in their quarrels they threatened one another:
　　“Wait! God will punish you! He will plague you for this! Just wait!”
　　On the Sunday in the first week of Lent the old woman cooked somebutters and burned them all. Flushed with the heat of the stove, she criedangrily:
　　“The devil take you!” And suddenly, sniffing at the frying-pan, her facegrew dark, and she threw the utensil on the floor and moaned : “Bless me,the pan has been used for flesh food! It is unclean! It did not catch when Iused it clean on Monday.”
　　Falling on her knees, she entreated with tears :
　　“Lord God, Father, forgive me, accursed that I am! For the sake of Thysufferings and passion forgive me! Do not punish an old fool, Lord!”
　　The burned fritters were given to the dog, the pan was destroyed, but theyoung wife began to reproach her mother-in-law in their quarrels.
　　“You actually cooked fritters in Lent in a pan which had been used forflesh-meat.”
　　They dragged their God into all the household affairs, into every cornerof their petty, insipid lives, and thus their wretched life acquired outwardsignificance and importance, as if every hour was devoted to the service of aHigher Power. The dragging of God into all this dull emptiness oppressedme, and I used to look involuntarily into the corners, aware of beingobserved by invisible beings, and at night I was wrapped in a cloud of fear. Itcame from the corner where the ever-burning lamp flickered before the icon.
　　On a level with this shelf was a large window with two sashes joined by astanchion. Fathomless, deep-blue space looked into the window, and if onemade a quick movement, everything became merged in this deep-blue gulf,and floated out to the stars, into the deathly stillness, without a sound, justas a stone sinks when it is thrown into the water.
　　I do not remember how I cured myself of this terror, but I did curemyself, and that soon. Grandmother’s good God helped me, and I think itwas then that I realized the simple truth, namely, that no harm could cometo me; that I should not be punished without fault of my own; that it was notthe law of life that the innocent should suffer; and that I was not responsiblefor the faults of others.
　　I played truant from mass too, especially in the spring, the irresistibleforce of which would not let me go to church. If I had a seven-copeck piecegiven me for the collection, it was my destruction. I bought hucklebones,played all the time mass was going on, and was inevitably late home. Andone day I was clever enough to lose all the coins which had been given me forprayers for the dead and the blessed bread, so that I had to take some oneelse’s portion when the priest came from the altar and handed it round.
　　I was terribly fond of gambling, and it became a craze with me. I wasskilful enough, and strong, and I swiftly gained renown in games ofhucklebones, billiards, and skittles in the neighboring streets.
　　During Lent I was ordered to prepare for communion, and I went toconfession to our neighbor Father Dorimedont Pokrovski. I regarded him asa hard man, and had committed many sins against him personally. I hadthrown stones at the summer-house in his garden, and had quarreled withhis children. In fact he might call to mind, if he chose, many similar actsannoying to him. This made me feel very uneasy, and when I stood in thepoor little church awaiting my turn to go to confession my heart throbbedtremulously.
　　But Father Dorimedont greeted me with a good-natured, grumblingexclamation.
　　“Ah, it is my neighbor! Well, kneel down! What sins have youcommitted?”
　　He covered my head with a heavy velvet cloth. I inhaled the odor of waxand incense. It was difficult to speak, and I felt reluctant to do so.
　　“Have you been obedient to your elders?”
　　“No.”
　　“Say, 1 have sinned.’ ”
　　To my own surprise I let fall :
　　“I have stolen.”
　　“How was that? Where?” asked the priest, thoughtfully and withouthaste.
　　“At the church of the three bishops, at Pokrov, and at Nikoli.”
　　“Well, that is in all the churches. That was wrong, my child; it was a sin.
　　Do you understand?”
　　“I understand.”
　　“Say, ‘I have sinned.’ What did you steal for? Was it for something toeat?”
　　“Sometimes and sometimes it was because I had lost money at play, and,as I had to take home some blessed bread, I stole it.”
　　Father Dorimedont whispered something indistinctly and wearily, andthen, after a few more ques — tions, suddenly inquired sternly:
　　“Have you been reading forbidden books?”
　　Naturally I did not understand this question, and I asked : ’
　　“What books do you mean?”
　　“Forbidden books. Have you been reading any?”
　　“No; not one.”
　　“Your sins are remitted. Stand up!”
　　I glanced at his face in amazement. He looked thoughtful and kind. I feltuneasy, conscience-stricken. In sending me to confession, my employers hadspoken about its terrors, impressing on me to confess honestly even myslightest sins.
　　“I have thrown stones at your summer-house,” I deposed.
　　The priest raised his head and, looking past me, said:
　　“That was very wrong. Now go!”
　　“And at your dog.”
　　“Next!” called out Father Dorimedont, still looking past me.
　　I came away feeling deceived and offended. To be put to all that anxietyabout the terrors of confession, and to find, after all, that it was not only farfrom terrible, but also uninteresting! The only interesting thing about it wasthe question about the forbidden books, of which I knew nothing. Iremembered the schoolboy reading to the women in that basement room,and “Good Business,” who also had many black, thick books, withunintelligible illustrations.
　　The next day they gave me fifteen copecks and sent me to communion.
　　Easter was late. The snow had been melted a long time, the streets were dry,the roadways sent up a cloud of dust, and the day was sunny and cheerful.
　　Near the church was a group of workmen gambling with hucklebones. Idecided that there was plenty of time to go to communion, and asked if Imight join in.
　　“Let me play.”
　　“The entrance-fee is one copeck,” said a pock-marked, ruddy-faced man,proudly. Not less proudly I replied: “I put three on the second pair to theleft.” “The stakes are on!” And the game began. I changed the fifteen-copeckpiece and placed my three copecks on the pair of hucklebones. Whoever hitthat pair would receive that money, but if he failed to hit them, he had to giveme three copecks. I was in luck. Two of them took aim and lost. I had won sixcopecks from grown-up men. My spirits rose greatly. But one of the playersremarked :
　　“You had better look out for that youngster or he will be running awaywith his winnings.”
　　This I regarded as an insult, and I said hotly: “Nine copecks on the pairat the extreme left.” However, this did not make much impression on theplayers. Only one lad of my own age cried:
　　“See how lucky he is, that little devil from the Zvezdrinki; I know him.”
　　A thin workman who smelt like a furrier said maliciously:
　　“He is a little devil, is he Goo-oo-ood!”
　　Taking a sudden aim, he coolly knocked over my stake, and, bendingdown to me, said : “Will that make you howl?’
　　“Three copecks on the pair to the right!”
　　“I shall have another three,” he said, but he lost. One could not putmoney on the same “horse” more than three times running, so I chose othernucklebones and won four more copecks. I had a heap of nucklebones. Butwhen my turn came again, I placed money — three times, and lost it all.
　　Simultaneously mass was finished, the bell rang, and the people came out ofchurch.
　　“Are you married?” inquired the furrier, intending to seize me by thehair; but I eluded him, and overtaking a lad in his Sunday clothes I inquiredpolitely:
　　“Have you been to communion ?”
　　“Well, and suppose I have; what then?” he answered, looking at mecontemptuously.
　　I asked him to tell me how people took communion, what words thepriest said, and what I ought to have done.
　　The young fellow shook me roughly and roared out in a terrifying voice :
　　“You have played the truant from communion, you heretic! Well, I amnot going to tell you anything. Let your father skin you for it!”
　　I ran home expecting to be questioned, and certain that they woulddiscover that I had not been to communion; but after congratulating me, theold woman asked only one question :
　　“How much did you give to the clerk? Much?”
　　“Five copecks,” I answered, without turning a hair.
　　“And three copecks for himself; that would leave you seven copecks,animal!”
　　It was springtime. Each succeeding spring was clothed differently, andseemed brighter and pleasanter than the preceding one. The young grass andthe fresh green birch gave forth an intoxicating odor. I had an uncontrollabledesire to loiter in the fields and listen to the lark, lying face downward on thewarm earth; but I had to clean the winter coats and help to put them away inthe trunks, to cut up leaf tobacco, and dust the furniture, and to occupymyself from morning till night with duties which were to me both unpleasantand needless.
　　In my free hours I had absolutely nothing to live for. In our wretchedstreet there was nothing, and beyond that I was not allowed to go. The yardwas full of cross, tired workmen, untidy cooks, and washer-women, andevery evening I saw disgusting sights so offensive to me that I wished that Iwas blind.
　　I went up into the attic, taking some scissors and some colored paperwith me, and cut out some lace-like designs with which I ornamented therafters. It was, at any rate, something on which my sorrow could feed. Ilonged with all my heart to go to some place where people slept less,quarreled less, and did not so wearisomely beset God with complaints, anddid not so frequently offend people with their harsh judgments.
　　On the Saturday after Easter they brought the miraculous icon of OurLady of Vlandimirski from the Oranski Monastery to the town. The imagebecame the guest of the town for half of the month of June, and blessed allthe dwellings of those who attended the church. It was brought to myemployers’ house on a weekday. I was cleaning the copper things in thekitchen when the young mistress cried out in a scared voice from her room:
　　“Open the front door. They are bringing the Oranski icon here.”
　　I rushed down, very dirty, and with greasy hands as rough as a brickopened the door. A young man with a lamp in one hand and a thurible in theother grumbled gently:
　　“Are you all asleep? Give a hand here!”
　　Two of the inhabitants carried the heavy icon-case up the narrowstaircase. I helped them by supporting the edge, of it with my dirty handsand my shoulder. The monk came heavily behind me, chanting unwillinglywith his thick voice :
　　“Holy Mother of God, pray for us!”
　　I thought, with sorrowful conviction:
　　“She is angry with me because I have touched her with dirty hands, andshe will cause my hands to wither.”
　　They placed the icon in the corner of the anti-chamber on two chairs,which were covered with a clean sheet, and on each side of it stood twomonks, young and beautiful like angels. They had bright eyes, joyfulexpressions, and lovely hair.
　　Prayers were said.
　　“O, Mother Renowned,” the big priest chanted, and all the while he wasfeeling the swollen lobe of his ear, which was hidden in his luxuriant hair.
　　“Holy Mother of God, pray for u-u-us!” sang the monks, wearily.
　　I loved the Holy Virgin. According to grandmother’s stories it was shewho sowed on the earth, for the consolation of the poor, all the flowers, allthe joys, every blessing and beauty. And when the time came to salute her,without observing how the adults conducted themselves toward her, I kissedthe icon palpitatingly on the face, the lips. Some one with pow — erful handshurled me to the door. I do not remem — ber seeing the monks go away,carrying the icon, but I remember very well how my employers sat on thefloor around me and debated with much fear and anxiety what wouldbecome of me.
　　“We shall have to speak to the priest about him and have him taught,”
　　said the master, who scolded me without rancor.
　　“Ignoramus! How is it that you did not know that you should not kiss thelips? You must have been taught that at school.”
　　For several days I waited, resigned, wondering what actually wouldhappen to me. I had touched the icon with dirty hands; I had saluted it in aforbidden manner ; I should not be allowed to go unpunished.
　　But apparently the Mother of God forgave the involuntary sin which hadbeen prompted by sheer love, or else her punishment was so light that I didnot notice it among the frequent punishments meted out to me by these goodpeople.
　　Sometimes, to annoy the old mistress, I said compunctiously :
　　“But the Holy Virgin has evidently forgotten to punish me.”
　　“You wait,” answered the old woman, maliciously. “We shall see.”
　　While I decorated the rafters of the attic with pink tea-wrappers, silverpaper, leaves from trees, and all kinds of things, I used to sing anything thatcame into my head, setting the words to church melodies, as the Kalmucksdo on the roads.
　　“I am sitting in th
Chapter 5
    HOWEVER, I did run away in the spring. One morning when I went to theshop for bread the shopkeeper, continuing in my presence a quarrel with hiswife, struck her on the forehead with a weight. She ran into the street, andthere fell down. People began to gather round at once. The woman was laidon a stretcher and carried to the hospital, and I ran behind the cab whichtook her there without noticing where I was going till I found myself on thebanks of the Volga, with two gr evens in my hand.
　　The spring sun shone caressingly, the broad expanse of the Volga flowedbefore me, the earth was full of sound and spacious, and I had been livinglike a mouse in a trap. So I made up my mind that I would not return to mymaster, nor would I go to grandmother at Kunavin; for as I had not kept myword to her, I was ashamed to go and see her, and grandfather would onlygloat over my misfortunes.
　　For two or three days I wandered by the river-side, being fed by kindheartedporters, and sleeping with them in their shelters. At length one ofthem said to me:
　　“It is no use for you to hang about here, my boy. I can see that. Go overto the boat which is called The Good. They want a washer-up.”
　　I went. The tall, bearded steward in a black silk skullcap looked at methrough his glasses with his dim eyes, and said quietly :
　　“Two rubles a month. Your passport?”
　　I had no passport. The steward pondered and then said:
　　“Bring your mother to see me.”
　　I rushed to grandmother. She approved the course I had taken, toldgrandfather to go to the workman’s court and get me a passport, and sheherself accompanied me to the boat.
　　“Good!” said the steward, looking at us. “Come along.”
　　He then took me to the stern of the boat, where sat at a small table,drinking tea and smoking a fat cigar at the same time, an enormous cook inwhite overalls and a white cap. The steward pushed me toward him.
　　“The washer-up.”
　　Then he went away, and the cook, snorting, and with his black mustachebristling, called after him :
　　“‘You engage any sort of devil as long as he is cheap.”
　　Angrily tossing his head of closely cropped hair, he opened his dark eyesvery wide, stretched himself, puffed, and cried shrilly:
　　“And who may you be?”
　　I did not like the appearance of this man at all. Although he was all inwhite, he looked dirty. There was a sort of wool growing on his fingers, andhairs stuck out of his great ears.
　　“I am hungry,” was my reply to him.
　　He blinked, and suddenly his ferocious countenance was transformed bya broad smile. His fat, brick-red cheeks widened to his very ears ; hedisplayed his large, equine teeth; his mustache drooped, and all at once hehad assumed the appearance of a kind, fat woman.
　　Throwing the tea overboard out of his glass, he poured out a fresh lot forme, and pushed a French roll and a large piece of sausage toward me.
　　“Peg away! Are your parents living? Can you steal? You needn’t be afraid;they are all thieves here. You will soon learn.”
　　He talked as if he were barking. His enormous, blue, clean-shaven facewas covered all round the nose with red veins closely set together, hisswollen, purple nose hung over his mustache. His lower lip was disiiguringlypendulous. In the corner of his mouth was stuck a smoking cigarette.
　　Apparently he had only just come from the bath. He smelt of birch twigs, anda profuse sweat glistened on his temples and neck.
　　After I had drunk my tea, he gave me a ruble-note.
　　“Run along and buy yourself two aprons with this. Wait! I will buy themfor you myself.”
　　He set his cap straight and came with me, swaying ponderously, his feetpattering on the deck like those of a bear.
　　At night the moon shone brightly as it glided away from the boat to themeadows on the left. The old red boat, with its streaked funnel, did nothurry, and her propeller splashed unevenly in the silvery water. The darkshore gently floated to meet her, casting its shadow. on the water, andbeyond, the windows of the peasant huts gleamed charmingly. They weresinging in the village. The girls were merry-making and singing — and whenthey sang “Aie Ludi,” it sounded like “Alleluia.”
　　In the wake of the steamer a large barge, also red, was being towed by along rope. The deck was railed in like an iron cage, and in this cage wereconvicts condemned to deportation or prison. On the prow of the barge thebayonet of a sentry shone like a candle. It was quiet on the barge itself. Themoon bathed it in a rich light while behind the black iron grating could beseen dimly gray patches. These were the convicts looking out on the Volga.
　　The water sobbed, now weeping, now laughing timidly. It was as quiet hereas in church, and there was the same smell of oil.
　　As I looked at the barge I remembered my early childhood; the journeyfrom Astrakhan to Nijni, the iron faces of mother and grandmother, theperson who had introduced me to this interesting, though hard, life, in theworld. And when I thought of grandmother, all that I found so bad andrepulsive in life seemed to leave me; everything was transformed and becamemore interesting, pleasanter; people seemed to be better and niceraltogether.
　　The beauty of the nights moved me almost to tears, and especially thebarge, which looked so like a coffin, and so solitary on the broad expanse ofthe flowing river in the pensive quietness of the warm night. The unevenlines of the shore, now rising, now falling, stirred the imagination pleasantly.
　　I longed to be good, and to be of use to others.
　　The people on our steamboat had a peculiar stamp. They seemed to meto be all alike, young and old, men and women. The boat traveled slowly. Thebusy folk traveled by fast boat, and all the lazy rascals came on our boat.
　　They sang and ate, and soiled any amount of cups and plates, knives andforks and spoons from morning to night. My work was to wash up and cleanthe knives and forks, and I was busy with this work from six in the morningtill close on midnight. During the day, from two till six o’clock, and in theevening, from ten till midnight, I had less work to do; for at those times thepassengers took a rest from eating, and only drank, tea, beer, and vodka. Allthe buffet attendants, my chiefs, were free at that time, too. The cook,Smouri, drank tea at a table near the hatchway with his assistant, JaakovIvanich; the kitchen-man, Maxim; and Sergei, the saloon steward, ahumpback with high cheek-bones, a face pitted with smallpox, and oily eyes.
　　Jaakov told all sorts of nasty stories, bursting out into sobbing laughs andshowing his long, discolored teeth. Sergei stretched his frog-like mouth to hisears. Frowning Maxim was silent, gazing at them with stern, colorless eyes.
　　“Asiatic! Mordovan!” said the old cook now and again in his deep voice.
　　I did not like these people. Fat, bald Jaakov Ivanich spoke of nothing butwomen, and that always filth — ily. He had a vacant-looking face coveredwith bluish pimples. , On one cheek he had a mole with a tuft of red hairgrowing from it. He used to pull out these hairs by twisting them round aneedle. Whenever an amiable, sprightly passenger of the female sexappeared on the boat, he waited upon her in a peculiar, timid manner like abeggar. He spoke to her sweetly and plaintively, he licked her, as it were,with the swift movements of his tongue. For some reason I used to think thatsuch great fat creatures ought to be hangmen.
　　“One should know how to get round women,” he would teach Sergei andMaxim, who would listen to him much impressed, pouting their lips andturning red.
　　“Asiatics!” Smouri would roar in accents of disgust, and standing upheavily, he gave the order, “Pyeshkov, march!”
　　In his cabin he would hand me a little book bound in leather, and liedown in his hammock by the wall of the ice-house.
　　“Read!” he would say.
　　I sat on a box and read conscientiously :
　　“ The umbra projected by the stars means that one is on good terms withheaven and free from profanity and vice.’ ”
　　Smouri, smoking a cigarette, puffed out the smoke and growled:
　　“Camels! They wrote — ”
　　“ ‘Baring the left bosom means innocence of heart.’ ”
　　“Whose bosom?”
　　“It does not say.”
　　“A woman’s, it means. Eh, and a loose woman.”
　　He closed his eyes and lay with his arms behind his head. His cigarette,hardly alight, stuck in the corner of his mouth. He set it straight with histongue, stretched so that something whistled in his chest, and his enormousface was enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Sometimes I thought he had fallenasleep and I left off reading to examine the accursed book, which bored meto nauseation. But he said hoarsely :
　　“Go on reading!”
　　“The venerable one answered, “Look! My dear brother Suvyerin — “ ‘ ”
　　“Syevyeverin — ”
　　“It is written Suvyerin.”
　　“Well, that’s witchcraft. There is some poetry at the end. Run on fromthere.”
　　I ran on.
　　“Profane ones, curious to know our business, Never will your weak eyesspy it out, Nor will you learn how the fairies sing.”
　　“Wait!” said Smouri. “That is not poetry. Give me the book.”
　　He angrily turned over the thick, blue leaves, and then put the bookunder the mattress.
　　“Get me another one.”
　　To my grief there were many books in his black trunk clamped with iron.
　　There were “Precepts of Peace,” “Memories of the Artillery,” “Letters of LordSydanhall,” “Concerning Noxious Insects and their Extinction, with Adviceagainst the Pest,” books which seemed to have no beginning and no end.
　　Sometimes the cook set me to turn over all his books and read out their titlesto him, but as soon as I had begun he called out angrily:
　　“What is it all about? Why do you speak through your teeth? It isimpossible to understand you. What the devil has Gervase to do with me?
　　Gervase! Umbra indeed!”
　　Terrible words, incomprehensible names were wearily remembered, andthey tickled my tongue. I had an incessant desire to repeat them, thinkingthat perhaps by pronouncing them I might discover their meaning. Andoutside the porthole the water unweariedly sang and splashed. It would havebeen pleasant to go to the stern, where the sailors and stokers were gatheredtogether among the chests, where the passengers played cards, sang songs,and told interesting stories. It would have been pleasant to sit among themand listen to simple, intelligible conversation, to gaze on the banks of theKama, at the fir-trees drawn out like brass wires, at the meadows, whereinsmall lakes remained from the floods, looking like pieces of broken glass asthey reflected the sun.
　　Our steamer was traveling at some distance from the shore, yet thesound of invisible bells came to us, reminding us of the villages and people.
　　The barks of the fishermen floated on the waves like crusts of bread. There,on the bank a little village appeared, here a crowd of small boys bathed in theriver, men in red blouses could be seen passing along a narrow strip of sand.
　　Seen from a distance, from the river, it was a very pleasing sight ; everythinglooked like tiny toys of many colors.
　　I felt a desire to call out some kind, tender words to the shore and thebarge. The latter interested me greatly; I could look at it for an hour at a timeas it dipped its blunt nose in the turbid water. The boat dragged it along as ifit were a pig: the tow-rope, slackening, lashed the water, then once moredrew taut and pulled the barge along by the nose. I wanted very much to seethe faces of those people who were kept like wild animals in an iron cage. AtPerm, where they were landed, I made my way to the gangway, and past mecame, in batches of ten, gray people, trampling dully, rattling their fetters,bowed down by their heavy knapsacks. There were all sorts, young and old,handsome and ugly, all exactly like ordinary people except that they weredifferently dressed and were disfiguringly close-shaven. No doubt these wererobbers, but grandmother had told me much that was good about robbers.
　　Smouri looked much more like a fierce robber than they as he glancedloweringly at the barge and said loudly:
　　“Save me, God, from such a fate!”
　　Once I asked him :
　　“Why do you say that? You cook, while those others kill and steal.”
　　“I don’t cook; I only prepare. The women cook,” he said, bursting outlaughing; but after thinking a moment he added: “The difference betweenone person and another lies in stupidity. One man is clever, another not soclever, and a third may be quite a fool. To become clever one must read theright books — black magic and what not. One must read all kinds of booksand then one will find the right ones.”
　　He was continually impressing upon me :
　　“Read! When you don’t understand a book, read it again and again, asmany as seven times ; and if you do not understand it then, read it a dozentimes.”
　　To every one on the boat, not excluding the taciturn steward, Smourispoke roughly. Sticking out his lower lip as if he were disgusted, and,stroking his mustache, he pelted them with words as if they were stones. Tome he always showed kindness and interest, but there was something abouthis interest which rather frightened me. Sometimes I thought he was crazy,like grandmother’s sister. At times he said to me:
　　“Leave off reading.”
　　And he would lie for a long time with closed eyes, breathing stertorously,his great stomach shaking. His hairy fingers, folded corpse-like on his chest,moved, knitting invisible socks with invisible needles. Suddenly he wouldbegin growling:
　　“Here are you! You have your intelligence. Go and live! But intelligenceis given sparingly, and not to all alike. If all were on the same levelintellectually — but they are not. One understands, another docs not, andthere are some people who do not even wish to understand!”
　　Stumbling over his words, he related stories of his life as a soldier, thedrift of which I could never manage to catch. They seemed very uninterestingto me. Besides, he did not tell them from the beginning, but as he recollectedthem.
　　“The commander of the regiment called this soldier to him and asked:
　　‘What did the lieutenant say to you?’ So he told everything just as it hadhappened — a soldier is bound to tell the truth — but the lieutenant looked athim as if he had been a wall, and then turned away, hanging his head. Yes —”
　　He became indignant, puffed out clouds of smoke, and growled:
　　“How was I to know what I could say and what I ought not to say? Thenthe lieutenant was condemned to be shut up in a fortress, and his mothersaid — ah, my God! I am not learned in anything.”
　　It was hot. Everything seemed to be quivering and tinkling. The watersplashed against the iron walls of the cabin, and the wheel of the boat roseand fell. The river flowed in a broad stream between the rows of lights. In thedistance could be seen the line of the meadowed bank. The trees drooped.
　　When one’s hearing had become accustomed to all the sounds, it seemed asif all was quiet, although the soldiers in the stem of the boat howled dismally,“Se-e-even! Se-e-ven!”
　　I had no desire to take part in anything. I wanted neither to listen nor towork, but only to sit somewhere in the shadows, where there was no greasy,hot smell of cooking; to sit and gaze, half asleep, at the quiet, sluggish life asit slipped away on the water.
　　“Read!” the cook commanded harshly.
　　Even the head steward was afraid of him, and that mild man of fewwords, the dining-room steward, who looked like a sandre, was evidentlyafraid of Smouri too.
　　“Ei! You swine!” he would cry to this man. “Come here! Thief! Asiatic!”
　　The sailors and stokers were very respectful to him, and expectant offavors. He gave them the meat from which soup had been made, andinquired after their homes and their families. The oily and smoke-driedWhite Russian stokers were counted the lowest people on the boat. Theywere all called by one name. Yaks, and they were teased, “Like a Yak, I amblealong the shore.”
　　When Smouri heard this, he bristled up, his face became suffused withblood, and he roared at the stokers :
　　“Why do you allow them to laugh at you, you mugs? Throw some saucein their faces.”
　　Once the boatswain, a handsome, but ill-natured, man, said to him :
　　“They are the same as Little Russians; they hold the same faith.”
　　The cook seized him by the collar and belt, lifted him up in the air, andsaid, shaking him :
　　“Shall I knock you to smithereens?”
　　They quarreled often, these two. Sometimes it even came to a fight, butSmouri was never beaten. He was possessed of superhuman strength, andbesides this, the captain’s wife, with a masculine face and smooth hair like aboy’s, was on his side.
　　He drank a terrible amount of vodka, but never became drunk. He beganto drink the first thing in the morning, consuming a whole bottle in fourgulps, and after that he sipped beer till close on evening. His face graduallygrew brown, his eyes widened.
　　Sometimes in the evening he sat for hours in the hatchway, looking largeand white, without breaking his silence, and his eyes were fixed gloomily onthe distant horizon. At those times they were all more afraid of him thanever, but I was sorry for him. Jaakov Ivanich would come out from thekitchen, perspiring and glowing with the heat. Scratching his bald skull andwaving his arm, he would take cover or say from a distance :
　　“The fish has gone off.”
　　“Well, there is the salted cabbage.”
　　“But if they ask for fish-soup or boiled fish?”
　　“It is ready. They can begin gobbling.”
　　Sometimes I plucked up courage to go to him. He looked at me heavily.
　　“What do you want?”
　　“Nothing.”
　　“Good.”
　　On one of these occasions, however, I asked him :
　　“Why is every one afraid of you? For you are good.”
　　Contrary to my expectations, he did not get angry.
　　“I am only good to you.”
　　But he added distinctly, simply, and thoughtfully :
　　“Yes, it is true that I am good to every one, only I do not show it. It doesnot do to show that to people, or they will be all over you. They will crawlover those who are kind as if they were mounds in a morass, and trample onthem. Go and get me some beer.”
　　Having drunk the bottle, he sucked his mustache and said :
　　“If you were older, my bird, I could teach you a lot. I have something tosay to a man. I am no fool. But you must read books. In them you will find allyou need. They are not rubbish — books. Would you like some beer?”
　　“I don’t care for it.”
　　“Good boy! And you do well not to drink it. Drunkenness is a misfortune.
　　Vodka is the devil’s own business. If I were rich, I would spur you on tostudy. An uninstructed man is an ox, fit for nothing but the yoke or to serveas meat. All he can do is to wave his tail.”
　　The captain’s wife gave him a volume of Gogol. I read “The TerribleVengeance” and was delighted with it, but Smouri cried angrily :
　　“Rubbish! A fairy-tale! I know. There are other books.”
　　He took the book away from me, obtained another one from the captain’swife, and ordered me harshly:
　　“Read Tarass’ — what do you call it? Find it! She says it is good; good forwhom? It may be good for her, but not for me, eh? She cuts her hair short. Itis a pity her ears were not cut off too.”
　　When Tarass called upon Ostap to fight, the cook laughed loudly.
　　“That’s the way! Of course! You have learning, but I have strength. Whatdo they say about it? Camels!”
　　He listened with great attention, but often grumbled:
　　“Rubbish! You couldn’t cut a man in half from his shoulders to hishaunches; it can’t be done. And you can’t thrust a pike upward; it wouldbreak it. I have been a soldier myself.”
　　Andrei’s treachery aroused his disgust.
　　“There’s a mean creature, eh? Like women! TfoorBut when Tarass killed his son, the cook let his feet slip from thehammock, bent himself double, and wept. The tears trickled down hischeeks, splashed upon the deck as he breathed stertorously and muttered :
　　“Oh, my God! my God!”
　　And suddenly he shouted to me :
　　“Go on reading, you bone of the devil!”
　　Again he wept, with even more violence and bitterness, when I read howOstaf cried out before his death, “Father, dost thou hear?’
　　“Ruined utterly!” exclaimed Smouri. “Utterly! Is that the end? EM/ Whatan accursed business! He was a man, that Tarass. What do you think? Yes, hewas a man.”
　　He took the book out of my hands and looked at it with attention, lettinghis tears fall on its binding.
　　“It is a fine book, a regular treat.”
　　After this we read “Ivanhoe.” Smouri was very pleased with RichardPlantagenet.
　　“That was a real king,’ he said impressively.
　　To me the book had appeared dry. In fact, our tastes did not agree at all.
　　I had a great liking for “The Story of Thomas Jones,” an old translation of“The History of Tom Jones, Foundling,” but Smouri grumbled :
　　“Rubbish! What do I care about your Thomas? Of what use is he to me?
　　There must be some other books.”
　　One day I told him that I knew that there were other books, forbiddenbooks. One could read them only at night, in underground rooms. He openedhis eyes wide.
　　“Wha-a-t’s that? Why do you tell me these lies?”
　　“I am not telling lies. The priest asked me about them when I went toconfession, and, for that matter,I myself have seen people reading them and crying over them.”
　　The cook looked sternly in my face and asked :
　　“Who was crying ?”
　　“The lady who was listening, and the other actually ran away because shewas frightened.”
　　“You were asleep. You were dreaming,” said Smouri, slowly covering hiseyes, and after a silence he muttered: “But of course there must besomething hidden from me somewhere. I am not so old as all that, and withmy character — well, however that may be —”
　　He spoke to me eloquently for a whole hour.
　　Imperceptibly I acquired the habit of reading, and took up a book withpleasure. What I read therein was pleasantly different from life, which wasbecoming harder and harder for me.
　　Smouri also recreated himself by reading, and often took me from mywork.
　　“Pyeshkov, come and read.”
　　“I have a lot of washing up to do.”
　　“Let Maxim wash up.”
　　He coarsely ordered the senior kitchen-helper to do my work, and thisman would break the glasses out of spite, while the chief steward told mequietly :
　　“I shall have you put off the boat.”
　　One day Maxim on purpose placed several glasses in a bowl of dirtywater and tea-leaves. I emptied the water overboard, and the glasses wentflying with it.
　　“It is my fault,” said Smouri to the head steward. “Put it down to myaccount.”
　　The dining-room attendants began to look at me with lowering brows,and they used to say :
　　“Eil you bookworm! What are you paid for?”
　　And they used to try and make as much work as they could for me,soiling plates needlessly. I was sure that this would end badly for me, and Iwas not mistaken.
　　One evening, in a little shelter on the boat, there sat a red-faced womanwith a girl in a yellow coat and a new pink blouse. Both had been drinking.
　　The woman smiled, bowed to every one, and said on the note O, like a churchclerk:
　　“Forgive me, my friends; I have had a little too much to drink. I havebeen tried and acquitted, and I have been drinking for joy.”
　　The girl laughed, too, gazing at the other passengers with glazed eyes.
　　Pushing the woman away, she said:
　　“But you, you plaguy creature — we know you.”
　　They had berths in the second-class cabin, opposite the cabin in whichJaakov Ivanich and Sergei slept.
　　The woman soon disappeared somewhere or other, and Sergei took herplace near the girl, greedily stretching his frog-like mouth.
　　That night, when I had finished my work and had laid myself down tosleep on the table, Sergei came to me, and seizing me by the arm, said:
　　“Come along! We are going to marry you.”
　　He was drunk. I tried to tear my arm away from him, but he struck me.
　　“Come along!”
　　Maxim came running in, also drunk, and the two dragged me along thedeck to their cabin, past the sleeping passengers. But by the door of the cabinstood Smouri, and in the doorway, holding on to the jamb, Jaakov Ivanich.
　　The girl stuck her elbow in his back, and cried in a drunken voice:
　　“Make way!”
　　Smouri got me out of the hands of Sergei and Maxim, seized them by thehair, and, knocking their heads together, moved away. They both fell down.
　　“Asiatic!” he said to Jaakov, slamming the door on him. Then he roaredas he pushed me along:
　　“Get out of this!”
　　I ran to the stern. The night was cloudy, the river black. In the wake ofthe boat seethed two gray lines of water leading to the invisible shore;between these two lines the barge dragged on its way. Now on the right, nowon the left appeared red patches of light, without illuminating anything. Theydisappeared, hidden by the sudden winding of the shore. After this it becamestill darker and more gruesome.
　　The cook came and sat beside me, sighed deeply, and pulled at hiscigarette.
　　“So they were taking you to that creature? Ekh! Dirty beasts! I heardthem trying.”
　　“Did you take her away from them?”
　　“Her?” He abused the girl coarsely, and continued in a sad tone :
　　“It is all nastiness here. This boat is worse than a village. Have you everlived in a village?”
　　“No.”
　　“In a village there is nothing but misery, especially in the winter.”
　　Throwing his cigarette overboard, he was silent. Then he spoke again.
　　“You have fallen among a herd of swine, and I am sorry for you, my littleone. I am sorry for all of them, too. Another time I do not know what Ishould have done. Gone on my knees and prayed. What are you doing, sonsof ? What are you doing, blind creatures? Camels!”
　　The steamer gave a long-drawn-out hoot, the tow-rope splashed in thewater, the lights of lanterns jumped up and down, showing where the harborwas. Out of the darkness more lights appeared.
　　“Pyani Bor [a certain pine forest]. Drunk,” growled the cook. “And thereis a river called Pyanaia, and there was a captain called Pyenkov, and a writercalled Zapivokhin, and yet another captain called Nepeipivo.3 I am going onshore.”
　　3 Pyanaia means “drunk,” and the other names mentioned come from thesame root. Nepeipivo means, “Do not drink beer.”
　　The coarse-grained women and girls of Kamska dragged logs of woodfrom the shore in long trucks. Bending under their load-straps, with pliabletread, they arrived in pairs at the stoker’s hold, and, emptying their sootyloads into the black hole, cried ringingly:
　　“Logs!”
　　When they brought the wood the sailors would take hold of them by thebreasts or the legs. The women squealed, spat at the men, turned back, anddefended themselves against pinches and blows with their trucks. I saw thisa hundred times, on every voyage and at every land-stage where they took inwood, and it was always the same thing.
　　I felt as if I were old, as if I had lived on that boat for many years, andknew what would happen in a week’s time, in the autumn, in a year.
　　It was daylight now. On a sandy promontory above the harbor stood outa forest of fir-trees. On the hills and through the forests women wentlaughing and singing. They looked like soldiers as they pushed their longtrucks.
　　I wanted to weep. The tears seethed in my breast; my heart wasoverflowing with them. It was painful. But it would be shameful to cry, and Iwent to help the sailor Blyakhin wash the deck.
　　Blyakhin was an insignificant-looking man. He had a withered, fadedlook about him, and always stowed himself away in corners, whence hissmall, bright eyes shone.
　　“My proper surname is not Blyakhin, but because, you see, my motherwas a loose woman. I have a sister, and she also. That happened to be theirdestiny. Destiny, my brother, is an anchor for all of us. You want to go in onedirection, but wait!”
　　And now, as he swabbed the deck, he said softly to me:
　　“You see what a lot of harm women do! There it is. Damp wood smoldersfor a long time and then bursts into flame. I don’t care for that sort of thingmyself; it does not interest me. And if I had been born a woman, I shouldhave drowned myself in a black pool. I should have been safe then with HolyChrist, and could do no one any harm. But while one is here there is alwaysthe chance of kindling a fire. Eunuchs are no fools, I assure you. They areclever people, they are good at divination, they put aside all small things andserve God alone — cleanly.”
　　The captain’s wife passed us, holding her skirts high as she came throughthe pools of water. Tall and well built, she had a simple, bright face. I wantedto run after her and beg her from my heart :
　　“Say something to me! Say something!”
　　The boat drew slowly away from the pier. Blyakhin crossed himself andsaid :
　　“We are off!”
Chapter 6
    AT Sarapulia, Maxim left the boat. He went away in silence, saying farewellto no one, serious and calm. Behind him, laughing, came the gay woman,and, following her, the girl, looking disheveled, with swollen eyes. Sergei wason his knees a long time before the captain’s cabin, kissing the panel of thedoor, knocking his forehead against it, and crying:
　　“Forgive me! It was not my fault, but Maxim’s.”
　　The sailors, the stewards, and even some of the passengers knew that hewas lying, yet they advised:
　　“Come, forgive him!”
　　But the captain drove him away, and even kicked him with such forcethat he fell over. Notwithstanding, he forgave him, and Sergei at once rushedon deck, carrying a tray of tea-things, looking with inquiring, dog-likeexpression into the eyes of the passengers.
　　In Maxim’s place came a soldier from Viatski, a bony man, with a smallhead and brownish red eyes. The assistant cook sent him first to kill somefowls. He killed a pair, but let the rest escape on deck. The passengers triedto catch them, but three hens flew over — board. Then the soldier sat onsome wood near the fowl-house, and cried bitterly.
　　“What’s the matter, you fool?” asked Smouri, angrily. “Fancy a soldiercrying!”
　　“I belong to the Home Defense Corps,” said the soldier in a low voice.
　　That was his ruin. In half an hour every one on the boat was laughing athim. They would come quite close to him, fix their eyes on his face, and ask:
　　“Is this the one?”
　　And then they would go off into harsh, insulting, absurd laughter.
　　At first the soldier did not see these people or hear their laughter; he wasdrying his tears with the sleeve of his old shirt, exactly as if he were hidingthem up his sleeve. But soon his brown eyes flashed with ragt, and he said inthe quick speech of Viatski :
　　“What are you staring at me for? Oi, may you be torn to bits!”
　　But this only amused the passengers the more, and they began to snaptheir fingers at him, to pluck at his shirt, his apron, to play with him as if hehad been a goat, baiting him cruelly until dinner-time. At dinner some oneput a piece of squeezed lemon on the handle of a wooden spoon, and tied itbehind his back by the strings of his apron. As he moved, the spoon waggledbehind him, and every one laughed, but he was in a fluster, like an entrappedmouse, ignorant of what had aroused their laughter.
　　Smouri sat behind him in silence. His face had become like a woman’s. Ifelt sorry for the soldier, and asked :
　　“May I tell him about the spoon?”
　　He nodded his head without speaking.
　　When I explained to the soldier what they were laughing at, he hastilyseized the spoon, tore it off, threw it on the floor, crushed it with his foot,and took hold of my hair with both hands. We began to fight, to the greatsatisfaction of the passengers, who made a ring round us at once.
　　Smouri pushed the spectators aside, separated us, and, after boxing myear, seized the soldier by the ear. When the passengers saw how the littleman danced under the hand of the cook they roared with excitement,whistled, stamped their feet, split their sides with laughter.
　　“Hurrah! Garrison! Butt the cook in the stomach!”
　　This wild joy on the part of others made me feel that I wanted to throwmyself upon them and hit their dirty heads with a lump of wood.
　　Smouri let the soldier go, and with his hands behind his back turnedupon the passengers like a wild boar, bristling, and showing his teethterrifyingly.
　　“To your places! March! March!”
　　The soldier threw himself upon me again, but Smouri seized him roundthe body with one hand and carried him to the hatchway, where he began topump water on his head, turning his frail body about as if he were a rag-doll.
　　The sailors came running on the scene, with the boatswain and thecaptain’s mate. The passengers crowded about again. A head above theothers stood the head-steward, quiet, dumb, as always.
　　The soldier, sitting on some wood near the kitchen door, took off hisboots and began to wring out his leggings, though they were not wet. But thewater dripped from his greasy hair, which again amused the passengers.
　　“All the same,” said the soldier, “I am going to kill that boy.”
　　Taking me by the shoulder, Smouri said something to the captain’s mate.
　　The sailors sent the passengers away, and when they had all dispersed, heasked the soldier:
　　“What is to be done with you?”
　　The latter was silent, looking at me with wild eyes, and all the whileputting a strange restraint upon himself.
　　“Be quiet, you devilskin!” said Smouri.
　　“As you are not the piper, you can’t call the tune,” answered the soldier.
　　I saw that the cook was confused. His blown-out cheeks became flabby;he spat, and went away, taking me with him. I walked after him, feelingfoolish, with backward glances at the soldier. But Smouri muttered in aworried tone :
　　“There’s a wild creature for you! What? What do you think of him?”
　　Sergei overtook us and said in a whisper:
　　“He is going to kill himself.”
　　“Where is he?” cried Smouri, and he ran.
　　The soldier was standing at the door of the steward’s cabin with a largeknife in his hand. It was the knife which was used for cutting off the heads offowls and for cutting up sticks for the stoves. It was blunt, and notched like asaw. In front of the cabin the passengers were assembled, looking at thefunny little man with the wet head. His snub-nosed face shook like a jelly; hismouth hung wearily open; his lips twitched. He roared:
　　“Tormentors! Tormentors!”
　　Jumping up on something, I looked over the heads of people into theirfaces. They were smiling, giggling, and saying to one another :
　　“Look! Look!”
　　When he pushed his crumpled shirt down into his trousers with hisskinny, childish hand, a good-looking man near me said:
　　“He is getting ready to die, and he takes the trouble to hitch up histrousers.”
　　The passengers all laughed loudly. It was perfectly plain that they did notthink it probable that the soldier would really kill himself, nor did I think so;but Smouri, after one glance at him, pushed the people aside with hisstomach, saying:
　　“Get away, you fools!”
　　He called them fools over and over again, and approaching one littleknot of people, said:
　　“To your place, fool!”
　　This was funny ; but, however, it seemed to be true, for they had all beenacting like one big fool from the first thing in the morning. When he haddriven the passengers, off, he approached the soldier, and, holding out hishand, said:
　　“Give me that knife.”
　　“I don’t care,” said the soldier, holding out the handle of the knife.
　　The cook gave the knife to me, and pushed the soldier into the cabin.
　　“Lie down and go to sleep. What is the matter with you, eh?”
　　The soldier sat on a hammock in silence.
　　“He shall bring you something to eat and some vodka. Do you drinkvodka?”
　　“A little sometimes.”
　　“But, look you, don’t you touch him. It was not he who made fun of you,do you hear? I tell you that it was not he.”
　　“But why did they torment me?” asked the soldier, softly.
　　Smouri answered gruffly after a pause:
　　“How should I know?”
　　As he came with me to the kitchen he muttered :
　　“Well, they have fastened upon a poor wretch this time, and no mistake!
　　You see what he is? There you are! My lad, people can be sent out of theirminds; they can really. Stick to them like bugs, and the thing is done. In fact,there are some people here like bugs — worse than bugs!”
　　When I took bread, meat, and vodka to the soldier he was still sitting inthe hammock, rocking himself and crying softly, sobbing like a woman.
　　I placed the plate on the table, saying:
　　“Eat.”
　　“Shut the door.”
　　“That will make it dark.”
　　“Shut it, or they will come crawling in here.”
　　I went away. The sight of the soldier was unpleasant to me. He arousedmy commiseration and pity and made me feel uncomfortable. Times withoutnumber grandmother had told me:
　　“One must have pity on people. We are all unhappy. Life is hard for all ofus.”
　　“Did you take it to him?” asked the cook. “Well, how is he — the soldier?”
　　“I feel sorry for him.”
　　“Well, what’s the matter now, eh?’
　　“One can’t help being sorry for people.”
　　Smouri took me by the arm, drew me to him, and said:
　　“You do not pity in vain, but it is waste of time to chatter about it. Whenyou are not accustomed to mix jellies, you must teach yourself the way.”
　　And pushing me away from him, he added gruffly:
　　“This is no place for you. Here, smoke.”
　　I was deeply distressed, quite crushed by the behavior of the passengers.
　　There was something in expressibly insulting and oppressive in the way theyhad worried the soldier and had laughed with glee whenSmouri had him by the ear. What pleasure could they find in such adisgusting, pitiful affair? What was there to cause them to laugh so joyfully?
　　There they were again, sitting or lying under the awning, drinking,making a buzz of talk, playing cards, conversing seriously and sensibly,looking at the river, just as if they had never whistled and hooted an hourago. They were all as quiet and lazy as usual. From morning to night theysauntered about the boat like pieces of fluff or specks of dust in thesunbeams. In groups of ten they would stroll to the hatchway, crossthemselves, and leave the boat at the landing-stage from which the samekind of people embarked as they landed, bending their backs under the sameheavy wallets and trunks and dressed in the same fashion.
　　This continual change of passengers did not alter the life on the boat onebit. The new passengers spoke of the same things as those who had left: theland, labor, God, women, and in the same words. “It is ordained by the LordGod that we should suffer; all we can do is to be patient. There is nothingelse to be done. It is fate.”
　　It was depressing to hear such words, and they exasperated me. I couldnot endure dirt, and I did not wish to endure evil, unjust, and insultingbehavior toward myself. I was sure that I did not deserve such treatment.
　　And the soldier had not deserved it, either. Perhaps he had meant to befunny.
　　Maxim, a serious, good-hearted fellow, had been dismissed from theship, and Sergei, a mean fellow, was left. And why did these people, capableof goading a man almost to madness, always submit humbly to the furiousshouts of the sailors, and listen to their abuse without taking offense?
　　“What are you rolling about on the deck for?” cried the boatswain,blinking his handsome, though malevolent, eyes. “If the boat heeled, it wouldbe the end of you, you devils.”
　　The “devils” went peaceably enough to the other deck, but they chasedthem away from there, too, as if they had been sheep.
　　“Ah, accursed ones!”
　　On hot nights, under the iron awning, which had been made red-hot bythe sun during the day, it was suffocating. The passengers crawled over thedeck like beetles, and lay where they happened to fall. The sailors awokethem at the landing-stages by prodding them with marlinespikes.
　　“What are you sprawling in the way for? Go away to your proper place!”
　　They would stand up, and move sleepily in the direction whither theywere pushed. The sailors were of the same class as themselves, only theywere dressed differently; but they ordered them about as if they werepolicemen. The first thing which I noticed about these people was that theywere so quiet, so timid, so sadly meek. It was terrible when through thatcrust of meekness burst the cruel, thoughtless spirit of mischief, which hadvery little fun in it. It seemed to me that they did not know where they werebeing taken; it was a matter of indifference to them where they were landedfrom the boat. Wherever they went on shore they stayed for a short time, andthen they embarked again on our boat or another, starting on a freshjourney. They all seemed to have strayed, to have no relatives, as if all theearth were strange to them. And every single one of them was senselesslycowardly.
　　Once, shortly after midnight, something burst in the machinery andexploded like a report from a cannon. The deck was at once enveloped in acloud of steam, which rose thickly from the engine-room and crept throughevery crevice. An invisible person shouted deafeningly:
　　“Gavrilov, some red lead — and some felt!”
　　I slept near the engine-room, on the table on which the dishes werewashed up, and the explosion and shaking awoke me. It was quiet on deck.
　　The engine uttered a hot, steamy whisper; a hammer sounded repeatedly.
　　But in the course of a few minutes all the saloon passengers howled, roaredwith one voice, and suddenly a distressing scene was in progress.
　　In a white fog which swiftly rarefied, women with their hair loose,disheveled men with round eyes like fishes’ eyes, rushed about, tramplingone another, carrying bundles, bags, boxes, stumbling, falling, call — ingupon God and St. Nicholas, striking one another. It was very terrible, but atthe same time it was interesting. I ran after them to see what they would donext.
　　This was my first experience of a night alarm, yetI understood at once that the passengers had made a mistake. The boathad not slowed down. On the right hand, quite near, gleamed the life-belts.
　　The night was light, the full moon stood high. But the passengers rushedwildly about the deck, and now those traveling in the other classes had comeup, too. Some one jumped overboard. He was followed by another, and yet athird. Two peasants and a monk with heavy pieces of wood broke off a benchwhich was screwed to the desk. A large cage of fowls was thrown into thewater from the stern. In the center of the deck, near the steps leading to thecaptain’s bridge, knelt a peasant who prostrated himself before the people asthey rushed past him, and howled like a wolf:
　　“I am Orthodox and a sinner — ”
　　“To the boats, you devils!” cried a fat gentleman who wore only trousersand no shirt, and he beat his breast with his fist.
　　The sailors came running, seized people by the collars, knocked theirheads together, and threw them on the deck. Smouri approached heavily,wearing his overcoat over his night-clothes, addressed them all in aresounding voice:
　　“Yes, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. What are you making allthis fuss for? Has the steamer stopped, eh? Are we going slower? There is theshore. Those fools who jumped into the water have caught the life-belts, theyhave had to drag them out. There they are. Do you see? Two boats — ”
　　He struck the third-class passengers on the head with his fist, and theysank like sacks to the deck.
　　The confusion was not yet hushed when a lady in a cloak flew to Smouriwith a tablespoon in her hand, and, flourishing it in his face, cried:
　　“How dare you?”
　　A wet gentleman, restraining her, sucked his mustache and said irritably:
　　“Let him alone, you imbecile!”
　　Smouri, spreading out his hands, blinked with embarrassment, andasked me:
　　“What’s the matter, eh? What does she want with me? This is nice, Imust say! Why, I never saw her before in my life!”
　　And a peasant, with his nose bleeding, cried :
　　“Human beings, you call them? Robbers!”
　　Before the summer I had seen two panics on board the steamboat, andon both occasions they were caused not by real danger, but by the merepossibility of it. On a third occasion the passengers caught two thieves, oneof them was dressed like a foreigner, beat them for almost an hour, unknownto the sailors, and when the latter took their victims away from them, thepassengers abused them.
　　“Thieves shield thieves. That is plain. You are rogues yourselves, and yousympathize with rogues.”
　　The thieves had been beaten into unconsciousness. They could not standwhen they were handed over to the police at the next stopping-place.
　　There were many other occasions on which my feelings were aroused toa high pitch, and I could not make up my mind as to whether people werebad or good, peaceful or mischief-making, and why they were so peculiarlycruel, lusting to work malevolence, and ashamed of being kind.
　　I asked the cook about this, but he enveloped his face in a cloud ofsmoke, and said briefly in a tone of vexation :
　　“What are you chattering about now? Human creatures are humancreatures. Some are clever, some are fools. Read, and don’t talk so much. Inbooks, if they are the right sort, you will find all you want to know.”
　　I wanted to please him by giving him a present of some books.
　　In Kazan I bought, for five copecks, “The Story of how a Soldier SavedPeter the Great” ; but at that time the cook was drinking and was very cross,so I began to read it myself. I was delighted with it, it was so simple, easy tounderstand, interesting, and short. I felt that this book would give greatpleasure to my teacher; but when I took it to him he silently crushed it in hishand into a round ball and threw it overboard.
　　“That for your book, you fool!” he said harshly. “I teach you like a dog,and all you want to do is to gobble up idle tales, eh?” He stamped and roared.
　　“What kind of book is that? Do I read nonsense? Is what is written theretrue? Well, speak!”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Well, I do know. If a man’s head were cut off, his body would fall downthe staircase, and the other man would not have climbed on the haystack.
　　Soldiers are not fools. He would have set fire to the hay, and that would havebeen the end. Do you understand?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“That’s right. I know all about Czar Peter, and that never happened tohim. Run along.”
　　I realized that the cook was right, but nevertheless the book pleased me.
　　I bought the “Story” again and read it a second time. To my amazement, Idiscovered that it was really a bad book. This puzzled me, and I began toregard the cook with even more respect, while he said to me more frequentlyand more crossly than ever:
　　“Oh, what a lot you need to be taught! This is no place for you.”
　　I also felt that it was no place for me. Sergei behaved disgustingly to me,and several times I observed him stealing pieces of the tea-service, andgiving them to the passengers on the sly. I knew that this was theft. Smourihad warned me more than once :
　　“Take care. Do not give the attendants any of the cups and plates fromyour table.”
　　This made life still harder for me, and I often longed to run away fromthe boat into the forest; but Smouri held me back. He was more tender to meevery day, and the incessant movement on the boat held a terriblefascination for me. I did not like it when we stayed in port, and I was alwaysexpecting something to happen, and that we should sail from Kama to Byela,as far as Viatka, and so up the Volga, and I should see new places, towns, andpeople. But this did not happen. My life on the steamer came to an abruptend. One evening when we were going from Kazan to Nijni the steward calledme to him. I went. He shut the door behind me, and said to Smouri, who satgrimly on a small stool:
　　“Here he is.”
　　Smouri asked me roughly :
　　“Have you been giving Serejka any of the dinner-and tea-services?”
　　“He helps himself when I am not looking.”
　　The steward said softly:
　　“He does not look, yet he knows.”
　　Smouri struck his knee with his fist; then he scratched his knee as hesaid :
　　“Wait; take time.”
　　I pondered. I looked at the steward. He looked at me, and there seemedto be no eyes behind his glasses.
　　He lived without making a noise. He went about softly, spoke in lowtones. Sometimes his faded beard and vacant eyes peeped out from somecorner and instantly vanished. Before going to bed he knelt for a long time inthe buffet before the icon with the ever-burning lamp. I could see himthrough the chink of the door, looking like a black bundle ; but I had neversucceeded in learning how the steward prayed, for he simply knelt andlooked at the icon, stroking his beard and sighing.
　　, After a silence Smouri asked:
　　“Has Sergei ever given you any money?”
　　“No.”
　　“Never?”
　　“Never.”
　　“He does not tell lies,” said Smouri to the steward, who answered at oncein his low voice:
　　“It comes to the same thing, please — ”
　　“Come!” cried the cook to me, and he came to my table, and rapped mycrown lightly with his fingers.
　　“Fool! And I am a fool, too. I ought to have looked after you.”
　　At Nijni the steward dismissed me. I received nearly eight rubles, thefirst large money earned by me.
　　When Smouri took farewell of me he said roughly :
　　“Well, here you are. Now keep your eyes open, — do you understand?
　　You mustn’t go about with your mouth open.”
　　He put a tobacco-pouch of colored beads into my hand.
　　“There you are! That is good handwork. My godchild made it for me.
　　Well, good-by. Read books; that is the best thing you can do.”
　　He took me under the arms, lifted me up, kissed me, and placed mefirmly on the jetty. I was sorry for him and for myself. I could hardly keepfrom crying when I saw him returning to the steamer, pushing aside theporters, looking so large, heavy, solitary. So many times since then I havemet people like him, kind, lonely, cut off from the lives of other people.
Chapter 7
    GRANDFATHER and grandmother had again gone into the town. I went tothem, prepared to be angry and warlike; but my heart was heavy. Why hadthey accounted me a thief 9Grandmother greeted me tenderly, and at once went to prepare thesamovar. Grandfather asked as mockingly as usual:
　　“Have you saved much money?”
　　“What there is belongs to me,” I answered, taking a seat by the window. Itriumphantly produced a box of cigarettes from my pocket and began tosmoke importantly.
　　“So-o-o,” said grandfather, looking at me fixedly — “so that’s it! Yousmoke the devil’s poison? Isn’t it rather soon?”
　　“Why, I have even had a pouch given to me,” I boasted.
　　“A pouch?” squeaked grandfather. “What! Are you saying this to annoyme?”
　　He rushed upon me, with his thin, strong hands out-stretched, his greeneyes flashing. I leaped up, and stuck my head into his stomach. The old mansat on the floor, and for several oppressive moments looked at me, amazedlyblinking, his dark mouth open. Then he asked quietly:
　　“You knock me down, your grandfather? The father of your mother?”
　　“You have knocked me about enough in the past,” I muttered, notunderstanding that I had acted abominably.
　　Withered and light, grandfather rose from the floor, sat beside me, deftlysnatched the cigarette from me, threw it out of the window, and said in atone of fear:
　　“You mad fool! Don’t you understand that God will punish you for thisfor the rest of your life? Mother,” — he turned to grandmother, — “did yousee that? He knocked me down — he! Knocked me down! Ask him!”
　　She did not wait to ask. She simply came over to me, seized me by thehair, and beat me, saying:
　　“And for that — take this — and this!”
　　I was not hurt, but I felt deeply insulted, especially by grandfather’slaughter. He jumped on a chair, slapped his legs with his hands, and croakedthrough his laughter:
　　“Th-a-t’s right! Tha-a-t’s right!”
　　I tore myself away, and ran out to the shed, where I lay in a comercrushed, desolate, listening to the singing of the samovar.
　　Then grandmother came to me, bent over me, and whispered hardlyaudibly:
　　“You must forgive me, for I purposely did not hurt you. I could not dootherwise than I did, for grandfather is an old man. He has to be treated withcare. He has fractured some of his small bones, and, besides, sorrow haseaten into his heart. You must never do him any harm. You are not a littleboy now. You must remember that. You must, Oleshal He is like a child, andnothing more.”
　　Her words laved me like warm water. That friendly whisper made mefeel ashamed of myself, and, light-hearted, I embraced her warmly. Wekissed.
　　“Go to him. Go along. It is all right, only don’t smoke before him yet.
　　Give him time to get used to the idea.”
　　I went back to the room, glanced at grandfather, and could hardly keepfrom laughing. He really was as pleased as a child. He was radiant, twistinghis feet, and running his paws through his red hair as he sat by the table.
　　“Well, goat, have you come to butt me again? Ach, you — brigand! Justlike your father! Freemason! You come back home, never cross yourself, andstart smoking at once. Ugh, you — Bonaparte! you copeck’s worth of goods!”
　　I said nothing. He had exhausted his supply of words and was silent fromfatigue. But at tea he began to lecture me.
　　“The fear of God is necessary to men.; it is like a bridle to a horse. Wehave no friend except God. Man is a cruel enemy to man.” That men were myenemies, I felt was the truth, but the rest did not interest me.
　　“Now you will go back to Aunt Matrena, and in the spring you can go ona steamboat again. Live with them during the winter. And you need not tellthem that you are leaving in the spring.”
　　“Now, why should he deceive people?” said grandmother, who had justdeceived grandfather by pre tending to give me a beating.
　　“It is impossible to live without deceit,” declared grandfather. “Just tellme now. Who lives without deceiving others?”
　　In the evening, while grandfather was reading his office, grandmotherand I went out through the gate into the fields. The little cottage with twowindows in which grandfather lived was on the outskirts of the town, at theback of Kanatni Street, where grandfather had once had his own house.
　　“So here we are again!” said grandmother, laughing. “The old mancannot find a resting-place for his soul, but must be ever on the move. Andhe does not even like it here; but I do.”
　　Before us stretched for about three versts fields of scanty herbage,intersected by ditches, bounded by woods and the line of birches on theKazan highroad. From the ditches the twigs of bushes projected, the rays of acold sunset reddened them like blood. A soft evening breeze shook the grayblades of grass. From a nearer pathway, also like blades of grass, showed thedark form of town lads and girls. On the right, in the distance, stood the redwalls of the burial-ground of the Old Believers. They called it “The BugrovskiHermitage.” On the left, beyond the causeway, rose a dark group of trees;there was the Jewish cemetery. All the surroundings were poor, and seemedto lie close to the wounded earth. The little houses on the outskirts of thetown looked timidly with their windows on the dusty road. Along the roadwandered small, ill-fed fowl. Toward the Dyevichia Monastery went a herd oflowing cows, from the camp came the sound of martial music. The brassinstruments brayed.
　　A drunken man came along, ferociously holding out a harmonica. Hestumbled and muttered:
　　“I am coming to thee — without fail.”
　　“Fool!” said grandmother, blinking in the red sun-light. “Where are yougoing ? Soon you will fall down and go to sleep, and you will be robbed inyour sleep. You will lose your harmonica, your consolation.”
　　I told her all about the life on the boat as I looked about me. After what Ihad seen I found it dull here; I felt like a fish out of water. Grandmotherlistened in silence and with attention, just as I liked to listen to her. When Itold her about Smouri she crossed herself and said:
　　“He is a good man, help him. Mother of God; he is good! Take care, you,that you do not forget him! You should always remember what is good, andwhat is bad simply forget.”
　　It was very difficult for me to tell her why they had dismissed me, but Itook courage and told her. It made no impression whatever on her. Shemerely said calmly:
　　“You are young yet; you don’t know how to live.” “That is what they allsay to one another, ‘You don’t know how to live’ — peasants, sailors, AuntMatrena to her son. But how does one learn?” She compressed her lips andshook her head. “I don’t know myself.”
　　“And yet you say the same as the others!” “And why should I not say it?”
　　replied grandmother, calmly. “You must not be offended. You are young; youare not expected to know. And who does know, after all? Only rogues. Lookat your grandfather. Clever and well educated as he is, yet he does not know.”
　　“And you — have you managed your life well?” “I? Yes. And badly also;all ways.” People sauntered past us, with their long shadows following them.
　　The dust rose like smoke under their feet, burying those shadows. Then theevening sadness became miore oppressive. The sound of grand — father’sgrumbling voice flowed from the window:
　　“Lord, in Thy wrath do not condemn me, nor in Thy rage punish me!”
　　Grandmother said, smiling:
　　“He has made God tired of him. Every evening he has his tale of woe, andabout what? He is old now, and he does not need anything; yet he is alwayscomplaining and working himself into a frenzy about something. I expectGod laughs when He hears his voice in the evening. There’s Vassili Kashiringrumbling again!’ Come and go to bed now.”
　　I made up my mind to take up the occupation of catching singing-birds. Ithought it would be a good way of earning a living. I would catch them, andgrandmother would sell them. I bought a net, a hoop, and a trap, and made acage. At dawn I took my place in a hollow among the bushes, whilegrandmother went in the woods with a basket and a bag to find the lastmushrooms, bulbs, and nuts.
　　The tired September sun had only just risen. Its pale rays were nowextinguished by clouds, now fell like a silver veil upon me in the causeway. Atthe bottom of the hollow it was still dusk, and a white mist rose from it. Itsclayey sides were dark and bare, and the other side, which was more sloping,was covered with grass, thick bushes, and yellow, brown, and scarlet leaves.
　　A fresh wind raised them and swept them along the ditch.
　　On the ground, among the turnip-tops, the gold-finch uttered its cry. Isaw, among the ragged, gray grass, birds with red caps on their lively heads.
　　About me fluttered curious titmouses. They made a great noise and fuss,comically blowing out their white cheeks, just like the young men of KunavinStreet on a Sunday. Swift, clever, spiteful, they wanted to know all and totouch everything, and they fell into the trap one after the other. It was pitifulto see how they beat their wings, but my business was strictly commerce. Ichanged the birds over into the spare cage and hid them in a bag. In the darkthey kept quiet.
　　A flock of siskins settled on a hawthorn-bush. The bush was suffused bysunlight. The siskins were glad of the sun and chirped more merrily thanever. Their antics were like those of schoolboys. The thirsty, tame, speckledmagpie, late in setting out on his journey to a warmer country, sat on thebending bough of a sweetbriar, cleaning his wing feathers and insolentlylooking at his prey with his black eyes. The lark soared on high, caught a bee,and, carefully depositing it on a thorn, once more settled on the ground, withhis thievish head alert. Noiselessly flew the talking-bird, — the hawfinch, —the object of my longing dreams, if only I could catch him. A bullfinch,driven from the flock, was perched on an alder-tree. Red, important, like ageneral, he chirped angrily, shaking his black beak.
　　The higher the sun mounted, the more birds there were, and the moregayly they sang. The hollow was full of the music of autumn. The ceaselessrustle of the bushes in the wind, and the passionate songs of the birds, couldnot drown that soft, sweetly melancholy noise. I heard in it the farewell songof summer. It whispered to me words meant for my ears alone, and of theirown accord they formed themselves into a song. At the same time mymemory unconsciously recalled to my mind pictures of the past. Fromsomewhere above grandmother cried:
　　“Where are you?”
　　She sat on the edge of the pathway. She had spread out a handkerchiefon which she had laid bread, cucumber, turnips, and apples. In the midst ofthis display a small, very beautiful cut-glass decanter stood. It had a crystalstopper, the head of Napoleon, and in the goblet was a measure of vodka,distilled from herbs.
　　“How good it is, O Lord!” said grandmother, gratefully.
　　“I have composed a song.”
　　“Yes? Well?”
　　I repeated to her something which I thought was like poetry.
　　“That winter draws near the signs are many ;Farewell to thee, my summer sun!”
　　But she interrupted without hearing me out.
　　“I know a song like that, only it is a better one.”
　　And she repeated in a singsong voice:
　　“Oi, the summer sun has goneTo dark nights behind the distant woods!
　　Ekh! I am left behind, a maiden,Alone, without the joys of spring.
　　Every morn I wander round;I trace the walks I took in May.
　　The bare fields unhappy look;There it was I lost my youth.
　　Oif my friends, my kind friends,Take my heart from my white breast,Bury my heart in the snow!”
　　My conceit as an author suffered not a little, but I was delighted with thissong, and very sorry for the girl.
　　Grandmother said::
　　“That is how grief sings. That was made up by a young girl, you know.
　　She went out walking all the springtime, and before the winter her dear lovehad thrown her over, perhaps for another girl. She wept because her heartwas sore. You cannot speak well and truly on what you have not experiencedfor yourself. You see what a good song she made up.”
　　When she sold a bird for the first time, for forty copecks, she was verysurprised.
　　“Just look at that! I thought it was all nonsense, just a boy’s amusement;and it has turned out like this!”
　　“You sold it too cheaply.”
　　“Yes; well?”
　　On market-days she sold them for a ruble, and was more surprised thanever. What a lot one might earn by just playing about!
　　“And a woman spends whole days washing clothes or cleaning floors fora quarter of a ruble, and here you just catch them! But it isn’t a nice thing todo, you know, to keep birds in a cage. Give it up, Olesha!”
　　But bird-catching amused me greatly; I liked it.
　　It gave me my independence and inconvenienced no one but the birds. Iprovided myself with good implements. Conversations with old bird-catcherstaught me a lot. I went alone nearly three versts to catch birds : to the forestof Kstocski, on the banks of the Volga, where in the tall fir-trees lived andbred crossbills, and most valuable to collectors, the Apollyon titmouse, along-tailed, white bird of rare beauty.
　　Sometimes I started in the evening and stayed out all night, wanderingabout on the Kasanski high-road, and sometimes in the autumn rains andthrough deep mud. On my back I carried an oilskin bag in which were cages,with food to entice the birds. In my hand was a solid cane of walnut wood. Itwas cold and terrifying in the autumn darkness, very terrifying. There stoodby the side of the road old lightning-riven birches ; wet branches brushedacross my head. On the left under the hill, over the black Volga, floated rarelights on the masts of the last boats and barges, looking as if they were in anunfathomable abyss. The wheels splashed in the water, the sirens shrieked.
　　From the hard ground rose the huts of the roadside villages. Angry,hungry dogs ran in circles round my legs. The watchman collided with me,and cried in terror :
　　“Who is that? He whom the devils carry does not come out till night, theysay.”
　　I was very frightened lest my tackle should be taken from me, and I usedto take five-copeck pieces with me to give to the watchmen. The watchman ofthe village of Thokinoi made friends with me, and was al — ways groaningover me.
　　“What, out again? O you fearless, restless night-bird, eh?”
　　His name was Niphront. He was small and gray, like a saint. He drew outfrom his breast a turnip, an apple, a handful of peas, and placed them in myhand, saying:
　　“There you are, friend. There is a little present for you. Eat and enjoy it.”
　　And conducting me to the bounds of the village, he said, “Go, and God bewith you!”
　　I arrived at the forest before dawn, laid my traps, and spreading out mycoat, lay on the edge of the forest and waited for the day to come. It was still.
　　Everything was wrapped in the deep autumn sleep. Through the gray mistthe broad meadows under the hill were hardly visible. They were cut in twoby the Volga, across which they met and separated again, melting away in thefog. In the distance, behind the forest on the same side as the meadows, rosewithout hurry the bright sun. On the black mane of the forest lights flashedout, and my heart began to stir strangely, poignantly. Swifter and swifter thefog rose from the meadows, growing silver in the rays of the sun, and,following it, the bushes, trees, and hay-ricks rose from the ground. Themeadows were simply flooded with the sun’s rays and flowed on each side,red-gold. The sun just glanced at the still water by the bank, and it seemed asif the whole river moved toward the sun. as it rose higher and higher, joyfullyblessed and warmed the denuded, chilled earth, which gave forth the sweetsmell of autumn. The transparent air made the earth look enormous,boundlessly wide. Everything seemed to be floating in the distance, and to beluring one to the farthest ends of the world. I saw the sunrise ten timesduring those months, and each time a new world was born before my eyes,with a new beauty.
　　I loved the sun so much that its very name delighted me. The sweetsound of it was like a bell hidden in it. I loved to close my eyes and place myface right in the way of its hot rays to catch it in my hands when it came, likea sword, through the chinks of the fence or through the branches.
　　Grandfather had read over and over again “Prince Mikhail Chernigovski andthe Lady Theodora who would not Worship the Sun,” and my idea of thesepeople was that they were black, like Gipsies, harsh, malignant, and alwayshad bad eyes, like poor Mordovans. When the sun rose over the meadows Iinvoluntarily smiled with joy.
　　Over me murmured the forest of firs, shaking off the drops of dew withits green paws. In the shadows and on the fern-leaves glistened, like silverbrocade, the rime of the morning frost. The reddening grass was crushed bythe rain ; immovable stalks bowed their heads to the ground: but when thesun’s rays fell on them a slight stir was noticeable among the herbs, as if,may be, it was the last effort of their lives.
　　The birds awoke. Like gray balls of down, they fell from bough to bough.
　　Flaming crossbills pecked with their crooked beaks the knots on the tallestfirs. On the end of the fir-branches sang a white Apollyon titmouse, wavingits long, rudder-like tail, looking askance suspiciously with its black, beadyeyes at the net which I had spread. And suddenly the whole forest, which aminute ago had been solemnly pensive, was filled with the sound of athousand bird — voices, with the bustle of living beings, the purest on theearth. In their image, man, the father of earthly beauty, created for his ownconsolation, elves, cherubim, and seraphim, and all the ranks of angels.
　　I was rather sorry to catch the little songsters, and had scruples aboutsqueezing them into cages. I would rather have merely looked at them; butthe hunter’s passion and the desire to earn money drove away my pity.
　　The birds mocked me with their artfulness. The blue titmouse, after acareful examination of the trap, understood her danger, and, approachingsidewise without running any risk, helped herself to some seed between thesticks of the trap. Titmouses are very clever, but they are very curious, andthat is their undoing. The proud bullfinches are stupid, and flocks of themfall into the nets, like overfed citizens into a church. When they findthemselves shut up, they are very astonished, roll their eyes, and peck myfingers with their stout beaks. The crossbill entered the trap calmly andseriously. This grasping, ignorant bird, unlike all the others, used to sit for along time before the net, stretching out his long beak, and leaning on histhick tail. He can run up the trunk of trees like the woodpecker, alwaysescorting the titmouse. About this smoke-gray singing-bird there issomething unpleasant. No one loves it. And it loves no one. Like the magpie,it likes to steal and hide bright things.
　　Before noon I had finished my catch, and went home through the forest.
　　If I had gone by the high-road past the villages, the boys and young menwould have taken my cages away from me and broken up my tackle. I hadalready experienced that once.
　　I arrived home in the evening tired and hungry, but I felt that I hadgrown older, had learned something new, and had gained strength duringthat day. This new strength gave me the power to listen calmly and withoutresentment to grandfather’s jeers; seeing which, grandfather began to speaksensibly and seriously.
　　“Give up this useless business! Give it up! No one ever got on throughbirds. Such a thing has never happened that I know of. Go and find anotherplace, and let your intelligence grow up there. Man has not been given life fornothing; he is God’s grain, and he must produce an ear of corn. Man is like aruble; put out at good interest it produces three rubles. You think life is easyto live? No, it is not all easy. The world of men is like a dark night, but everyman must make his own light. To every person is given enough for his tenfingers to hold, but every one wants to grasp by handfuls. One should bestrong, but if one is weak, one must be artful. He who has little strength isweak, and he is neither in heaven nor in hell. Live as if you are with others,but remember that you are alone. Whatever happens, never trust any one. Ifyou believe your own eyes, you will measure crookedly. Hold your tongue.
　　Neither town or house was built by the tongue, but rubles are made by theax. You are neither a fool nor a Kalmuck, to whom all riches are like lice onsheep.”
　　He could talk like this all the evening, and I knew his words by heart. Thewords pleased me, but I distrusted their meaning. From what he said it wasplain that two forces hindered man from doing as he wished, God and otherpeople.
　　Seated at the window, grandmother wound the cotton for her lace. Thespindle hummed under her skil — ful hands. She listened for a long time togrand — father’s speech in silence, then she suddenly spoke.
　　“It all depends upon whether the Mother of God smiles upon us.”
　　“What’s that?” cried grandfather. “God! I have not forgotten about God. Iknow all about God. You old fool, has God sown fools on the earth, eh?”
　　In my opinion the happiest people on earth were Cossacks and soldiers.
　　Their lives were simple and gay. On fine mornings they appeared in thehollow near our house quite early. Scattering over the bare fields like whitemushrooms, they began a complicated, interesting game. Agile and strong intheir white blouses, they ran about the field with guns in their hands,disappeared in the hollow, and suddenly, at the sound of the bugle, againspread themselves over the field with shouts of “Hurrah!” accompanied bythe ominous sounds of the drum. They ran straight at our house with fixedbayonets, and they looked as if they would knock it down and sweep it away,like a hay-rick, in a minute. I cried “Hurrah!” too, and ran with them, quitecarried away. The wicked rattle of the drum aroused in me a passionatedesire to destroy something, to break down the fence, to hit other boys.
　　When they were resting, the soldiers used to give me a treat by teaching mehow to signal and by showing me their heavy guns. Sometimes one of themwould stick his bayonet into my stomach and cry, with a pretense of anger:
　　“Stick the cockroach!”
　　The bayonet gleamed; it looked as if it were alive, and seemed to windabout like a snake about to coil itself up. It was rather terrifying, but morepleasant.
　　The Mordovan drummer taught me to strike the drum with my fingers.
　　At first he used to take me by the wrist, and, moving them so that he hurtme, would thrust the sticks into my crushed fingers.
　　“Hit it — one, two-one-tw-o-o! Rum te — tum! Beat it — left — softly,right — loudly, rum te —!” he shouted threateningly, opening wide his birdlikeeyes.
　　I used to run about the field with the soldiers, almost to the end of thedrill, and after it was finished, I used to escort them across the town to thebarracks, listening to their loud songs, looking into their kind faces, all asnew as five-ruble pieces just coined. The close-packed mass of happy menpassing up the streets in one united body aroused a feeling of friendliness inme, a desire to throw myself in among them as into a river, to enter intothem as into a forest. These men were frightened of nothing; they couldconquer anything; they were capable of anything; they could do anythingthey liked; and they were all simple and good.
　　But one day during the time they were resting a young noncommissionedofficer gave me a fat cigarette.
　　“Smoke this! I would not give them to any one. In fact I hardly like togive you one, my dear boy, they are so good.”
　　I smoked it. He moved away a few steps, and suddenly a red flameblinded me, burning my fingers, my nose, my eyebrows. A gray, acrid smokemade me splutter and cough. Blinded, terrified, I stamped on the ground,and the soldiers, who had formed a ring around me, laughed loudly andheartily. I ran away home. Whistles and laughter followed me; somethingcracked like a shepherd’s whip. My burned fingers hurt me, my face smarted,tears flowed from my eyes; but it was not the pain which oppressed me, onlya heavy, dull amazement. Why should this amuse these good fellows?
　　When I reached home I climbed up to the attic and sat there a long timebrooding over this inexplicable cruelty which stood so repulsively in my path.
　　I had a peculiarly clear and vivid memory of the little soldier from Sarapuliastanding before me, as large as life, and saying:
　　“Well, do you understand?”
　　Soon I had to go through something still more depressing anddisgusting.
　　I had begun to run about in the barracks of the Cossacks, which stoodnear the Pecherski Square. The Cossacks seemed different from the soldiers,not because they rode so skilfully oh horseback and were dressed morebeautifully, but because they spoke in a different way, sang different songs,and danced beautifully. In the evening, after they had seen to their horses,they used to gather in a ring near the stables, and a little red-haired Cossack,shaking his tufts of hair, sang softly in a high-pitched voice, like a trumpet.
　　The long-drawn-out, sad song flowed out upon the Don and the blue Dounia.
　　His eyes were closed, like the eyes of a linnet, which often sings till it fallsdead from the branch to the ground. The collar of his Cossack shirt wasundone. His collar-bone was visible, looking like a copper band. In fact, hewas altogether metallic, coppery. Swaying on his thin legs, as if the earthunder him were rocking, spreading out his hands, he seemed sightless, butfull of sound. He, as it were, ceased to be a man, and became a brassinstrument. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was falling, that he wouldfall on his back to the ground, and die like the linnet, because he put into thesong all his soul and all his strength.
　　With their hands in their pockets or behind their broad backs, hiscomrades stood round in a ring, sternly looking at his brassy face. Beatingtime with their hands, softly spitting into space, they joined in earnestly,softly, as if they were in the choir in church. All of them, bearded and shaven,looked like icons, stern and set apart from other people. The song was long,like a long street, and as level, as broad and as wide. When I listened to him Iforgot everything else, whether it was day or night upon the earth, whether Iwas an old man or a little boy. Everything else was forgotten. The voice of thesinger died away. The sighs of the horses were audible as they grieved fortheir native steppes, and gently, but surely, the autumn night crept up fromthe fields. My heart swelled and almost burst with a multitude ofextraordinary feelings, and a great, speechless love for human creatures andthe earth.
　　The little copper-colored Cossack seemed to me to be no man, butsomething much more significant — a legendary being, better and on ahigher plane than ordinary people. I could not talk to him. When he askedme a question I smiled blissfully and remained shyly silent. I was ready tofollow him anywhere, silently and humbly, like a dog. All I wanted was to seehim often, and to hear him sing.
Chapter 8
    WHEN the snows came, grandfather once more took me to grandmother’ssister.
　　“It will do you no harm,” he said to me.
　　I seemed to have had a wonderful lot of experience during the summer. Ifelt that I had grown older and cleverer, and the dullness of my master’shouse seemed worse than ever. They fell ill as often as ever, upsetting theirstomachs with offensive poisons, and giv — ing one another detailedaccounts of the progress of their illnesses. The old woman prayed to God inthe same terrible and malignant way. The young mistress had grown thin,but she moved about just as pompously and slowly as when she wasexpecting her child. When she stitched at the baby-clothes she always sangthe same song softly to herself:
　　“Spiria, Spiria, Spiridon,Spiria, my little brother,I will sit in the sledge myselfAnd Spiria on the foot-board.”
　　If any one went into the room she left off singing at once and criedangrily:
　　“What do you want?”
　　I fully believed that she knew no other song but that.
　　In the evenings they used to call me into the sitting-room, and the orderwas given: i8o“Now tell us how you lived on the boat.”
　　I sat on a chair near the door and spoke. I liked to recall a different lifefrom this which I was forced to lead against my will. I was so interested that Iforgot my audience, but not for long.
　　The women, who had never been on a boat, asked me:
　　“But it was very alarming, wasn’t it?”
　　I did not understand. Why should it be alarming?
　　“Why, the boat might go down any moment, and every one would bedrowned.”
　　The master burst out laughing, and I, although I knew that boats did notsink just because there were deep places, could not convince the women. Theold woman was certain that the boat did not float on the water, but wentalong on wheels on the bottom of the river, like a cart on dry land.
　　“If they are made of iron, how can they float? An ax will not float; nofear!”
　　“But a scoop does not sink in the water.”
　　“There’s a comparison to make! A scoop is a small thing, nothing tospeak of.”
　　When I spoke of Smouri and his books they regarded me with contempt.
　　The old lady said that only fools and heretics wrote books.
　　“What about the Psalms and King David?”
　　“The Psalms are sacred writings, and King David prayed God to forgivehim for writing the Psalms.”
　　“Where does it say so?”
　　“In the palms of my hands; that’s where! When I get hold of you by theneck you will learn where.”
　　She knew everything; she spoke on all subjects with conviction andalways savagely.
　　“A Tatar died on the Pechorka, and his soul came out of his mouth asblack as tar.”
　　“Soul? Spirit?” I said, but she cried contemptuously :
　　“Of a Tatar! Fool!”
　　The young mistress was afraid of books, too.
　　“It is very injurious to read books, and especially when you are young,”
　　she said. “At home, at Grebeshka, there was a young girl of good family whoread and read, and the end of it was that she fell in love with the deacon, andthe deacon’s wife so shamed her that it was terrible to see. In the street,before everybody.”
　　Sometimes I used words out of Smouri’s books, in one of which, onewithout beginning or end, was written, “Strictly speaking, no one personreally invented powder; as is always the case, it appeared at the end of a longseries of minor observations and discoveries.” I do not know why Iremembered these words so well. What I liked best of all was the joining oftwo phrases, “strictly speaking, no one person really invented powder.” I wasaware of force underlying them ; but they brought me sorrow, ludicrous sor— row. It happened thus.
　　One day when my employers proposed that I should tell them aboutsomething which had happened on the boat I answered:
　　“I haven’t anything left to tell, strictly speaking.”
　　This amazed them. They cried:
　　“What? What’s that you said?’
　　And all four began to laugh in a friendly fashion, repeating :
　　“‘Strictly speaking,’ — ah. Lord!”
　　Even the master said to me :
　　“You have thought that out badly, old fellow.”
　　And for a long time after that they used to call me:
　　“Hi, ‘strictly speaking,’ come here and wipe up the floor after the baby,strictly speaking.”
　　This stupid banter did not offend, but it greatly surprised, me. I lived in afog of stupefying grief, and I worked hard in order to fight against it. I didnot feel my inefficiencies when I was at work. In the house were two youngchildren. The nurses never pleased the mistresses, and were continuallybeing changed. I had to wait upon the children, to wash baby-clothes everyday, and every week I had to go to the Jandarmski Fountain to rinse thelinen. Here I was derided by the washerwomen:
　　“Why are you doing women’s work?”
　　Sometimes they worked me up to such a pitch that I slapped them withthe wet, twisted linen. They paid me back generously for this, but I foundthem merry and interesting.
　　The Jandarmski Fountain ran along the bottom of a deep causeway andfell into the Oka. The causeway cut the town off from the field which wascalled, from the name of an ancient god, Yarilo. On that field, near Semika,the inhabitants of the town had made a promenade. Grandmother had toldme that in the days of her youth people still believed in Yarilo and offeredsacrifices to him. They took a wheel, covered it with tarred tow, and let it rolldown the hill with cries and songs, watching to see if the burning wheelwould roll as far as the Oka. If it did, the god Yarilo had accepted thesacrifice; the summer would be sunny and happy.
　　The washerwomen were for the most part from Yarilo, bold, headstrongwomen who had the life of the town at their finger-ends. It was veryinteresting to hear their tales of the merchants, chinovniks and officers forwhom they worked. To rinse the linen in winter in the icy water of the riverwas work for a galley-slave. All the women had their hands so frost-bittenthat the skin was broken. Bending over the stream, inclosed in a woodentrough, under an old penthouse full of crevices, which was no protectionagainst either wind or snow, the women rinsed the linen. Their faces wereflushed, pinched by the frost. The frost burned their wet fingers ; they couldnot bend them. Tears trickled from their eyes, but they chatted all the time,telling one another different stories, bearing themselves with a peculiarbravery toward every one and everything.
　　The best of all the stories were told by Natalia Kozlovski, a woman ofabout thirty, fresh-faced, strong, with laughing eyes and a peculiarly facileand sharp tongue. All her companions had a high regard for her; she wasconsulted on all sorts of affairs, and much admired for her skill in work, forthe neatness of her attire, and because she had been able to send herdaughter to the high school. When, bending under the weight of two basketsof wet linen, she came down the hill on the slippery footpath, they greetedher gladly, and asked solicitously:
　　“Well, and how is the daughter?”
　　“Very well, thank you; she is learning well, thank God!”
　　“Look at that now! She will be a lady.”
　　“That’s why I am having her taught. Where do the ladies with the paintedfaces come from? They all come from us, from the black earth. And whereelse should they come from? He who has the most knowledge has the longestarms and can take more, and the one who takes the most has the honor andglory. God sends us into the world as stupid children and expects to take usback as wise old people, which means that we must learn!”
　　When she spoke every one was silent, listening attentively to her fluent,self-confident speech. They praised her to her face and behind her back,amazed at her cleverness, her intellect ; but no one tried to imitate her. Shehad sewn brown leather from the leg of a boot, over the sleeve of her bodicewhich saved her from the necessity of baring her arms to the elbow, andprevented her sleeves from getting wet. They all said what a good idea it was,but not one of them followed her example. When I did so they laughed at me.
　　“Ekh, you! Letting a woman teach you!” With reference to her daughtershe said: “That is an important affair. There will be one more young lady inthe world. Is that a small thing? But of course she may not be able to finishher studies ; she may die. And it is not an easy life for those who arestudents, you see. There was that daughter of the Bakhilovs. She studied andstudied, and even became a teacher herself. Once you become a teacher, youknow, you are settled for life.”
　　“Of course, if they marry, they can do without education; that is, if theyhave something else to recom — mend them.”
　　“A woman’s wit lies not in her head.” It was strange and embarrassing tohear them speak about themselves with such lack of reticence. I knew howsailors, soldiers, and tillers of the soil spoke about women. I heard menalways boasting among themselves of their skill in deceiving women, ofcunning in their relations with them. I felt that their attitude toward“females” was hostile, but generally there was a ring of something in theseboastings which led me to suppose that these stories were merely brag,inventions, and not the truth.
　　The washerwomen did not tell one another about their love adventures,but in whatever they said about men I detected an undercurrent of derision,of malice, and I thought it might be true that woman was strength.
　　“Even when they don’t go about among their fellows and make friends,they come to women, every one of them!” said Natalia one day, and an oldwoman cried to her in a rheumy voice:
　　“And to whom else should they go? Even from God monks and hermitscome to us.”
　　These conversations amid the weeping splash of the water, the slappingof wet clothes on the ground, or against the dirty chinks, which not even thesnow could hide with its clean cover — these shameless, maliciousconversations about secret things, about that from which all races andpeoples have sprung, roused in me a timid disgust, forced my thoughts andfeelings to fix themselves on “the romances” which surrounded and irritatedme. For me the understanding of the “romances” was closely intertwinedwith representations of obscure, immoral stories.
　　However, whether I was with the washerwomen, or in the kitchen withthe orderlies or in cellars where lived the field laborers, I found it much moreinteresting than to be at home, where the stilted conversa — tions werealways on the same lines, where the same things happened over and overagain, arousing nothing but a feeling of constraint and embittered bore —dom. My employers dwelt within the magic circle of food, illness, sleep, andthe anxieties attendant on preparing for eating and sleeping. They spoke ofsin and of death, of which they were much afraid. They rubbed against oneanother as grains of corn are rubbed against the grindstone, which theyexpect every moment to crush them. In my free time I used to go into theshed to chop wood, desiring to be alone. But that rarely happened. Theorderlies used to come and talk about the news of the yard.
　　Ermokhin and Sidorov came more often than the others. The former wasa long, bow-backed Kalougan, with thick, strong veins all over him, a smallhead, and dull eyes. He was lazy and irritatingly stupid; he moved slowly andclumsily, and when he saw a woman he blinked and bent forward, just as ifhe were going to throw himself at her feet. All the yard was amazed by hisswift conquest of the cooks and the maids, and envied him. They were allafraid of his bear-like strength. Sidorov, a lean, bony native of Tula, wasalways sad, spoke softly, and loved to gaze into dark corners. He would relatesome incident in a low voice, or sit in silence, looking into the darkest corner.
　　“What are you looking at?”
　　“I thought I saw a mouse running about. I love mice ; they run to and froso quietly.”
　　I used to write letters home for these orderlies — love-letters. I liked this,but it was pleasanter to write letters for Sidorov than for any of the others.
　　Every Saturday regularly he sent a letter to his sister at Tula.
　　He invited me into his kitchen, sat down beside me at the table, and,rubbing his close-cropped hair hard, whispered in my ear :
　　“Well, go on. Begin it as it ought to be begun. ‘My dearest sister, may yoube in good health for many years’ — you know how it ought to go. And nowwrite, ‘I received the ruble; only you need not have sent it. But I thank you. Iwant for nothing; we live well here.’ As a matter of fact, we do not live at allwell, but like dogs; but there is no need to write that. Write that we live well.
　　She is little, only fourteen years old. Why should she know? Now write byyourself, as you have been taught.”
　　He pressed upon me from the left side, breathing into my ear hotly andodorously, and whispered perseveringly :
　　“Write ‘if any one speaks tenderly to you, you are not to believe him. Hewants to deceive you, and ruin you.’ ”
　　His face was flushed by his effort to keep back a cough. Tears stood in hiseyes. He leaned on the table and pushed against me.
　　“You are hindering me!”
　　“It is all right; go on I ‘Above all, never believe gentlemen. They will leada girl wrong the first time they see her. They know exactly what to say. And ifyou have saved any money, give it to the priest to keep for you, if he is a goodman. But the best thing, is to bury it in the ground, and remember the spot.’
　　”
　　It was miserable work trying to listen to this whisper, which wasdrowned by the squeaking of the tin ventilator in the fortochka, I looked atthe blackened front of the stove, at the china cupboard covered with flies.
　　The kitchen was certainly very dirty, overrun with bugs, redolent with anacrid smell of burnt fat, kerosene, and smoke. On the stove, among the sticksof wood, cockroaches crawled in and out. A sense of melancholy stole overmy heart. I could have cried with pity for the soldier and his sister. Was itpossible, was it right that people should live like this?
　　I wrote something, no longer listening to Sidorov’s whisper. I wrote ofthe misery and repulsiveness of life, and he said to me, sighing:
　　“You have written a lot; thank you. Now she will know what she has to beafraid of.”
　　“There is nothing for her to be afraid of,” I said angrily, although I wasafraid of many things myself.
　　The soldier laughed, and cleared his throat.
　　“What an oddity you are! How is there nothing to be afraid of? Whatabout gentlemen, and God? Isn’t that something?”
　　When he received a letter from his sister he said restlessly :
　　“Read it, please. Be quick!”
　　And he made me read the badly scrawled, insultingly short, andnonsensical letter three times.
　　He was good and kind, but he behaved toward women like all the others;that is, with the primitive coarseness of an animal. Willingly and unwillingly,as I observed these affairs, which often went on under my eyes, beginningand ending with striking and impure swiftness, I saw Sidorov arouse in thebreast of a woman a kind feeling of pity for him in his soldier’s life, thenintoxicate her with tender lies, and then tell Ermokhin of his conquest,frowning and spitting his disgust, just as if he had been taking some bittermedicine. This made my heart ache, and I angrily asked the soldiers whythey all deceived women, lied to them, and then, jeering among themselvesat the woman they had treated so, gave her away and often beat her.
　　One of them laughed softly, and said :
　　“It is not necessary for you to know anything about such things. It is allvery bad; it is sin. You are young; it is too early for you.”
　　But one day I obtained a more definite answer, which I have alwaysremembered.
　　“Do you think that she does not know that I am deceiving her?” he said,blinking and coughing. “She kno-o-ows. She wants to be deceived.
　　Everybody lies in such affairs ; they are a disgrace to all concerned. There isno love on either side; it is simply an amusement. It is a dreadful disgrace.
　　Wait, and you will know for yourself. It was for that God drove them out ofparadise, and from that all unhappiness has come.”
　　He spoke so well, so sadly, and so penitently that he reconciled me alittle to these “romances.” I began to have a more friendly feeling toward himthan towards Ermokhin, whom I hated, and seized every oc — casion ofmocking and teasing. I succeeded in this, and he often pursued me across theyard with some evil design, which only his clumsiness prevented him fromexecuting.
　　“It is forbidden,” went on Sidorov, speaking of women.
　　That it was forbidden I knew, but that it was the cause of humanunhappiness I did not believe. I saw that people were unhappy, but I did notbelieve what he said, because I sometimes saw an extraordinary expressionin the eyes of people in love, and was aware of a peculiar tenderness in thosewho loved. To witness this festival of the heart was always pleasant to me.
　　However, I remember that life seemed to me to grow more and moretedious, cruel, fixed for ever in those forms of it which I saw from day to day.
　　I did not dream of anything better than that which passed interminablybefore my eyes.
　　But one day the soldiers told me a story which stirred me deeply. In oneof the flats lived a cutter-out, employed by the best tailor in the town, a quiet,meek foreigner. He had a little, childless wife who read books all day long.
　　Over the noisy yard, amid houses full of drunken people, these two lived,invisible and silent. They had no visitors, and never went anywherethemselves except to the theater in holiday-time.
　　The husband was engaged from early morning until late at night. Thewife, who looked like an undersized girl, went to the library twice a week. Ioften saw her walking with a limp, as if she were slightly lame, as far as thedike, carrying books in a strap, like a school-girl. She looked unaffected,pleasant, new, clean, with gloves on her small hands. She had a face like abird, with little quick eyes, and everything about her was pretty, like aporcelain figure on a mantel-shelf. The soldiers said that she had some ribsmissing in her left side, and that was what made her sway so curiously as shewalked; but I thought this very nice, and at once set her above all the otherladies in the yard — the officers’ wives. The latter, despite their loud voices,their variegated attire, and haut tournure had a soiled look about them, as ifthey had been lying forgotten for a long time, in a dark closet among otherunneeded things.
　　The little wife of the cutter-out was regarded in the yard as half witted. Itwas said that she had lost her senses over books, and had got into such acondition that she could not manage the housekeeping; that her husbandhad to go to the market himself in search of provisions, and order the dinnerand supper of the cook, a great, huge foreign female. She had only one redeye, which was always moist, and a narrow pink crevice in place of the other.
　　She was like her mistress, they said of her. She did not know how to cook adish of fried veal and onions properly, and one day she ignominiously boughtradishes, thinking she was buying parsley. Just think what a dreadful thingthat was IAll three were aliens in the building, as if they had fallen by accident intoone of the compartments of a large hen-house. They reminded me of a titmousewhich, taking refuge from the frost, flies through the fortochka into astifling and dirty habitation of man.
　　And then the orderlies told me how the officers had played an insultingand wicked trick on the tailor’s little wife. They took turns to write her aletter every day, declaring their love for her, speaking of their sufferings andof her beauty. She answered them, begging them to leave her in peace,regretting that she had been the cause of unhappiness to any one, andpraying God that He would help them to give up loving her. When any one ofthem received a letter like that, they used to read it all together, and thenmake up another letter to her, signed by a different person.
　　When they told me this story, the orderlies laughed too, and abused thelady.
　　“She is a wretched fool, the crookback,” said Ermokhin in a bass voice,and Sidorov softly agreed with him.
　　“Whatever a woman is, she likes being deceived. She knows all about it.”
　　I did not believe that the wife of the cutter-out knew that they werelaughing at her, and I resolved at once to tell her about it. I watched for thecook to go down into the cellar, and I ran up the dark staircase to the flat ofthe little woman, and slipped into the kitchen. It was empty. I went on to thesitting-room. The tailor’s wife was sitting at the table. In one hand she held aheavy gold cup, and in the other an open book. She was startled. Pressing thebook to her bosom, she cried in a low voice :
　　“Who is that? Angus te! Who are you?”
　　I began to speak quickly and confusedly, expecting every minute that shewould throw the book at me. She was sitting in a large, raspberry-coloredarm-chair, dressed in a pale-blue wrap with a fringe at the hem and lace onthe collar and sleeves over her shoulders was spread her flaxen, wavy hair.
　　She looked like an angel from the gates of heaven. Leaning against the backof her chair, she looked at me with round eyes, at first angrily, then insmiling surprise.
　　When I had said what I wanted to say, and, losing my courage, turned tothe door, she cried after me :
　　“Wait!”
　　Placing the cup on the tray, throwing the book on the table, and foldingher hands, she said in a husky, grown-up voice:
　　“What a funny boy you are! Come closer!”
　　I approached very cautiously. She took me by the hand, and, stroking itwith her cold, small fingers, said :
　　“Are you sure that no one sent you to tell me this? No? All right; I seethat you thought of it yourself.”
　　Letting my hand go, she closed her eyes, and said softly and drawingly:
　　“So that is how the soldiers speak of me?”
　　“Leave this place,” I advised her earnestly.
　　“Why?’
　　“They will get the better of you/’
　　She laughed pleasantly. Then she asked :
　　“Do you study ? Are you fond of books?”
　　“I have no time for reading.”
　　“If you were fond of it, you would find the time. Well, thank you.”
　　She held out a piece of silver money to me, grasped between her firstfinger and her thumb. I felt ashamed to take that cold thing from her, but Idid not dare to refuse. As I went out, I laid it on the pedestal of the stair-banisters.
　　I took away with me a deep, new impression from that woman. It was asif a new day had dawned for me. I lived for several days in a state of joy,thinking of the spacious room and the tailor’s wife sitting in it, dressed inpale blue and looking like an angel. Everything around her was unfamiliarlybeautiful. A dull-gold carpet lay under her feet; the winter day lookedthrough the silver panes of the window, warming itself in her presence. Iwanted very much to look at her again. How would it be if I went to her andasked her for a book?
　　I acted upon this idea. Once more I saw her in the same place, also with abook in her hand; but she had a red handkerchief tied round her face, andher eyes were swollen. As she gave me a book with a black binding, sheindistinctly called out something.
　　I went away feeling sad, carrying the book, which smelt of creosote andaniseed drops. I hid it in the attic, wrapping it up in a clean shirt and somepaper; for I was afraid that my employers might find it and spoil it.
　　They used to take the “Neva” for the sake of the patterns and prizes, butthey never read it. When they had looked at the pictures, they put it away ina cupboard in the bedroom, and at the end of the year they had been bound,placing them under the bed, where already lay three volumes of “The Reviewof Painting.” When I washed the floor in the bedroom dirty water flowedunder these books. The master subscribed to the “Russian Courier,” butwhen he read it in the evening he grumbled at it.
　　“What the devil do they want to write all this for? Such dull stuff!”
　　On Saturday, when I was putting away the linen in the attic, Iremembered about the book. I undid it from its wrappings, and read the firstlines: “Houses are like people; they all have physiognomies of their own.”
　　The truth of this surprised me, and I went on reading farther, standing at thedormer-window until I was too cold to stay longer. But in the evening, whenthey had gone to vespers, I carried the book into the kitchen and buriedmyself in the yellow, worn pages, which were like autumn leaves. Withouteffort, they carried me into another life, with new names and new standards,showed me noble heroes, gloomy villains, quite unlike the people with whomI had to do. This was a novel by Xavier de Montepaine. It was long, likeall his novels, simply packed with people and incidents, describing anunfamiliar, vehement life. Everything in this novel was wonderfully clear andsimple, as if a mellow light hid — den between the lines illuminated the goodand evil. It helped one to love and hate, compelling one to follow withintense interest the fates of the people, who seemed so inextricablyentangled. I was seized with sudden desires to help this person, to hinderthat, forgetting that this life, which had so unexpectedly opened before me,had its existence only on paper. I forgot everything else in the excitingstruggles. I was swallowed up by a feeling of joy on one page, and by a feelingof grief on the next.
　　I read until I heard the bell ring in the front hall. I knew at once who itwas that was ringing, and why.
　　The candle had almost burned out. The candle-stick, which I had cleanedonly that morning, was covered with grease; the wick of the lamp, which Iought to have looked after, had slipped out of its place, and the flame hadgone out. I rushed about the kitchen trying to hide the traces of my crime. Islipped the book under the stove-hole, and began to put the lamp to rights.
　　The nurse caine running out of the sitting-room.
　　“Are you deaf? They have rung!”
　　I rushed to open the door.
　　“Were you asleep?” asked the master roughly. His wife, mounting thestairs heavily, complained that she had caught cold. The old lady scolded me.
　　In the kitchen she noticed the burned-out candle at once, and began to askme what I had been doing. I said nothing. I had only just come down fromthe heights, and I was all to pieces with fright lest they should find the book.
　　She cried out that I would set the house on fire. When the master and hiswife came down to supper she complained to them.
　　“There, you see, he has let the candle gutter, he will set the house onfire.”
　　While they were at supper the whole four of them lashed me with theirtongues, reminding me of all my crimes, wilful and involuntary, threateningme with perdition; but I knew quite well that they were all speaking not fromill-feeling, or for my good, but simply because they were bored. And it wascurious to observe how empty and foolish they were compared with thepeople in books.
　　When they had finished eating, they grew heavy, and went wearily tobed. The old woman, after disturbing God with her angry complaints, settledher — self on the stove and was silent. Then I got up, took the book from thestove-hole, and went to the window. It was a bright night, and the moonlooked straight into the window ; but my sight was not good enough to seethe small print. My desire to read was tormenting me. I took a brasssaucepan from the shelf and reflected the light of the moon from it on thebook; but it became still more difficult and blurred. Then I betook myself tothe bench in the corner where the icon was, and, standing upon it, began toread by the light of the small lamp. But I was very tired, and dozed, sinkingdown on the bench. I was awakened by the cries and blows of the old woman.
　　She was hitting me painfully over the shoulders with the book, which sheheld in her hand. She was red with rage, furiously tossing her brown head,barefooted, and wearing only her night-dress. Victor roared from the loft:
　　“Mamasha, don’t make such a noise! You make life unbearable.”
　　“She has found the book. She will tear it up!” I thought.
　　My trial took place at breakfast-time. The master asked me, sternly:
　　“Where did you get that book?”
　　The women exclaimed, interrupting each other. Victor sniffedcontemptuously at the pages and said:
　　“Good gracious! what does it smell of?”
　　Learning that the book belonged to the priest, they looked at it again,surprised and indignant that the priest should read novels. However, thisseemed to calm them down a little, though the master gave me another longlecture to the effect that reading was both injurious and dangerous.
　　“It is the people who read books who rob trains and even commitmurders.”
　　The mistress cried out, angry and terrified :
　　“Have you gone out of your mind? What do you want to say such thingsto him for?”
　　I took Montepaine to the soldier and told him what had happened.
　　Sidorov took the book, opened a small trunk, took out a clean towel, and,wrapping the novel in it, hid it in the trunk.
　　“Don’t you take any notice of them. Come and read here. I shan’t tell anyone. And if you come when I am not here, you will find the key hangingbehind the icon. Open the trunk and read.”
　　The attitude my employers had taken with regard to the book raised it tothe height of an important and terrible secret in my mind. That some“readers” had robbed a train or tried to murder some one did not interestme, but I remembered the question the priest had asked me in confession,the reading of the gymnasiast in the basement, the words of Smouri, the“proper books,” and grandfather’s stories of the black books of freemasonry.
　　He had said:
　　“In the time of the Emperor Alexander Pavlovich of blessed memory thenobles took up the study of ‘black books’ and freemasonry. They planned tohand over the whole Russian people to the Pope of Rome, if you please! ButGeneral Arakcheev caught them in the act, and, without regard to theirposition, sent them all to Siberia, into prison. And there they were ;exterminated like vermin.”
　　I remembered the “umbra” of Smouri’ s book and “Gervase” and thesolemn, comical words:
　　Profane ones who are curious to know our business,Never shall your weak eyes spy it out!
　　I felt that I was on the threshold of the discovery of some great secret, andwent about like a lunatic. I wanted to finish reading the book, and was afraidthat the soldier might lose it or spoil it somehow. What should I say to thetailor’s wife then?
　　The old woman watched me sharply to see that I did not run to theorderly’s room, and taunted me :
　　“Bookworm! Books! They teach dissoluteness. Look at that woman, thebookish one. She can’t even go to market herself. All she can do is to carry onwith the officers. She receives them in the daytime. I kno-o-w.”
　　I wanted to cry, “That’s not true. She does not carry on,” but I was afraidto defend the tailor’s wife, for then the old woman might guess that the bookwas hers.
　　I had a desperately bad time of it for several days. I was distracted andworried, and could not sleep for fear that Montepaine had come to grief.
　　Then one day the cook belonging to the tailor’s household stopped me in theyard and said :
　　“You are to bring back that book.”
　　I chose the time after dinner, when my employers lay down to rest, andappeared before the tailor’s wife embarrassed and crushed. She looked nowas she had the first time, only she was dressed differently. She wore a grayskirt and a black velvet blouse, with a turquoise cross upon her bare neck.
　　She looked like a hen bullfinch. When I told her that I had not had time toread the book, and that I had been forbidden to read, tears filled my eyes.
　　They were caused by mortification, and by joy at seeing this woman.
　　“Too! what stupid people!” she said, drawing her fine brows together.
　　“And your master has such an interesting face, too! Don’t you fret about it. Iwill write to him.”
　　“You must not! Don’t write!” I begged her. “They will laugh at you andabuse you. Don’t you know that no one in the yard likes you, that they alllaugh at you, and say that you are a fool, and that some of your ribs aremissing?”
　　As soon as I had blurted this out I knew that I had said somethingunnecessary and insulting to her. She bit her lower lip, and clapped herhands on her hips as if she were riding on horseback. I hung my head inconfusion and wished that I could sink into the earth; but she sank into achair and laughed merrily, saying over and over again:
　　“Oh, how stupid I how stupid! Well, what is to be done?” she asked,looking fixedly at me. Then she sighed and said, “You are a strange boy, verystrange.”
　　Glancing into the mirror beside her, I saw a face with high cheek-bonesand a short nose, a large bruise on the forehead, and hair, which had notbeen cut for a long time, sticking out in all directions. That is what she called“a strange boy.” The strange boy was not in the least like a fine porcelainfigure.
　　“You never took the money that I gave you. Why?”
　　“I did not want it.”
　　She sighed.
　　“Well, what is to be done? If they will allow you to read, come to me andI will give you some books.”
　　On the mantel-shelf lay three books. The one which I had brought backwas the thickest. I looked at it sadly. The tailor’s wife held out her small, pinkhand to me.
　　“Well, good-by!”
　　I touched her hand timidly, and went away quickly.
　　It was certainly true what they said about her not knowing anything.
　　Fancy calling two grevines money! It was just like a child.
　　But it pleased me.
Chapter 9
    I HAVE sad and ludicrous reasons for remembering the burdensomehumiliations, insults, and alarms which my swiftly developed passion forreading brought me.
　　The books of the tailor’s wife looked as if they were terribly expensive,and as I was afraid that the old mistress might burn them in the stove, I triednot to think of them, and began to buy small colored books from the shopwhere I bought bread in the mornings.
　　The shopkeeper was an ill-favored fellow with thick lips. He was given tosweating, had a white, wizen face covered with scrofulous scars and pimples,and his eyes were white. He had short, clumsy fingers on puffy hands. Hisshop took the place of an evening club for grown-up people; also for thethoughtless young girls living in the street. My master’s brother used to gothere every evening to drink beer and play cards. I was often sent to call himto supper, and more than once I saw, in the small, stuffy room behind theshop, the capricious, rosy wife of the shopkeeper sitting on the knee ofVictorushka or some other young fellow. Apparently this did not offend theshop-keeper ; nor was he offended when his sister, who helped him in theshop, warmly embraced the drunken men, or soldiers, or, in fact any onewho took her fancy. The business done at the shop was small. He explainedthis by the fact that it was a new business, al — though the shop had beenopen since the autumn. He showed obscene pictures to his guests andcustomers, allowing those who wished to copy the disgraceful verses beneaththem.
　　I read the foolish little books of Mischa Evstignev, paying so manycopecks for the loan of them. This was dear, and the books afforded me nopleasure at all. “Guyak, or, the Unconquerable Truth,” “Franzl, the Venitian,”
　　“The Battle of the Russians with the Kabardines,” or “The BeautifulMahomedan Girl, Who Died on the Grave of her Husband,” — all that kind ofliterature did not interest me either, and often aroused a bitter irritation. Thebooks seemed to be laughing at me, as at a fool, when they told in dull wordssuch improbable stories.
　　“The Marksmen,” “Youri Miloslavski,” “Monks’ Secrets,” “Yapacha, theTatar Freebooter,” and such books I like better. I was the richer for readingthem; but what I liked better than all was the lives of the saints. Here wassomething serious in which I could believe, and which at times deeply stirredme. All the martyrs somehow reminded me of “Good Business,” and thefemale martyrs of grandmother, and the holy men of grandfather in his bestmoments.
　　I used to read in the shed when I went there to chop wood, or in the attic,which was equally uncomfortable and cold. Sometimes, if a book interestedme or I had to read it quickly, I used to get up in the night and light thecandle; but the old mistress, noticing that my candle had grown smallerduring the night, began to measure the candles with a piece of wood, whichshe hid away somewhere. In the morning, if my candle was not as long as themeasure, or if I, having found the measure, had not broken it to the length ofthe burned candle, a wild cry arose from the kitchen. Sometimes Victorushkacalled out loudly from the loft :
　　“Leave off that howling, Mamasha! You make life unbearable. Of coursehe burns the candles, because he reads books. He gets them from the shop. Iknow. Just look among his things in the attic.”
　　The old woman ran up to the attic, found a book, and burned it to ashes.
　　This made me very angry, as you may imagine, but my love of readingincreased. I understood that if a saint had entered that household, myemployers would have set to work to teach him, tried to set him to their owntune. They would have done this for something to do. If they had left offjudging people, scolding them, jeering at them, they would have forgottenhow to talk, would have been stricken with dumbness, and would not havebeen themselves at all. When a man is aware of himself, it must be throughhis relations with other people. My employers could not behave themselvestoward those about them otherwise than as teachers, always ready tocondemn; and if they had taught somebody to live exactly as they livedthemselves, to think and feel in the same way, even then they would havecondemned him for that very reason. They were that sort of people.
　　I continued to read on the sly. The old woman destroyed books severaltimes, and I suddenly found my — self in debt to the shopkeeper for theenormous amount of forty-seven copecks. He demanded the money, andthreatened to take it from my employers’ money when they sent me to makepurchases.
　　“What would happen then?” he asked jeeringly.
　　To me he was unbearably repulsive. Apparently he felt this, and torturedme with various threats from which he derived a peculiar enjoyment. When Iwent into the shop his pimply face broadened, and he would ask gently :
　　“Have you brought your debt?”
　　“No.”
　　This startled him. He frowned.
　　“How is that? Am I supposed to give you things out of charity? I shallhave to get it from you by sending you to the reformatory.”
　　I had no way of getting the money, my wages were paid to grandfather. Ilost my presence of mind. What would happen to me? And in answer to myentreaty that he wait for settlement of the debt, the shopkeeper stretched outhis oily, puffy hand, like a bladder, and said:
　　“Kiss my hand and I will wait.”
　　But when I seized a weight from the counter and brandished it at him, heducked and cried :
　　“What are you doing? What are you doing? I was only joking.”
　　Knowing well that he was not joking, I resolved to steal the money to getrid of him. In the morning when I was brushing the master’s clothes, moneyjingled in his trousers’ pockets, and sometimes it fell out and rolled on thefloor. Once some rolled into a crack in the boards under the staircase. Iforgot to say anything about this, and remembered it only several daysafterward when I found two greven between the boards. When I gave it backto the master his wife said to him :
　　“There, you see! You ought to count your money when you leave it inyour pockets.”
　　But my master, smiling at me, said:
　　“He would not steal, I know.”
　　Now, having made up my mind to steal, I remembered these words andhis trusting smile, and felt how hard it would be for me to rob him. Severaltimes I took silver out of the pockets and counted it, but I could not take it.
　　For three days I tormented myself about this, and suddenly the whole affairsettled itself quickly and simply. The master asked me unexpectedly:
　　“What is the matter with you, Pyeshkov? You have become dull lately.
　　Aren’t you well, or what?”
　　I frankly told him all my troubles. He frowned.
　　“Now you see what books lead to! From them, in some way or another,trouble always comes.”
　　He gave me half a ruble and admonished me sternly :
　　“Now look here; don’t you go telling my wife or my mother, or there willbe a row.”
　　Then he smiled kindly and said :
　　“You are very persevering, devil take you! Never mind; it is a good thing.
　　Anyhow, give up books. When the New Year comes, I will order a goodpaper, and you can read that.”
　　And so in the evenings, from tea-time till supper-time, I read aloud tomy employers “The Moscow Gazette,” the novels of Bashkov, Rokshnin,Rudinskovski, and other literature, for the nourishment of people whosuffered from deadly dullness.
　　I did not like reading aloud, for it hindered me from understanding whatI read. But my employers listened attentively, with a sort of reverentialeagerness, sighing, amazed at the villainy of the heroes, and saying proudlyto one another :
　　“And we live so quietly, so peacefully; we know nothing of such things,thank God!”
　　They mixed up the incidents, ascribed the deeds of the famous brigandChurkin to the post-boy Thoma Kruchin, and mixed the names. When Icorrected their mistakes they were surprised.
　　“What a memory he has!”
　　Occasionally the poems of Leonide Grave appeared in “The MoscowGazette.” I was delighted with them. I copied several of them into a notebook,but my employers said of the poet:
　　“He is an old man, you know; so he writes poetry.” “A drunkard or animbecile, it is all the same.”
　　I liked the poetry of Strujkin, and the Count Memento Mori, but both thewomen said the verses were clumsy.
　　“Only the Petrushki or actors talk in verse.”
　　It was a hard life for me on winter evenings, under the eyes of myemployers, in that close, small room. The dead night lay outside the window,now and again the ice cracked. The others sat at the table in silence, likefrozen fish. A snow-storm would rattle the windows and beat against thewalls, howl down the chimney, and shake the flue-plate. The children criedin the nursery. I wanted to sit by myself in a dark corner and howl like a wolf.
　　At one end of the table sat the women, knitting socks or sewing. At theother sat Victorushka, stooping, copying plans unwillingly, and from time totime calling out :
　　“Don’t shake the table! Goats, dogs, mice!”
　　At the side, behind an enormous embroidery-frame, sat the master,sewing a tablecloth in cross-stitch. Under his fingers appeared red lobsters,blue fish, yellow butterflies, and red autumn leaves. He had made the designhimself, and had sat at the work for three winters. He had grown very tiredof it, and often said to me in the daytime, when I had some spare time :
　　“Come along, Pyeshkov; sit down to the tablecloth and do some of it!”
　　I sat down, and began to work with the thick needle.
　　I was sorry for my master, and always did my best to help him. I had anidea that one day he would give up drawing plans, sewing, and playing atcards, and begin doing something quite different, something interesting,about which he often thought, throwing his work aside and gazing at it withfixed, amazed eyes, as at something unfamiliar to him. His hair fell over hisforehead and cheeks ; he looked like a laybrother in a monastery.
　　“What are you thinking of?” his wife would ask him.
　　“Nothing in particular,” he would reply, returning to his work.
　　I listened in dumb amazement. Fancy asking a man what he wasthinking of. It was a question which could not be answered. One’s thoughtswere always sudden and many, about all that passed before one’s eyes, ofwhat one saw yesterday or a year ago. It was all mixed up together, elusive,constantly moving and changing.
　　The serial in “The Moscow Gazette” was not enough to last the evening,and I went on to read the journals which were put away under the bed in thebedroom. The young mistress asked suspiciously:
　　“What do you find to read there? It is all pictures.”
　　But under the bed, besides the “Painting Review,” lay also “Flames,” andso we read “Count Tyatin-Baltiski,” by Saliass. The master took a great fancyto the eccentric hero of the story, and laughed mercilessly, till the tears randown his cheeks, at the mel — ancholy adventures of the hero, crying:
　　“Really, that is most amusing!”
　　“Piffle!” said the mistress to show her independence of mind.
　　The literature under the bed did me a great service. Through it, I hadobtained the right to read the papers in the kitchen, and thus made itpossible to read at night.
　　To my joy, the old woman went to sleep in the nursery for the nurse hada drunken fit. Victorushka did not interfere with me. As soon as thehousehold was asleep, he dressed himself quietly, and disappearedsomewhere till morning. I was not allowed to have a light, for they took thecandles into the bedrooms, and I had no money to buy them for myself; so Ibegan to collect the tallow from the candlesticks on the quiet, and put it in asardine tin, into which I also poured lamp oil, and, making a wick with somethread, was able to make a smoky light. This I put on the stove for the night.
　　When I turned the pages of the great volumes, the bright red tongue offlame quivered agitatedly, the wick was drowned in the burning, evil-smelling fat, and the smoke made my eyes smart. But all this unpleasantnesswas swallowed up in the enjoyment with which I looked at the illustrationsand read the description of them. These illustrations opened up be — fore mea world which increased daily in breadth — a world adorned with towns, justlike the towns of story-land. They showed me lofty hills and lovely sea —shores. Life developed wonderfully for me. The earth became morefascinating, rich in people, abounding in towns and all kinds of things. Nowwhen I gazed into the distance beyond the Volga, I knew that it was not spacewhich lay beyond, but before that, when I had looked, it used to make me feeloddly miserable. The meadows lay flat, bushes grew in clumps, and wherethe meadows ended, rose the indented black wall of the forest. Above themeadows it was dull, cold blue. The earth seemed an empty, solitary place.
　　And my heart also was empty. A gentle sorrow nipped it; all desires haddeparted, and I thought of nothing. All I wanted was to shut my eyes. Thismelancholy emptiness promised me nothing, and sucked out of my heart allthat there was in it.
　　The description of the illustrations told me in language which I couldunderstand about other countries, other peoples. It spoke of variousincidents of the past and present, but there was a lot which I did notunderstand, and that worried me. Sometimes strange words stuck in mybrain, like “metaphysics,” “chiliasm,” “chartist.” They were a source of greatanx — iety to me, and seemed to grow into monsters obstruct — ing myvision. I thought that I should never under — stand anything. I did notsucceed in finding out the meaning of those words. In fact, they stood likesentries on the threshold of all secret knowledge. Often whole phrases stuckin my memory for a long time, like a splinter in my finger, and hindered mefrom thinking of anything else.
　　I remembered reading these strange verses:
　　“All clad in steel, through the unpeopled land, Silent and gloomy as thegrave, Rides the Czar of the Huns, Attilla. Behind him comes a black mass ofwarriors, crying, ‘Where, then, is Rome ; where is Rome the mighty ? ”
　　That Rome was a city, I knew; but who on earth were the Huns? I simplyhad to find that out.
　　Choosing a propitious moment, I asked my master.
　　“The Huns?” he cried in amazement. “The devil knows who they are.
　　Some trash, I expect.”
　　And shaking his head disapprovingly, he said:
　　“That head of yours is full of nonsense. That is very bad, Pyeshkov.”
　　Bad or good, I wanted to know.
　　I had an idea that the regimental chaplain. Soloviev, ought to know whothe Huns were, and when I caught him in the yard, I asked him. The pale,sickly, always disagreeable man, with red eyes, no eyebrows, and a yellowbeard, pushing his black staff into the earth, said to me :
　　“And what is that to do with you, eh?”
　　Lieutenant Nesterov answered my question by a ferocious :
　　“What-a-t?”
　　Then I concluded that the right person to ask about the Huns was thedispenser at the chemist’s. He always looked at me kindly. He had a cleverface, and gold glasses on his large nose.
　　“The Huns,” said the dispenser, “were a nomad race, like the people ofKhirgiz. There are no more of these people now. They are all dead.”
　　I felt sad and vexed, not because the Huns were dead, but because themeaning of the word that had worried me for so long was quite simple, andwas also of no use to me.
　　But I was grateful to the Huns after my collision with the word ceased toworry me so much, and thanks to Attilla, I made the acquaintance of thedispenser Goldberg.
　　This man knew the literal meaning of all words of wisdom. He had thekeys to all knowledge. Setting his glasses straight with two fingers, he lookedfixedly into my eyes and said, as if he were driving small nails into myforehead:
　　“Words, my dear boy, are like leaves on a tree. If we want to find out whythe leaves take one form instead of another, we must learn how the treegrows. We must study books, my dear boy. Men are like a good garden inwhich everything grows, both pleasant and profitable.”
　　I often had to run to the chemist’s for soda-water and magnesia for theadults of the family, who were continually suffering from heartburn, and forcastor-oil and purgatives for the children.
　　The short instructions which the dispenser gave me instilled into mymind a still deeper regard for books.
　　They gradually became as necessary to me as vodka to the drunkard.
　　They showed me a new life, a life of noble sentiments and strong desireswhich incite people to deeds of heroism and crimes. I saw that the peopleabout me were fitted for neither heroism nor crime. They lived apart fromeverything that I read about in books, and it was hard to imagine what theyfound interesting in their lives. I had no desire to live such a life. I was quitedecided on that point. I would not.
　　From the letterpress which accompanied the drawings I had learned thatin Prague, London, and Paris there are no open drains in the middle of thecity, or dirty gulleys choked with refuse. There were straight, broad streets,and different kinds of houses and churches. There they did not have a sixmonths-long winter, which shuts people up in their houses, and no greatfast, when only fermenting cabbage, pickled mushrooms, oatmeal, andpotatoes cooked in disgusting vegetable oil can be eaten. During the greatfast books are forbidden, and they took away the “Review of Painting” fromme, and that empty, meager life again closed about me. Now that I couldcompare it with the life pictured in books, it seemed more wretched and uglythan ever. When I could read I felt well and strong; I worked well andquickly, and had an object in life. The sooner I was finished, the more time Ishould have for reading. Deprived of books, I became lazy, and drowsy, andbecame a victim to forgetfulness, to which I had been a stranger before.
　　I remember that even during those dull days something mysterioushappened. One evening when we had all gone to bed the bell of the cathedralsuddenly rang out, arousing every one in the house at once. Half-dressedpeople rushed to the windows, asking one another :
　　“Is it a fire? Is that the alarm-bell?”
　　In the other flats one could hear the same bustle going on. Doorsslammed; some one ran across the yard with a horse ready saddled. The oldmistress shrieked that the cathedral had been robbed, but the masterstopped her.
　　“Not so loud, Mamasha! Can’t you hear that that is not an alarm-bell?”
　　“Then the archbishop is dead.”
　　Victorushka climbed down from the loft, dressed himself, and muttered :
　　“I know what has happened. I know!”
　　The master sent me to the attic to see if the sky was red. I ran upstairsand climbed to the roof through the dormer-window. There was no red lightin the sky. The bell tolled slowly in the quiet frosty air. The town lay sleepilyon the earth. In the darkness invisible people ran about, scrunching the snowunder their feet. Sledges squealed, and the bell wailed ominously. I returnedto the sitting-room.
　　“There is no red light in the sky.”
　　“Foo, you! Good gracious!” said the master, who had on his greatcoatand cap. He pulled up his collar and began to put his feet into his goloshesunde — cidedly.
　　The mistress begged him:
　　“Don’t go out! Don’t go out!”
　　“Rubbish!”
　　Victorushka, who was also dressed, teased them all.
　　“I know what has happened.”
　　When the brothers went out into the street the women, having sent meto get the samovar ready, rushed to the window. But the master rang thestreet door-bell almost directly, ran up the steps silently, shut the door, andsaid thickly:
　　“The Czar has been murdered!”
　　“How murdered?” exclaimed the old lady.
　　“He has been murdered. An officer told me so. What will happen now?”
　　Victorushka rang, and as he unwillingly took off his coat said angrily:
　　“And I thought it was war!”
　　Then they all sat down to drink tea, and talked together calmly, but inlow voices and cautiously. The streets were quiet now, the bells had given uptolling. For two days they whispered together mysteriously, and went to andfro. People also came to see them, and related some event in detail. I triedhard to understand what had happened, but they hid the news — papersfrom me. When I asked Sidorov why they had killed the Czar he answered,softly:
　　“It is forbidden to speak of it.”
　　But all this soon wore away. The old empty life was resumed, and I soonhad a very unpleasant experience.
　　On one of those Sundays when the household had gone to early mass Iset the samovar ready and turned my attention to tidying the rooms. While Iwas so occupied the eldest child rushed into the kitchen, removed the tapfrom the samovar, and set himself under the table to play with it. There wasa lot of charcoal in the pipe of the samovar, and when the water had alltrickled away from it, it came unsoldered. While I was doing the otherrooms, I heard an unusual noise. Going into the kitchen, I saw with horrorthat the samovar was all blue. It was shaking, as if it wanted to jump fromthe floor. The broken handle of the tap was drooping miserably, the lid wasall on one side, the pewter was melted and running away drop by drop. Infact the purplish blue samovar looked as if it had drunken shivers. I pouredwater over it. It hissed, and sank sadly in ruins on the floor.
　　The front door-bell rang. I went to open the door. In answer to the oldlady’s question as to whether the samovar was ready, I replied briefly :
　　“Yes; it is ready.”
　　These words, spoken, of course, in my confusion and terror, were takenfor insolence. My punishment was doubled. They half killed me. The old ladybeat me with a bunch of fir-twigs, which did not hurt much, but left underthe skin of my back a great many splinters, driven in deeply. Before night myback was swollen like a pillow, and by noon the next day the master wasobliged to take me to the hospital.
　　When the doctor, comically tall and thin, examined me, he said in acalm, dull voice :
　　“This is a case of cruelty which will have to be investigated.”
　　My master blushed, shuffled his feet, and said something in a low voiceto the doctor, who looked over his head and said shortly:
　　“I can’t. It is impossible.”
　　Then he asked me :
　　“Do you want to make a complaint?”
　　I was in great pain, but I said :
　　“No, make haste and cure me.”
　　They took me into another room, laid me on a table, and the doctorpulled out the splinters with pleasantly cold pincers. He said, jestingly:
　　“They have decorated your skin beautifully, my friend; now you will bewaterproof.”
　　When he had finished his work of pricking me unmercifully, he said:
　　“Forty-two splinters have been taken out, my friend. Remember that. Itis something to boast of! Come back at the same time tomorrow to have thedressing replaced. Do they often beat you?”
　　I thought for a moment, then said :
　　“Not so often as they used to.”
　　The doctor burst into a hoarse laugh.
　　“It is all for the best, my friend, all for the best.”
　　When he took me back to my master he said to him:
　　“I hand him over to you; he is repaired. Bring him back tomorrowwithout fail. I congratulate you. He is a comical fellow you have there.”
　　When we were in the cab my master said to me :
　　“They used to beat me too, Pyeshkov. What do you think of that? Theydid beat me, my lad! And you have me to pity you; but I had no one, no one.
　　People are very hard everywhere ; but one gets no pity — no, not from anyone. Ekh! Wild fowl!”
　　He grumbled all the way home. I was very sorry for him, and grateful tohim for treating me like a man.
　　They welcomed me at the house as if it had been my name-day. Thewomen insisted on hearing in detail how the doctor had treated me and whathe had said. They listened and sighed, then kissed me tenderly, wrinklingtheir brows. This intense interest in illness, pain, and all kinds ofunpleasantness always amazed me.
　　I saw that they were pleased with me for not complaining of them, and Itook advantage of the mo — ment to ask if I might have some books from thetail — or’s wife. They did not have the heart to refuse me. Only the old ladycried in surprise:
　　“What a demon he is!”
　　The next day I stood before the tailor’s wife, who said to me kindly:
　　“They told me that you were ill, and that you had been taken to hospital.
　　You see what stories get about.”
　　I was silent. I was ashamed to tell her the truth. Why should she know ofsuch sad and coarse things? It was nice to think that she was different fromother people.
　　Once more I read the thick books of Dumas pere, Ponson de Terraille,Montepaine, Zakonier, Gaboriau, and Bourgobier. I devoured all these booksquickly, one after the other, and I was happy. I felt myself to be part of a lifewhich was out of the ordinary, which stirred me sweetly and aroused mycourage. Once more I burned my improvised candle, and read all through thenight till the morning, so that my eyes began to hurt me a little. The oldmistress said to me kindly :
　　“Take care, bookworm. You will spoil your sight and grow blind!”
　　However, I soon realized that all these interestingly complicated books,despite the different incidents, and the various countries and town? aboutwhich they were written, had one common theme: good people madeunhappy and oppressed by bad people, the latter were always moresuccessful and clever than the good, but in the end something unexpectedalways overthrowing the wicked, and the good winning. The “love,” of whichboth men and women spoke in the same terms, bored me. In fact, it was notonly uninteresting to me, but it aroused a vague contempt.
　　Sometimes from the very first chapters I began to wonder who wouldwin or who would be vanquished, and as soon as the course of the storybecame clear, I would set myself to unravel the skein of events by the aid ofmy own fancy. When I was not reading I was thinking of the books I had onhand, as one would think about the problems in an arithmetic. I becamemore skilful every day in guessing which of the characters would enter intothe paradise of happiness and which would be utterly confounded.
　　But through all this I saw the glimmer of living and, to me, significanttruths, the outlines of another life, other standards. It was clear to me that inParis the cabmen, working men, soldiers, and all “black people” 4 were not atall as they were in Nijni, Kazan, or Perm. They dared to speak to gentlefolk,and behaved toward them more simply and independently than our people.
　　Here, for example, was a soldier quite unlike any I had known, unlikeSidorov, unlike the Viatskian on the boat, and still more unlike Ermokhin.
　　He was more human than any of these. He had something of Smouri abouthim, but he was not so savage and coarse. Here was a shopkeeper, but he wasmuch better than any of the shopkeepers I had known. And the priests inbooks were not like the priests I knew. They had more feeling, and seemed toenter more into the lives of their flocks. And in general it seemed to me thatlife abroad, as it appeared in books, was more interesting, easier, better thanthe life I knew. Abroad, people did not behave so brutally. They never jeeredat other human creatures as cruelly as the Viatskian soldier had been jeeredat, nor prayed to God as importunately as the old mistress did. What Inoticed particularly was that, when villains, misers, and low characters weredepicted in books, they did not show that incomprehensible cruelty, thatinclination to jeer at humanity, with which I was ac — quainted, and whichwas often brought to my notice. There was method in the cruelty of thesebookish villains. One could almost always understand why they were cruel ;but the cruelty which I witnessed was aimless, senseless, an amusementfrom which no one ex — pected to gain any advantage.
　　4 The common people.
　　With every book that I read this dissimilarity between Russian life andthat of other countries stood out more clearly, causing a perplexed feeling ofirritation within me, strengthening my suspicion of the veracity of the old,well-read pages with their dirty “dogs’-ears.”
　　And then there fell into my hands Goncourt’s novel, “The BrothersZemganno.” I read it through in one night, and, surprised at the newexperience, read the simple, pathetic story over again. There was nothingcomplicated about it, nothing interesting at first sight. In fact, the first pagesseemed dry, like the lives of the saints. Its language, so precise and strippedof all adornment, was at first an unpleasant surprise to me; but the paucity ofwords, the strongly constructed phrases, went straight to the heart. It soaptly described the drama of the acrobat brothers that my hands trembledwith the enjoyment of reading the book. I wept bitterly as I read how theunfortunate artist, with his legs broken, crept up to the loft where his brotherwas secretly engaged in his favorite art.
　　When I returned this glorious book to the tailor’s wife I begged her togive me another one like it.
　　“How do you mean like that?” she asked, laughing.
　　This laugh confused me, and I could not explain what I wanted. Then shesaid :
　　“That is a dull book. Just wait! I will give you another more interesting.”
　　In the course of a day or two she gave me Greenwood’s “The TrueHistory of a little Waif.” The title of the book at first turned me agairieTit,but the first pages called up a smile of joy, and still smiling, I read it frombeginning to end, rereading some of the pages two or three times.
　　So in other countries, also, boys lived hard and harassing lives! After all,I was not so badly off; I need not complain.
　　Greenwood gave me a lot of courage, and soon after that I was given a“real” book, “Eugenie Grandet.”
　　Old Grandet reminded me vividly of grandfather. I was annoyed that thebook was so small, and surprised at the amount of truth it contained. Truthswhich were familiar and boring to me in life were shown to me in a differentlight in this book, without malice and quite calmly. All the books which I hadread before Greenwood’s, condemned people as severely and noisily as myemployers did, often arousing my sympathy for the villain and a feeling ofirritation with the good people. I was always sorry to see that despiteenormous expenditure of intelligence and will-power, a man still failed toobtain his desires. The good characters stood awaiting events from first tolast page, as immovable as stone pillars, and although all kinds of evil plotswere formed against these stone pillars, stones do not arouse sympathy. Nomatter how beautiful and strong a wall may be, one does not love it if onewants to get the apple on the tree on the other side of it. It always seemed tome that all that was most worth having, and vigorous was hidden behind the“good” people.
　　In Goncourt, Greenwood, and Balzac there were no villains, but justsimple people, wonderfully alive. One could not doubt that, whatever theywere alleged to have said and done, they really did say and do, and theycould not have said and done anything else.
　　In this fashion I learned to understand what a great treat a “good andproper” book can be. But how to find it? The tailor’s wife could not help mein this.
　　“Here is a good book,” she said, laying before me Arsene Huissier’s“Hands full of Roses, Gold, and Blood.” She also gave me the novels of Beyle,Paul de Kock and Paul Feval, and I read them all with relish. She liked thenovels of Mariette and Vernier, which to me appeared dull. I did not care forSpielhagen, but I was much taken with the stories of Auer — bach. Sue andHuga, also, I did not like, preferring Walter Scott. I wanted books whichexcited me, and made me feel happy, like wonderful Balzac.
　　I did not care for the porcelain woman as much as I had done at first.
　　When I went to see her, I put on a clean shirt, brushed my hair, and tried toappear good-looking. In this I was hardly successful. I always hoped that,seeing my good looks, she would speak to me in a simple and friendlymanner, without that fish-like smile on her frivolous face. But all she did wasto smile and ask me in her sweet, tired voice :
　　“Have you read it? Did you like it?”
　　“No.”
　　Slightly raising her eyebrows, she looked at me, and, drawing in herbreath, spoke through her nose.
　　“But why?”
　　“I have read about all that before.”
　　“Above what?”
　　“About love.”
　　Her eyes twinkled, as she burst out into her honeyed laugh.
　　““Ach, but you see all books are written about love!”
　　Sitting in a big arm-chair, she swung her small feet, incased in furslippers, to and fro, yawned, wrapped her blue dressing-gown around her,and drummed with her pink fingers on the cover of the book on her knee. Iwanted to say to her:
　　“Why don’t you leave this flat? The officers write letters to you, and laughat you.”
　　But I had not the audacity to say this, and went away, bearing with me athick book on “Love,” a sad sense of disenchantment in my heart.
　　They talked about this woman in the yard more evilly, derisively, andspitefully than ever. It offended me to hear these foul and, no doubt, lyingstories. When I was away from her, I pitied the woman, and suffered for her ;but when I was with her, and saw her small, sharp eyes, the cat-likeflexibility of her small body, and that always frivolous face, pity and feardisappeared, vanished like smoke.
　　In the spring she suddenly went away, and in a few days her husbandmoved to new quarters.
　　While the rooms stood empty, awaiting a new tenant, I went to look atthe bare walls, with their square patches where pictures had hung, bent nails,and wounds made by nails. Strewn about the stained floor were pieces ofdifferent-colored cloth, balls of paper, broken boxes from the chemist, emptyscent-bottles. A large brass pin gleamed in one spot.
　　All at once I felt sad and wished that I could see the tailor’s little wifeonce more to tell her how grateful I was to her.
Chapter 10
    BEFORE the departure of the tailor’s wife there had come to live under theflat occupied by my employers a black-eyed young lady, with her little girland her mother, a gray-haired old woman, everlastingly smoking cigarettesin an amber mouthpiece. The young lady was very beautiful, imperious, andproud. She spoke in a pleasant, deep voice. She looked at every one withhead held high and unblinking eyes, as if they were all far away from her,and she could hardly see them. Nearly every day her black soldier-servant,Tuphyaev, brought a thin-legged, brown horse to the steps of her flat. Thelady came out in a long, steel-colored, velvet dress, wearing white gauntletedgloves and tan boots. Holding the train of her skirt and a whip with a lilac-colored stone in its handle in one hand, with the other little hand shelovingly stroked the horse’s muzzle. He fixed his great eyes upon her,trembling all over, and softly trampled the soaked ground under his hoofs.
　　“Robaire, Robaire,” she said in a low voice, and patted the beautiful,arched neck of the steed with a firm hand.
　　Then setting her foot on the knee of Tuphyaev, she sprang lightly into thesaddle, and the horse, prancing proudly, went through the gateway. She satin the saddle as easily as if she were part of it. She was beautiful with thatrare kind of beauty which always seems new and wonderful, and always fillsthe heart with an intoxicating joy. When I looked at her I thought that Dianaof Poitiers, Queen Margot, the maiden La Valliere, and other beauties,heroines of historical novels, were like her.
　　She was constantly surrounded by the officers of the division which wasstationed in the town, and in the evenings they used to visit her, and play thepiano, violin, guitar, and dance and sing. The most frequent of her visitorswas Major Olessov, who revolved about her on his short legs, stout, red-faced, gray-haired, and as greasy as an engineer on a steamboat. He playedthe guitar well, and bore himself as the humble, devoted servant of the lady.
　　As radiantly beautiful as her mother was the little five-year-old, curly-haired, chubby girl. Her great, dark-blue eyes looked about her gravely,calmly expectant, and there was an air of thoughtfulness about her whichwas not at all childish.
　　Her grandmother was occupied with housekeeping from morning tonight, with the help of Tuphyaev, a morose, taciturn man, and a fat, cross-eyed housemaid. There was no nursemaid, and the little girl lived almostwithout any notice being taken of her, playing about all day on the frontsteps or on a heap of planks near them. I often went out to play with her inthe evenings, for I was very fond of her. She soon became used to me, andwould fall asleep in my arms while I was telling her a story. When thishappened, I used to carry her to bed. Before long it came about that shewould not go to sleep, when she was put to bed, unless I went to say goodnight to her. When I went to her, she would hold out her plump hand with agrand air and say :
　　“Good-by till tomorrow. Grandmother, how ought I to say it?”
　　“God preserve you!” said the grandmother, blowing a cloud of dark-bluesmoke from her mouth and thin nose.
　　“God preserve you till tomorrow! And now I am going to sleep,” said thelittle girl, rolling herself up in the bedclothes, which were trimmed with lace.
　　The grandmother corrected her.
　　“Not till tomorrow, but for always.”
　　“But doesn’t tomorrow mean for always?”
　　She loved the word “tomorrow,” and whatever pleased her specially shecarried forward into the future. She would stick into the ground flowers thathad been plucked or branches that had been broken by the wind, and say :
　　“Tomorrow this will be a garden.”
　　“Tomorrow, some time, I shall buy myself a horse, and ride on horsebacklike mother.”
　　She was a clever child, but not very lively, and would often break off inthe midst of a merry game to become thoughtful, or ask unexpectedly:
　　“Why do priests have hair like women ?”
　　If she stung herself with nettles, she would shake her finger at them,saying:
　　“You wait! I shall pray God to do something vewy bady to you. God cando bad things to every one; He can even punish mama.” Sometimes a soft,serious melancholy descended upon her. She would press close to me, gazingup at the sky with her blue, expectant eyes, and say:
　　“Sometimes grandmother is cross, but mama never; she on’y laughs.
　　Every one loves her, because she never has any time. People are alwayscoming to see her and to look at her because she is so beautiful. She is ‘ovely,mama is. ‘Oseph says so — ‘ovely!”
　　I loved to listen to her, for she spoke of a world of which I knew nothing.
　　She spoke willingly and often about her mother, and a new life graduallyopened out before me. I was again reminded of Queen Margot, whichdeepened my faith in books and also my interest in life. One day when I wassitting on the steps waiting for my people, who had gone for a walk, and thelittle girl had dozed off in my arms, her mother rode up on horseback, spranglightly to the ground, and, throwing back her head, asked :
　　“What, is she asleep?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“That’s right.”
　　The soldier Tuphyaev came running to her and took the horse. She stuckher whip into her belt and, holding out her arms, said:
　　“Give her to me!”
　　“I’ll carry her in myself.”
　　“Come on!” cried the lady, as if I had been a horse, and she stamped herfoot on the step.
　　The little girl woke up, blinking, and, seeing her mother, held out herarms to her. They went away.
　　I was used to being shouted at, but I did not like this lady to shout at me.
　　She had only to give an order quietly, and every one obeyed her.
　　In a few minutes the cross-eyed maid came out for me. The little girl wasnaughty, and would not go to sleep without saying good night.
　　It was not without pride in my bearing toward the mother that I enteredthe drawing-room, where the little girl was sitting on the knees of hermother, who was deftly undressing her.
　　“Here he is,” she said. “He has come — this monster.”
　　“He is not a monster, but my boy.”
　　“Really? Very good. Well, you would like to give something to your boy,wouldn’t you?”
　　“Yes, I should.”
　　“A good idea! I will see to it, and you will go to bed.”
　　“Good-by till tomorrow,” said the little girl, holding out her hand to me.
　　“God preserve you till to — morrow!”
　　The lady exclaimed in surprise:
　　“Who taught you to say that? Grandmother?’
　　“Ye-es.”
　　When the child had left the room the lady beckoned to me.
　　“What shall we give you?”
　　I told her that I did not want anything; but could she let me have a bookto read?
　　She lifted my chin with her warm, scented fingers, and asked, with apleasant smile:
　　“So you are fond of reading? Yes; what books have you read?”
　　When she smiled she looked more beautiful than ever. I confusedly toldher the names of several books.
　　“What did you find to like in them?” she asked, laying her hand on thetable and moving her fingers slightly.
　　A strong, sweet smell of some sort of flowers came from her, mixed withthe odor of horse-sweat. She looked at me through her long eyelashes,thoughtfully grave. No one had ever looked at me like that before.
　　The room was packed as tightly as a bird’s nest with beautiful, softfurniture. The windows were covered with thick green curtains; the snowywhite tiles of the stove gleamed in the half-light; beside the stove shone theglossy surface of a black piano; and from the walls, in dull-gold frames,looked dark writings in large Russian characters. Under each writing hung alarge dark seal by a cord. Everything about her looked at that woman ashumbly and timidly as I did.
　　I explained to her as well as I could that my life was hard anduninteresting and that reading helped me to forget it.
　　“Yes; so that’s what it is,” she said, standing up. “It is not a bad idea, and,in fact, it is quite right. Well, what shall we do? I will get some books for you,but just now I have none. But wait! You can have this one.”
　　She took a tattered book with a yellow cover from the couch.
　　“When you have read this I will give you the second volume; there arefour.”
　　I went away with the “Secrets of Peterburg,” by Prince Meshtcheski, andbegan to read the book with great attention. But before I had read manypages I saw that the Peterburgian “secrets” were considerably less interestingthan those of Madrid, Lon — don, or Paris. The only part which took myfancy was the fable of Svoboda (Liberty) and Palka (stick).
　　“I am your superior,” said Svoboda, “because I am cleverer.”
　　But Palka answered her:
　　“No, it is I who am your superior, because I am stronger than you.”
　　They disputed and disputed and fought about it. Palka beat Svoboda,and, if I remember rightly, Svoboda died in the hospital as the result of herinjuries.
　　There was some talk of nihilists in this book. I remember that, accordingto Prince Meshtcheski, a ni — hilist was such a poisonous person that hisvery glance would kill a fowl. What he wrote about nihilists struck me asbeing offensive and rude, but I un derstood nothing else, and fell into a stateof melan — choly. It was evident that I could not appreciate good books; for Iwas convinced that it was a good book. Such a great and beautiful lady couldnever read bad books.
　　“Well, did you like it?” she asked me when I took back the yellow novelby Meshtcheski.
　　I found it very hard to answer no ; I thought it would make her angry.
　　But she only laughed, and going behind the portiere which led into hersleeping-chamber, brought back a little volume in a binding of dark — bluemorocco leather.
　　“You will like this one, only take care not to soil it.”
　　This was a volume of Pushkin’s poems. I read all of them at once, seizingupon them with a feeling of greed such as I experienced whenever Ihappened to visit a beautiful place that I had never seen before. I alwaystried to run all over it at once. It was like roaming over mossy hillocks in amarshy wood, and suddenly seeing spread before one a dry plain coveredwith flowers and bathed in sunrays. For a second one gazes upon itenchanted, and then one begins to race about happily, and each contact ofone’s feet with the soft growth of the fertile earth sends a thrill of joy throughone.
　　Pushkin had so surprised me with the simplicity and music of poetry thatfor a long time prose seemed unnatural to me, and it did not come easy toread it. The prologue to “Ruslan” reminded me of grandmother’s best stories,all wonderfully compressed into one, and several lines amazed me by theirstriking truth.
　　There, by ways which few observe, Are the trails of invisible wildcreatures.
　　I repeated these wonderful words in my mind, and I could see thosefootpaths so familiar to me, yet hardly visible to the average being. I saw themysterious footprints which had pressed down the grass, which had not hadtime to shake off the drops of dew, as heavy as mercury. The full, soundinglines of poetry were easily remembered. They adorned everything of whichthey spoke as if for a festival. They made me happy, my life easy andpleasant. The verses rang out like bells heralding me into a new life. Whathappiness it was to be educated!
　　The magnificent stories of Pushkin touched me more closely, and weremore intelligible to me than anything I had read. When I had read them afew times I knew them by heart, and when I went to bed I whispered theverses to myself, with my eyes closed, until I fell asleep. Very often I toldthese stories to the orderlies, who listened and laughed, and abused mejokingly. Sidorov stroked my head and said softly:
　　“That’s fine, isn’t it? O Lord —”
　　The awakening which had come to me was noticed by my employers. Theold lady scolded me.
　　“You read too much, and you have not cleaned the samovar for four days,you young monkey! I shall have to take the rolling-pin to you — ”
　　What did I care for the rolling-pin? I took refuge in verses.
　　Loving black evil with all thy heart, O old witch that thou art!
　　The lady rose still higher in my esteem. See what books she read! Shewas not like the tailor’s porcelain wife.
　　When I took back the book, and handed it to her with regret, she said ina tone which invited confidence :
　　“Did you like it? Had you heard of Pushkin before?”
　　I had read something about the poet in one of the newspapers, but Iwanted her to tell me about him, so I said that I had never heard of him.
　　Then she briefly told me the life and death of Pushkin, and asked,smiling like a spring day:
　　“Do you see how dangerous it is to love women?”
　　All the books I had read had shown me it was really dangerous, but alsopleasant, so I said :
　　“It is dangerous, yet every one falls in love. And women suffer for love,too.”
　　She looked at me, as she looked at every one, through her lashes, andsaid gravely:
　　“You think so? You understand that? Then the best thing I can wish youis that you may not forget it.”
　　And then she asked me what verses I liked best.
　　I began to repeat some from memory, with gesticulations. She listenedsilently and gravely, then rose, and, walking up and down the room, saidthoughtfully:
　　“We shall have to have you taught, my little wild animal. I must thinkabout it. ,Your employers — are they relatives of yours ?”
　　When I answered in the affirmative she exclaimed: “Oh!” as if sheblamed me for it.
　　She gave me “The Songs of Beranger,” a special edition with engravings,gilt edges, and a red leather binding. These songs made me feel giddy, withtheir strange mixture of bitter grief and boisterous happiness.
　　With a cold chill at my heart I read the bitter words of “The Old Beggar.”
　　Homeless worm, have I disturbed you?
　　Crush me under your feet!
　　Why be pitiful ? Crush me quickly!
　　Why is it that you have never taught me,Nor given me an outlet for my energy?
　　From the grub an ant might have come.
　　I might have died in the love of my fellows.
　　But dying as an old tramp,I shall be avenged on the world!
　　And directly after this I laughed till I cried over the “Weeping Husband.”
　　I remembered especially the words of Beranger:
　　A happy science of lifeIs not hard for the simple.
　　Beranger aroused me to moods of joyfulness, to a desire to be saucy, andto say something rude to people, — rude, sharp words. In a very short time Ihad become proficient in this art. His verses I learned by heart, and recitedthem with pleasure to the orderlies, running into the kitchen, where they satfor a few minutes at a time.
　　But I soon had to give this up because the lines,But such a hat is not becoming To a young girl of seventeen, gave rise toan offensive conversation about girls that made me furiously disgusted, and Ihit the soldier Ermokhin over the head with a saucepan. Sidorov and theother orderlies tore me away from his clumsy hands, but I made up my mindfrom that time to go no more to the officers’ kitchen.
　　I was not allowed to walk about the streets. In fact, there was no time forit, since the work had so increased. Now, in addition to my usual duties ashousemaid, yardman, and errand-boy, I had to nail calico to wide boards,fasten the plans thereto, and copy calculations for my master’s architecturalwork. I also had to verify the contractor’s accounts, for my master workedfrom morning to night, like a machine.
　　At that time the public buildings of the Yarmarka 5 were private property.
　　Rows of shops were built very rapidly, and my master had the contracts forthe reconstruction of old shops and the erection of new ones. He drew upplans for the rebuilding of vaults, the throwing out of a dormer-window, andsuch changes. I took the plans to an old architect, together with an envelop inwhich was hidden paper money to the value of twenty-five rubles. Thearchitect took the money, and wrote under the plans: “The plans are correct,and the inspection of the work has been performed by me. Imraik.” As amatter of fact, he had not seen the original of the plans, and he could notinspect the work, as he was always obliged to stay at home by reason of hismalady.
　　5 Market-place.
　　I used to take bribes to the inspector of the Yarmarka and to othernecessary people, from whom I re — ceived what the master called papers,which permitted all kinds of illegalities. For this service I obtained the rightto wait for my employers at the door on the front steps when they went out tosee their friends in the evenings. This did not often happen, but when it did,they never returned until after midnight. I used to sit at the top of the steps,or on the heap of planks opposite them, for hours, looking into the windowsof my lady’s flat, thirstily listening to the gay conversation and the music.
　　The windows were open. Through the curtains and the screen of flowersI could see the fine figures of officers moving about the room. The rotundmajor waddled about, and she floated about, dressed with astonishingsimplicity, but beautifully.
　　In my own mind I called her “Queen Margot.”
　　“This is the gay life that they write about in French books,” I thought,looking in at the window. And I always felt rather sad about it. A childishjealousy made it painful for me to see “Queen Margot” surrounded by men,who buzzed about her like bees over flowers.
　　Her least-frequent visitor was a tall, unhappy-looking officer, with afurrowed brow and deep-sunken eyes, who always brought his violin withhim and played marvelously — so marvelously that the passers-by used tostop under the window, and all the dwellers in the street used to gatherround. Even my employers, if they happened to be at home, would open thewindow, listen, and praise. I never remember their praising any one elseexcept the subdeacon of the cathedral, and I knew that a fish-pie was morepleasing to them than any kind of music.
　　Sometimes this officer sang, or recited verses in a muffled voice, sighingstrangely and pressing his hand to his brow. Once when I was playing underthe window with the little girl and “Queen Margot” asked him to sing, herefused for a long time. Then he said clearly:
　　“Only a song has need of beauty, While beauty has no need of songs.”
　　I thought these lines were lovely, and for some reason I felt sorry for theofficer.
　　What I liked best was to look at my lady when she sat at the piano, alonein the room, and played. Music intoxicated me, and I could see nothing butthe window, and beyond that, in the yellow light of the lamp, the finelyformed figure of the woman, with her haughty profile and her white handshovering like birds over the keys. I gazed at her, listened to the plaintivemusic, and dreamed. If I could find some treasure, I would give it all to her,so that she should be rich. If I had been Skobelev, I would have declared waron the Turks again. I would have taken money for ransoms, and built a housefor her on the Otkossa, the best site in the whole town, and made her apresent of it. If only she would leave this street, where every one talkedoffensively about her. The neighbors, the servants belonging to our yard, andmy employers more than all spoke about “Queen Margot” as evilly andspitefully as they had talked about the tailor’s wife, though more cautiously,with lowered voices, and looking about them as they spoke.
　　They were afraid of her, probably because she was the widow of a verydistinguished man. The writings on the walls of her rooms, too, wereprivileges be — stowed on her husband’s ancestors by the old Russianemperors Goudonov, Alexei, and Peter the Great. This was told me by thesoldier Tuphyaev, a man of education, who was always reading the gospels.
　　Or it may have been that people were afraid lest she should thrash them withher whip with the lilac-colored stone in the handle. It was said that she hadonce struck a person of position with it.
　　But words — uttered under the breath are no better than words utteredaloud. My lady lived in a cloud of enmity — an enmity which I could notunderstand and which, tormented me.
　　Now that I knew there was another life; that there were different people,feelings, and ideas, this house and all its tenants aroused in me a feeling ofdisgust that oppressed me more and more. It was entangled in the meshes ofa dirty net of disgraceful tittle-tattle, there was not a single person in it ofwhom evil was not spoken. The regimental chaplain, though he was ill andmiserable, had a reputation for being a drunkard and a rake ; the officers andtheir wives were living, according to my employers, in a state of sin; thesoldiers’ conversation about women, which ran on the same lines, hadbecome repulsive to me. But my employers disgusted me most of all. I knewtoo well the real value of their favorite amusement, namely, the mercilessjudgment of other people. Watching and com menting on the crimes ofothers was the only amuse — ment in which they could indulge withoutpaying for it. They amused themselves by putting those about them verballyon the rack, and, as it were, revenged themselves on others because theylived so piously, laboriously, and uninterestingly themselves.
　　When they spoke vilely about “Queen Margot” I was seized by aconvulsion of feeling which was not childish at all. My heart swelled withhatred for the backbiters. I was overcome by an irresistible desire to do harmto every one, to be insolent, and sometimes a flood of tormenting pity formyself and every one else swept over me. That dumb pity was more painfulthan hatred.
　　I knew more about my queen than they did, and I was always afraid thatthey would find out what I knew.
　　On Sundays, when my employers had gone to the cathedral for highmass, I used to go to her the first thing in the morning. She would call meinto her bedroom, and I sat in a small armchair, upholstered in gold-coloredsilk, with the little girl on my knee, and told the mother about the books Ihad read. She lay in a wide bed, with her cheek resting on her small hands,which were clasped together. Her body was hidden under a counterpane,gold in color, like everything else in the bedroom ; her dark hair lay in a plaitover her swarthy shoulder and her breast, and sometimes fell over the side ofthe bed till it touched the floor.
　　As she listened to me she looked into my face with her soft eyes and ahardly perceptible smile and said:
　　“That’s right.”
　　Even her kind smile was, in my eyes, the condescending smile of aqueen. She spoke in a deep, tender voice, and it seemed to me that it saidalways :
　　“I know that I am immeasurably above all other people ; no one of themis necessary to me.”
　　Sometimes I found her before her mirror, sitting in a low chair and doingher hair, the ends of which lay on her knees, over the arms, and back of thechair, and fell almost to the floor. Her hair was as long and thick asgrandmother’s. She put on her stockings in my presence, but her cleannudity aroused in me no feeling of shame. I had only a joyful feeling of pridein her. A flowerlike smell always came from her, protecting her from any evilthoughts concerning her.
　　I felt sure that the love of the kitchen and the pantry was unknown toQueen Margot. She knew something different, a higher joy, a different kindof love.
　　But one day, late in the afternoon, on going into her drawing-room, Iheard from the bedroom the ringing laugh of the lady of my heart. Amasculine voice said:
　　“Wait a minute! Good Lord! I can’t believe — ” I ought to have goneaway. I knew that, but I could not.
　　“Who is that?” she asked. “You? Come in!” The bedroom was heavy withthe odor of flowers. It was darkened, for the curtains were drawn. QueenMargot lay in bed, with the bedclothes drawn up to her chin, and beside her,against the wall, sat, clad only in his shirt, with his chest bared, the officerviolinist. On his breast was a scar which lay like a red streak from the rightshoulder to the nipple and was so vivid that even in the half-light I could seeit distinctly. The hair of the officer was ruffled comically, and for the firsttime I saw a smile on his sad, furrowed countenance. He was smilingstrangely. His large, feminine eyes looked at the “queen” as if it were the firsttime he had gazed upon her beauty.
　　“This is my friend,” said Queen Margot. I did not know whether she werereferring to me or to him.
　　“What are you looking so frightened about?” I heard her voice as if froma distance. “Come here.”
　　When I went to her she placed her hands on my bare neck and said :
　　“You will grow up and you will be happy. Go along!”
　　I put the book on the shelf, took another, and went away as best I could.
　　Something seemed to grate in my heart. Of course I did not think for amoment that my queen loved as other women nor did the officer give mereason to think so. I saw his face before me, with that smile. He was smilingfor joy, like a child who has been pleasantly surprised, and his sad face waswonderfully transfigured. He had to love her. Could any one not love her?
　　And she also had cause to bestow her love upon him generously. He playedso wonderfully, and could quote poetry so touchingly.
　　But the very fact that I had to find these consolations showed me clearlythat all was not well with my attitude toward what I had seen or even towardQueen Margot herself. I felt that I had lost something, and I lived for severaldays in a state of deep dejection. One day I was turbulently and recklesslyinsolent, and when I went to my lady for a book, she said to me sternly:
　　“You seem to be a desperate character from what I have heard. I did notknow that.”
　　I could not endure this, and I began to explain how nauseating I foundthe life I had to lead, and how hard it was for me to hear people speaking illof her. Standing in front of me, with her hand on my shoulder, she listened atfirst attentively and seriously; but soon she was laughing and pushing meaway from her gently.
　　“That will do; I know all about it. Do you understand? I know.”
　　Then she took both my hands and said to me very tenderly :
　　“The less attention you pay to all that, the better for you. You wash yourhands very badly.”
　　She need not have said this. If she had had to clean the brasses, andwash the floor and the dirty cloths, her hands would not have been any betterthan mine, I think.
　　“When a person knows how to live, he is slandered; they are jealous ofhim. And if he doesn’t know how to live, they despise him,” she saidthoughtfully, drawing me to her, and looking into my eyes with a smile. “Doyou love me?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Very much?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“But how?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Thank you! You are a good boy. I like people to love me.” She smiled,looked as if she were going to say something more, but remained silent, stillkeeping me in her arms. “Come oftener to see me; come whenever you can.”
　　I took advantage of this, and she did me a lot of good. After dinner myemployers used to lie down, and I used to run downstairs. If she was athome, I would stay with her for an hour and sometimes even longer.
　　“You must read Russian books; you must know all about Russian life.”
　　She taught me, sticking hair-pins into her fragrant hair with rosy fingers.
　　And she enumerated the Russian authors, adding:
　　“Will you remember them?”
　　She often said thoughtfully, and with an air of slight vexation:
　　“We must have you taught, and I am always forgetting. Ach, my God!”
　　After sitting with her, I ran downstairs with a new book in my hands,feeling as if I had been washed inside.
　　I had already read Aksakov’s “Family Chronicle,” the glorious Russianpoem “In the Forests,” the amazing “Memoirs of a Hunter,” several volumesof Greb — enkov and Solugub, and the poetry of Venevitinov, Odoevski, andTutchev. These books laved my soul, washing away the husks of barren andbitter reality. I felt that these were good books, and realized that they wereindispensable to me. One result of reading them was that I gained a firmconviction that I was not alone in the world, and the fact that I should not belost took root in my soul.
　　When grandmother came to see me I used to tell her joyfully aboutQueen Margot, and she, taking a pinch of snuff with great enjoyment, saidheartily:
　　Well, well; that is very nice. You see, there are plenty of good peopleabout. You only have to look for them, and then you will find them.”
　　And one day she suggested:
　　“How would it be if I went to her and said thank you for what she doesfor you?”
　　“No; it is better not.”
　　“Well, if you don’t want me to Lord! Lord! how good it all is! I would liketo go on living for ever and ever!”
　　Queen Margot never carried out her project of having me taught, for anunpleasant affair happened on the feast of the Holy Trinity that nearlyruined me.
　　Not long before the holiday my eyelids became terribly swollen, and myeyes were quite closed up. My employers were afraid that I should go blind,and I also was afraid. They took me to the well-known doctor, GenrikhRodzevich, who lanced my eyelids and for days I lay with my eyes bandaged,in tormenting, black misery. The day before the feast of the Trinity mybandages were taken off, and I walked about once more, feeling as if I hadcome back from a grave in which I had been laid alive. Nothing can be moreterrible than to lose one’s sight. It is an unspeakable injury which takes awaya hundred worlds from a man.
　　The joyful day of the Holy Trinity arrived, and, as an invalid, I was offduty from noon and went to the kitchen to pay a visit to the orderlies. All ofthem, even the strict Tuphyaev, were drunk, and toward evening Ermokhinstruck Sidorov on the head with a block of wood. The latter fell senseless tothe ground, and Ermokhin, terrified, ran out to the causeway.
　　An alarming rumor that Sidorov had been murdered soon spread overthe yard. People gathered on the steps and looked at the soldier stretchedmotionless across the threshold. There were whispers that the police oughtto be sent for, but no one went to fetch them, and no one could be persuadedto touch the soldier.
　　Then the washerwoman Natalia Kozlovski, in a new, blue frock, with awhite neckerchief, appeared on the scene. She pushed the people asideangrily, went into the entrance passage, squatted down, and said loudly:
　　“Fools! He is alive! Give me some water!”
　　They began to protest.
　　“Don’t meddle with what is not your business!”
　　“Water, I tell you!” she cried, as if there were a fire. She lifted her newfrock over her knees in a businesslike manner, spread out her underskirt,and laid the soldier’s bleeding head on her knees.
　　The crowd dispersed, disapproving and fearful.
　　In the dim light of the passage I could see the eyes of the washerwomanfull of tears, flashing angrily in her white, round face. I took her a pail ofwater, and she ordered me to throw it over the head and breast of Sidorovwith the caution:
　　“Don’t spill it over me. I am going to pay a visit to some friends.”
　　The soldier came to himself, opened his dull eyes, and moaned.
　　“Lift him up,” said Natalia, holding him under the armpits with herhands outstretched lest he should soil her frock. We carried the soldier intothe kitchen and laid him on the bed. She wiped his face with a wet cloth, andwent away, saying:
　　“Soak the cloth in water and hold it to his head. I will go and find thatfool. Devils! I suppose they won’t be satisfied until they have drunkthemselves into prison.”
　　She went out, after slipping her soiled under-petticoat to the floor,flinging it into a corner and carefully smoothing out her rustling, crumpledfrock.
　　Sidorov stretched himself, hiccupped, sighed. Warm drops of thick bloodfell on my bare feet from his head. This was unpleasant, but I was toofrightened to move my feet away from those drops.
　　It was bitter. The sun shone festively out in the yard; the steps of thehouses and the gate were decorated with young birch; to each pedestal weretied freshly cut branches of maple and mountain ash. The whole street wasgay with foliage; everything was young, new. Ever since the morning I hadfelt that the spring holiday had come to stay, and that it had made lifecleaner, brighter, and happier.
　　The soldier was sick. The stifling odor of warm vodka and green onionfilled the kitchen. Against the window were pressed dull, misty, broad faces,with flattened noses, and hands held against their cheeks, which made themlook hideous.
　　The soldier muttered as he recollected himself:
　　“What happened to me? Did I fall, Ermokhin? Go-o-od comrade!” Thenhe began to cough, wept drunken tears, and groaned, “My little sister! mylittle sister!”
　　He stood up, tottering, wet. He staggered, and, falling back heavily uponthe bed, said, rolling his eyes strangely:
　　“They have quite killed me!”
　　This struck me as funny.
　　“What the devil are you laughing at?” he asked, looking at me dully.
　　“What is there to laugh at? I am killed forever!”
　　He began to hit out at me with both hands, muttering :
　　“The first time was that of Elias the prophet; the second time, St. Georgeon his steed; the third — Don’t come near me! Go away, wolf!”
　　“Don’t be a fool!” I said.
　　He became absurdly angry, roared, and stamped his feet.
　　“I am killed, and you — ”
　　With his heavy, slow, dirty hand he struck me in the eyes. I set up a howl,and blindly made for the yard, where I ran into Natalia leading Ermokhin bythe arm, crying: “Come along, horse! What is the matter with you?” sheasked, catching hold of me.
　　“He has come to himself.”
　　“Come to himself, eh?” she drawled in amazement. And drawingErmokhin along, she said, “Well, werwolf, you may thank your God for this!”
　　I washed my eyes with water, and, looking through the door of thepassage, saw the soldiers make their peace, embracing each other and crying.
　　Then they both tried to embrace Natalia, but she hit out at them, shouting :
　　“Take your paws off me, curs! What do you take me for? Make haste andget to sleep before your masters come home, or there will be trouble for you!”
　　She made them lie down as if they were little children, the one on thefloor, the other on the pallet — bed, and when they began to snore, came outinto the porch.
　　“I am in a mess, and I was dressed to go out visiting, too! Did he hityou”? What a fool! That’s what it does — vodka! Don’t drink, little fellow,never drink.”
　　Then I sat on the bench at the gate with her, and asked how it was thatshe was not afraid of drunken people.
　　“I am not afraid of sober people, either. If they come near me, this iswhat they get!” She showed me her tightly clenched, red list. “My deadhusband was also given to drink too much, and once when he was drunk Itied his hands and feet. When he had slept it off, I gave him a birching for hishealth. ‘Don’t drink; don’t get drunk when you are married,’ I said. ‘Yourwife should be your amusement, and not vodka.’ Yes, I scolded him until Iwas tired, and after that he was like wax in my hands.”
　　“You are strong,” I said, remembering the woman Eve, who deceivedeven God Himself.
　　Natalia replied, with a sigh:
　　“A woman needs more strength than a man. She has to have strengthenough for two, and God has bestowed it upon her. Man is an unstablecreature.”
　　She spoke calmly, without malice, sitting with her arms folded over herlarge bosom, resting her back against the fence, her eyes fixed sadly on thedusty gutter full of rubbish. Listening to her clever talk, I forgot all about thetime. Suddenly I saw my master coming along arm in arm with the mistress.
　　They were walking slowly, pompously, like a turkey-cock with his hen, and,looking at us attentively, said something to each other.
　　I ran to open the front door for them, and as she came up the steps themistress said to me, venomously :
　　“So you are courting the washerwoman? Are you learning to carry onwith ladies of that low class ?”
　　This was so stupid that it did not even annoy me but I felt offended whenthe master said, laughing:
　　“What do you expect? It is time.”
　　The next morning when I went into the shed for the wood I found anempty purse, in the square hole which was made for the hook of the door. AsI had seen it many times in the hands of Sidorov I took it to him at once.
　　“Where is the money gone?” he asked, feeling inside the purse with hisfingers. “Thirty rubles there were! Give them here!”
　　His head was enveloped in a turban formed of a towel. Looking yellowand wasted, he blinked at me angrily with his swollen eyes, and refused tobelieve that I had found the purse empty.
　　Ermokhin came in and backed him up, shaking his head at me.
　　“It is he who has stolen it. Take him to his master. Soldiers do not stealfrom soldiers.”
　　These words made me think that he had stolen the money himself andhad thrown the purse into my shed. I called out to his face, withouthesitation:
　　“Liar! You stole it yourself!”
　　I was convinced that I had guessed right when I saw his wooden facedrawn crooked with fear and rage. As he writhed, he cried shrilly :
　　“Prove it!”
　　How could I prove it? Ermokhin dragged me, with a shout, across theyard. Sidorov followed us, also shouting. Several people put their heads outof the windows. The mother of Queen Margot looked on, smoking calmly. Irealized that I had fallen in the esteem of my lady, and I went mad.
　　I remember the soldiers dragging me by the arms and my employersstanding before them, sympathetically agreeing with them, as they listenedto the com plaint. Also the mistress saying:
　　“Of course he took it! He was courting the washerwoman at the gate lastevening, and he must have had some money. No one gets anything from herwithout money.”
　　“That’s true,” cried Ermokhin.
　　I was swept off my feet, consumed by a wild rage. I began to abuse themistress, and was soundly beaten.
　　But it was not so much the beating which tortured me as the thought ofwhat my Queen Margot was now thinking of me. How should I ever setmyself right in her eyes? Bitter were my thoughts in that dreadful time. I didnot strangle myself only because I had not the time to do so.
　　Fortunately for me, the soldiers spread the story over the whole yard, thewhole street, and in the evening, as I lay in the attic, I heard the loud voice ofNatalia Kozlovski below.
　　“No! Why should I hold my tongue? No, my dear fellow, get away! Getalong with you! Go away, I say! If you don’t, I will go to your gentleman, andhe will give you something!”
　　I felt at once that this noise was about me. She was shouting near oursteps ; her voice rang out loudly and triumphantly.
　　“How much money did you show me yesterday? Where did you get itfrom? Tell us!”
　　Holding my breath with joy, I heard Sidorov drawl sadly :
　　“Ate, aze! Ermokhin — ”
　　“And the boy has had the blame for it? He has been beaten for it, eh?”
　　I felt like running down to the yard, dancing there for joy, kissing thewasherwoman out of gratitude; but at that moment, apparently from thewindow, my mistress cried:
　　“The boy was beaten because he was insolent. No one believed that hewas a thief except you, you slut!”
　　“Slut yourself, madam! You are nothing better than a cow, if you willpermit me to say so.”
　　I listened to this quarrel as if it were music. My heart burned with hottears of self-pity, and gratitude to Natalia. I held my breath in the effort tokeep them back.
　　Then the master came slowly up to the attic, sat on a projecting beamnear me, and said, smoothing his hair:
　　“Well, brother Pyeshkov, and so you had nothing to do with it?”
　　I turned my face away without speaking.
　　“All the same, your language was hideous,” he went on. I announcedquietly:
　　“As soon as I can get up I shall leave you.”
　　He sat on in silence, smoking a cigarette. Looking fixedly at its end, hesaid in a low voice :
　　“What of it? That is your business. You are not a little boy any longer;you must look about and see what is the best thing for yourself.”
　　Then he went away. As usual, I felt sorry for him.
　　Four days after this I left that house. I had a passionate desire to saygood-by to Queen Margot, but I had not the audacity to go to her, though Iconfess I thought that she would have sent for me herself.
　　When I bade good-by to the little girl I said:
　　“Tell your mother that I thank her very much, will you?”
　　“Yes, I will,” she promised, and she smiled lovingly and tenderly. “Goodby till tomorrow, eh? Yes?”
　　I met her again twenty years later, married to an officer in thegendarmerie.
Chapter 11
    ONCE more I became a washer-up on a steamboat, the Perm, a boat as whiteas a swan, spacious, and swift. This time I was a “black” washer-up, or a“kitchen man.” I received seven rubles a month, and my duties were to helpthe cook.
　　The steward, stout and bloated, was as bald as a billiard-ball. He walkedheavily up and down the deck all day long with his hands clasped behind hisback, like a boar looking for a shady corner on a sultry day. His wife flauntedherself in the buffet. She was a woman of about forty, handsome, but faded,and so thickly powdered that her colored dress was covered with the white,sticky dust that fell from her cheeks.
　　The kitchen was ruled over by an expensive cook, Ivan Ivanovich, whosesurname was Medvyejenok. He was a small, stout man, with an aquiline noseand mocking eyes. He was a coxcomb, wore starched collars, and shavedevery day. His cheeks were dark blue, and his dark mustaches curledupward. He spent all his spare moments in the arrangement of thesemustaches, pulling at them with fingers stained by his work at the stove, andlooking at them in a small hand-glass.
　　The most interesting person on the boat was the stoker, Yaakov Shumov,a broad-chested, square man. His snub-nosed face was as smooth as a spade;his coffee-colored eyes were hidden under thick eyebrows; his cheeks werecovered with small, bristling hairs, like the moss which is found in marshes ;and the same sort of hair, through which he could hardly pass his crookedfingers, formed a close-fitting cap for his head.
　　He was skilful in games of cards for money, and his greed was amazing.
　　He was always hanging about the kitchen like a hungry dog, asking for piecesof meat and bones. In the evenings he used to take his tea with Medvyejenokand relate amazing stories about himself. In his youth he had been assistantto the town shepherd of Riazin. Then a passing monk lured him into amonastery, where he served for four years.
　　“And I should have become a monk, a black star of God,” he said in hisquick, comical way, “if a pilgrim had not come to our cloister from Penza.
　　She was very entertaining, and she upset me. ‘Eh, you ‘re a fine strongfellow,’ says she, ‘and I am a respectable widow and lonely. You shall come tome,’ she says. ‘I have my own house, and I deal in eider-down and feathers.’
　　That suited me, and I went to her. I became her lover, and lived with her ascomfortably as warm bread in a oven, for three years.”
　　“You lie hardily,” Medvyejenok interrupted him, anxiously examining apimple on his nose. “If lies could make money, you would be worththousands.”
　　Yaakov hummed. The blue, bristling hairs moved on his impassive face,and his shaggy mustaches quivered. After he had heard the cook’s remark hecon tinued as calmly and quickly as before:
　　“She was older than I, and she began to bore me. Then I must go andtake up with her niece, and she found it out, and turned me out by the scruffof the neck.”
　　“And served you right, you did not deserve anything better,” said thecook as easily and smoothly as Yaakov himself.
　　The stoker went on, with a lump of sugar in his check :
　　“I was at a loose end till I came across an old Volodimerzian peddler.
　　Together we wandered all over the world. We went to the Balkan Hills toTurkey itself, to Rumania, and to Greece, to different parts of Austria. Wevisited every nation. Wherever there were likely to be buyers, there we went,and sold our goods.”
　　“And stole others?” asked the cook, gravely.
　　“No! no!” the old man said to me. “You must act honestly in a strangeland, for they are so strict here, it is said, that they will cut off your head for amere nothing.’ It is true that I did try to steal, but the result was not at allconsoling. I managed to get a horse away from the yard of a certainmerchant, but I had done no more than that when they caught me, knockedme about, and dragged me to the police station. There were two of us. Theother was a real horse-stealer, but I did it only for the fun of the thing. But Ihad been working at the merchant’s house, putting in a new stove for hisbath, and the merchant fell ill, and had bad dreams about me, which alarmedhim, so that he begged the magistrate, ‘Let him go,’ — that was me, youknow, — ‘let him go; for I have had dreams about him, and if you don’t lethim off, you will never be well. It is plain that he is a wizard.’ That was me, ifyou please — a wizard! However, the merchant was a person of influence,and they let me go.”
　　“I should not have let you go. I should have let you lie in water for threedays to wash the foolery out of you,” said the cook.
　　Yaakov instantly seized upon his words.
　　“True, there is a lot of folly about me, and that is the fact — enough follyfor a whole village.”
　　Thrusting his fingers into his tight collar, the cook angrily dragged it up,and complained in a tone of vexation :
　　“Fiddlesticks! How a villain like you can live, gorge himself, drink, andstroll about the world, beats me. I should like to know what use you are.”
　　Munching, the stoker, answered:
　　“I don’t know myself. I live, and that is all I .can say about it. One manlies down, and another walks about. A chinovnik leads a sedentary life, butevery one must eat.”
　　The cook was more incensed than ever.
　　“You are such a swine that you are absolutely unbearable. Really, pigs’
　　food — ”
　　“What are you in such a rage about?” asked Yaakov, surprised. “All menare acorns from the same oak. But don’t you abuse me. It won’t make me anybetter, you know.”
　　This man attracted me and held me at once. I gazed at him withunbounded astonishment, and listened to him with open mouth. I had anidea that he possessed a deep knowledge of life. He said “thou” to every one,looked at every one from under his bushy brows with the same straight andindependent glance, and treated every one — the captain, the steward, andthe first-class passengers, who were very haughty — as if they were theequals of himself, the sailors, the waiters, and the deck passengers.
　　Sometimes he stood before the captain or the chief engineer, with hisape-like hands clasped behind his back, and listened while they scolded himfor laziness, or for having unscrupulously won money at cards. He listened,but it was evident that scolding made not the slightest impression upon him,and that the threats to put him off the boat at the first stopping-place did notfrighten him. There was something alien about him, as there had been about“Good Business.” Evidently he was aware of his own peculiari — ties and ofthe fact that people could not understand him.
　　I never once knew this man to be offended, and, when I think of it, donot remember that he was ever silent for long. From his rough mouth and, asit were, despite himself, a stream of words always flowed. When he was beingscolded or when he was listening to some interesting story, his lips movedjust as if he were repeating what he heard to himself or simply continuedspeaking quietly to himself. Every day, when he had finished his watch, heclimbed out of the stoke-hole, barefooted, sweating, smeared with naphtha,in a wet shirt without a belt, showing his bare chest covered with thick, curlyhair, and that very minute his even, monotonous, deep voice could be heardacross the deck. His words followed one another like drops of rain.
　　“Good morning. Mother! Where are you going ? To Chistopol? I know it;I have been there. I lived in the house of a rich Tatar workman; his name wasUsan Gubaildulin. The old man had three wives. A robust man he was, with ared face, and one of his wives was young. An amu-u-sing little Tatar girl shewas.”
　　He had been everywhere, and apparently had committed sin with all thewomen who had crossed his path. He spoke of every one without malice,calmly, as he had never in his life been hurt or scolded. In a few minutes hisvoice would be heard in the stem.
　　“Good people, who will have a game of cards ? Just a little flutter, ei?
　　Cards are a consolation. You can make money sitting down, a profitableundertaking.”
　　I noticed that he hardly ever said that anything was good, bad, orabominable, but always that it was amusing, consoling, or curious. Abeautiful woman was to him an amusing little female. A fine sunny day was aconsoling little day. But more often than anything else he said:
　　“I spit upon it!”
　　He was looked upon as lazy, but it seemed to me that he performed hislaborious task in that infernal, suffocating, and fetid heat as conscientiouslyas any of the others. I never remember that he complained of weariness orheat, as the other stokers did.
　　One day some one stole a purse containing money from one of the oldwomen passengers. It was a clear, quiet evening; every one was amiable andpeaceably inclined. The captain gave the old woman five rubles. Thepassengers also collected a small sum among themselves. When the oldwoman was given the money, she crossed herself, and bowed low, saying:
　　“Kind friends, you have given me three graven too much.”
　　Some one cried gayly:
　　“Take it all, my good woman, — all that your eyes fall upon. Why do youtalk nonsense? No bne can have too much.”
　　But Yaakov went to the old woman and said quite seriously :
　　“Give me what you don’t want; I will play cards with it.”
　　The people around laughed, thinking that the stoker was joking, but hewent on urging the confused woman perseveringly :
　　“Come, give it to me, woman! What do you want the money for?
　　Tomorrow you will be in the churchyard.”
　　They drove him away with abuse, but he said to me, shaking his head,and greatly surprised:
　　“How funny people are! Why do they interfere in what does not concernthem? She said herself that she had more than she wanted. And three grevenwould have been very consoling to me.”
　　The very sight of money evidently pleased him. While he was talking heloved to clean the silver and brass on his breeches, and would polish coins tillthey shone. Moving his eyebrows up and down, he would gaze at them,holding them in his crooked fingers before his snub-nosed face. But he wasnot avaricious.
　　One day he asked me to play with him, but I could not.
　　“You don’t know how?” he cried. “How is that? And you call yourselfeducated! You must learn. We will play for lumps of sugar.”
　　He won from me half a pound of the best sugar, and hid every lump inhis furry cheek. As soon as he found that I knew how to play he said:
　　“Now we will play seriously for money. Have you any money?”
　　“I have five rubles.”
　　“And I have two.”
　　As may be imagined, he soon won from mc. Desiring to have my revenge,I staked my jacket, worth five rubles, and lost. Then I staked my new boots,and lost again. Yaakov said to me, unwillingly, almost crossly :
　　“No, you don’t know how to play yet; you get too hot about it. You mustgo and stake everything, even your boots. I don’t care for that sort of thing.
　　Come, take back your clothes and your money, — four rubles, — and I willkeep a ruble for teaching you. Agreed?’
　　I was very grateful to him.
　　“It is a thing to spit upon,” he said in answer to my thanks. “A game is agame, just an amusement, you know; but you would turn it into a quarrel.
　　And even in a quarrel it doesn’t do to get too warm. You want to calculate theforce of your blows. What have you to get in a stew about? You are young;you must learn to hold yourself in. The first time you don’t succeed; fivetimes you don’t succeed; the seventh time — spit! Go away, get yourself cool,and have another go! That is playing the game.”
　　He delighted me more and more, and yet he jarred on me. Sometimes hisstories reminded me of grandmother. There was a lot in him which attractedme, but his lifelong habit of dull indifference repelled me violently.
　　Once at sunset a drunken second-class passenger, a corpulent merchantof Perm, fell overboard, and was carried away, struggling on the red-goldwater-way. The engineers hastily shut off steam, and the boat came to astandstill, sending off a cloud of foam from the wheel, which the red beamsof the sun made look like blood. In that blood-red, seething, caldron a darkbody struggled, already far away from the stern of the boat. Wild cries wereheard from the river; one’s heart shook. The passengers also screamed, andjostled one another, rolling about the deck, crowding into the stern. Thefriend of the drowning man, also drunk, red, and bald, hit out with his fistsand roared:
　　“Get out of the way! I will soon get him!”
　　Two sailors had already thrown themselves into the water, and wereswimming toward the drowning man. The boats were let down. Amid theshouts of the commander and the shrieks of the women Yaakov’s deep voicerang out calmly and evenly :
　　“He will be drowned; he will certainly be drowned, because he has hisclothes on. Fully dressed as he is, he must certainly drown. Look at womenfor example. Why do they always drown sooner than men? Because of theirpetticoats. A woman, when she falls into the water, goes straight to thebottom, like a pound weight. You will see that he will be drowned. I do notspeak at random.”
　　As a matter of fact, the merchant was drowned. They sought for him fortwo hours, and failed to find him. His companion, sobered, sat on the deck,and, panting heavily, muttered plaintively:
　　“We are almost there. What will happen when we arrive, eh? What willhis family say? He had a family.”
　　Yaakov stood in front of him, with his hands behind his back, and beganto console him.
　　“There is nothing to worry about. No one knows when he is destined todie. One man will eat mushrooms, fall ill and die, while thousands of peoplecan eat mushrooms and be all the better for them. Yet one will die. And whatare mushrooms?”
　　Broad and strong, he stood like a rock in front of the merchant, andpoured his words over him like bran. At first the merchant wept silently,wiping the tears from his beard with his broad palms, but when he had heardhim out, he roared:
　　“What do you mean by torturing me like this? Fellow-Christians, takehim away, or there will be murder!”
　　Yaakov went away, calmly saying:
　　“How funny people are! You go to them out of kindness, and all they dois to abuse you!”
　　Sometimes I thought the stoker a fool, but more often I thought that hepurposely pretended to be stupid. I asked him straight out about his youthand his wanderings around the world. The result was not what I meant it tobe. Throwing his head back, almost closing his dark, copper-colored eyes, hestroked his mossy face with his hand and drawled :
　　“People everywhere. Brother, — everywhere, — are simple as ants! Andwhere there are people, there is always trouble, I tell you! The greaternumber, of course, are peasants. The earth is absolutely strewn with muzhiks— like autumn leaves, as we say. I have seen the Bulgars, and Greeks, too,and those — what do you call them? — Serbians; Rumanians also, and allkinds of Gipsies. Are there many different sorts? What sort of people? Whatdo you mean by that? In the towns they are townspeople, and in the country— why, they are just like the country people among us. They resemble themin many ways. Some of them even speak our tongue, though badly, as, forinstance, the Tatars and the Mordovans. The Greeks cannot speak ourlanguage. They chatter whatever comes into their heads, and it sounds likewords; but what they say or about what it is impossible to understand. Youhave to talk on your fingers to them. But my old man managed to talk so thateven the Greeks understood him. He muttered something, and they knewwhat he meant. An artful old man he was. He knew how to work upon them.
　　Again you want to know what sort of people? You funny fellow! What shouldpeople be like? They were black, of course; and the Rumanians, too, were ofthe same faith. The Bulgars are also black, but they hold the same religion asourselves. As for the Greeks, they are of the same race as the Turks.”
　　It seemed to me that he was not telling me all he knew; that there wassomething which he did not wish to tell. From illustrations in the magazinesI knew that the capital of Greece was Athens, an ancient and most beautifultown. But Yaakov shook his head doubtfully as he rejected the idea.
　　“They have been telling you lies, my friend. There is no place calledAthens, but there is a place called Athon; only it is not a town, but a hill witha monastery on it, and that is all. It is called the Holy Hill of Athon. There arepictures of it; the old man used to sell them. There is a town calledByelgorod, which stands on the Dounai River, built in the style of Yaroslav orNijni. Their towns are nothing out of the ordinary, but their villages, that isanother matter. Their women, too — well, they are absolutely killinglypleasant. I very nearly stayed there altogether for the sake of one. What thedeuce was her name?’
　　He rubbed his perspiring face hard with the palms of his hands, and hiscoarse hair clicked softly. In his throat, somewhere deep down, rumbled hislaugh, like the rattle of a drum.
　　“How forgetful a man can be! And yet, you know, we were — When shesaid good-by to me — she cried, and I cried, too. Good — go-o — “ Calmlyand with an entire absence of reticence, he began to instruct me in the way tobehave to women.
　　We were sitting on the deck. The warm moon-light night swam to meetus; the meadow-land of the shore was hardly visible beyond the silver water.
　　In the heavens twinkled yellow lights; these were certain stars which hadbeen captivated by the earth. All around there was movement, sleeplesslypalpitating, quiet ; but real life was going on. Into this pleas — ant,melancholy silence fell the hoarse words:
　　“And so we let go of each other’s hands and parted.” Yaakov’s storieswere immodest, but not repulsive, for they were neither boastful nor cruel,and there was a ring of artlessness and sorrow in them. The moon in the skywas also shamelessly naked, and moved me in the same way, setting mefretting for I knew not what. I remembered only what was good, the very bestthing in my life — Queen Margot and the verses, unforgettable in their truth:
　　Only a song has need of beauty, While beauty has no need of songs.
　　Shaking off this dreamy mood as if it had been a light doze, I again askedthe stoker about his life and what he had seen.
　　“You ‘re a funny fellow,” he said. “What am I to tell ycu? I have seeneverything. You ask have I seen a monastery? I have. Traktirs? I have seenthem also. I have seen the life of a gentleman and the life of a peasant. I havelived well-fed, and I have lived hungry.”
　　Slowly, as if he were crossing a deep stream by a shaky, dangerousbridge, he recalled the past.
　　“For instance, I was sitting in the police station after the horse-stealingaffair. ‘They will send me to Siberia,’ I was thinking when the constablebegan to rage because the stove in his new house smoked.
　　I said to him, ‘This is a business which I can set right for you, yourHonor.’ He shut me up. ‘It is a thing,’ he grumbled, ‘which the cleverestworkman could not manage.’ Then I said to him, ‘Sometimes a shepherd iscleverer than a general.’ I felt very brave toward every one just then. Nothingmattered now, with Siberia before me. ‘All right ; try,’ he said, ‘but if itsmokes worse afterwards I will break all your bones for you.’ In two days Ihad finished the work. The constable was astonished. ‘AchP he cried, ‘youfool, you blockhead! Why, you are a skilled workman, and you steal horses!
　　How is it? I said to him, ‘That was simply a piece of foolery, your Honor.’
　　‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘it was foolery. I am sorry for you.’ ‘Yes, I am sorry,’ herepeated. Do you see”? A man in the police force, carrying out his dutieswithout remorse, and yet he was sorry for me.”
　　“Well, what happened then?” I asked him.
　　“Nothing. He was sorry for me. What else should happen?”
　　“What was the use of pitying you? You are like a stone.”
　　Yaakov laughed good-naturedly.
　　“Funny fellow! A stone, you say? Well, one may feel for stones. A stonealso serves in its proper place; streets are paved with stones. One ought topity all kinds of materials; nothing is in its place by chance. What is soil? Yetlittle blades of grass grow in it/’
　　When the stoker spoke like this, it was quite clear to me that he knewsomething more than I could grasp.
　　“What do you think of the cook?” I asked him.
　　“Of Medvyejenok?” said Yaakov, calmly. “What do I think of him? Thereis nothing to think about him at all.”
　　That was true. Ivan Ivanovich was so strictly correct and smooth thatone’s thoughts could get no grip on him. There was only one interestingthing about him: he loved the stoker, was always scolding him, and yetalways invited him to tea.
　　One day he said to him:
　　“If you had been my serf and I had been your master, I would haveflogged you seven times each week, you sluggard!”
　　Yaakov replied in a serious tone:
　　“Seven times? That’s rather a lot!”
　　Although he abused the stoker, the cook for some reason or other fedhim with all kinds of things. He would throw a morsel to him roughly andsay:
　　“There. Gobble it up!”
　　Yaakov would devour it without any haste, saying:
　　“I am accumulating a reserve of strength through you, Ivan Ivanovich.”
　　“And what is the use of strength to you, lazy-bones?”
　　“What is the use? Why, I shall live all the longer for it.’
　　“Why should you live, useless one?”
　　“But useless people go on living. Besides, you know, it is very amusing tobe alive, isn’t it? Living, Ivan Ivanovich, is a very comforting business.”
　　“What an idiot!”
　　“Why do you say that?”
　　“I-di-ot!”
　　“There’s a way of speaking!” said Yaakov in amazement, andMedvyejenok said to me:
　　“Just think of it! We dry up our blood and roast the marrow out of ourbones in that infernal heat at the stoves while he guzzles like a boar!”
　　“Every one must work out his own fate,” said the stoker, masticating.
　　I knew that to stoke the furnaces was heavier and hotter work than tostand at the stove, for I had tried several times at night to stoke with Yaakov,and it seemed strange to me that he did not enlighten the cook with regard tothe heaviness of his labors. Yes, this man certainly had a peculiar knowledgeof his own.
　　They all scolded him, — the captain, the engineer, the first mate, all ofthose who must have known he was not lazy. I thought it very strange. Whydid they not appraise him rightly? The stokers behaved considerably betterto him than the rest al — though they made fun of his incessant chatter andhis love of cards.
　　I asked them: “What do you think of Yaakov? Is he a good man?”
　　“Yaakov? He’s all right. You can’t upset him whatever you do, even if youwere to put hot coals in his chest.”
　　What with his heavy labor at the boilers, and his appetite of a horse, thestoker slept but little. Often, when the watches were changed, withoutchanging his clothes, sweating and dirty, he stayed the whole night on deck,talking with the passengers, and playing cards.
　　In my eyes he was like a locked trunk in which something was hiddenwhich I simply must have, and I obstinately sought the key by which I mightopen it.
　　“What you are driving at, little brother, I cannot, for the life of me,understand,” he would say, looking at me with his eyes almost hidden underhis eyebrows. “It is a fact that I have traveled about the world a lot. Whatabout it? Funny fellow! You had far better listen to a story I have to tell youabout what happened to me once ”
　　And he told me how there had lived, somewhere in one of the towns hehad passed through, a young consumptive lawyer who had a German wife —a fine, healthy woman, without children. And this German woman was inlove with a dry-goods merchant. The merchant was married, and his wifewas beautiful and had three children. When he discovered that the Germanwoman was in love with him, he planned to play a practical joke on her. Hetold ‘her to meet him in the garden at night, and invited two of his friends tocome with him, hiding them in the garden among the bushes.
　　“Wonderful! When the German woman came, he said, ‘Here she is, allthere!’ And to her, he said, ‘I am no use to you, lady; I am married. But I havebrought two of my friends to you. One of them is a widower, and the other abachelor.’ The German woman — ach! she gave him such a slap on the facethat he fell over the garden bench, and then she trampled his ugly mug andhis thick head with her heel I I had brought her there, for I was dvornik atthe lawyer’s house. I looked through a chink in the fence, and saw how thesoup was boiling. Then the friends sprang out upon her, and seized her bythe hair, and I dashed over the fence, and beat them off. ‘You must not dothis, Mr. Merchants!’ I said. The lady had come trustfully, and he hadimagined that she had evil intentions. I took her away, and they threw a brickat me, and bruised my head. She was overcome with grief, and almost besideherself. She said to me, as we crossed the yard: ‘I shall go back to my ownpeople, the Germans, as soon as my husband dies!’ I said to her, ‘Of courseyou must go back to them.’ And when the lawyer died, she went away. Shewas very kind, and so clever, tool And the lawyer was kind, too, — God resthis soul!”
　　Not being quite sure that I had understood the meaning of this story, Iwas silent. I was conscious of something familiar, something which hadhappened before, something pitiless and blind about it. But what could I say?
　　“Do you think that is a good story?” asked Yaakov.
　　I said something, making some confused objections, but he explainedcalmly :
　　“People who have more than is necessary are easily amused, butsometimes, when they want to play a trick on some one, it turns out not to befun at all. It doesn’t come off as they expected. Merchants are brainy people,of course. Commerce demands no little cleverness, and the life of cleverpersons is very dull, you see, so they like to amuse themselves.”
　　Beyond the prow, all in a foam, the river rushed swiftly. The seething,running water was audible, the dark shore gliding slowly along with it. Onthe deck lay snoring passengers. Among the benches, among the sleepingbodies, a tall faded woman in a black frock, with uncovered gray head,moved quietly, coming towards us. The stoker, nudging me, said softly :
　　“Look — she is in trouble!”
　　And it seemed to me that other people’s griefs were amusing to him. Hetold me many stories, and I listened greedily. I remember his storiesperfectly, but I do not remember one of them that was happy. He spoke morecalmly than books. In books, I was often conscious of the feelings of thewriter, — of his rage, his joy, his grief, his mockery; but the stoker nevermocked, never judged. Nothing excited either his disgust or his pleasure toany extent. He spoke like an impartial witness at a trial, like a man who wasa stranger alike to accuser, accused, and judge. This equanimity aroused inme an ever-increasing sense of irritated sorrow, a feeling of angry dislike forYaakov.
　　Life burned before his eyes like the flame of the stove beneath theboilers. He stood in front of the stove with a wooden mallet in his pockmarked,coffee-colored hands, and softly struck the edge of the regu — lator,diminishing or increasing the heat.
　　“Hasn’t all this done you harm?”
　　“Who would harm me? I am strong. You see what blows I can give!”
　　“I am not speaking of blows, but has not your soul been injured?”
　　“The soul cannot be hurt. The soul does not receive injuries,” he said.
　　“Souls are not affected by any human agency, by anything external.”
　　The deck passengers, the sailors, every one, in fact, used to speak of thesoul as often and as much as they spoke of the land, of their work, of foodand women. “Soul” is the tenth word in the speech of simple people, a wordexpressive of life and movement.
　　I did not like to hear this word so habitually on people’s slipperytongues, and when the peasants used foul language, defiling their souls, itstruck me to the heart.
　　I remember so well how carefully grandmother used to speak of the soul,— that secret receptacle of love, beauty, and joy. I believed that, after thedeath of a good person, white angels carried his soul to the good God of mygrandmother, and He greeted it with tenderness.
　　“Well, my dear one, my pure one, thou hast suffered and languishedbelow.”
　　And He would give the soul the wings of seraphim — six white wings.
　　Yaakov Shumov spoke of the soul as carefully, as reluctantly, and as seldomas grandmother. When he was abused, he never blasphemed, and whenothers discussed the soul he said nothing, bowing his red, bull-like neck.
　　When I asked him what the soul was like, he replied:
　　“The soul is the breath of God.”
　　This did not enlighten me much, and I asked for more; upon which thestoker, inclining his head, said:
　　“Even priests do not know much about the soul, little brother; that ishidden from us.”
　　He held my thoughts continually, in a stubborn effort to understand him,but it was an unsuccessful effort. I saw nothing else but him. He shut outeverything else with his broad figure.
　　The stewardess bore herself towards me with suspicious kindness. In themorning, I was deputed to take hot water for washing to her, although thiswas the duty of the second-class chambermaid, Lusha, a fresh, merry girl.
　　When I stood in the narrow cabin, near the stewardess, who was stripped tothe waist, and looked upon her yellow body, flabby as half-baked pastry, Ithought of the lissom, swarthy body of “Queen Margot,” and felt disgusted.
　　And the stewardess talked all the time, now complainingly and scolding, nowcrossly and mockingly.
　　I did not grasp the meaning of her speech, although I dimly guessed at it— at its pitiful, low, shameful meaning. But I was not disturbed by it. I livedfar away from the stewardess, and from all that went on in the boat. I livedbehind a great rugged rock, which hid from me all that world. All that wenton during those days and nights flowed aVay into space.
　　“Our Gavrilovna is quite in love with you.” I heard the laughing words ofLusha as in a dream. “Open your mouth, and take your happiness.”
　　And not only did she make fun of me, but all the dining-room attendantsknew of the weakness of their mistress. The cook said, with a frown:
　　“The woman has tasted everything, and now she has a fancy for pastry!
　　People like that 1 You look, Pyeshkov, before you leap.”
　　And Yaakov also gave me paternal advice.
　　“Of course, if you were a year or two older, I should give you differentadvice, but at your age, it is better for you to keep yourself to yourself.
　　However, you must do as you like.”
　　“Shut up!” said I. “The whole thing is disgusting.”
　　“Of course it is.”
　　But almost immediately after this, trying to make the limp hair on hishead stand up with his fingers, he said tersely, in well-rounded periods:
　　“Well, one must look at it from her point of view, too. She has amiserable, comfortless job. Even a dog likes to be stroked, and how muchmore a human being. A female lives by caresses, as a mushroom by moisture.
　　She ought to be ashamed of herself, but what is she to do?”
　　I asked, looking intently into his elusive eyes:
　　“Do you begrudge her that, then?”
　　“What is she to me? Is she my mother? And if she were But you are afunny fellow!”
　　He laughed in a low voice, like the beating of a drum.
　　Sometimes when I looked at him, I seemed to be falling into silent space,into a bottomless pit full of twilight.
　　“Every one is married but you, Yaakov. Why haven’t you ever married?”
　　“Why? I have always been a favorite with the women, thank God, but it’slike this. When one is married, one has to live in one place, settle down onthe land. My land is very poor, a very small piece, and my uncle has takeneven that from me. When my young brother came back from being a soldier,he fell out with our uncle, and was brought before the court for punching hishead. There was blood shed over the matter, in fact. And for that they senthim to prison for a year and a half. When you come out of prison, son, thereis only one road for you; and that leads back to prison again. His wife wassuch a pleasant young woman — but what is the use of talking about it?
　　When one is married, one ought to be master of one’s own stable. But asoldier is not even master of his own life.”
　　“Do you say your prayers?”
　　“You fun — n — y — y fellow, of course I do!”
　　“But how?”
　　“All kinds of ways.”
　　“What prayers do you say?”
　　“I know the night prayers. I say quite simply, my brother : ‘Lord Jesus,while I live, have mercy on me, and when I am dead give me rest. Save me.
　　Lord, from sickness.’ and one or two other things I say.”
　　“What things?”
　　“Several things. Even what you don’t say, gets to Him.”
　　His manner to me was kind, but full of curiosity, as it might have been toa clever kitten which could perform amusing tricks. Sometimes, when I wassitting with him at night, when he smelt of naphtha, burning oil, and onions,for he loved onions and used to gnaw them raw, like apples, he wouldsuddenly ask :
　　“Now, Olekha, lad, let’s have some poetry.”
　　I knew a lot of verse by heart, besides which I had a large notebook inwhich I had copied my favorites. I read “Rousslan” to him,— and he listenedwithout moving, like a deaf and dumb man, holding his wheezy breath. Thenhe said to me in a low voice :
　　“That’s a pleasant, harmonious, little story. Did you make it up yourself?
　　There is a gentleman called Mukhin Pushkin. I have seen him.”
　　“But this man was killed ever so long ago.”
　　“What for?”
　　I told him the story in short words, as “Queen Margot” had told it to me.
　　Yaakov listened, and then said calmly:
　　“Lots of people are ruined by women.”
　　I often told him similar stories which I had read in books. They were allmixed up, effervescing in my mind into one long story of disturbed, beautifullives, interspersed with flames of passion. They were full of senseless deedsof heroism, blue-blooded nobility, legendary feats, duels and deaths, noblewords and mean actions. Rokambol was confused with the knightly forms ofLya-Molya and Annibal Kokonna, Ludovic XI took the form of the PereGrandet, the Cornet Otletaev was mixed up with Henry IV. This story, inwhich I changed the character of the people and altered events according tomy inspiration, became a whole world to me. I lived in it, free asgrandfather’s God, Who also played with every one as it pleased Him. Whilenot hindering me from seeing the reality, such as it was, nor cooling mydesire to understand living people, nevertheless this bookish chaos hid me bya transparent but impenetrable cloud from much of the infectious obscenity,the venomous poison of life. Books rendered many evils innocuous for me.
　　Knowing how people loved and suffered, I could never enter a house of illfame. Cheap depravity only roused a feeling of repulsion and pity for those towhom it was sweet. Rokambol taught me to be a Stoic, and not be conqueredby circumstances. The hero of Dumas inspired me with the desire to givemyself for some great cause. My favorite hero was the gay monarch, HenryIV, and it seemed to me that the glorious songs of Beranger were writtenabout him.
　　He relieved the peasants of their taxes,And himself he loved to drink.
　　Yes, and if the whole nation is happy, ,Why should the king not drink?
　　Henry IV was described in novels as a kind man, in touch with his people.
　　Bright as the sun, he gave me the idea that France — the most beautifulcountry in the whole world, the country of the knights — was equally great,whether represented by the mantle of a king or the dress of a peasant. AngePiutou was just as much a knight as D’Artagnan. When I read how Henrywas murdered, I cried bitterly, and ground my teeth with hatred of Ravaillac.
　　This king was nearly always the hero of the stories I told the stoker, and itseemed to me that Yaakov also loved France and Khenrik.
　　“He was a good man was King ‘Khenrik,’ whether he was punishingrebels, or whatever he was doing,” he said.
　　He never exclaimed, never interrupted my stories with questions, butlistened in silence, with lowered brows and immobile face, like an old stonecovered with fungus growth. But if, for some reason, I broke off my speech,he at once asked:
　　“Is that the end??’
　　“Not yet.”
　　“Don’t leave off, then!”
　　Of the French nation he said, sighing:
　　“They had a very easy time of it!”
　　“What do you mean?”
　　“Well, you and I have to live in the heat. We have to labor, while theylived at ease. They had nothing to do but to sing and walk about — a veryconsoling life!”
　　“They worked, too!”
　　“It doesn’t say so in your stories,” observed the stoker with truth, and Isuddenly realized clearly that the greater number of the books which I hadread hardly ever spoke of the heroes working, or of the hardships they had toencounter.
　　“Now I am going to sleep for a short time,” said Yaakov, and falling backwhere he lay, he was soon snoring peacefully.
　　In the autumn, when the shores of the Kama were turning red, the leaveswere taking a golden tinge, and the crosswise beams of the sun grew pallid,Yaakov unexpectedly left the boat. The day before, he had said to me :
　　“The day after tomorrow, you and I, my lad, will be in Perm. We will goto the bath, steam ourselves to our hearts’ content, and when we havefinished will go together to a Traktir. There is music and it is very pleasant. Ilike to see them playing on those machines.”
　　But at Sarapulia there came on the boat a stout man with a flabby,womanish face. He was beardless and whiskerless. His long warm cloak, hiscap with car flaps of fox fur, increased his resemblance to a woman. He atonce engaged a small table near the kitchen, where it was warmest, asked fortea to be served to him, and began to drink the yellow boiling liquid. As heneither unfastened his coat nor removed his cap, he perspired profusely.
　　A fine rain fell unweariedly from the autumn mist. It seemed to me thatwhen this man wiped the sweat from his face with his checked handkerchief,the rain fell less, and in proportion as he began to sweat again, it began torain harder.
　　Very soon Yaakov appeared, and they began to look at a map together.
　　The passenger drew his finger across it, but Yaakov said :
　　“What’s that”? Nothing! I spit upon it!”
　　“All right,” said the passenger, putting away the map in a leather bagwhich lay on his knees. Talking softly together, they began to drink tea.
　　Before Yaakov went to his watch, I asked him what sort of a man thiswas. He replied, with a laugh :
　　“To see him, he might be a dove. He is a eunuch, that’s what he is. Hecomes from Siberia — a long way off! He is amusing; he lives on asettlement.”
　　Setting his black strong heels on the deck, like hoofs, once again hestopped, and scratched his side.
　　“I have hired myself to him as a workman. So when we get to Perm, Ishall leave the boat, and it will be good-by to you, lad! We shall travel by rail,then by river, and after that by horses. For five weeks we shall have to travel,to get to where the man has his colony.”
　　“Did you know him before?” I asked, amazed at his sudden decision.
　　“How should I know him”? I have never seen him before. I have neverlived anywhere near him.”
　　In the morning Yaakov, dressed in a short, greasy fur-coat, with sandalson his bare feet, wearing Medvyejenok’s tattered, brimless straw hat, tookhold of my arm with his iron grasp, and said :
　　“Why don’t you come with me, eh? He will take you as well, that dove, ifyou only tell him you want to go. Would you like to? Shall I tell him? Theywill take away from you something which you will not need, and give youmoney. They make a festival of it when they mutilate a man, and they rewardhim for it.”
　　The eunuch 6 stood on board, with a white bundle under his arm, andlooked stubbornly at Yaakov with his dull eyes, which were heavy andswollen, like those of a drowned person. I abused him in a low voice, and thestoker once more took hold of my arm.
　　6 Skoptsi, or eunuchs, form a sect in Russia, or rather part of the schismknown as the Old Believers. Sexual purity being enjoined on its members,and the practice of it being found to be lax, mutilation was resorted to.
　　“Let him alone! There’s no harm in him. Every one has his own way ofpraying. What business is it of ours? Well, good-by. Good luck, to you!”
　　And Yaakov Shumov went away, rolling from side to side like a bear,leaving in my heart an uneasy, perplexed feeling. I was sorry to lose thestoker, and angry with him. I was, I remember, a little jealous and I thoughtfearfully, “Fancy a man going away like that, without knowing where he isgoing!”
　　And what sort of a man was he — Yaakov Shumov ?
Chapter 12
    LATE in the autumn, when the steamboat voyage finished, I went as pupil inthe workshop of an icon painter. But in a day or two my mistress, a gentle oldlady given to tippling, announced to me in her Vladimirski speech:
　　“The days are short now and the evenings long, so you will go to the shopin the mornings, and be shop-boy. In the evenings you will learn.”
　　She placed me under the authority of a small, swift-footed shopman, ayoung fellow with a handsome, false face. In the mornings, in the coldtwilight of dawn, I went with him right across the town, up the sleepymercantile street, Ilnik, to the Nijni bazaar, and there, on the second floor ofthe Gostini Dvor, was the shop. It had been converted from a warehouse intoa shop, and was dark, with an iron door, and one small window on theterrace, protected by iron bars. The shop was packed with icons of differentsizes, with image-cases, and with highly finished books in church Slavcharacters, bound in yellow leather. Beside our shop there was another, inwhich were also sold icons and books, by a black-bearded merchant,kinsman to an Old Believer valuer. He was celebrated beyond the Volga asfar as the boundaries of Kirjinski, and was assisted by his lean and lively son,who had the small gray face of in old man, and the restless eyes of a mouse.
　　When I had opened the shop, I had to run to the tavern for boiling water,and when I had finished breakfast, I had to set the shop in order, dust thegoods, and then go out on the terrace and watch with vigilant eyes, lestcustomers should enter the neighboring shop.
　　“Customers are fools,” said the shopman forcibly to me. “They don’tmind where they buy, so long as it is cheap, and they do not understand thevalue of the goods.”
　　Lightly tapping the wooden surface of an icon, he aired his slightknowledge of the business to me. He instructed me :
　　“This is a clever piece of work — very cheap — three or four vershoks —stands by itself. Here is another — six or seven vershoks — stands by itself.
　　Do you know about the saints? Remember Boniface is a protection againstdrink; Vvaara, the great martyr, against toothache and death by accident ;Blessed Vassili, against fevers. Do you know all about Our Lady? Look! Thisis Our Lady of Sorrows, and Our Lady of Abalak, Most Renowned. Do notweep for me, Mother. Assuage my griefs. Our lady of Kazan, of Pokrove; OurLady of Seven Dolors.”
　　I soon remembered the prices of the icons, according to their size andthe work on them, and learned to distinguish between the different images ofOur Lady. But to remember the significations of the various saints wasdifficult.
　　Sometimes I would be standing at the door of the shop, dreaming, whenthe shopman would suddenly test my knowledge.
　　“Who is the deliverer from painful childbirth?”
　　If I answered wrongly, he would ask scornfully :
　　“What is the use of your head?”
　　Harder still was it for me to tout for customers. The hideously paintedicons did not please me at all, and I did not like having to sell them.
　　According to grandmother’s stories, I had imagined Our Lady as young,beautiful, and good, just as she was in pictures in the magazines, but theicons represented her as old and severe, with a long crooked nose, andwooden hands.
　　On market days, Wednesdays and Fridays, business was brisk. Peasants,old women, and sometimes whole families together, appeared on the terrace,— all old Ritualists from Zavoljia, suspicious and surly people of the forests. Iwould see, perhaps, coming along slowly, almostly timidly, across the gallery,a ponderous man wrapped in sheepskin and thick, home-made cloth, and Iwould feel awkward and ashamed at having to accost him. At last by a greateffort I managed to intercept him, and revolving about his feet in their heavyboots, I chanted in a constrained, buzzing voice:
　　“What can we do for you, your honor? We have psalters with notes andcomments, the books of Ephrem Siren, Kyrillov, and all the canonical booksand breviaries. Please come and look at them. All kinds of icons, whateveryou want, at various prices. Only the best work, — dark colors! We takeorders, too, if you wish it, for all kinds of saints and madonnas. Perhaps youwould like to order something for a Name Day, or for your family? This is thebest workshop in Russia! Here are the best goods in the town!”
　　The impervious and inscrutable customer would look at me for a longtime in silence. Suddenly pushing me aside with an arm like a piece of wood,he would go into the shop next door, and my shopman, rubbing his largeears, grumbled angrily :
　　“You have let him go! You’re a nice salesman!”
　　In the next shop could be heard a soft, sweet voice, pouring forth aspeech which had the effect of a narcotic.
　　“We don’t sell sheepskins or boots, my friend, but the blessing of God,which is of more value than silver or gold; which, in fact, is priceless.”
　　“The devil!” whispered our shopman, full of envy and almost besidehimself with rage. “A curse on the eyes of that muzhik! You must learn! Youmust learn!”
　　I did honestly try to learn, for one ought to do well whatever one has todo. But I was not a success at enticing the customers in, nor as a salesman.
　　These gruff men, so sparing of their words, those old women who looked likerats, always for some reason timid and abject, aroused my pity, and I wantedto tell them on the quiet the real value of the icons, and not ask for the extratwo greven.
　　They amazed me by their knowledge of books, and of the value of thepainting on the icons. One day a gray-haired old man whom I had herdedinto the shop said to me shortly :
　　“It is not true, my lad, that your image workshop \s, the best in Russia —the best is Rogoshin’s in Moscow.”
　　In confusion I stood aside for him to pass, and he went to another shop,not even troubling to go next door.
　　“Has he gone away?” asked the shopman spitefully.
　　“You never told me about Rogoshin’s workshop.”
　　He became abusive.
　　“They come in here so quietly, and all the time they know all there is toknow, curse them! They understand all about the business, the dogs!”
　　Handsome, overfed, and selfish, he hated the peasants. When he was in agood humor, he would com plain to me:
　　“I am clever! I like cleanliness and scents, incense, and eau-de-Cologne,and though I set such a value on myself, I am obliged to bow and scrape tosome peasant, to get five copecks’ profit out of him for the mistress. Do youthink it is fair? What is a peasant, after all? A bundle of foul wool, a winterlouse, and yet ”
　　And he fell into an indignant silence.
　　I liked the peasants. There was something elusive about each one ofthem which reminded me of Yaakov.
　　Sometimes there would climb into the shop a miserable-looking figure ina chapan7 put on over a short, fur-coat. He would take off his shaggy cap,cross himself with two fingers, look into the corner where the lampglimmered, yet try not to, lest his eyes rest on the unblessed icons. Thenglancing around, without speaking for some time, he would manage at lengthto say:
　　“Give me a psalter with a commentary.”
　　Tucking up the sleeves of his chapan he would read the pages, as heturned them over with clumsy movement, biting his lips the while.
　　“Haven’t you any more ancient than this?”
　　“An old one would cost a thousand rubles, as you know.”
　　“I know.”
　　The peasant moistened his finger as he turned over the leaves, and therewas left a dark fingerprint where he had touched them. The shopman, gazingwith an evil expression at the back of his head, said :
　　“The Holy Scriptures are all of the same age; the word of God does notchange.”
　　“We know all about that; we have heard that! God did not change it, butNikon did.”
　　Closing the book, he went out in silence.
　　7 The Nikonites are the followers of Nikon, patriarch of Moscow, whoobjected to the innovation of Peter the Great in suppressing the patriarchateof Moscow, and establishing a State Church upon the lines of the oldpatriarchal church. They are also termed the Old Believers, who are split upinto several extraordinary schisms which existed before and after thesuppression of the patriarchate, but who, in the main, continue theirorthodoxy.
　　Sometimes these forest people disputed with the shopman, and it wasevident to me that they knew more about the sacred writings than he did.
　　“Outlandish heathen!” grumbled the shop-man.
　　I saw also that, although new books were not to the taste of the peasants,they looked upon a new book with awe, handling it carefully, as if it were abird which might fly out of their hands. This was very pleasant to me to see,because a book was a miracle to me. In it was inclosed the soul of the writer,and when I opened it, I set this soul free, and it spoke to me in secret.
　　Often old men and women brought books to sell printed in the oldcharacters of the preNikonovski period, or copies of such books, beautifullymade by the monks of Irgiz and Kerjentz. They also brought copies of missalsuncorrected by Dmitry Rostovski, icons with ancient inscriptions, crosses,folding icons with brass mountings, and silver, eucharist spoons given by theMuscovite princes to their hosts as keepsakes. All these were offered secretly,from their hoards under the floor.
　　Both my shopman and his neighbor kept a very sharp lookout for suchvendors, each trying to take them away from the other. Having boughtantiques for anything up to ten rubles, they would sell them on the marketplaceto rich Old Ritualists for hundreds of rubles.
　　“Mind you look out for those were — wolves, those wizards! Look forthem with all your eyes; they bring luck with them.”
　　When a vendor of this kind appeared, the shop-man used to send me tofetch the valuer, Petr Vas — silich, a connoisseur in old books, icons, and allkind of antiques.
　　He was a tall old man with a long beard, like Blessed Vassili, withintelligent eyes in a pleasant face. The tendon of one of his legs had beenremoved, and he walked lame, with a long stick. Summer and winter he worea light garment, like a cassock, and a velvet cap of a strange shape, whichlooked like a saucepan. Usually brisk and upright, when he entered the shop,he let his shoulders droop, and bent his back, sighing gently and crossinghimself often, muttering prayers and psalms to himself all the time. Thispious and aged feebleness at once inspired the vendor with confidence in thevaluer.
　　“What is the matter? Has something gone wrong ?” the old man wouldask.
　　“Here is a man who has brought an icon to sell. He says it is aStroganovski.”
　　“What ?”
　　“A Stroganovski.”
　　“Aha, my hearing is bad. The Lord has stopped my ears against theabomination of the Nikonites.”
　　Taking off his cap, he held the icon horizontally, looked at the inscriptionlengthways, sideways, straight up, examined the knots in the wood, blinked,and murmured :
　　“The godless Nikonites, observing our love of ancient beauties, andinstructed by the devil, have mali — ciously made forgeries. In these days it isvery easy to make holy images, — oh, very easy! At first sight, this might be areal Stroganovski, or an Ustiujcki painting, or even a Suzdulski, but whenyou look into it, it is a forgery.”
　　If he said “forgery,” it meant, “This icon is precious and rare.”
　　By a series of prearranged signs, he informed the shopman how much hewas to give for the icon or book. I knew that the words “melancholy” and“affliction” meant ten rubles. “Nikon the tiger” meant twenty-five. I feltashamed to see how they deceived the sellers, but the skilful by-play of thevaluer amused me.
　　“Those Nikonites, black children of Nikon the tiger, will do anything, —led by the Devil as they are! Look! Even this signature looks real, and thebas-relief as if it were painted by the one hand. But look at the face — thatwas not done by the same brush. An old master like Pimen Ushakov,although he was a heretic, did the whole icon himself. He did the bas-relief,the face, and even the chasing very carefully, and sketched in the inscription,but the impious people of our day cannot do anything like it! In old timesimage painting was a holy calling, but now they make what concerns Godmerely a matter of art.”
　　At length he laid the icon down carefully on the counter, and putting onhis hat, said :
　　“It is a sin!”
　　This meant “buy it.”
　　Overwhelmed by his flow of sweet words, astounded by the old man’sknowledge, the client would ask in an impressed tone :
　　“Well, your honor, what is your opinion of the icon?”
　　“The icon was made by Nikonite hands.”
　　“That cannot be! My grandfather and my grandmother prayed before it!”
　　“Nikon lived before your grandfather lived.”
　　The old man held the icon close to the face of the seller, and said sternly :
　　“Look now what a joyous expression it has! Do you call that an icon? It isnothing more than a picture — a blind work of art, a Nikonski joke — there isno soul in it! Would I tell you what is not true? I, an old man, persecuted forthe sake of the truth! I shall soon have to go to God. I have nothing to gain byacting unfairly.”
　　He went out from the shop onto the terrace, languid with the feeblenessof old age, offended by the doubt cast upon his valuation. The shopman paida few rubles for the picture, the seller left, bowing low to Petr Vassilich, andthey sent me to the tavern to get boiling water for the tea. When I returned, Iwould find the valuer brisk and cheerful, looking lovingly at the purchase,and thus instructing the shopman :
　　“Look, this icon has been very carefully done!
　　The painting is very fine, done in the fear of God. Human feelings had nopart in it.”
　　“And whose work is it?” asked the shopman, beaming and jumping aboutfor joy.
　　“It is too soon for you to know that.”
　　“But how much would connoisseurs give for it?”
　　“That I could not say. Give it to me, and I will show it to some one.”
　　“Och, Petr Vassilich.”
　　“And if I sell it, you shall have half the hundred rubles. Whatever there isover, that is mine!”
　　“Och!”
　　“You need not keep on saying ‘Och’!”
　　They drank their tea, bargaining shamelessly, looking at one anotherwith the eyes of conspirators. That the shopman was completely under thethumb of the old man was plain, and when the latter went away, he wouldsay to me :
　　“Now don’t you go chattering to the mistress about this deal.”
　　When they had finished talking about the sale of the icon, the shopmanwould ask :
　　“And what news is there in the town, Petr Vassilich ?”
　　Smoothing his beard with his yellow fingers, laying bare his oily lips, theold man told stories of the lives of the merchants. He spoke of commercialsuccesses, of feasts, of illnesses, of weddings, and of the infidelities ofhusbands and wives. He served up these greasy stories quickly and skilfully,as a good cook serves up pancakes, with a sauce of hissing laughter. Theshopman’s round face grew dark with envy and rapture. His eyes were widewith dreamy wistfulness, as he said complainingly :
　　“Other people live, and here am I!”
　　“Every one has his appointed destiny,” resounded the deep voice. “Ofone, the fate is heralded by angels with little silver hammers, and’ of another,by devils with the butt-end of an ax.”
　　This strong, muscular, old man knew everything — the whole life of thetown, all the secrets of the merchants, chinovniks, priests, and citizens. Hewas keensighted as a bird of prey, and with this had some of the qualities ofthe wolf and fox. I always wanted to make him angry, but he looked at mefrom afar, almost as if through a fog. He seemed to me to be surrounded by alimitless space. If one went closer to him, one seemed to be falling. I felt inhim some affinity to the stoker Shumov.
　　Although the shopman went into ecstasies over his cleverness, both tohis face and behind his back, there were times when, like me, he wanted toprovoke or offend the old man.
　　“You are a deceiver of men,” he would say, suddenly looking heatedlyinto the old man’s face.
　　The latter, smiling lazily, answered:
　　“Only the Lord lives without deceit, and we live among fools, you see.
　　Can one meet fools, and not deceive them? Of what use would they be,then?”
　　The shopman lost his temper.
　　“Not all the peasants are fools. The merchants themselves came from thepeasantry!”
　　“We are not talking about merchants. Fools do not live as rogues do. Afool is like a saint — his brains are asleep.”
　　The old man drawled more and more lazily, and this was very irritating.
　　It seemed to me that he was standing on a hillock in the midst of a quagmire.
　　It was impossible to make him angry. Either he was above rage, or he wasable to hide it very successfully.
　　But he often happened to be the one to start a dispute with me. He wouldcome quite close to me, and smiling into his beard, remark:
　　“What do you call that French writer — Ponoss?”
　　I was desperately angry at this silly way of turning the names upsidedown. But holding myself in for the time, I said:
　　“Ponson de Terrail.”
　　“Where was he lost?” 88 Terryat in Russian means “to lose.”
　　“Don’t play the fool. You are not a child.”
　　“That is true. I am not a child. What are you reading?”
　　“‘Ephrem Siren.’”
　　“And who writes best. Your foreign authors? or he?”
　　I made no reply.
　　“What do the foreign ones write about most?”
　　“About everything which happens to exist in life.”
　　“That is to say, about dogs and horses — whichever may happen to cometheir way.”
　　The shopman laughed. I was enraged. The atmosphere was oppressive,unpleasant to me. But if I attempted to get away, the shopman stopped me.
　　“Where are you going ?”
　　And the old man would examine me.
　　“Now, you learned man, gnaw this problem. Suppose you had a thousandnaked people standing before you, five hundred women and five hundredmen, and among them Adam and Eve. How would you tell which were Adamand Eve”?”
　　He kept asking me this, and at length explained triumphantly :
　　“Little fool, don’t you see that, as they were not born, but were created,they would have no navels!”
　　The old man knew an innumerable quantity of these “problems.” Hecould wear me out with them.
　　During my early days at the shop, I used to tell the shopman the contentsof some of the books I had read. Now these stories came back to me in an evilform. The shopman retold them to Petr Vassilich, considerably cut up,obscenely mutilated. The old man skilfully helped him in his shamefulquestions. Their slimy tongues threw the refuse of their obscene words atEugenie Grandet, Ludmilla, and Henry IV.
　　I understood that they did not do this out of ill-nature, but simplybecause they wanted something to do. All the same, I did not find it easy tobear. Having created the filth, they wallowed in it, like hogs, and gruntedwith enjoyment when they soiled what was beautiful, strange, unintelligible,and therefore comical to them.
　　The whole Gostinui Dvor, the whole of its population of merchants andshopinen, lived a strange life, full of stupid, puerile, and always maliciousdiversions. If a passing peasant asked which was the nearest way to any placein the town, they always gave him the wrong direction. This had becomesuch a habit with them that the deceit no longer gave them pleasure. Theywould catch two rats, tie their tails together, and let them go in the road.
　　They loved to see how they pulled in different directions, or bit each other,and sometimes they poured paraffin-oil over the rats, and set fire to them.
　　They would tie an old iron pail on the tail of a dog, who, in wild terror, wouldtear about, yelping and growling, while they all looked on, and laughed.
　　There were many similar forms of recreation, and it seemed to me thatall kinds of people, especially country people, existed simply for theamusement of the Gostinui Dvor. In their relations to other people, therewas a constant desire to make fun of them, to give them pain, and to makethem uncomfortable. It was strange that the books I had read were silent onthe subject of this unceasing, deep-seated tendency of people to jeer at oneanother.
　　One of the amusements of the Gostinui Dvor seemed to me peculiarlyoffensive and disgusting.
　　Underneath our shop there was a dealer in woolen and felt footwear,whose salesman amazed the whole of Nijni by his gluttony. His master usedto boast of this peculiarity of his employee, as one boasts of the fierceness ofa dog, or the strength of a horse. He often used to get the neighboringshopkeepers to bet.
　　“Who will go as high as ten rubles? I will bet that Mishka devours tenpounds of ham in two hours!”
　　But they all knew that Mishka was well able to do that, and they said:
　　“We won’t take your bet, but buy the ham and let him eat it, and we willlook on.”
　　“Only let it be all meat and no bones!”
　　They would dispute a little and lazily, and then out of the darkstorehouse crept a lean, beardless fellow with high cheek-bones, in a longcloth coat girdled with a red belt all stuck round with tufts of wool.
　　Respectfully removing his cap from his small head, he gazed in silence, witha dull expression in his deep-set eyes, at the round face of his master whichwas suffused with purple blood. The latter was saying in his thick harsh voice:
　　“Can you eat a gammon of ham?”
　　“How long shall I have for it?” asked Mishka practically, in his thin voice.
　　“Two hours.”
　　“That will be difficult.”
　　“Where is the difficulty?”
　　“Well, let me have a drop of beer with it.”
　　“All right,” said his master, and he would boast:
　　“You need not think that he has an empty stomach. No! In the morninghe had two pounds of bread, and dinner at noon, as you know.”
　　They brought the ham, and the spectators took their places. All themerchants were tightly enveloped in their thick fur-coats and looked likegigantic weights. They were people with big stomachs, but they all had smalleyes and some had fatty tumors. An unconquerable feeling of boredomoppressed them all.
　　With their hands tucked into their sleeves, they surrounded the greatglutton in a narrow circle, armed with knives and large crusts of rye bread.
　　He crossed himself piously, sat down on a sack of wool and placed the hamon a box at his side, measuring it with his vacant eyes.
　　Cutting off a thin slice of bread and a thick one of meat, the gluttonfolded them together carefully, and held the sandwich to his mouth withboth hands. His lips trembled; he licked them with his thin and long caninetongue, showing his small sharp teeth, and with a dog-like movement benthis snout again over the meat.
　　“He has begun!”
　　“Look at the time!”
　　All eyes were turned in a business-like manner on the face of the glutton,on his lower jaw, on the round protuberances near his ears; they watched thesharp chin rise and fall regularly, and drowsily uttered their thoughts.
　　“He eats cleanly — like a bear.”
　　“Have you ever seen a bear eat?”
　　“Do I live in the woods? There is a saying, ‘he gobbles like a bear.’ ”
　　“Like a pig, it says.”
　　“Pigs don’t eat pig.”
　　They laughed unwillingly, and soon some one knowingly said :
　　“Pigs eat everything — little pigs and their own sisters.”
　　The face of the glutton gradually grew darker, his ears became livid, hisrunning eyes crept out of their bony pit, he breathed with difficulty, but hischin moved as regularly as ever.
　　“Take it easy, Mikhail, there is time!” they encouraged him.
　　He uneasily measured the remains of the meat with his eyes, drank somebeer, and once more began to munch. The spectators became moreanimated. Looking more often at the watch in the hand of Mishka’s master,they suggested to one another:
　　“Don’t you think he may have put the watch back? Take it away fromhim! Watch Mishka in case he should put any meat up his sleeve! He won’tfinish it in the time!”
　　Mishka’s master cried passionately:
　　“I’ll take you on for a quarter of a ruble! Mishka, don’t give way!”
　　They began to dispute with the master, but no one would take the bet.
　　And Mishka went on eating and eating; his face began to look like theham, his sharp grisly nose whistled plaintively. It was terrible to look at him.
　　It seemed to me that he was about to scream, to wail:
　　“Have mercy on me!”
　　At length he finished it all, opened his tipsy eyes wide, and said in ahoarse, tired voice :
　　“Let me go to sleep.”
　　But his master, looking at his watch, cried angrily:
　　“You have taken four minutes too long, you wretch!”
　　The others teased him:
　　“What a pity we did not take you on; you would have lost.”
　　“However, he is a regular wild animal, that fellow.”
　　“Ye — e — es, he ought to be in a show.”
　　“You see what monsters the Lord can make of men, eh?”
　　“Let us go and have some tea, shall we?”
　　And they swam like barges to the tavern.
　　I wanted to know what stirred in the bosoms of these heavy, iron-heartedpeople that they should gather round the poor fellow because his unhealthygluttony amused them.
　　It was dark and dull in that narrow gallery closel3f packed with wool,sheepskins, hemp, ropes, felt, boots, and saddlery. It was cut off — from thepavement by pillars of brick, clumsily thick, weather-beaten, and spatteredwith mud from the road. All the bricks and all the chinks between them, allthe holes made by the fallen-away mortar, had been mentally counted by mea thousand times, and their hideous designs were forever heavily imprintedon my memory.
　　The foot-passenger dawdled along the pavement; hackney carriages andsledges loaded with goods passed up the road without haste. Beyond thestreet, in a red-brick, square, two-storied shop, was the market-place,littered with cases, straw, crumpled paper, covered with dirt and trampledsnow.
　　All this, together with the people and the horses, in spite of themovement, seemed to be motionless, or lazily moving round and round inone place to which it was fastened by invisible chains. One felt suddenly thatthis life was almost devoid of sound, or so poor in sounds that it amounted todumbness. The sides of the sledges squeaked, the doors of the shopsslammed, sellers of pies and honey cried their wares, but their voicessounded unhappy, unwilling. They were all alike; one quickly became used tothem, and ceased to pay attention to them.
　　The church-bells tolled funerally. That melancholy sound was always inmy ears. It seemed to float in the air over the market-place without ceasingfrom morning to night; it was mingled with all my thoughts and feelings ; itlay like a copper veneer over all my impressions.
　　Tedium, coldness, and want breathed all around: from the earth coveredwith dirty snow, from the gray snow-drift on the roof, from the flesh-coloredbricks of the buildings; tedium rose from the chimneys in a thick gray smoke,and crept up to the gray, low, empty sky; with tedium horses sweated andpeople sighed. They had a peculiar smell of their own, these people — theoppressive dull smell of sweat, fat, hemp oil, hearth-cakes, and smoke. It wasan odor which pressed upon one’s head like a warm close-fitting cap, and randown into one’s breast, arousing a strange feeling of intoxication, a vaguedesire to shut one’s eyes, to cry out despairingly, to run away somewhere andknock one’s head against the first wall.
　　I gazed into the faces of the merchants, over-nourished, full-blooded,frost-bitten, and as immobile as if they were asleep. These people oftenyawned, opening their mouths like fish which have been cast on dry land.
　　In winter, trade was slack and there was not in the eyes of the dealer thatcautious, rapacious gleam which somehow made them bright and animatedin the summer. The heavy fur coats hampered their movements, bowed themto the earth. As a rule they spoke lazily, but when they fell into a passion,they grew vehement. I had an idea that they did this purposely, in order toshow one another that they were alive.
　　It was perfectly clear to me that tedium weighed upon them, was killingthem, and the unsuccessful struggle against its overwhelming strength wasthe only explanation I could give of their cruelty and senseless amusementsat the expense of others.
　　Sometimes I discussed this with Petr Vissilich.
　　Although as a rule he behaved to me scornfully and jeeringly, he liked mefor my partiality for books, and at times he permitted himself to talk to meinstructively, seriously.
　　“I don’t like the way these merchants live,” I said.
　　Twisting a strand of his beard in his long fingers, he said:
　　“And how do you know how they live? Do you then often visit them attheir houses? This is merely a street, my friend, and people do not live in astreet; they simply buy and sell, and they get through that as quickly as theycan, and then go home again! People walk about the streets with their clotheson, and you do not know what they are like under their clothes. What a manreally is is seen in his own home, within his own four walls, and how he livesthere — that you know nothing about!”
　　“Yes, but they have the same ideas whether they are here or at home,don’t they?”
　　“And how can any one know what ideas his neighbors have?” said the oldman, making his eyes round. “Thoughts are like lice; you cannot count them.
　　It may be that a man, on going to his home, falls on his knees and, weeping,prays to God : Torgive me, Lord, I have defiled Thy holy day!’ It may be thathis house is a sort of monastery to him, and he lives there alone with his God.
　　You see how it is! Every spider knows its own corner, spins its own web, andunderstands its own position, so that it may hold its own.”
　　When he spoke seriously, his voice went lower and lower to a deep base,as if he were communicating secrets.
　　“Here you are judging others, and it is too soon for you; at your age onelives not by one’s reason but by one’s eyes. What you must do is to look,remember, and hold your tongue. The mind is for business, but faith is forthe soul. It is good for you to read books, but there must be moderation in allthings, and some have read themselves into madness and godlessness.”
　　I looked upon him as immortal ; it was hard for me to believe that hemight grow older and change. He liked to tell stories about merchants andcoiners who had become notorious. I had heard many such stories fromgrandfather, who told them better than the valuer, but the underlying themewas the same — that riches always lead to sin towards God and one’s fellow-creatures. Petr Vassilich had no pity for human creatures, but he spoke ofGod with warmth of feeling, sighing and covering his eyes.
　　“And so they try to cheat God, and He, the Lord Jesus Christ, sees it alland weeps. ‘My people, my people, my unhappy people, hell is beingprepared for you!’ ”
　　Once I jokingly reminded him:
　　“But you cheat the peasants yourself.”
　　He was not offended by this.
　　“Is that a great matter as far as I am concerned?” he said. “I may robthem of from three to five rubles, and that is all it amounts to!”
　　When he found me reading, he would take the book out of my hands andask me questions about what I had read, in a fault-finding manner. Withamazed incredulity he would say to the shopman:
　　“Just look at that now; he understands books, the young rascal!”
　　And he would give me a memorable, intelligent lecture:
　　“Listen to what I tell you now; it is worth your while. There were twoKyrills, both of them bishops ; one Kyrill of Alexandria, and the other Kyrillof Jerusalem. The first warred against the cursed heretic, Nestorius, whotaught obscenely that Our Lady was born in original sin and therefore couldnot have given birth to God; but that she gave birth to a human being withthe name and attributes of the Messiah, the Saviour of the world, andtherefore she should be called not the God-Bearer, but the Christ-Bearer.
　　Do you understand? That is called heresy! And Kyrill of Jerusalem foughtagainst the Arian heretics.”
　　I was delighted with his knowledge of church history, and he, strokinghis beard with his well-cared-for, priest-like hands, boasted:
　　“I am a past master in that sort of thing. When I was in Moscow, I wasengaged in a verbal debate against the poisonous doctrines of the Nikonites,with both priests and seculars. I, my little one, actually conducteddiscussions with professors, yes! To one of the priests I so drove home theverbal scourge that his nose bled infernally, that it did!”
　　His cheeks were flushed ; his eyes shone.
　　The bleeding of the nose of his opponent was evidently the highest pointof his success, in his opinion; the highest ruby in the golden crown of hisglory, and he told the story voluptuously.
　　“A ha — a — andsome, wholesome-looking priest he was! He stood onthe platform and drip, drip, the blood came from his nose. He did not see hisshame. Ferocious was the priest as a desert lion ; his voice was like a bell. Butvery quietly I got my words in between his ribs, like saws. He was really ashot as a stove, made red-hot by heretical malice — ekh — that was abusiness!”
　　Occasionally other valuers came. These were Pakhomi, a man with a fatbelly, in greasy clothes, with one crooked eye who was wrinkled and snarling;Lukian, a little old man, smooth as a mouse, kind and brisk; and with himcame a big, gloomy man looking like a coachman, black bearded, with adeathlike face, unpleasant to look upon, but handsome, and with eyes whichnever seemed to move. Almost always they brought ancient books, icons andthuribles to sell, or some kind of bowl. Sometimes they brought the vendors— an old man or woman from the Volga. When their business was finished,they sat on the counter, looking just like crows on a furrow, drank tea withrolls and lenten sugar, and told each other about the persecutions of theNikonites.
　　Here a search had been made, and books of devotion had beenconfiscated; there the police had closed a place of worship, and had contrivedto bring its owner to justice under Article 103. This Article 103 wasfrequently the theme of their discussions, but they spoke of it calmly, as ofsomething unavoidable, like the frosts of winter. The words police, search,prison, justice, Siberia — these words, continually recurring in theirconversations about the persecutions for religious beliefs, fell on my heartlike hot coals, kindling sympathy and fellow feeling for these Old Believers.
　　Reading had taught me to look up to people who were obstinate in pursuingtheir aims, to value spiritual steadfastness.
　　I forgot all the bad which I saw in these teachers of life. I felt only theircalm stubbornness, behind which, it seemed to me, was hidden anunwavering belief in the teachings of their faith, for which they were ready tosuffer all kinds of torments.
　　At length, when I had come across many specimens of these guardians ofthe old faith, both among the people and among the intellectuals, Iunderstood that this obstinacy was the oriental passivity of people who nevermoved from the place whereon they stood, and had no desire to move fromit, but were bound by strong ties to the ways of the old words, and worn-outideas. They were steeped in these words and ideas. Their wills werestationary, incapable of looking forward, and when some blow from withoutcast them out of their accustomed place, they mechanically and withoutresistance let themselves roll down, like a stone off a hill. They kept theirown fasts in the graveyards of lived-out truths, with a deadly strength ofmemory for the past, and an insane love of suffering and persecution; but ifthe possibility of suffering were taken away from them, they faded away,disappeared like a cloud on a fresh winter day.
　　The faith for which they, with satisfaction and great self-complacency,were ready to suffer is incontestably a strong faith, but it resembles well-worn clothes, covered with all kinds of dirt, and for that very reason is lessvulnerable to the ravages of time. Thought and feeling become accustomedto the narrow and oppressive envelope of prejudice and dogma, and althoughwingless and mutilated, they live in ease and comfort.
　　This belief founded on habits is one of the most grievous and harmfulmanifestations of our lives. Within the domains of such beliefs, as within theshadows of stone walls, anything new is born slowly, is deformed, and growsansemic. In that dark faith there are very few of the beams of love, too manycauses of offense, irritations, and petty spites which are always friendly withhatred. The flame of that faith is the phosphorescent gleam of putrescence.
　　But before I was convinced of this, I had to live through many wearyyears, break up many images in my soul, and cast them out of my memory.
　　But at the time when I first came across these teachers of life, in the midst oftedious and sordid realities, they appeared to me as persons of great spiritualstrength, the best people in the world. Almost every one of them had beenpersecuted, put in prison, had been banished from different towns, travelingby stages with convicts. They all lived cautious, hidden lives.
　　However, I saw that while pitying the “narrow spirit” of the Nikonites,these old people willingly and with great satisfaction kept one another withinnarrow bounds.
　　Crooked Pakhomie, when he had been drinking, liked to boast of hiswonderful memory with regard to matters of the faith. He had several booksat his finger-ends, as a Jew has his Talmud. He could put his finger on hisfavorite page, and from the word on which he had placed his finger,Pakhomie could go on reciting by heart in his mild, snuffling voice. Healways looked on the floor, and his solitary eye ran over the floordisquietingly, as if he were seeking some lost and very valuable article.
　　The book with which he most often performed this trick was that ofPrince Muishetzki, called “The Russian Vine,” and the passage he best knewwas, “The long suffering and courageous suffering of wonderful and valiantmartyrs,” but Petr Vassilitch was always trying to catch him in a mistake.
　　“That’s a lie! That did not happen to Cyprian the Mystic, but to Denis theChaste.”
　　“What other Denis could it be? You are thinking of Dionysius.”
　　“Don’t shuffle with words!”
　　“And don’t you try to teach me!”
　　In a few moments both, swollen with rage, would be looking fixedly atone another, and saying:
　　“Perverter of the truth! Away, shameless one!”
　　Pakhomie answered, as if he were adding up accounts :
　　“As for you, you are a libertine, a goat, always hanging round thewomen.”
　　The shopman, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, smiled maliciously,and, encouraging the guardians of the ancient religion, cried, just like a smallboy:
　　“Th — a — at’s right! Go it!”
　　One day when the old men were quarreling, Petr Vassilitch slapped hiscomrade on the face with unexpected swiftness, put him to flight, and,wiping the sweat from his face, called after the fugitive :
　　“Look out; that sin lies to your account! You led my hand into sin, youaccursed one; you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
　　He was especially fond of reproaching his comrades in that they werewanting in firm faith, and predicting that they would fall away into“Protestantism.”
　　“That is what troubles you, Aleksasha — the sound of the cock crowing!”
　　Protestantism worried and apparently frightened him, but to thequestion, “What is the doctrine of that sect?” he answered, not veryintelligibly:
　　“Protestantism is the most bitter heresy ; it acknowledges reason alone,and denies God! Look at theBible Christians, for example, who read nothing but the Bible, whichcame from a German, from Luther, of whom it was said : He was rightlycalled Luther, for if you make a verb of it, it runs : Lute bo, lubo luto! 9 Andall that comes from the west, from the heretics of that part of the world.”
　　9 From Lutui which means hard, violent.
　　Stamping his mutilated foot, he would say coldly and heavily:
　　“Those are they whom the new Ritualists will have to drive out, whomthey will have to watch, — yes, and burn too! But not us — we are of the truefaith. Eastern, we are of the faith, the true, eastern, original Russian faith,and all the others are of the west, spoiled by free will! What good has evercome from the Germans, or the French? Look what they did in the year 12— .”
　　Carried away by his feelings, he forgot that it was a boy who stood beforehim, and with his strong hands he took hold of me by the belt, now drawingme to him, now pushing me away, as he spoke beautifully, emotionally,hotly, and youthfully:
　　“The mind of man wanders in the forest of its own thoughts. Like a fiercewolf it wanders, the devil’s assistant, putting the soul of man, the gift of God,on the rack! What have they imagined, these servants of the devil? TheBogomuili,10 through whom Protestantism came, taught thus: Satan, theysay, is the son of God, the elder brother of Jesus Christ, That10 Another sect of Old Believers. is what they have come to! They taughtpeople also not to obey their superiors, not to work, to abandon wife andchildren; a man needs nothing, no property whatever in his life; let him liveas he chooses, and the devil shows him how. That Aleksasha has turned uphere again.”
　　At this moment the shopman set me to do some work, and I left the oldman alone in the gallery, but he went on talking to space :
　　“O soul without wings! O blind-born kitten, whither shall I run to getaway from you?”
　　And then, with bent head and hands resting on hi? knees, he fell into along silence, gazing, intent and motionless, up at the gray winter sky.
　　He began to take more notice of me, and his manner was kinder. Whenhe found me with a book, he would glance over my shoulder, and say:
　　“Read, youngster, read; it is worth your while I It may be that you areclever ; it is a pity that you think so little of your elders. You can stand up toany one, you think, but where will your sauciness land you in the end? It willlead you nowhere, youngster, but to a convict’s prison. Read by all means;but remember that books are books, and use your own brains I Danilov, thefounder of the Xlist sect, came to the conclusion that neither old nor newbooks were necessary, and he put them all in a sack, and threw them in thewater. Of course that was a stupid thing to do, but And now that cur,Aleksasha, must come disturbing us.”
　　He was always talking about this Aleksasha, and one day he came intothe shop, looking preoccupied and stem, and explained to the shopman :
　　“Aleksander Vassiliev is here in the town; he came yesterday. I have beenlooking for him for a long time, but he has hidden himself somewhere 1”
　　The shopman answered in an unfriendly tone:
　　“I don’t know anything about him!”
　　Bending his head, the old man said:
　　“That means that for you, people are either buyers or sellers, and nothingmore! Let us have some tea.”
　　When I brought in the big copper tea-pot, there were visitors in the shop.
　　There was old Lukian, smiling happily, and behind the door in a dark cornersat a stranger dressed in a dark overcoat and high felt boots, with a greenbelt, and a cap set clumsily over his brows. His face was indistinct, but heseemed to be quiet and modest, and he looked somewhat like a shopmanwho had just lost his place and was very dejected about it.
　　Petr Vassilich, not glancing in his direction, said something sternly andponderously, and he pulled at his cap all the time, with a convulsivemovement of his right hand. He would raise his hand as if he were about tocross himself, and push his cap upwards, and he would do this until he hadpushed it as far back as his crown, when he would again pull it over hisbrows. That convulsive movement reminded me of the mad beggar, Igosha,“Death in his pocket.”
　　“Various kinds of reptiles swim in our muddy rivers, and make the watermore turbid than ever,” said Petr Vassilich.
　　The man who resembled a shopman asked quietly and gently :
　　“Do you mean that for me?”
　　“And suppose I do mean it for you?”
　　Then the man asked again, not loudly but very frankly :
　　“Well, and what have you to say about yourself, man?”
　　“What I have to say about myself, I say to God — that is my business.”
　　“No, man, it is mine also,” said the new-comer solemnly and firmly. “Donot turn away your face from the truth, and don’t blind yourself deliberately;that is the great sin towards God and your fellow-creatures!”
　　I liked to hear him call Petr Vassilich “man,” and his quiet, solemn voicestirred me. He spoke as a good priest reads, “Lord and Master of my life,”
　　and bending forward, got off his chair, spreading his hands before his face:
　　“Do not judge me; my sins are not more grievous than yours.”
　　The samovar boiled and hissed, the old valuer spoke contemptuously,and the other continued, refusing to be stopped by his words:
　　“Only God knows who most befouls the source of the Holy Spirit. It maybe your sin, you book-learned, literary people. As for me, I am neither book-learned nor literary; I am a man of simple life.”
　　“We know all about your simplicity — we have heard of it — more thanwe want to hear!”
　　“It is you who confuse the people; you break up the true faith, youscribes and Pharisees. I— what shall I say? Tell me —”
　　“Heresy,” said Petr Vassilich. The man held his hands before his face,just as if he were reading something written on them, and said warmly: “Doyou think that to drive people from one hole to another is to do better thanthey? But I say no! I say: Let us be free, man! What is the good of a house, awife, and all your belongings, in the sight of God? Let us free ourselves, man,from all that for the sake of which men fight and tear each other to pieces —from gold and silver and all kinds of property, which brings nothing butcorruption and uncleannessi Not on earthly fields is the soul saved, but inthe valleys of paradise! Tear yourself away from it all, I say; break all ties, allcords; break the nets of this world. They are woven by antichrist. I am goingby the straight road; I do not juggle with my soul; the dark world has no partin me.”
　　“And bread, water, clothes — do you have any part in them? They areworldly, you know,” said the valuer maliciously.
　　But these words had no effect on Aleksander. He talked all the moreearnestly, and although his voice was so low, it had the sound of a brasstrumpet.
　　“What is dear to you, man? The one God only should be dear to you. Istand before Him, cleansed from every stain. Remove the ways of earth fromyour heart and see God; you alone — He alone! So you will draw near to God;that is the only road to Him. That is the way of salvation — to leave fatherand mother — to leave all, and even thine eye, if it tempts thee — pluck itout! For God’s sake tear yourself from things and save your soul; take refugein the spirit, and your soul shall live for ever and ever.”
　　“Well, it is a case with you, of the dog returning to his vomit,” said PetrVassiliev, rising, “I should have thought that you would have grown wisersince last year, but you are worse than ever.”
　　The old man went swaying from the shop onto the terrace, which actiondisturbed Aleksander. He asked amazedly and hastily:
　　“Has he gone? But — why?”
　　Kind Lukian, winking consolingly, said:
　　“That’s all right — that’s all right!”
　　Then Aleksander fell upon him :
　　“And what about you, worldling? You are also sewing rubbishy words,and what do they mean? Well — a threefold alleluia — a double ”
　　Lukian smiled at him and then went out on the terrace also, andAleksander, turning to the shopman, said in a tone of conviction:
　　“They can’t stand up to me, they simply can’t! They disappear like smokebefore a flame.”
　　The shopman looked at him from under his brows, and observed dryly :
　　“I have not thought about the matter.”
　　“What! Do you mean you have not thought about it? This is a businesswhich demands to be thought about.”
　　He sat for a moment in silence, with drooping head. Then the old mencalled him, and they all three went away.
　　This man had burst upon me like a bonfire in the night. He burnedbrightly, and when he was extinguished, left me feeling that there was truthin his refusal to live as other men.
　　In the evening, choosing a good time, I spoke about him excitedly to thehead icon-painter. Quiet and kind Ivan Larionovich listened to what I had tosay, and explained :
　　“He belongs to the Byegouns,11 a sort of sect; they acknowledge noauthority.”
　　11 Byegouns, or wanderers, still another sect of Old Believers.
　　“How do they live?”
　　“Like fugitives they wander about the earth; that is why they have beengiven the name Byegoun. They say that no one ought to have land, orproperty. And the police look upon them as dangerous, and arrest them.”
　　Although my life was bitter, I could not understand how any one couldrun away from everything pleasant. In the life which went on around me atthat time, there was much that was interesting and precious to me, andAleksander Vassiliev soon faded from my mind.
　　But from time to time, in hours of darkness, he appeared to me. He cameby the fields, or by the gray road to the forest, pushed his cap aside with aconvulsive movement of his white hands, unsoiled by work, and muttered:
　　“I am going on the straight road; I have no part in this world; I havebroken all ties.”
　　In conjunction with him I remembered my father, as grandmother hadseen him in her dream, with a walnut stick in his hand, and behind him aspotted dog running, with its tongue hanging out.
Chapter 13
    THE icon-painting workshop occupied two rooms in a large house partlybuilt of stone. One room had three windows overlooking the yard and oneoverlooking the garden; the other room had one window overlooking thegarden and another facing the street. These windows were small and square,and their panes, irisated by age, unwillingly admitted the pale, diffused lightof the winter days. Both rooms were closely packed with tables, and at everytable sat the bent figures of icon-painters. From the ceilings were suspendedglass balls full of water, which reflected the light from the lamps and threw itupon the square surfaces of the icons in white cold rays.
　　It was hot and stifling in the workshop. Here worked about twenty men,icon-painters, from Palekh, Kholia, and Mstir. They all sat down in cottonoveralls with unfastened collars. They had drawers made of ticking, and werebarefooted, or wore sandals. Over their heads stretched, like a blue veil, thesmoke of cheap tobacco, and there was a thick smell of size, varnish, androtten eggs. The melancholy Vlandimirski song flowed slowly, like resin:
　　How depraved the people have now become ;The boy ruined the girl, and cared not who knew.
　　They sang other melancholy songs, but this was the one they sang mostoften. Its long-drawn-out movement did not hinder one from thinking, didnot impede the movement of the fine brush, made of weasel hair, over thesurface of the icons, as it painted in the lines of the figure, and laid upon theemaciated faces of the saints the fine lines of suffering. By the windows thechaser, Golovev, plied his small hammer. He was a drunken old man with anenormous blue nose. The lazy stream of song was punctuated by theceaseless dry tap of the hammer; it was like a worm gnawing at a tree. Someevil genius had divided the work into a long series of actions, bereft of beautyand incapable of arousing any love for the business, or interest in it. Thesquinting joiner, Panphil, ill-natured and malicious, brought the pieces ofcypress and lilac — wood of different sizes, which he had planed and glued;the consumptive lad, Davidov, laid the colors on; his comrade, Sorokin,painted in the inscription; Milyashin outlined the design from the originalwith a pencil ; old Golovev gilded it, and embossed the pattern in gold; thefinishers drew the land — scape, and the clothes of the figures; and then theywere stood with faces or hands against the wall, waiting for the work of theface-painter.
　　It was very weird to see a large icon intended for an iconastasis, or thedoors of the altar, standing against the wall without face, hands, or feet, —just the sacerdotal vestments, or the armor, and the short garments ofarchangels. These variously painted tablets suggested death. That whichshould have put life into them was absent, but it seemed as if it had beenthere, and had miraculously disappeared, leaving only its heavy vestmentsbehind.
　　When the features had been painted in by the face-painter, the icon washanded to the workman, who filled in the design of the chaser. A differentworkman had to do the lettering, and the varnish was put on by the headworkman himself Ivan Larionovich, a quiet man. He had a gray face; hisbeard, too, was gray, the hair fine and silky; his gray eyes were peculiarlydeep and sad. He had a pleasant smile, but one could not smile at him. Hemade one feel awkward, somehow. He looked like the image of SimonStolpnik, just as lean and emaciated, and his motionless eyes looked far awayin the same abstracted man — ner, through people and walls.
　　Some days after I entered the workshop, the banner-worker, a Cossack ofthe Don, named Kapendiukhin, a handsome, mighty fellow, arrived in a stateof intoxication. With clenched teeth and his gentle, wom — anish eyesblinking, he began to smash up everything with his iron fist, without utteringa word. Of medium height and well built, he cast himself on the workroomlike a cat chasing rats in a cellar. The others lost their presence of mind, andhid themselves away in the corners, calling out to one another :
　　“Knock him down!”
　　The face-painter, Evgen Sitanov, was successful in stunning themaddened creature by hitting him on the head with a small stool. TheCossack subsided on the floor, and was immediately held down and tied upwith towels, which he began to bite and tear with the teeth of a wild beast.
　　This infuriated Evgen. He jumped on the table, and with his hands pressedclose to his sides, prepared to jump on the Cossack. Tall and stout as he was,he would have inevitably crushed the breast-bone of Kapendiukhin by hisleap, but at that moment Larionovich appeared on the scene in cap andovercoat, shook his finger at Sitanov, and said to the workmen in a quiet andbusiness-like tone:
　　“Carry him into the vestibule, and leave him there till he is sober.”
　　They dragged the Cossack out of the workshop, set the chairs and tablesstraight, and once again set to work, letting fall short remarks on thestrength of their comrade, prophesying that he would one day be killed bysome one in a quarrel.
　　“It would be a difficult matter to kill him,” said Sitanov very calmly, as ifhe were speaking of a business which he understood very well.
　　I looked at Larionovich, wondering perplexedly why these strong,pugilistic people were so easily ruled by him. He showed every one how heought to work; even the best workmen listened willingly to his advice; hetaught Kapendiukhin more, and with more words, than the others.
　　“ You, Kapendiukhin, are what is called a painter — that is, you ought topaint from life in the Italian manner. Painting in oils requires warm colors,and you have introduced too much white, and made Our Lady’s eyes as coldas winter. The cheeks are painted red, like apples, and the eyes do not seemto belong to them. And they are not put in right, either ; one is looking overthe bridge of the nose, and the other has moved to the temple; and the facehas not come out pure and holy, but crafty, wintry. You don’t think aboutyour work, Kapendiukhin.”
　　The Cossack listened and made a wry face. Then smiling impudentlywith his womanish eyes, he said in his pleasant voice, which was ratherhoarse with so much drinking:
　　“Ekh! I— va — a — n Larionovich, my father, that is not my trade. I wasborn to be a musician, and they put me among monks.”
　　“With zeal, any business may be mastered.”
　　“No; what do you take me for? I ought to have been a coachman with ateam of gray horses, eh?”
　　And protruding his Adam’s apple, he drawled despairingly:
　　“Eh, i-akh, if I had a leash of grayhoundsAnd dark brown horses,Och, when I am in torment on frosty nightsI would fly straight, straight to my love!”
　　Ivan Larionovich, smiling mildly, set his glasses straight on his gray, sad,melancholy nose, and went away. But a dozen voices took up the song in afriendly spirit, and there flowed forth a mighty stream of song which seemedto raise the whole workshop into the air and shake it with measured blows:
　　“By custom the horses know Where the little lady lives.”
　　The apprentice, Pashka Odintzov, threw aside his work of pouring off theyolks of the eggs, and holding the shells in his hand, led the chorus in amasterly manner. Intoxicated by the sounds, they all forgot them — selves,they all breathed together as if they had but one bosom, and were full of thesame feelings, looking sideways at the Cossack. When he sang, the workshopacknowledged him as its master; they were all drawn to him, followed thebrief movements of his hands; he spread his arms out as if he were about tofly. I believe that if he had suddenly broken off his song and cried, “Let ussmash up everything,” even the most serious of the workmen would havesmashed the workshop to pieces in a few moments.
　　He sang rarely, but the power of his tumultuous songs was alwaysirresistible and all-conquering. It was as if these people were not verystrongly made, and he could lift them up and set them on fire; as ifeverything was bent when it came within the warm influence of that mightyorgan of his.
　　As for me, these songs aroused in me a hot feeling of envy of the singer,of his admirable power over people. A painful emotion flowed over my heart,making it feel as if it would burst. I wanted to weep and call out to thesingers:
　　“I love you!”
　　Consumptive, yellow Davidov, who was covered with tufts of hair, alsoopened his mouth, strangely resembling a young jackdaw newly burst out oftheThese happy, riotous songs were only sung when the Cossack startedthem. More often they sang the sad, drawn-out one about the depravedpeople, and another about the forests, and another about the death ofAlexander I, “How our Alexander went to review his army.” Sometimes at thesuggestion of our best face painter, Jikharev, they tried to sing some churchmelodies, but it was seldom a success. Jikharev always wanted one particularthing; he had only one idea of harmony, and he kept on stopping the song.
　　He was a man of forty-five, dry, bald, with black, curly, gipsy-like hair,and large black brows which looked like mustaches. His pointed, thick beardwas very ornamental to his fine, swarthy, unRussian face, but under hisprotuberant nose stuck out ferocious-looking mustaches, superfluous whenone took his brows into consideration. His blue eyes did not match, the leftbeing noticeably larger than the right.
　　“Pashka,” he cried in a tenor voice to my comrade, the apprentice, “comealong now, start off: Traise — ‘ Now people, listen!”
　　Wiping his hands on his apron, Pashka led off :
　　“Pr — a — a — ise — ”
　　“The Name of the Lord,” several voices caught it up, but Jikharev criedfussily:
　　“Lower, Evgen! Let your voice come from the very depths of the soul.”
　　Sitanov, in a voice so deep that it sounded like the rattle of a drum, gaveforth:
　　“R— rabi Gospoda (slaves of the Lord) — ”
　　“Not like that! That part should be taken in such a way that the earthshould tremble and the doors and windows should open of themselves!”
　　Jikharev was in a state of incomprehensible excitement. Hisextraordinary brows went up and down on his forehead, his voice broke, hisfingers played on an invisible dulcimer.
　　“Slaves of the Lord — do you understand?” he said importantly. “Youhave got to feel that right to the kernel of your being, right through the shell.
　　Slaves, praise the Lord! How is it that you — living people — do notunderstand that?”
　　“We never seem to get it as you say it ought to be,” said Sitanov quietly.
　　“Well, let it alone then!”
　　Jikharev, offended, went on with his work. He was the best workman wehad, for he could paint faces in the Byzantine manner, and artistically, in thenew Italian style. When he took orders for iconostasis, Larionovich tookcounsel with him. He had a fine knowledge of all original image-paintings;all the costly copies of miraculous icons, Theodorovski, Kazanski, and others,passed through his hands. But when he lighted upon the originals, hegrowled loudly:
　　“These originals tie us down; there is no getting away from that fact.”
　　In spite of his superior position in the workshop, he was less conceitedthan the others, and was kind to the apprentices — Pavl and me. He wantedto teach us the work, since no one else ever bothered about us.
　　He was difficult to understand; he was not usually cheerful, andsometimes he would work for a whole week in silence, like a dumb man. Helooked on every one as at strangers who amazed him, as if it were the firsttime he had come across such people. And although he was very fond ofsinging, at such times he did not sing, nor did he even listen to the songs. Allthe others watched him, winking at one another. He would bend over theicon which stood sideways, his tablet on his knees, the middle resting on theedge of the table, while his fine brush diligently painted the dark, foreignface. He was dark and foreign-looking himself. Suddenly he would say in aclear, offended tone :
　　“Forerunner — what does that mean? Tech means in ancient language ‘togo.’ A forerunner is one who goes before, — and that is all.”
　　The workshop was very quiet; every one was glancing askance atJikharev, laughing, and in the stillness rang out these strange words :
　　“He ought to be painted with a sheepskin and wings.”
　　“Whom are you talking to?” I asked.
　　He was silent, either not hearing my question or not caring to answer it.
　　Then his words again fell into the expectant silence :
　　“The lives of the saints are what we ought to know! What do we know?
　　We live without wings. Where is the soul? The soul — where is it? Theoriginals are there — yes — but where are the souls?”
　　This thinking aloud caused even Sitanov to laugh derisively, and almostalways some one whispered with malicious joy:
　　“He will get drunk on Saturday.”
　　Tall, sinewy Sitanov, a youngster of twenty-two years, with a round facewithout whiskers or eye-brows, gazed sadly and seriously into the corner.
　　I remember when the copy of the Theodorovski Madonna, which Ibelieve was Kungur, was finished. Jikharev placed the icon on the table andsaid loudly, excitedly :
　　“It is finished, Little Mother! Bright Chalice, Thou! Thou, bottomlesscup, in which are shed the bitter tears from the hearts of the world ofcreatures!”
　　And throwing an overcoat over his shoulders, he went out to the tavern.
　　The young men laughed and whistled, the elder ones looked after him withenvious sighs, and Sitanov went to his work. Looking at it attentively, heexplained :
　　“Of course he will go and get drunk, because he is sorry to have to handover his work. That sort of regret is not given to all.”
　　Jikharev’s drinking bouts always began on Saturday, and his, you mustunderstand, was not the usual alcoholic fever of the workman. It began thus:
　　In the morning he would write a note and sent Pavl somewhere with it, andbefore dinner he would say to Larionovich :
　　“1 am going to the bath today.”
　　“Will you be long?’
　　“Well, Lord —”
　　“Please don’t be gone over Tuesday!”
　　Jikharev bowed his bald cranium in assent; his brows twitched. When hereturned from the baths, he attired himself fashionably in a false shirt-frontand a cravat, attached a long silver chain to his satin waistcoat, and went outwithout speaking, except to say to Pavl and me :
　　“Clean up the workshop before the evening; wash the large table andscrape it.”
　　Then a kind of holiday excitement showed itself in every one of them.
　　They braced themselves up. cleaned themselves, ran to the bath, and hadsupper in a hurry. After supper Jikharev appeared with light refreshments,beer, and wine, and following him came a woman so exaggerated in everyrespect that she was almost a monstrosity. She was six feet five inches inheight. All our chairs and stools looked like toys when she was there, andeven tall Sitanov looked undersized beside her. She was well formed, but herbosom rose like a hillock to her chin, and her movements were slow andawkward. She was about forty years of age, but her mobile face, with its greathorse-like eyes, was fresh and smooth, and her small mouth looked as if ithad been painted on, like that of a cheap doll. She smiled, held out her broadhand to every one, and spoke unnecessary words :
　　“How do you do? There is a hard frost today. What a stuffy smell there ishere! It is the smell of paint. How do you do?”
　　To look at her, so calm and strong, like a large river at high tide, waspleasant, but her speech had a soporific influence, and was both superfluousand weari — some. Before she uttered a word, she used to puff, making heralmost livid cheeks rounder than ever. The young ones giggled, andwhispered among themselves :
　　“She is like an engine!”
　　“Like a steeple!”
　　Pursing her lips and folding her hands under her bosom, she sat at thecloth-covered table by the samovar, and looked at us all in turn with a kindexpres — sion in her horse-like eyes.
　　Every one treated her with great respect, and the younger ones were evenrather afraid of her. The youths looked at that great body with eager eyes, butwhen they met her all-embracing glance, they lowered their own eyes inconfusion. Jikharev was also respectful to his guest, addressed her as “you,”
　　called her “little comrade,” and pressed hospitality upon her, bowing low thewhile.
　　“Now don’t you put yourself out,” she drawled sweetly. “What a fuss youare making of me, really!”
　　As for herself, she lived without hurry; her arms moved only from theelbow to the wrist, while the elbows themselves were pressed against hersides. From her came an ardent smell, as of hot bread. Old Golovev,stammering in his enthusiasm, praised the beauty of the woman, like adeacon chanting the divine praises; She listened, smiling affably, and whenhe had become involved in his speech, said of herself:
　　“We were not a bit handsome when we were young; this has all comethrough living as a woman. By the time we were thirty, we had become soremarkable that even the nobility interested themselves in us, and onedistrict commander actually promised a carriage with a pair of horses.”
　　Kapendiukhin, tipsy and dishevelled, looked at her with a glance ofhatred, and asked coarsely :
　　“What did he promise you that for?”
　　“In return for our love, of course,” explained the guest.
　　“Love,” muttered Kapendiukhin, “what sort of love?”
　　“Such a handsome young man as you are must know all about love,”
　　answered the woman simply.
　　The workshop shook with laughter, and Sitanov growled toKapendiukhin:
　　“A fool, if no worse, she is! People only love that way through a greatpassion, as every one knows.”
　　He was pale with the wine he had drunk; drops of sweat stood on histemples like pearls; his intelligent eyes burned alarmingly.
　　But old Golovev, twitching his monstrous nose, wiped the tears from hiseyes with his fingers, and asked :
　　“How many children did you have?”
　　“Only one.”
　　Over the table hung a lamp ; over the stove, another. They gave a feeblelight; thick shadows gathered in the corners of the workshop, from whichlooked half-painted headless figures. The dull, gray patches in place of handsand heads look weird and large, and, as usual, it seemed to me that thebodies of the saints had secretly disappeared from the painted garments. Theglass balls, raised right up to the ceiling, hung there on hooks in a cloud ofsmoke, and gleamed with a blue light.
　　Jikharev went restlessly round the table, pressing hospitality on everyone. His broad, bald skull inclined first to one and then to another, his thinfingers always were on the rriove. He was very thin, and his nose, which waslike that of a bird of prey, seemed to have grown sharper; when he stoodsideways to the light, the shadow of his nose lay on his cheek.
　　“Drink and eat, friends,” he said in his ringing tenor.
　　“Why do you worry yourself, comrade? They all have hands, and everyone has his own hands and his own appetite; more than that no one can eat,however much they may want to!”
　　“Rest yourself, people,” cried Jikharev in a ringing voice. “My friends, weare all the slaves of God; let us sing, Traise His Name.’ ”
　　The chant was not a success; they were all enervated and stupefied byeating and vodka-drinking. In Kapendiukhin’s hands was a harmonica with adouble keyboard; young Victor Salautin, dark and serious as a young crow,took up a drum, and let his fingers wander over the tightly stretched skin,which gave forth a deep sound; the tambourines tinkled.
　　“The Russian dance!” commanded Jikharev, “little comrade, please.”
　　“Ach!” sighed the woman, rising, “what a worry you are!”
　　She v/ent to the space which had been cleared, and stood there solidly,like a sentry. She wore a short brown skirt, a yellow batiste blouse, and a redhandkerchief on her head.
　　The harmonica uttered passionate lamentations; its little bells rang; thetambourines tinkled; the skin of the drum gave forth a heavy, dull, sighingsound. This had an unpleasant effect, as if a man had gone mad and wasgroaning, sobbing, and knocking his head against the wall.
　　Jikharev could not dance. He simply moved his feet about, and settingdown the heels of his brightly polished boots, jumped about like a goat, andthat not in time with the clamorous music. His feet seemed to belong to someone else; his body writhed unbeautifully; he struggled like a wasp in aspider’s web, or a fish in a net. It was not at all a cheerful sight. But all ofthem, even the tipsy ones, seemed to be impressed by his convulsions; theyall watched his face and arms in silence. The changing expressions of his facewere amazing. Now he looked kind and rather shy, suddenly he becameproud, and frowned harshly; now he seemed to be startled by something,sighed, closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, wore a sadexpression. Clenching his fists he stole up to the woman, and suddenlystamping his feet, fell on his knees in front of her with arms outspread andraised brows, smiling ardently. She looked down upon him with an affablesmile, and said to him calmly :
　　“Stand up, comrade.”
　　She tried to close her eyes, but those eyes, which were in circumferencelike a three copeck piece, would not close, and her face wrinkled andassumed an unpleasant expression.
　　She could not dance either, and did nothing but move her enormousbody from side to side, noiselessly transferring it from place to place. In herleft hand was a handkerchief which she waved languidly; her right wasplaced on her hip. This gave her the appearance of a large pitcher.
　　And Jikharev moved round this massive woman with so many differentchanges of expression that he seemed to be ten different men dancing,instead of one. One was quiet and humble, another proud and terrifying; inthe third movement he was afraid, sighing gently,, as if he desired to slipaway unnoticed from the large, unpleasant woman. But still another personappeared, gnashing his teeth and writhing convulsively like a wounded dog.
　　This sad, ugly dance reminded me of the soldiers, the laundresses, and thecooks, and their vile behavior.
　　Sitanov’s quiet words stuck in my memory :
　　“In these affairs every one lies; that’s part of the business. Every one isashamed; no one loves any one — but it is simply an amusement.”
　　I did not wish to believe that “every one lied in these affairs.” How aboutQueen Margot, then? And of course Jikharev was not lying. And I knew thatSitanov had loved a “street” girl, and she had deceived him. He had notbeaten her for it, as his comrades advised him to do, but had been kind toher.
　　The large woman went on rocking, smiling like a corpse, waving herhandkerchief. Jikharev jumped convulsively about her, and I looked on andthought: “Could Eve, who was able to deceive God, have been anything likethis horse?” I was seized by a feeling of dislike for her.
　　The faceless images looked from the dark walls; the dark night pressedagainst the window-panes. The lamps burned dimly in the stuffy workshop;if one listened, one could hear above the heavy trampling and the din ofvoices the quick dropping of water from the copper wash-basin into the tub.
　　How unlike this was to the life I read of in books! It was painfully unlikeit. At length they all grew weary of this, and Kapendiukhin put theharmonica into Salautin’s hands, and cried:
　　“Go on! Fire away!”
　　He danced like Vanka Tzigan, just as if he was swimming in the air. ThenPavl Odintzov and Sorokhin danced passionately and lightly after him. Theconsumptive Davidov also moved his feet about the floor, and coughed fromthe dust, smoke, and the strong odor of vodka and smoked sausage, whichalways smells like tanned hide.
　　They danced, and sang, and shouted, but each remembered that theywere making merry, and gave each other a sort of test — a test of agility andendurance.
　　Tipsy Sitanov asked first one and then another:
　　“Do you think any one could really love a woman like that?”
　　He looked as if he were on the verge of tears.
　　Larionovich, lifting the sharp bones of his shoulders, answered:
　　“A woman is a woman — what more do you want?”
　　The two of whom they spoke disappeared unnoticed. Jikharevreappeared in the workshop in two er three days, went to the bath, andworked for two weeks in his comer, without speaking, pompous andestranged from every one.
　　“Have they gone?” asked Sitanov of himself, looking round the workshopwith sad blue-gray eyes. His face was not handsome, for there was somethingelderly about it, but his eyes were clear and good. Sit — anov was friendly tome — a fact which I owed to my thick note-book in which I had writtenpoetry. He did not believe in God, but it was hard to understand who in theworkshop, beside Larionovich, loved God and believed in Him. They allspoke of Him with levity, derisively, just as they liked to speak of theirmistresses. Yet when they dined, or supped, thev all crossed themselves, andwhen they went to bed, they said their prayers, and went to church onSundays and feast days.
　　Sitanov did none of these things, and he was counted as an unbeliever.
　　“There is no God,” he said.
　　.“Where did we all come from, then?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　When I asked him how God could possibly not be, he explained:
　　“Don’t you see that God is height!”
　　He raised his long arm above his head, then lowered it to an arshin fromthe floor, and said :
　　“And man is depth! Is that true? And it is written: Man was created inthe image and likeness of God, — as you know! And what is Golovev like?”
　　This defeated me. The dirty and drunken old man, in spite of his years,was given to an unmentionable sin. I remembered the Viatski soldier,Ermokhin, and grandmother’s sister. Where was God’s likeness in them?
　　“Human creatures are swine — as you know,” said Sitanov, and then hetried to console me. “Never mind, Maxim, there are good people; there are!”
　　He was easy to get on with; he was so simple. When he did not knowanything, he said frankly:
　　“I don’t know; I never thought about it!”
　　This was something unusual. Until I met him, I had only come acrosspeople who knew everything and talked about everything. It was strange tome to see in his note-book, side by side with good poetry which touched thesoul, many obscene verses which aroused no feeling but that of shame. WhenI spoke to him about Pushkin, he showed me “Gavrialad,” which had beencopied in his book.
　　“What is Pushkin? Nothing but a jester, but that Benediktov — he isworth paying attention to.”
　　And closing his eyes he repeated softly :
　　“Look at the bewitching bosom Of a beautiful woman.”
　　For some reason he was especially partial to the three lines which hequoted with joyful pride:
　　“Not even the orbs of an eagle Into that warm cloister can penetrate Andread that heart.”
　　“Do you understand that?”
　　It was very uncomfortable to me to have to acknowledge that I did notunderstand what he was so pleased about.
Chapter 14
    MY duties in the workshop were not complicated. In the morning when theywere all asleep, I had to prepare the samovar for the men, and while theydrank tea in the kitchen, Pavl and I swept and dusted the workshop, set outred, yellow, or white paints, and then I went to the shop. In the evening I hadto grind up colors and “watch” the work. At first I watched with greatinterest, but I soon realized that all the men who were engaged on thishandicraft which was divided up into so many processes, disliked it, andsuffered from a torturing boredom.
　　The evenings were free. I used to tell them stories about life on thesteamer and different stories out of books, and without noticing how it cameabout, I soon held a peculiar position in the workshop as story-teller andreader.
　　I soon found out that all these people knew less than I did; almost all ofthem had been stuck in the narrow cage of workshop life since theirchildhood, and were still in it. Of all the occupants of the workshop, onlyJikharev had been in Moscow, of which he spoke suggestively andfrowningly:
　　“Moscow does not believe in tears; there they know which side theirbread is buttered.”
　　None of the rest had been farther than Shuya, or Vladimir. Whenmention was made of Kazan, they asked me :
　　“Are there many Russians there? Are there any churches?”
　　For them, Perm was in Siberia, and they would not believe that Siberiawas beyond the Urals.
　　“Sandres come from the Urals; and sturgeon — where are they found?
　　Where do they get them? From the Caspian Sea? That means that the Uralsare on the sea!”
　　Sometimes I thought that they were laughing at me when they declaredthat England was on the other side of the Atlantic, and that Bonapartebelonged by birth to a noble family of Kalonga. When I told them stories ofwhat I had seen, they hardly believed me, but they all loved terrible talesintermixed with history. Even the men of mature years evidently preferredimagination to the truth. I could see very well that the more improbable theevents, the more fantastic the story, the more attentively they listened to me.
　　On the whole, reality did not interest them, and they all gazed dreamily intothe future, not wishing to see the poverty and hideousness of the present.
　　This astonished me so much the more, inasmuch as I had felt keenlyenough the contradiction existing between life and books. Here before mewere living people, and in books there were none like them — no Smouri,stoker Yaakov, fugitive Aleksander Vassiliev, Jikharev. or washerwomanNatalia.
　　In Davidov’s trunk a torn copy of Golitzinski’s stories was found — “IvanVuijigin,” “The Bulgar,” “A Volume of Baron Brambeuss.” I read all thesealoud to them, and they were delighted. Larionovich said:
　　“Reading prevents quarrels and noise; it is a good thing!”
　　I began to look about diligently for books, found them, and read almostevery evening. Those were pleasant evenings. It was as quiet as night in theworkshop; the glass balls hung over the tables like white cold stars, their rayslighting up shaggy and bald heads. I saw round me at the table, calm,thoughtful faces; now and again an exclamation of praise of the author, orhero was heard. They were attentive and benign, quite unlike themselves. Iliked them very much at those times, and they also behaved well to me. I feltthat I was in my right place.
　　“When we have books it is like spring with us; when the winter framesare taken out and for the first time we can open the windows as we like,” saidSitanov one day.
　　It was hard to find books. We could not afford to subscribe to a library,but I managed to get them somehow, asking for them wherever I went, as acharity. One day the second officer of the fire brigade gave me the firstvolume of “Lermontov,” and it was from this that I felt the power of poety,and its mighty influence over people. I remember even now how, at the firstlines of “The Demon,” Sitanov looked first at the book and then at my face,laid down his brush on the table, and, embracing his knee with his longarms, rocked to and fro, smiling.
　　“Not so much noise, brothers,” said Larionovich, and also laying asidehis work, he went to Sitanov’s table where I was reading. The poem stirredme painfully and sweetly; my voice was broken; I could hardly read the lines.
　　Tears poured from my eyes. But what moved me still more was the dull,cautious movement of the workmen. In the workshop everything seemed tobe diverted from its usual course — drawn to me as if I had been a magnet.
　　When I had finished the first part, almost all of them were standing roundthe table, closely pressing against one an — other, embracing one another,frowning and laugh — ing.
　　“Go on reading,” said Jikharev, bending my head over the book.
　　When I had finished reading, he took the book, looked at the title, put itunder his arm, and said :
　　“We must read this again! We will read it tomorrow! I will hide the bookaway.”
　　He went away, locked “Lermontov” in his drawer, and returned to hiswork. It was quiet in the workshop; the men stole back to their tables.
　　Sitanov went to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass, andstood there as if frozen. Jikharev, again laying down his brush, said in a sternvoice:
　　“Well, such is life; slaves of God — yes — ah!”
　　He shrugged his shoulders, hid his face, and went on :
　　“I can draw the devil himself; black and rough, with wings of red flame,with red lead, but the face, hands, and feet — these should be bluish-white,like snow on a moonlight night.”
　　Until close upon suppertime he revolved about on his stool, restless andunlike himself, drumming with his fingers and talking unintelligibly of thedevil, of women and Eve, of paradise, and of the sins of holy men.
　　“That is all true!” he declared. “If the saints sinned with sinful women,then of course the devil may sin with a pure soul.”
　　They listened to him in silence; probably, like me, they had no desire tospeak. They worked unwillingly, looking all the time at their watches, and assoon as it struck ten, they put away their work altogether.
　　Sitanov and Jikharev went out to the yard, and I went with them. There,gazing at the stars, Sitanov said :
　　“Like a wandering caravan Thrown into space, it shone.”
　　“You did not make that up yourself!” “I can never remember words,” saidJikharev, shivering in the bitter cold. “I can’t remember anything; but he, Isee — It is an amazing thing — a man who actually pities the devil! He hasmade you sorry for him, hasn’t he?”
　　“He has,” agreed Sitanov.
　　“There, that is a real man!” exclaimed Jikharev reminiscently. In thevestibule he warned me: “You, Maxim, don’t speak to any one in the shopabout that book, for of course it is a forbidden one.”
　　I rejoiced; this must be one of the books of which the priest had spokento me in the confessional.
　　We supped languidly, without the usual noise and talk, as if somethingimportant had occurred and we could not keep from thinking about it, andafter supper, when we were going to bed, Jikharev said to me, as he drewforth the book:
　　“Come, read it once more!”
　　Several men rose from their beds, came to the table, and sat themselvesround it, undressed as they were, with their legs crossed.
　　And again when I had finished reading, Jikharev said, strumming hisfingers on the table :
　　“That is a living picture of him! Ach, devil, devil — that’s how he is,brothers, eh?”
　　Sitanov leaned over my shoulder, read something, and laughed, as hesaid:
　　“I shall copy that into my own note-book.”
　　Jikharev stood up and carried the book to his own table, but he turnedback and said in an offended, shaky voice:
　　“We live like blind puppies — to what end we do not know. We are notnecessary either to God or the devil! How are we slaves of the Lord? TheJehovah of slaves and the Lord Himself speaks with them! With Moses, toolHe even gave Moses a name; it means This is mine’ — a man of God. And we— what are we?”
　　He shut up the book and began to dress himself, asking Sitanov :
　　“Are you coming to the tavern?”
　　“I shall go to my own tavern,” answered Sitanov softly.
　　When they had gone out, I lay down on the floor by the door, beside PavlOdintzov. He tossed about for a long time, snored, and suddenly began toweep quietly.
　　“What is the matter with you?”
　　“I am sick with pity for all of them,” he said. “This is the fourth year ofmy life with them, and I know all about them.”
　　I also was sorry for these people. We did not go to sleep for a long time,but talked about them in whispers, finding goodness, good traits in each oneof them, and also something which increased our childish pity.
　　I was very friendly with Pavl Odintzov. They made a good workman ofhim in the end, but it did not last long; before the end of three years he hadbegun to drink wildly, later on I met him in rags on the Khitrov market-placein Moscow, and not long ago I heard that he had died of typhoid. It is painfulto remember how many good people in my life I have seen senselesslyruined. People of all nations wear themselves out, and to ruin themselvescomes natural, but nowhere do they wear themselves out so terribly quickly,so senselessly, as in our own Russia.
　　Then he was a round-headed boy two years older than myself; he waslively, intelligent, and upright; he was talented, for he could draw birds, cats,and dogs excellently, and was amazingly clever in his caricatures of theworkmen, always depicting them as feathered. Sitanov was shown as a sad-looking wood-cock standing on one leg, Jikharev as a cock with a torn comband no feathers on his head ; sickly Davidov was an injured lapwing. But bestof all was his drawing of the old chaser, Golovev, representing him as a batwith large whiskers, ironical nose, and four feet with six nails on each. Fromthe round, dark face, white, round eyes gazed forth, the pupils of whichlooked like the grain of a lentil. They were placed crossways, thus giving tothe face a lifelike and hideous expression.
　　The workmen were not offended when Pavl showed them thecaricatures, but the one of Golovev made an unpleasant impression on themall, and the artist was sternly advised :
　　“You had better tear it up, for if the old man sees it, he will half kill you!”
　　The dirty, putrid, everlastingly drunk old man was tiresomely pious, andinextinguishably malicious. He vilified the whole workshop to the shopmanwhom the mistress was about to marry to her niece, and who for that reasonfelt himself to be master of the whole house and the workpeople. Theworkmen hated him. but thcj were afraid of him, and for th€ same reasonwere afraid of Golovev, too.
　　Pavl worried the chaser furiously and in all manner of ways, just as if hehad set before himself the aim of never allowing Golovev to have a moment’speace. I helped him in this with enthusiasm, and the workshop amused itselfwith our pranks, which were al — most always pitilessly coarse. But we werewarned:
　　“You will get into trouble, children! Kouzka-Juchek will half kill you!”
　　Kouzka-Juchek was the nickname of the shopman, which was given tohim on the quiet by the workshop.
　　The warning did not alarm us. We painted the face of the chaser when hewas asleep. One day when he was in a drunken slumber we gilded his nose,and it was three days before he was able to get the gold out of the holes in hisspongy nose. But every time that we succeeded in infuriating the old man, Iremembered the steamboat, and the little Viatski soldier, and I wasconscious of a disturbance in my soul. In spite of his age, Golovev was sostrong that he often beat us, falling upon us unexpectedly; he would beat usand then complain of us to the mistress.
　　She, who was also drunk every day, and for that reason always kind andcheerful, tried to frighten us, striking her swollen hands on the table, andcrying:
　　“So you have been saucy again, you wild beast? He is an old man, andyou ought to respect him! Who was it that put photographic solution in hisglass, instead of wine?”
　　“We did.”
　　The mistress was amazed.
　　“Good Lord, they actually admit it! Ah, accursed ones, you ought torespect old men!”
　　She drove us away, and in the evening she complained to the shopman,who spoke to me angrily:
　　“How can you read books, even the Holy Scriptures, and still be so saucy,eh? Take care, my brother!”
　　The misjtress was solitary and touchingly sad. Sometimes when she hadbeen drinking sweet liqueurs, she would sit at the window and sing:
　　“No one is sorry for me,And pity have I from none ;What my grief is no one knows ;To whom shall I tell my sorrow.”
　　And sobbingly she drawled in the quavering voice of age:
　　“U— oo — oc.”
　　One day I saw her going down the stairs with a jug of warm milk in herhands, but suddenly her legs gave way under her. She sat down, anddescended the stairs, sadly bumping from step to step, and never letting thejug out of her hand. The milk splashed over her dress, and she, with herhands outstretched, cried angrily to the jug:
　　“What is the matter with you, satyr? Where are you going ?”
　　Not stout, but soft to flabbiness, she looked like an old cat which hadgrown beyond catching mice, and, languid from overfeeding, could do nomore than purr, dwelling sweetly on the memories of past triumphs andpleasures.
　　“Here,” said Sitanov, frowning thoughtfully, “was a large — business, afine workshop, and clever men labored at this trade; but now that is all donewith, all gone to ruin, all directed by the paws of Kuzikin I . It is a case ofworking and working, and all for strangers! When one thinks of this, a sort ofspring seems to break in one’s head. One wants to do nothing, — a fig for anykind of work I— just to lie on the roof, lie there for the whole summer andlook up into the sky.”
　　Pavl Odintzov also appropriated these thoughts of Sitanov, and smokinga cigarette which had been given him by his elders, philosophized about God,drunkenness, and women. He enlarged on the fact that all work disappears;certain people do it and others destroy it, neither valuing it norunderstanding it.
　　At such times his sharp, pleasant face frowned, aged. He would sit on hisbed on the floor, embracing his knees, and look long at the blue square of thewindow, at the roof of the shed which lay under a fall of snow, and at thestars in the winter sky.
　　The workmen snored, or talked in their sleep; one of them raved,choking with words ; in the loft, Davidov coughed away what was left of hislife. In the corner, body to body, wrapped in an iron-bound sleep ofintoxication, lay those “slaves of God” — Kapendiukhin, Sorokhin, Pcrshin;from the walls icons with — out faces, hands, or feet looked forth. There wasa close smell of bad eggs, and dirt, which had turned sour in the crevices ofthe floor.
　　“How I pity them all!” whispered Pavl. “Lord!”
　　This pity for myself and others disturbed me more and more. To us both,as I have said before, all the workmen seemed to be good people, but theirlives were bad, unworthy of them, unbearably dull. At the time of the wintersnowstorms, when everything on the earth — the houses, the trees — wasshaken, howled, and wept, and in Lent, when the melancholy bells rang out,the dullness of it all flowed over the workshop like a wave, as oppressive aslead, weighing people down, killing all that was alive in them, driving themto the tavern, to women, who served the same purpose as vodka in helpingthem to forget.
　　On such evenings books were of no use, so Pavl and I tried to amuse theothers in our own way: smearing our faces with soot and paint, dressingourselves up and playing different comedies composed by ourselves,heroically fighting against the boredom till we made them laugh.
　　Remembering the “Account of how the soldier saved Peter the Great,” Iturned this book into a conversational form, and climbing on to Davidov’spallet-bed, we acted thereon cheerfully, cutting off the head of an imaginarySwede. Our audience burst out laughing.
　　They were especially delighted with the legend of the Chinese devil, Sing-U-Tongia. Pashka represented the unhappy devil who had planned to do agood deed, and I acted all the other characters — the people of the field,subjects, the good soul, and even the stones on which the Chinese devilrested in great pain after each of his unsuccessful attempts to perform a goodaction.
　　Our audience laughed loudly, and I was amazed when I saw how easilythey could be made to laugh. This facility provoked me unpleasantly.
　　“Ach, clowns,” they cried. “Ach, you devils!”
　　But the further I went, the more I was troubled with the thought thatsorrow appealed more than joy to the hearts of these people. Gaiety has noplace in their lives, and as such has no value, but they evoke it from undertheir burdens, as a contrast to the dreamy Russian sadness. The inwardstrength of a gaiety which lives not of itself not because it wishes to live, butbecause it is aroused by the call of sad days, is suspect. And too often Russiangaiety changes suddenly into cruel tragedy. A man will be dancing as if hewere breaking the shackles which bound him. Suddenly a ferocious wildbeast is let loose in him, and with the unreasoning anguish of a wild beast hewill throw himself upon all who come in his way, tear them in pieces, bitethem, destroy them.
　　This intense joy aroused by exterior forces irritated me, and stirred toself-oblivion, I began to compose and act suddenly created fantasies — for Iwanted so much to arouse a real, free, and unrestrained joy in these people. Isucceeded in some measure. They praised me, they were amazed at me, butthe sadness which I had almost succeeded in shaking off, stole back again,gradually growing denser and stronger, harassing them.
　　Gray Larionovich said kindly:
　　“Well, you are an amusing fellow, God bless you!”
　　“He is a boon to us,” Jikharev seconded him. “You know, Maxim, youought to go into a circus, or a theater; you would make a good clown.”
　　Out of the whole workshop only two went to the theaters, on Christmasor carnival weeks, Kapendiukhin and Sitanov, and the older workmenseriously counseled them to wash themselves from this sin in the baptismalwaters of the Jordan. Sitanov particularly would often urge me :
　　“Throw up everything and be an actor!”
　　And much moved, he would tell me the “sad” story of the life of the actor,Yakolev.
　　“There, that will show you what may happen!”
　　He loved to tell stories about Marie Stuart, whom he called “the rogue,”
　　and his peculiar delight was the “Spanish nobleman.”
　　“Don Csesar de Bazan was a real nobleman. Maximich! Wonderful!”
　　There was something of the “Spanish nobleman” about himself.
　　One day in the market-place, in front of the fire-station, three firemenwere amusing themselves by beating a peasant. A crowd of people,numbering about forty persons, looked on and cheered the soldiers. Sitanovthrew himself into the brawl. With swinging blows of his long arms he struckthe firemen, lifted the peasant, and carried him into the crowd, crying:
　　“Take him away!”
　　But he remained behind himself, one against three. The yard of the fire-station was only about ten steps away; they might easily have called others totheir aid and Sitanov would have been killed. But by good luck the firemenwere frightened and ran away into the yard.
　　“Dogs!” he cried after them.
　　On Sunday the young people used to attend boxing-matches held in theTyessni yard behind the Petro — pavlovski churchyard, where sledge-driversand peasants from the adjacent villages assembled to fight with theworkmen. The wagoners put up against the town an eminent boxer, aMordovan giant with a small head, and large eyes always full of tears. Wipingaway the tears with the dirty sleeve of his short caftan, he stood before hisbackers with his legs planted widely apart, and challenged good-naturedly:
　　“Come on, then; what is the matter with you? Are you cold?’
　　Kapendiukhin was set up against him on our side, and the Mordovanalways beat him. But the bleeding, panting Cossack said :
　　“I’ll lick that Mordovan if I die for it!”
　　In the end, that became the one aim of his life. He even went to thelength of giving up vodka, rubbed his body with snow before he went tosleep, ate a lot of meat, and to develop his muscles, crossed himself manytimes every evening with two pound weights. But this did not avail him at all.
　　Then he sewed a piece of lead inside his gloves, and boasted to Sitanov :
　　“Now we will finish the Mordovan!”
　　Sitanov sternly warned him :
　　“You had better throw it away, or I will give you away before the fight.”
　　Kapendiukhin did not believe him, but when the time for the fightarrived, Sitanov said abruptly to the Mordovan :
　　“Step aside, Vassili Ivanich; I have something to Bay to Kapendiukhinfirst!”
　　The Cossack turned purple and roared :
　　“I have nothing to do with you ; go away!”
　　“Yes, you have!” said Sitanov, and approaching him, he looked into theCossack’s face with a compelling glance.
　　Kapendiukhin stamped on the ground, tore the gloves from his hands,thrust them in his breast, and went quickly away from the scene of his fight.
　　Both our side and the other were unpleasantly surprised, and a certainimportant personage said angrily to Sitanov :
　　“That is quite against the rules, brother, — to bring private affairs to besettled in the world of the prize ring!”
　　They fell upon Sitanov from all sides, and abused him. He kept silencefor a long time, but at length he said to the important personage :
　　“Am I to stand by and see murder done?”
　　The important personage at once guessed the truth, and actually takingoff his cap said :
　　“Then our gratitude is due to you!”
　　“Only don’t go and spread it abroad, uncle!”
　　“Why should I? Kapendiukhin is hardly ever the victor, and ill-successembitters a man. We understand! But in future we will have his gloves ex —amined before the contest.”
　　“That is your affair!”
　　When the important personage had gone away, our side began to abuseKapendiukhin:
　　“You have made a nice mess of it. He would have killed his man, ourCossack would, and now we have to stay on the losing side!”
　　They abused him at length, captiously, to their hearts’ content.
　　Sitanov sighed and said:
　　“Oh, you guttersnipes!”
　　And to the surprise of everyone he challenged the Mordovan to a singlecontest. The latter squared up and flourishing his fists said jokingly:
　　“We will kill each other.”
　　A good number of persons, taking hands, formed a wide, spacious circle.
　　The boxers, looking at each other keenly, changed over, the right hand heldout, the left on their breasts. The experienced people noticed at once thatSitanov’s arms were longer than those of the Mordovan. It was very quiet;the snow crunched under the feet of the boxers. Some one, unable to restrainhis impatience, muttered complain — ingly and eagerly:
　　“They ought to have begun by now.”
　　Sitanov flourished his right hand, the Mordovan raised his left fordefense, and received a straight blow under the right arm from Sitanov’s lefthand. He gasped, retired, and exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction:
　　“He is young, but he Is no fool!”
　　They began to leap upon one another, striking each other’s breasts withblows from their mighty fists. In a few minutes not only our own people, butstrangers began to cry excitedly :
　　“Get your blows in quicker, image-painter! Fix him up, embosser.”
　　The Mordovan was a little stronger than Sitanov, but as he wasconsiderably the heavier, he could not deal such swift blows, and receivedtwo or three to every one he gave. But his seasoned body apparently did notsuffer much, and he was laughing and exclaiming all the time, when,suddenly, with a heavy upward blow he put Sitanov’s right arm out of jointfrom the shoulder.
　　“Part them; it is a draw!” cried several voices, and, breaking the circle,the crowd gathered round the pugilists.
　　“He is not very strong but he is skilful, the image-painter,” said theMordovan good-naturedly. “He will make a good boxer, and that I say beforethe whole world!”
　　The elder persons began a general wrestling match, and I took Sitanov tothe Feldsher bone-setter. His deed had raised him still higher in my esteem,had increased my sympathy with him, and his importance in my eyes.
　　He was, in the main, very upright and honorable, and he felt that he hadonly done his duty, but the graceless Kapendiukhin made fun of him lightly.
　　“Ekh, Genya, you live for show! You have polished up your soul like asamovar before a holiday, and you go about boasting, ‘look how brightly itshines!’ But your soul is really brass, and a very dull affair, too.”
　　Sitanov remained calmly silent, either working hard or copyingLermontov’s verses into his note-book. He spent all his spare time in thiscopying, and when I suggested to him:
　　“Why, when you have plenty of money, don’t you buy the book?” heanswered:
　　“No, it is better in my own handwriting.”
　　Having written a page in his pretty, small hand-writing, he would readsoftly while he was waiting for the ink to dry:
　　“Without regret, as a being apart, You will look down upon this earth,Where there is neither real happiness Nor lasting beauty.”
　　And he said, half-closing his eyes :
　　“That is true. Ekh! and well he knows the truth, too!”
　　The behavior (5f Sitanov to Kapendiukhin always amazed me. When hehad been drinking, the Cossack always tried to pick a quarrel with hiscomrade, and Sitanov would go on for a long time bearing it, and sayingpersuasively :
　　“That will do, let me alone!”
　　And then he would start to beat the drunken man so cruelly that theworkmen, who regarded internal dissensions amongst themselves merely asa spectacle, in terfered between the friends, and separated them.
　　“If we didn’t stop Evgen in time, he would beat any one to death, and hewould never forgive himself,” they said.
　　When he was sober Kapendiukhin ceaselessly jeered at Sitanov, makingfun of his passion for poetry and his unhappy romance, obscenely, butunsuccessfully trying to arouse jealousy. Sitanov listened to the Cossack’staunts in silence, without taking offense, and he sometimes even laughedwith Kapendiukhin at himself.
　　They slept side by side, and at night they would feold long, whisperedconversations about something. These conversations gave me no peace, for Iwas anxious to know what these two people who were so un like each otherfound to talk about in such a friendly manner. But when I went near them,the Cossack veiled :
　　“What do you want?”
　　But Sitanov did not seem to see me.
　　However, one day they called me, and the Cossack asked :
　　“Maximich, if you were rich, what would you do?”
　　“I would buy books.”
　　“And what else?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Ekh!” said Kapendiukhin, turning away from me in disgust, but Sitanovsaid calmly:
　　“You see; no one knows that, whether they be old or young. I tell you thatriches in themselves are worth nothing, unless they are applied to somespecial purpose.”
　　I asked them, “What are you talking about?”
　　“We don’t feel inclined to sleep, and so we are talking,” answered theCossack.
　　Later, listening to them, I found that they were discussing by night thosethings which other people dis cussed by day — God, truth, happiness, thestupidity and cunning of women, the greediness of the rich, and the fact thatlife is complicated and incomprehensible.
　　I always listened to their conversations eagerly; they excited me. I waspleased to think that almost every one had arrived at the same conclusion;namely, that life is evil, and that we ought to have a better form of existence!
　　But at the same time I saw that the desire to live under better conditionswould have no effect, would change nothing in the lives of the work-people,in their relations one with another. All these talks, throwing a light upon mylife as it lay before me, revealed at the same time, beyond it, a sort ofmelancholy emptiness; and in this emptiness, like specks of dust in a pondruffled by the wind, floated people, absurdly and exasperatingly, amongthem those very people who had said that such a crowd was devoid of sense.
　　Always ready to give their opinion, they were always passing judgment onothers, repeating, bragging, and starting bitter quarrels about mere trifles.
　　They were always seriously offending one another. They tried to guess whatwould happen to them after death ; while on the threshold of the workshopwhere the washstand stood, the floor-boards had rotted away. From thatdamp, fetid hole rose the cold, damp smell of sour earth, and it was this thatmade one’s feet freeze. Pavl and I stopped up this hole with straw and cloths.
　　We often said that the boards should be renewed, but the hole grew largerand larger, and in bad weather fumes rose from it as from a pipe. Every onecaught cold, and coughed. The tin ventilator in the fortochka squeaked, andwhen some one had oiled it, though they had all been grumbling at it,Jikharev said:
　　“It is dull, now that the fortochka has stopped squeaking.”
　　To come straight from the bath and lie down on a dirty, dusty bed, in themidst of dirt and bad smells, did not revolt any one of them. There weremany insignificant trifles which made our lives unbearable. which mighteasily have been remedied, but no one took the trouble to do anything.
　　They often said:
　　“No one has any mercy upon human creatures, — neither God nor weourselves.”
　　But when Pavl and I washed dying Davidov, who was eaten up with dirtand insects, a laugh was raised against us. They took off their shirts andinvited us to search them, called us blockheads, and jeered at us as if we haddone something shameful and very ludicrous.
　　From Christmas till the beginning of Lent drew near, Davidov lay in theloft, coughing protractedly, spitting blood, which, if it did not fall into thewash-hand basin, splashed on the floor. At night he woke the others with hisdelirious shrieks.
　　Almost every day they said :
　　“We must take him to the hospital!”
　　But it turned out that Davidov’s passport had expired. Then he seemedbetter, and they said :
　　“It is of no consequence after all; he will soon be dead!”
　　And he would say to himself:
　　“I shall soon be gone!”
　　He was a quiet humorist and also tried to relieve the dullness of theworkshop by jokes, hanging down his dark bony face, and saying in a wheezyvoice :
　　“Listen, people, to the voice of one who ascended to the loft.
　　“In the loft I live,Early do I wake;Asleep or awakeCockroaches devour me.”
　　“He is not downhearted!” exclaimed his audience.
　　Sometimes Pavl and I went to him, and he joked with difficulty.
　　“With what shall I regale you, my dear guests? A fresh little spider —would you like that?”
　　He died slowly, and he grew very weary of it. He said with unfeignedvexation:
　　“It seems that I can’t die, somehow; it is really a calamity!”
　　His fearlessness in the face of death frightened Pavl very much. Heawoke me in the night and whispered:
　　“Maximich, he seems to be dying. Suppose he dies in the night, when weare lying beneath him — Oh, Lord! I am frightened of dead people.”
　　Or he would say :
　　“Why was he born? Not twenty-two years have passed over his head andhe is dying.”
　　Once, on a moonlight night he awoke, and gazing with wide-open,terrified eyes said:
　　“Listen!”
　　Davidov was croaking in the loft, saying quickly and clearly :
　　“Give it to me — give — ”
　　Then he began to hiccup.
　　“He is dying, by God he is; you see!” said Pavl agitatedly.
　　I had been carrying snow from the yard into the fields all day, and I wasvery sleepy, but Pavl begged me:
　　“Don’t go to sleep, please; for Christ’s sake don’t go to sleep!”
　　And suddenly getting on to his knees, he cried f renziedly :
　　“Get up! Davidov is dead!”
　　Some of them awoke; several figures rose from the beds; angry voiceswere raised, asking questions.
　　Kapendiukhin climbed up into the loft and said in a tone of amzement:
　　“It is a fact; he is dead, although he is still warm.”
　　It was quiet now. Jikharev crossed himself, and wrapping himself roundin his blanket, said :
　　“Well, he is in the Kingdom of Heaven now!”
　　Some one suggested:
　　“Let us carry him into the vestibule.”
　　Kapendiukhin climbed down from the loft and glanced through thewindow.
　　“Let him lie where he is till the morning; he never hurt any one while hewas alive.”
　　Pavl, hiding his head under the pillow, sobbed.
　　But Sitanov did not even wake!
Chapter 15
    THE snow melted away from the fields; the wintry clouds in the sky passedaway; wet snow and rain fell upon the earth; the sun was slower and slowerin performing his daily journey; the air grew warmer; and it seemed that thejoyful spring had already arrived, sportively hiding herself behind the fields,and would soon burst upon the town itself. In the streets there was brownmud; streams ran along the gutters; in the thawed places of ArestantskiSquare the sparrows hopped joyfully. And in human creatures, also, wasapparent the same excitement as was shown by the sparrows. Above thesounds of spring, almost uninterruptedly from morning to night, rang outthe Lenten bells, stirring one’s heart with their muffled strokes. In thatsound, as in the speech of an old man, there was hidden something ofdispleasure, as if the bells had said with cold melancholy : “Has been, thishas been, has been — ” On my nameday the workmen gave me a small,beautifully painted image of Alexei, the man of God, and Jikharev made animpressive, long speech, which I remember very well.
　　“What are you?” said he, with much play of finger and raising ofeyebrows. “Nothing more than a small boy, an orphan, thirteen years old —and I, nearly four times your age, praise you and approve of you, because youalways stand with your face to people and not sideways! Stand like thatalways, and you will be all right!”
　　He spoke of the slaves of God, and of his people, but the differencebetween people and slaves I could never understand, and I don’t believe thathe understood it himself. His speech was long-winded, the workshop waslaughing at him, and I stood, with the image in my hand, very touched andvery confused, not knowing what I ought to do. At length Kapendiukhincalled out irritably :
　　“Oh, leave off singing his praises; his ears are already turning blue!”
　　Then clapping me on the shoulder, he began to praise me himself:
　　“What is good in you is what you have in common with all humancreatures, and not the fact that it is difficult to scold and beat you when youhave given cause for it!”
　　They all looked at me with kind eyes, making good-natured fun of myconfusion. A little more and I believe I should have burst out crying from theunexpected joy of finding myself valued by these people. And that verymorning the shopman had said to Petr Vassilich, nodding his head towardme :
　　“An unpleasant boy that, and good for nothing!”
　　As usual I had gone to the shop in the morning, but at noon the shopmanhad said to me :
　　“Go home and clear the snow off the roof of the warehouse, and clean outthe cellar.”
　　That it was my name-day he did not know, and I had thought that no oneknew it. When the ceremony of congratulations had finished in the work —shop, I changed my clothes and climbed up to the roof of the shed to throwoff the smooth, heavy snow which had accumulated during that winter. Butbeing excited, I forgot to close the door of the cellar, and threw all the snowinto it. When I jumped down to the ground, I saw my mistake, and set myselfat once to get the snow away from the door. Being wet, it lay heavily; thewooden spade moved it with difficulty; there was no iron one, and I brokethe spade at the very moment when the shopman appeared at the yard-gate.
　　The truth of the Russian proverb, “Sorrow follows on the heels of joy,” wasproved to me.
　　“So — o — o!” said the shopman derisively, “you are a fine workman, thedevil take you! If I get hold of your senseless blockhead — “ He flourished theblade of the shovel over me.
　　I move away, saying angrily :
　　“I wasn’t engaged as a yardman, anyhow.”
　　He hurled the stick against my legs. I took up a snowball and threw itright in his face. He ran away snorting, and I left off working, and went intothe workshop. In a few minutes his fiancee came running downstairs. Shewas an agile maiden, with pim — ples on her vacant face.
　　“Maximich, you are to go upstairs!”
　　“I am not going!” I said. Larionich asked in an amazed undertone: “Whatis this? You are not going “?” I told him about the affair. With an anxiousfrown he went upstairs, muttering to me: “Oh, you impudent youngster — ”
　　The workshop resounded with abuse .f the shop-man, and Kapendiukhinsaid:
　　“Well, they will kick you out this time!” This did not alarm me. Myrelations with the shopman had already become unbearable. His hatred ofme was undisguised and became more and more acute, while, for my part, Icould not endure him. But what I wanted to know was: why did he behave soabsurdly to me”? He would throw coins about the floor of the shop, andwhen I was sweeping, I found them, and laid them on the counter in the cupwhich contained the small money kept for beggars. When I guessed whatthese frequent finds meant I said to him:
　　“You throw money about in my way on purpose!” He flew out at me andcried incautiously: “Don’t you dare to teach me! I know what I am doing!”
　　But he corrected himself immediately: “And what do you mean by mythrowing it about purposely? It falls about itself.”
　　He forbade me to read the books in the shop, saying:
　　“That is not for you to trouble your head about IWhat! Have you an idea of becoming a valuer, sluggard?’
　　He did not cease his attempts to catch me in the theft of small money,and I realised that if, when I was sweeping the floor, the coin should roll intoa crevice between the boards, he would declare that I had stolen it. Then Itold him again that he had better give up that game, but that same day, whenI re — turned from the tavern with the boiling water, I heard him suggestingto the newly engaged assistant in the neighboring shop:
　　“Egg him on to steal psalters. We shall soon be having three hampers ofthem.”
　　I knew that they were talking about me, for when I entered the shop theyboth looked confused; and besides these signs, I had grounds for suspectingthem of a foolish conspiracy against me.
　　This was not the first time that that assistant had been in the service ofthe man next door. He was accounted a clever salesman, but he sufferedfrom alco — holism; in one of his drinking bouts the master had dismissedhim, but had afterwards taken him back. He was an anaemic, feeble person,with cunning eyes. Apparently amiable and submissive to the slightestgesture of his master, he smiled a little, clever smile in his beard all the time,was fond of uttering sharp sayings, and exhaled the rotten smell whichcomes from people with bad teeth, although his own were white and strong.
　　One day he gave me a terrible surprise; he came towards me smilingpleasantly, but suddenly seized my cap off my head and took hold of my hair.
　　We began to struggle. He pushed me from the gallery into the shop, trying allthe time to throw me against the large images which stood about on thefloor. If he had succeeded in this, I should have broken the glass, or chippedthe carving, and no doubt scratched some of the costly icons. He was veryweak, and I soon overcame him; when to my great amazement the beardedman sat on the floor and cried bitterly, rubbing his bruised nose.
　　The next morning when our masters had both gone out somewhere andwe were alone, he said to me in a friendly manner, rubbing the lump on thebridge of his nose and under his eyes with his finger :
　　“Do you think that it was of my own will or desire that I attacked you? Iam not a fool, you know, and I knew that you would be more than a matchfor me. I am a man of little strength, a tippler. It was your master who toldme to do it. ‘Lead him on,’ he said, ‘and get him to break something in theshop while he is fighting you. Let him damage something, anyhow!’ I shouldnever have done it of my own accord; look how you have ornamented myphiz for me.”
　　I believed him, and I began to be sorry for him. I knew that he lived, half-starved, with a woman who knocked him about. However, I asked him:
　　“And if he told you to poison a person, I suppose you would do it?”
　　“He might do that,” said the shopman with a pitiful smile; “he is capableof it.”
　　Soon after this he asked me :
　　“Listen, I have not a farthing; there is nothing to eat at home ; my missusnags at me. Couldn’t you take an icon out of your stock and give it to me tosell, like a friend, eh? Will you”? Or a breviary?”
　　I remembered the boot-shop, and the beadle of the church, and Ithought: “Will this man give me away?” But it was hard to refuse him, and Igave him an icon. To steal a breviary worth several rubles, that I could notdo; it seemed, to me a great crime. What would you have? Arithrnetic alwayslies concealed in ethics; the holy ingenuousness of “Regula — tions for thePunishment of Criminals” clearly gives away this little secret, behind whichthe great lie of property hides itself.
　　When I heard my shopman suggesting that this miserable man shouldincite me to steal psalters I was afraid. It was clear that he knew howcharitable I had been on the other’s behalf, and that the man from next doorhad told him about the icon.
　　The abominableness of being charitable at another person’s expense, andthe realization of the rotten trap that had been set for me — both these thingsaroused in me a feeling of indignation and disgust with myself and every oneelse. For several days I tormented myself cruelly, waiting for the arrival ofthe hamper with the books. At length they came, and when I was puttingthem away in the store-room, the shopman from next door came to me andasked me to give him a breviary.
　　Then I asked him :
　　“Did you tell my master about the icon?”
　　“1 did,” he answered in a melancholy voice; “I can keep nothing back,brother.”
　　This utterly confounded me, and I sat on the floor staring at himstupidly, while he muttered hurriedly, confusedly, desperately miserable:
　　“You see your man guessed — or rather, mine guessed and told yours — ”
　　I thought I was lost. These people had been conspiring against me, andnow there was a place ready for me in the colony for youthful criminals! Ifthat were so, nothing mattered! If one must drown, it is better to drown in adeep spot. I put a breviary into the hands of the shopman; he hid it in thesleeves of his greatcoat and went away. But he returned suddenly, thebreviary fell at my feet, and the man strode away, saying:
　　“I won’t take it! It would be all over with you.”
　　I did not understand these words. Why should it be all over with me? ButI was very glad that he had not taken the book. After this my little shop-manbegan to regard me with more disfavor and sus — picion than ever.
　　I remembered all this when Larionich went upstairs. He did not staythere long, and came back more depressed and quiet than usual, but beforesupper he said to me privately :
　　“I tried to arrange for you to be set free from the shop, and given over tothe workshop, but it was no good. Kouzma would not have it. You are verymuch out of favor with him.”
　　I had an enemy in the house, too — the shopman’s fiancee, animmoderately sportive damsel. All the young fellows in the workshop playedabout with her; they used to wait for her in the vestibule and embrace her.
　　This did not offend her; she only squeaked like a little dog. She was chewingsomething from morning to night; her pockets were always full of ginger —bread or buns; her jaws moved ceaselessly. To look at her vacant face with itsrestless gray eyes was unpleasant. She used to ask Pavl and me riddles whichalways concealed some coarse obscenity, and repeated catchwords which,being said very quickly, became improper words.
　　One day one of the elderly workmen said to her:
　　“You are a shameless hussy, my girl!”
　　To which she answered swiftly, in the words of a ribald song:
　　“If a maiden is too modest, She’ll never be a woman worth having.”
　　It was the first time I had ever seen such a girl. She disgusted andfrightened me with her coarse playfulness, and seeing that her antics werenot agreeable to me, she became more and more spiteful toward me.
　　Once when Pavl and I were in the cellar helping her to steam out thecasks of kvass and cucumbers she suggested :
　　“Would you like me to teach you how to kiss, boys?”
　　“I know how to kiss better than you do” Pavl answered, and I told her togo and kiss her future hus — band. I did not say it very politely, either.
　　She was angry.
　　“Oh, you coarse creature! A young lady makes herself agreeable to himand he turns up his nose. Well, I never! What a ninny!”
　　And she added, shaking a threatening finger at me :
　　“You just wait. I will remember that of you!”
　　But Pavl said to her, taking my part :
　　“Your young man would give you something if he knew about yourbehavior!”
　　She screwed up her pimply face contemptuously.
　　“I am not afraid of him! I have a dowry. I am much better than he is! Agirl only has the time till she is married to amuse herself.”
　　She began to play about with Pavl, and from that time I found in her anunwearying calumniator.
　　My life in the shop became harder and harder. I read church books allthe time. The disputes and conversations of the valuers had ceased to amuseme, for they were always talking over the same things in the same old way.
　　Petr Vassilich alone still interested me, with his knowledge of the dark sideof hu — man life, and his power of speaking interestingly andenthusiastically. Sometimes I thought he must be the prophet Elias walkingthe earth, solitary and vindictive. But each time that I spoke to the old manfrankly about people, or about my own thoughts, he repeated all that I hadsaid to the shopman, who either ridiculed me offensively, or abused meangrily.
　　One day I told the old man that I sometimes wrote his sayings in thenote-book in which I had copied various poems taken out of books. Thisgreatly alarmed the valuer, who limped towards me swiftly, askinganxiously :
　　“What did you do that for? It is not worth while, my lad. So that you mayremember? No; you just give it up. What a boy you are! Now you will give mewhat you have written, won’t you?”
　　He tried long and earnestly to persuade me to either give him thenotebook, or to burn it, and then he began to whisper angrily with theshopman.
　　As we were going home, the latter said to me:
　　“You have been taking notes? That has got to be” stopped! Do you hear?
　　Only detectives do that sort of thing!”
　　Then I asked incautiously:
　　“And what about Sitanov? He also takes notes.”
　　“Also. That long fool?”
　　He was silent for a long time, and then with unusual gentleness he said:
　　“Listen; if you show me your note-book and Sitanov’s, too, I will give youhalf a ruble! Only do it on the quiet, so that Sitanov does not see.”
　　No doubt he thought that I would carry out his wish, and without sayinganother word, he ran in front of me on his short legs.
　　When I reached the house, I told Sitanov what the shopman hadproposed to me. Evgen frowned.
　　“You have been chattering purposely. Now he will give some oneinstructions to steal both our note-books. Give me yours — I will hide it. Andhe will turn you out before long — you see!”
　　I was convinced of that, too, and resolved to leave as soon asgrandmother returned to the town. She had been living at Balakhania all thewinter, invited by some one to teach young girls to make lace. Grandfatherwas again living in Kunavin Street, but I did not visit him, and when he cameto the town, he never came to see me. One day we ran into each other in thestreet. He was walking along in a heavy racoon pelisse, importantly andslowly. I said “How do you do” to him. He lifted his hands to shade his eyes,looked at me from under them, and then said thoughtfully:
　　“Oh, it is you; you are an image-painter now. Yes, yes; all right; get alongwith you.”
　　Pushing me out of his way, he continued his walk, slowly andimportantly.
　　I saw grandmother seldom. She worked unweariedly to feed grandfather,who was suffering from the malady of old age — senile weakness — and hadalso taken upon herself the care of my uncle’s children.
　　The one who caused her the most worry was Sascha,Mikhail’s son, a handsome lad, dreamy and book-loving. He worked in adyer’s shop, frequently changed his employers, and in the intervals threwhimself on grandmother’s shoulders, calmly waiting until she should findhim another place. She had Sascha’s sister on her shoulders, too. She hadmade an unfor — tunate marriage with a drunken workman, who beat herand turned her out of his house.
　　Every time I met grandmother, I was more consciously charmed by herpersonality; but I felt already that that beautiful soul, blinded by fancifultales, was not capable of seeing, could not understand a revelation of thebitter reality of life, and my disquietude and restlessness were strange to her.
　　“You must have patience, Oleshal”
　　This was all she had to say to me in reply to my stories of the hideouslives, of the tortures of people, of sorrow — of all which perplexed me, andwith which I was burning.
　　I was unfitted by nature to be patient, and if occasionally I exhibited thatvirtue which belongs to cattle, trees, and stones, I did so in the cause of self-discipline, to test my reserves of strength, my degree of stability upon earth.
　　Sometimes young people, with the stupidity of youth, will keep on trying tolift weights too heavy for their muscles and bones; will try boastfully, likefull-grown men of proved strength, to cross themselves with heavy weights,envious of the strength of their elders.
　　I also did this in a double sense, physically and spiritually, and it is onlydue to some chance that I did not strain myself dangerously, or deformmyself for the rest of my life. Besides, nothing disfigures a man more terriblythan his patience, the submission of his strength to external conditions.
　　And though in the end I shall lie in the earth disfigured, I can say, notwithout pride, to my last hour, that good people did their best for forty yearsto disfigure my soul, but that their labors were not very successful.
　　The wild desire to play mischievous pranks, to amuse people, to makethem laugh, took more and more hold upon me. I was successful in this. Icould tell stories about the merchants in the market-place, impersonatingthem ; I could imitate the peasant men and women buying and selling icons,the shopman skilfully cheating them; the valuers disputing amongstthemselves.
　　The workshop resounded with laughter. Often the workmen left theirwork to look on at my impersonations, but on all these occasions Larionichwould say:
　　“You had better do your acting after supper; otherwise you hinder thework.”
　　When I had finished my performance I felt myself easier, as if I hadthrown off a burden which weighed upon me. For half an hour or an hour myhead felt pleasantly clear, but soon it felt again as if it were full of sharp,small nails, which moved about and grew hot. It seemed to me that a sort ofdirty porridge was boiling around me, and that I was being gradually boiledaway in it.
　　I wondered: Was life really like this? And should I have to live as thesepeople lived, never finding, never seeing anything better?
　　“You are growing sulky, Maximich,” said Jikharev, looking at meattentively.
　　Sitanov often asked me:
　　“What is the matter with you?”
　　And I could not answer him.
　　Life perseveringly and roughly washed out from my soul its most delicatewritings, maliciously changing them into some sort of indistinct trash, andwith anger and determination I resisted its violence. I was floating on thesame river as all the others, only for me the waters were colder and did notsupport me as easily as it did the others. Sometimes it seemed to me that Iwas gently sinking into unfathomable depths.
　　People behaved better to me; they did not shout at me as they did atPavl, nor harass me; they called me by my patronymic in order to emphasizetheir more respectful attitude toward me. This was good; but it was torturingto see how many of them drank vodka, how disgustingly drunk they became,and how injurious to them were their relations with women, although Iunderstood that vodka and women were the only diversions that lifeafforded.
　　I often called to mind with sorrow that that most intelligent, courageouswoman, Natalia Kozlovski, was also called a woman of pleasure. And whatabout grandmother? And Queen Margot?
　　I used to think of my queen with a feeling almost of terror ; she was soremoved from all the others, it was as if I had seen her in a dream.
　　I began to think too much about women, and I had already revolved inmy own mind the question : Shall I go on the next holiday where all theothers go? This was no physical desire. I was both healthy and fastidious, butat times I was almost mad with a desire to embrace some one tender,intelligent, and frankly, unrestrainedly, as to a mother, speak to her of thedisturbances of my soul.
　　I envied Pavl when he told me at night of his affair with a maidservant inthe opposite house.
　　“It is a funny thing, brother! A month ago I was throwing snowballs ather because I did not like her, and now I sit on a bench and hug her. She isdearer to me than any one!”
　　“What do you talk about?”
　　“About everything, of course! She talks to me about herself, and I talk toher about myself. And then we kiss — only she is honest. In fact, brother, sheis so good that it is almost a misfortune! Why, you smoke like an old soldier!”
　　I smoked a lot; tobacco intoxicated me, dulled my restless thoughts, myagitated feelings. As for vodka, it only aroused in me a repulsion toward myown odor and taste, but Pavl drank with a will, and when he was drunk, usedto cry bitterly :
　　“I want to go home, I want to go home! Let me go home!”
　　As far as I can remember he was an orphan; his mother and father hadbeen dead a long time. Brother and sister he had none; he had lived amongstrangers for eight years.
　　In this state of restless dissatisfaction the call of spring disturbed me stillmore. I made up my mind to go on a boat again, and if I could get as far asAstrakhan, to run away to Persia.
　　I do not remember why I selected Persia particularly. It may have beenbecause I had taken a great fancy to the Persian merchants on theNijigorodski market-place, sitting like stone idols, spreading their dyedbeards in the sun, calmly smoking their hookas, with large, dark, omniscienteyes.
　　There is no doubt that I should have run away somewhere, but one dayin Easter week, when part of the occupants of the workshop had gone to theirhomes, and the rest were drinking, I was walking on a sunny day on thebanks of the Oka, when I met my old master, grandmother’s nephew.
　　He was walking along in a light gray overcoat, with his hands in hispockets, a cigarette between his teeth, his hat on the back of his head. Hispleasant face smiled kindly at me. He had the appearance of a man who is atliberty and is happy, and there was no one beside ourselves in the fields.
　　“Ah, Pyeshkov, Christ is risen!”
　　After we had exchanged the Easter kiss, he asked how I was living, and Itold him frankly that the workshop, the town and everything in general wereabhor — rent to me, and that I had made up my mind to go to Persia.
　　“Give it up,” he said to me gravely. “What the devil is there in Persia? Iknow exactly how you arc feeling, brother; in my youth I also had the wanderfever.”
　　I liked him for telling me this. There was something about him good andspringlike; he was a being set apart.
　　“Do you smoke?” he asked, holding out a silver cigarette-case full of fatcigarettes.
　　That completed his conquest of me.
　　“What you had better do, Pyeshkov, is to come back to me again,” hesuggested. “For this year I have undertaken contracts for the new marketplace,you understand. And I can make use of you there; you will be a kind ofoverseer for me; you will receive all the material ; you will see that it is all inits proper place, and that the workmen do not steal it. Will that suit you?
　　Your wages will be five rubles a month, and five copecks for dinner! Thewomen-folk will have nothing to do with you ; you will go out in the morningand return in the evening. As for the women ; you can ignore them; onlydon’t let them know that we have met, but just come to see us on Sunday atPhomin Street. It will be a change for you!”
　　We parted like friends. As he said good-by, he pressed my hand, and ashe went away, he actually waved his hat to me affably from a distance.
　　When I announced in the workroom that I was leaving, most of theworkmen showed a flattering regret. Pavl, especially, was upset.
　　“Think,” he said reproachfully; “how will you live with men of all kinds,after being with us? With carpenters, house-painters — Oh, you — It is goingout of the frying-pan into the fire.”
　　Jikharev growled:
　　“A fish looks for the deepest place, but a clever young man seeks a worseplace!”
　　The send-off which they gave me from the workshop was a sad one.
　　“Of course one must try this and that,” said Jikharev, who was yellowfrom the effects of a drinking bout. “It is better to do it straight off, beforeyou become too closely attached to something or other.”
　　“And that for the rest of your life,” added Larionich softly.
　　But I felt that they spoke with constraint, and from a sense of duty. Thethread which had bound me to them was somehow rotted and broken.
　　In the loft drunken Golovev rolled about, and muttered hoarsely:
　　“I would like to see them all in prison. I know their secrets! Who believesin God here? Aha — a —!”
　　As usual, faceless, uncompleted icons were propped against the wall ; theglass balls were fixed to the ceiling. It was long since we had had to workwith a light, and the balls, not being used, were covered with a gray coatingof soot and dust. I remember the surroundings so vividly that if I shut myeyes, I can see in the darkness the whole of that basement room: all thetables, and the jars of paint on the windowsills, the bundles of brushes, theicons, the slop-pail under the brass washstand-basin which looked like a fireman’shelmet, and, hanging from the ceiling, Go — lovev’s bare foot, whichwas blue like the foot of a drowned man.
　　I wanted to get away quickly, but in Russia they love long-drawn-out, sadmoments. When they are saying good-by, Russian people behave as if theywere hearing a requiem mass.
　　Jikharev, twitching his brows, said to me:
　　“That book — the devil’s book — I can’t give it back to you. Will you taketwo greven for it?”
　　The book was my own, — the old second lieutenant of the fire-brigadehad given it to me — and I grudged giving Lermontov away. But when,somewhat offended, I refused the money, Jikharev calmly put the coins backin his purse, and said in an unwavering tone:
　　“As you like ; but I shall not give you back the book. It is not for you. Abook like that would soon lead you into sin.”
　　“But it is sold in shops; I have seen it!”
　　But he only said with redoubled determination:
　　“That has nothing to do with the matter; they sell revolvers in shops, too—”
　　So he never returned Lermontov to me.
　　As I was going upstairs to say good-by to my mistress, I ran into herniece in the hall.
　　“Is it true what they say — that you are leaving?’
　　“Yes.”
　　“If you had not gone of your own accord, you would have been sentaway,” she assured me, not very kindly, but with perfect frankness.
　　And the tipsy mistress said:
　　“Good-by, Christ be with you! You are a bad boy, an impudent boy;although I have never seen anything bad in you myself, they all say that youare a bad boy!” And suddenly she burst out crying, and said through hertears:
　　“Ah, if my dead one, my sweet husband, dear soul, had been alive, hewould have known how to deal with you; he would have boxed your ears andyou would have stayed on. We should not have had to send you away! Butnowadays things are different; if all is not exactly as you like, away you go!
　　Och! And where will you be going, boy, and what good will it do you to strollfrom place to place?”
Chapter 16
    I WAS in a boat with my master, passing along the market-place betweenshops which were flooded to the height of the second story. I plied the oars,while my master sat in the stern. The paddle wheel, which was useless as arudder, was deep in the water, and the boat veered about awkwardly,meandering from street to street on the quiet, muddily sleepy waters.
　　“Ekh! The water gets higher and higher. The devil take it! It is keepingthe work back,” grumbled my master as he smoked a cigar, the smoke ofwhich had an odor of burning cloth. “Gently!” he cried in alarm, “we arerunning into a lamp-post!” He steered the boat out of danger and scolded me: “They have given me a boat, the wretches!” He showed me the spot onwhich, after the water had subsided, the work of rebuilding would begin.
　　With his face shaved to a bluish tint, his mustache clipped short, and a cigarin his mouth, he did not look like a contractor. He wore a leathern jacket,high boots to his knees, and a game-bag was slung over his shoulders. At hisfeet was an expensive two-barelled gun, manufactured by Lebed. From timeto time he restlessly changed the position of his leathern cap, pulling it overhis eyes, pouting his lips and looking cau — tiously around. He pushed thecap to the back of his head, looked younger, and smiled beneath hismustache, thinking of something pleasant. No one would have thought thathe had a lot of work to do, and that the long time the water took in subsidingworried him. Evidently thoughts wholly unconnected with business werepassing through his mind.
　　And I was overwhelmed by a feeling of quiet amazement; it seemed sostrange to look upon that dead town, the straight rows of buildings withclosed windows. The town was simply flooded with water, and seemed to befloating past our boat. The sky was gray. The sun had been lost in the clouds,but sometimes shone through them in large, silver, wintry patches.
　　The water also was gray and cold; its flow was unnoticeable; it seemed tobe congealed, fixed to one place, like the empty houses beside the shops,which were painted a dirty yellow. When the pale sun looked through theclouds, all around grew slightly brighter. The water reflected the gray textureof the sky; our boat seemed to hang in the air between two skies; the stonebuildings also lifted themselves up, and with a scarcely perceptiblemovement floated toward the Volga, or the Oka. Around the boat werebroken casks, boxes, baskets, fragments of wood and straw; sometimes a rodor joist of wood floated like a dead snake on the surface.
　　Here and there windows were opened. On the roofs of the rows ofgalleries linen was drying, or felt boots stuck. out. A woman looked out of awindow onto the gray waters. A boat was moored to the top of the cast-ironcolumns of a galley; her red deck made the reflection of the water look greasyand meat-like.
　　Nodding his head at these signs of life, my master explained to me:
　　“This is where the market watchman lives. He climbs out of the windowonto the roof, gets into his boat, and goes out to see if there are any thievesabout. And if there are none, he thieves on his own account.”
　　He spoke lazily, calmly, thinking of something else. All around was quiet,deserted, and unreal, as if it were part of a dream. The Volga and the Okaflowed into an enormous lake; in the distance on a rugged hillside the townwas painted in motley colors. Gardens were still somberly clothed, but thebuds were bursting on the trees, and foliage clad houses and churches in awarm, green mantle. Over the water crept the muffled sound of the Easter-tide bells. The murmur of the town was audible, while here it was just like aforgotten graveyard.
　　Our boat wended its way between two rows of black trees; we were onthe high road to the old cathedral. The cigar was in my master’s way ; itsacrid smoke got into his eyes and caused him to run the nose of the boat intothe trunks of the trees. Upon which he cried, irritably and in surprise:
　　“What a rotten boat this is!”
　　“But you are not steering it.”
　　“How can I?” he grumbled. “When there are two people in a boat, onealways rows while the other steers. There — look! There’s the Chinese block.”
　　I knew the market through and through; I knew that comical-lookingblock of buildings with the ridiculous roofs on which sat, with crossed legs,figures of Chinamen in plaster of Paris. There had been a time when I andmy playfellow had thrown stones at them, and some of the Chinamen hadhad their heads and hands broken off by me. But I no longer took any pridein that sort of thing.
　　“Rubbish!” said my master, pointing to the block. “If I had been allowedto build it — ”
　　He whistled and pushed his cap to the back of his head.
　　But somehow I thought that he would have built that town of stone justas dingily, on that low-lying ground which was flooded by the waters of tworivers every year. And he would even have invented the Chinese block.
　　Throwing his cigar over the side of the boat, he spat after it in disgust,saying:
　　“Life is very dull, Pyeshkov, very dull. There are no educated people — noone to talk to. If one wants to show off one’s gifts, who is there to beimpressed? Not a soul! All the people here are carpenters, stone-masons,peasants — ”
　　He looked straight ahead at the white mosque which rose picturesquelyout of the water on a small hill, and continued as. if he were recollectingsomething he had forgotten :
　　“I began to drink beer and smoke cigars when I was working under aGerman. The Germans, my brother, are a business-like race — such wildfowl! Drinking beer is a pleasant occupation, but I have never got used tosmoking cigars. And when you ‘ve been smoking, your wife grumbles: ‘Whatis it that you smell of? It is like the smell at the harness-makers.’ Ah, brother,the longer we live, the more artful we grow. Well, well, true to oneself — ”
　　Placing the oar against the side of the boat, he took up his gun and shotat a Chinaman on a roof. No harm came to the latter; the shot buried itself inthe roof and the wall, raising a dusty smoke.
　　“That was a miss,” he admitted without regret, and he again loaded hisgun.
　　“How do you get on with the girls? Are you keen on them? No? Why, Iwas in love when I was only thirteen.”
　　He told me, as if he were telling a dream, the story of his first love for thehousemaid of the architect to whom he had been apprenticed. Softlysplashed the gray water, washing the corners of the buildings; beyond thecathedral dully gleamed a watery waste; black twigs rose here and thereabove it. In the icon-painter’s workshop they often sang the Seminarski song:
　　“O blue sea, Stormy sea . . .”
　　That blue sea must have been deadly dull.
　　“I never slept at nights,” went on my master. “Sometimes I got out of bedand stood at her door, shivering like a dog. It was a cold house! The mastervisited her at night. He might have discovered me, but I was not afraid, not 11”
　　He spoke thoughtfully, like a person looking at an old worn-out coat, andwondering if he could wear it once more.
　　“She noticed me, pitied me, unfastened her door, and called me: ‘Comein, you little fool.’ ”
　　I had heard many stories of this kind, and they bored me, although therewas one pleasing feature about them — almost every one spoke of their “firstlove” without boasting, or obscenity, and often so gently and sadly that Iunderstood that the story of their first love was the best in their lives.
　　Laughing and shaking his head, my master exclaimed wonderingly:
　　“But that’s the sort of thing you don’t tell your wife; no, no! Well, there’sno harm in it, but you never tell. That’s a story — ”
　　He was telling the story to himself, not to me. If he had been silent, Ishould have spoken. In that quietness and desolation one had to talk, or sing,or play on the harmonica, or one would fall into a heavy, eternal sleep in themidst of that dead town, drowned in gray, cold water.
　　“In the first place, don’t marry too soon,” he counseled me. “Marriage,brother, is a matter of the mostIN IHE WORLD 401 stupendous importance. You can live where youlike and how you like, according to your will. You can live in Persia as aMahommedan ; in Moscow as a man about town. You can arrange your lifeas you choose. You can give everything a trial. But a wife, brother, is like theweather — you can never rule her! You can’t take a wife and throw her asidelike an old boot.”
　　His face changed. He gazed into the gray water with knitted brows,rubbing his prominent nose with his fingers, and muttered:
　　“Yes, brother, look before you leap. Let us suppose that you are beset onall sides, and still continue to stand firm ; even then there is a special traplaid for each one of us.”
　　We were now amongst the vegetation in the lake of Meshtcherski, whichwas fed by the Volga.
　　“Row softly,” whispered my master, pointing his gun into the bushes.
　　After he had shot a few lean woodcocks, he suggested:
　　“Let us go to Kunavin Street. I will spend the evening there, and you cango home and say that I am detained by the contractors.”
　　Setting him down at one of the streets on the outskirts of the town,which was also flooded, I returned to the market-place on the Stravelka,moored the boat, and sitting in it, gazed at the confluence of the two rivers,at the town, the steamboats, the sky, which was just like the gorgeous wing ofsome gigantic bird, all white feathery clouds. The golden sun peeped throughthe blue gaps between the clouds, and with one glance at the earthtransfigured everything thereon. Brisk, determined movement went on allaround me: the swift current of the rivers lightly bore innumerable planks ofwood; on these planks bearded peasants stood firmly, wielding long polesand shouting to one another, or to approaching steamers. A little steamerwas pulling an empty barge against the stream. The river dragged at it, and_shook it. It turned its nose round like a pike and panted, firmly setting itswheels against the water, which was rushing furiously to meet it. On a bargewith their legs hanging over the side sat four peasants, shoulder to shoulder.
　　One of them wore a red shirt, and sang a song the words of which I could nothear, but I knew it.
　　I felt that here on the living river I knew all, was in touch with all, andcould understand all; and the town which lay flooded behind me was an evildream, an imagination of my master’s, as difficult to understand as he washimself.
　　When I had satiated myself by gazing at all there was to see, I returnedhome, feeling that I was a grown man, capable of any kind of work. On theway I looked from the hill of the Kreml on to the Volga in the distance. Fromthe hill, the earth appeared enormous, and promised all that one couldpossibly desire.
　　I had books at home. In the flat which Queen Margot had occupied therenow lived a large family, — five young ladies, each one more beautiful thanthe others, and two schoolboys — and these people used to give me books. Iread Turgenieff with avidity, amazed to find how intelligible, simple, andpellucid as autumn he was; how pure were his characters, and how — goodeverything was about which he succinctly dis coursed. I read Pomyalovski’s“Bourse” and was again amazed; it was so strangely like the life in the icon-painting workshop. I was so well acquainted with that desperate tediumwhich precipitated one into cruel pranks. I enjoyed reading Russian books. Ialways felt that there was something about them familiar and melancholy, asif there were hidden in their pages the frozen sound of the Lenten bell, whichpealed forth softly as soon as one opened a book.
　　“Dead Souls” I read reluctantly; “Letters from the House of the Dead,”
　　also. “Dead Souls,” “Dead Houses,” “Three Deaths,” “Living Relics”— thesebooks with titles so much alike arrested my attention against my will, andaroused a lethargic repugnance for all such books. “Signs of the Times,”
　　“Step by Step,” “WOiat to Do,” and “Chronicles of the Village of Smourin,” Idid not care for, nor any other books of the same kind. But I was delightedwith Dickens and Walter Scott. I read these authors with the greatestenjoyment, the same books over and over again. The works of Walter Scottreminded me of a high mass on a great feast day in rich churches —somewhat long and tedious, but always solemn. Dickens still remains to meas the author to whom I respectfully bow ; he was a man who had awonderful apprehension of that most difficult of arts — love of humannature.
　　In the evenings a large company of people used to gather on the roof: thebrothers K. and their sisters, grown up; the snub-nosed schoolboy,Vyacheslav Semashko; and sometimes Miss Ptitzin, the daughter of animportant official, appeared there, too. They talked of books and poetry. Thiswas something which appealed to me, and which I could understand; I hadread more than all of them together. But sometimes they talked about thehigh school, and com plained about the teachers. When I listened to theserecitals, I felt that I had more liberty than my friends, and was amazed attheir patience. And yet I envied them; they had opportunities of learning!
　　My comrades were older than I, but I felt that I was the elder. I waskeener-witted, more experienced than they. This worried me somewhat; Iwanted to feel more in touch with them. I used to get home late in theevening, dusty and dirty, steeped in impressions very different from theirs —in the main very monotonous. They talked a lot about young ladies, and ofbeing in love with this one and that one, and they used to try their hands atwriting poetry. They frequently solicited my help in this matter. I willinglyapplied myself to versification, and it was easy for me to find the rhymes, butfor some reason or other my verses always took a humorous turn, and Inever could help associating Miss Ptitzin, to whom the poetry was generallydedicated, with fruits and vegetables.
　　Semashko said to me:
　　“Do you call that poetry? It is as much like poetry as hobnails would be.”
　　Not wishing to be behind them in anything, I also fell in love with MissPtitzin. I do not remember how I declared my feelings, but I know that theaffair ended badly. On the stagnant green water of the Zvyezdin Pond floateda plank, and I proposed to give the young lady a ride on it. She agreed. Ibrought the log to the bank; it held me alone quite well. But when thegorgeously dressed young lady, all ribbons and lace, graciously stepped onthe other end, and I proudly pushed off with a stick, the accursed log rolledaway from under us and my young lady went head over heels into the water.
　　I threw myself in knightly fashion after her, and swiftly brought her toshore. Fright and the green mire of the pond had quite destroyed her beautyI Shaking her wet fist at me threateningly, she cried:
　　“You threw me in the water on purpose!”
　　And refusing to believe in the sincerity of my protestations, from thattime she treated me as an enemy.
　　On the whole, I did not find living in the town very interesting. My oldmistress was as hostile as she had ever been; the young one regarded mewith contempt; Victorushka more freckled than ever, snorted at every one,and was everlastingly aggrieved about something.
　　My master had many plans to draw. He could not get through all thework with his brother, and so he engaged my stepfather as assistant.
　　One day I came home from the market-place early, about five o’clock,and going into the dining-room, saw the man whose existence I hadforgotten, at the table beside the master. He held his hand out to me.
　　“How do you do?”
　　I drew back at the unexpectedness of it. The fire of the past had beensuddenly rekindled, and burned my heart.
　　My stepfather looked at me with a smile on his terribly emaciated face ;his dark eyes were larger than ever. He looked altogether worn out anddepressed. I placed my hand in his thin, hot fingers.
　　“Well, so we ‘ve met again,” he said, coughing.
　　I left them, feeling as weak as if I had been beaten.
　　Our manner to each other was cautious and restrained; he called me bymy first name and my pa — tronymic, and spoke to me as an equal.
　　“When you go to the shops, please buy me a quarter of a pound ofLapherm’s tobacco, a hundred pack — ets of Vitcorson’s, and a pound ofboiled sausage.”
　　The money which he gave me was always unpleasantly heated by his hothands. It was plain that he was a consumptive, and not long to be aninhabitant of this earth. He knew this, and would say in a calm, deep voice,twisting his pointed black beard:
　　“My illness is almost incurable. However, if I take plenty of meat I mayget better — I may get better.”
　　He ate an unbelievably large amount; he smoked cigarettes, which wereonly out of his lips when he was eating. Every day I bought him sausages,ham, sardines, but grandmother’s sister said with an air of certainty, and forsome reason maliciously :
　　“It is no use to feed Death with dainties; you cannot deceive him.”
　　The mistress regarded my stepfather with an air of injury, reproachfullyadvised him to try this or that medicine, but made fun of him behind hisback.
　　“A fine gentleman! The crumbs ought to be swept up more often in thedining-room, he says; crumbs cause the flies to multiply, he says.”
　　The young mistress said this, and the old mistress repeated after her:
　　“What do you mean — a fine gentleman! With his coat all worn andshiny, and he always scraping it with a clothes-brush. He is so faddy; theremust not be a speck of dust on it!”
　　But the master spoke soothingly to them :
　　“Be patient, wild fowl, he will soon be dead!”
　　This senseless hostility of the middle class toward a man of good birthsomehow drew me and my step-father closer together. The crimson agaric isan un wholesome fungus, yet it is so beautiful. Suffocated among thesepeople, my stepfather was like a fish which had accidentally fallen into afowl-run — an absurd comparison, as everything in that life was absurd.
　　I began to find in him resemblances to “Good Business” — a man whom Icould never forget. I adorned him and my Queen with the best that I got outof books. I gave them all that was most pure in me, all the fantasies born ofmy reading. My stepfather was just such another man, aloof and unloved, as“Good Business.” He behaved alike to every one in the house, never spokefirst, and answered questions put to him with a peculiar politeness andbrevity. I was delighted when he taught my masters. Standing at the table,bent double, he would tap the thick paper with his dry nails, and suggestcalmly :
　　“Here you will have to have a keystone. That will halve the force of thepressure; otherwise the pillar will crash through the walls.”
　　“That’s true, the devil take it,” muttered the master, and his wife said tohim, when my stepfather had gone out:
　　“It is simply amazing to me that you can allow any one to teach you yourbusiness like that!”
　　For some reason she was always especially irritated when my stepfathercleaned his teeth and gargled after supper, protruding his harshly outlinedAdam’s apple.
　　“In my opinion,” she would say in a sour voice, “it is injurious to you tobend your head back like that, Evgen Vassilvich!”
　　Smiling politely he asked:
　　“Why?”
　　“Because — I am sure it is.”
　　He began to clean his bluish nails with a tiny bone stick.
　　“He is cleaning his nails again ; well, I never!” exclaimed the mistress.
　　“He is dying — and there he“Ekh!” sighed the master. “What a lot of stupidity has flourished in you,wild fowl!”
　　“Why do you say that?” asked his wife, confused. But the old mistresscomplained passionately to God at night :
　　“Lord, they have laid that rotten creature on my shoulders, and Victor isagain pushed on one side.”
　　Victorushka began to mock the manners of my step-father, — hisleisurely walk, the assured movements of his lordly hands, his skill in tying acravat, and his dainty way of eating. He would ask coarsely : “Maximov,what’s the French for ‘knee’?” “I am called Evgen Vassilevich,” my stepfatherreminded him calmly.
　　“All right. Well, what is ‘the chest’?” Victorushka would say to his motherat supper: “Ma mere, donnez moi encore du pickles!” “Oh, you Frenchman!”
　　the old woman would say, much affected.
　　My stepfather, as unmoved as if he were deaf or dumb, chewed his meatwithout looking at any one. One day the elder brother said to the younger:
　　“Now that you are learning French, Victor, you ought to have a mistress.”
　　This was the only time I remember seeing my step-father smile quietly.
　　But the young mistress let her spoon fall on the table in her agitation,and cried to her husband :
　　“Aren’t you ashamed to talk so disgustingly before me?”
　　Sometimes my stepfather came to me in the dark vestibule, where I sleptunder the stairs which led to fhe attic, and where, sitting on the stairs by thewindow, I used to read.
　　“Reading?” he would say, blowing out smoke. There came a hissingsound from his chest like the hissing of a fire-stick. “What is the book?”
　　I showed it to him.
　　“Ah,” he said, glancing at the title, “I think I have read it. Will yousmoke?”
　　We smoked, looking out of the window onto the dirty yard. He said:
　　“It is a great pity that you cannot study; it seems to me that you haveability.”
　　“I am studying; I read.”
　　“That is not enough; you need a school; a system.”
　　I felt inclined to say to him:
　　“You had the advantages of both school and system, my fine fellow, andwhat is the result ?”
　　But he added, as if he had read my thoughts :
　　“Given the proper disposition, a school is a good educator. Only very welleducated people make any mark in life.”
　　But once he counseled me:
　　“You would be far better away from here. I see no sense or advantage toyou in staying.”
　　“I like the work.”
　　“Ah — what do you find to like?”
　　“I find it interesting to work with them.”
　　“Perhaps you are right.”
　　But one day he said:
　　“What trash they are in the main, our employers — trash!”
　　When I remembered how and when my mother had uttered that word, Iinvoluntarily drew back from him. He asked, smiling:
　　“Don’t you think so?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Well, they are; I can see that.”
　　“But I like the master, anyhow.”
　　“Yes, you are right; he is a worthy man, but strange.”
　　I should have liked to talk with him about books, but it was plain that hedid not care for them, and one day he advised me :
　　“Don’t be led away; everything is very much embellished in books,distorted one way or another. Most writers of books are people like ourmaster, small people.”
　　Such judgments seemed very daring to me, and quite corrupted me.
　　On the same occasion he asked me :
　　“Have you read any of Goncharov’s works?”
　　“ The Frigate Palada.’ ”
　　“That’s a dull book. But really, Goncharov is the cleverest writer inRussia. I advise you to read his novel, ‘Oblomov.’ That is by far the truest andmost daring book he wrote; in fact, it is the best book in Russian literature.”
　　Of Dickens’ works he said:
　　“They are rubbish, I assure you. But there is a most interesting thingrunning in the ‘Nova Vremya/ — The Temptation of St. Anthony.’ You readit? Apparently you like all that pertains to the church, and ‘The Temptation’
　　ought to be a profitable subject for you.”
　　He brought me a bundle of papers containing the serial, and I readFlaubert’s learned work. It reminded me of the innumerable lives of holymen, scraps of history told by the valuers, but it made no very deepimpression on me. I much preferred the “Memoirs of Upilio Faimali, Tamerof Wild Beasts,” which was printed alongside of it.
　　When I acknowledged this fact to my stepfather, he remarked coolly:
　　“That means that you are still too young to read such things! However,don’t forget about that book.”
　　Sometimes he would sit with me for a long time without saying a word,just coughing and puffing out smoke continuously. His beautiful eyes burnedpainfully, and I looked at him furtively, and forgot that this man, who wasdying so honestly and simply, without complaint, had once been so closelyrelated to my mother, and had insulted her. I knew that he lived with somesort of seamstress, and thought of her with wonder and pity. How could shenot shrink from embracing those lanky bones, from kissing that mouthwhich gave forth such an oppressive odor of putrescence ? Just like “GoodBusiness,” my stepfather often uttered peculiarly characteristic sayings:
　　“I love hounds; they are stupid, but I love them. They are very beautiful.
　　Beautiful women arc often stupid, too.”
　　I thought, not without pride:
　　“Ah, if he had only known Queen Margotl”
　　“People who live for a long time in the same house all have the same kindof face,” was one of his sayings which I wrote down in my note-book.
　　I listened for these sayings of his, as if they had been treats. It waspleasant to hear unusual, literary words used in a house where every onespoke a colorless language, which had hardened into well-worn, undiversified forms. My stepfather never spoke to me of my mother; he nevereven uttered her name. This pleased me, and aroused in me a feeling ofsympathetic consideration for him.
　　Once I asked him about God — I do not remember what brought up thesubject. He looked at me, and said very calmly:
　　“I don’t know. I don’t believe in God.”
　　I remembered Sitanov, and told my stepfather about him. Havinglistened attentively to me, he observed, still calmly:
　　“He was in doubt; and those who are in doubt must believe insomething. As for me, I simply do not believe!”
　　“But is that possible?”
　　“Why not? You can see for yourself I don’t believe.”
　　I saw nothing, except that he was dying. I hardly pitied him; my firstfeeling was one of keen and genuine interest in the nearness of a dyingperson, in the mystery of death.
　　Here was a man sitting close to me, his knee touching mine, warm,sensate, calmly regarding people in the light of their relations to himself;speaking about everything like a person who possessed power to judge andto settle affairs; in whom lay something necessary to me, or something good,blended with something unnecessary to me. This being of incomprehensiblecom plexity was the receptacle of continuous whirlwinds of thought. It wasnot as if I were merely brought in contact with him, but it seemed as if hewere part of myself, that he lived somewhere within me. I thought about himcontinually, and the shadow of his soul lay across mine. And tomorrow hewould disappear entirely, with all that was hidden in his head and his heart,with all that I seemed to read in his beautiful eyes. When he went, another ofthe living threads which bound me to life would be snapped. His memorywould be left, but that would be something finite within me, forever limited,immutable. But that which is alive changes, progresses. But these werethoughts, and behind them lay those inexpressible words which give birth toand nourish them, which strike to the very roots of life, demanding ananswer to the question, Why?
　　“I shall soon have to lie by, it seems to me,” said my stepfather one rainyday. “This stupid weakness! I don’t feel inclined to do anything.”
　　The next day, at the time of evening tea, he brushed the crumbs of breadfrom the table and from his knees with peculiar care, and brushed somethinginvisible from his person. The old mistress, looking at him from under herbrows, whispered to her daughter-in-law:
　　“Look at the way he is plucking at himself, and brushing himself.”
　　He did not come to work for two days, and then the old mistress put alarge white envelope in my hand, saying :
　　“Here you are! A woman brought this yesterday about noon, and I forgotto give it to you. A pretty little woman she was, but what she wants with you Ican’t imagine, and that’s the truth!”
　　On a slip of paper with a hospital stamp, inside the envelope, was writtenin large characters:
　　“When you have an hour to spare, come and see me. I am in theMartinovski Hospital. “E. M.”
　　The next morning I was sitting in a hospital ward on my stepfather’s bed.
　　It was a long bed, and his feet, in gray, worn socks, stuck out through therails. His beautiful eyes, dully wandering over the yellow walls, rested on myface and on the small hands of a young girl who sat on a bench at the head ofthe bed. Her hands rested on the pillow, and my stepfather rubbed his cheekagainst them, his mouth hanging open. She was a plump girl, wearing ashiny, dark frock. The tears flowed slowly over her oval face; her wet blueeyes never moved from my stepfather’s face, with its sharp bones, large,sharp-pointed nose, and dark mouth.
　　“The priest ought to be here,” she whispered, “but he forbids it — he doesnot understand.” And taking her hands from the pillow, she pressed them toher breast as if praying.
　　In a minute my stepfather came to himself, looked at the ceiling andfrowned, as if he were trying to remember something. Then he stretched hislank hand toward me.
　　“You? Thank you. Here I am, you sec. I feel .o stupid.”
　　The effort tired him; he closed his eyes. I stroked his long cold fingerswith the blue nails. The girl asked softly:
　　“Evgen Vassilvich, introduce us, please!”
　　“You must know each other,” he said, indicating her with his eyes. “Adear creature — ”
　　He stopped speaking, his mouth opened wider and wider, and hesuddenly shrieked out hoarsely, like a raven. Throwing herself on the bed,clutching at the blanket, waving her bare arms about, the girl also screamed,burying her head in the tossed pillow.
　　My stepfather died quickly, and as soon as he was dead, he regainedsome of his good looks. I left the hospital with the girl on my arm. Shestaggered like a sick person, and cried. Her handkerchief was squeezed into aball in her hand; she alternately applied it to her eyes, and rolling it tighter,gazed at it as if it were her last and most precious possession.
　　Suddenly she stood still, pressing close to me, and said:
　　“I shall not live till the winter. Oh Lord, Lord! What does it mean?”
　　Then holding out her hand, wet with tears, to me:
　　“Good-by. He thought a lot of you. He will be buried tomorrow.”
　　“Shall I see you home?’
　　She looked about her.
　　“What for? It is daytime, not night.”
　　From the corner of a side street I looked after her. She walked slowly,like a person who has nothing to hurry for. It was August. The leaves werealready beginning to fall from the trees. I had no time to follow my stepfatherto the graveyard, and I never saw the girl again.
Chapter 17
    EVERY morning at six o’clock I set out tor my work in the market-place. Imet interesting people there. There was the carpenter, Osip, a gray-hairedman who looked like Saint Nikolai, a clever workman, and witty; there wasthe humpbacked slater, Ephimushka, the pious bricklayer, Petr, a thoughtfulman who also reminded me of a saint; the plasterer, Gregory Shishlin, aflaxen-bearded, blue-eyed, handsome man, beaming with quiet good-nature.
　　I had come to know these people during the second part of my life at thedraughtsman’s house. Every Sunday they used to appear in the kitchen,grave, important-looking, with pleasant speech, and with words which had anew flavor for me. All these solid-looking peasants had seemed to me then tobe easy to read, good through and through, all pleasantly different from thespiteful, thieving, drunken inhabitants of the Kunavin and its environs.
　　The plasterer, Shishlin, pleased me most of all, and I actually asked if Imight join his gang of workmen. But scratching his golden brow with a whitefinger, he gently refused to have me.
　　“It is too soon for you,” he said. “Our work is not easy; wait anotheryear.”
　　Then throwing up his handsome head, he asked:
　　“You don’t like the way you are living? Never mind, have patience; learnto live a life of your own, and then you will be able to bear it!”
　　I do not know all that I gained from this good advice, but I remember itgratefully.
　　These people used to come to my master’s house every Sunday morning,sit on benches round the kitchen-table, and talk of interesting things whilethey waited for my master. When he came, he greeted them loudly and gayly,shaking their strong hands, and then sat down in the chief corner. Theyproduced their accounts and bundles of notes, the workmen placed theirtattered account-books on the table, and the reckoning up for the weekbegan.
　　Joking and bantering, the master would try to prove them wrong in theirreckoning, and they did the same to him. Sometimes there was a fiercedispute, but more often friendly laughter.
　　“Eh, you’re a dear man; you were born a rogue!” the workmen would sayto the master.
　　And he answered, laughing in some confusion:
　　“And what about you, wild fowl? There’s as much roguery about you asabout me!”
　　“How should we be anything else, friend?” agreed Ephimushka, butgrave Petr said :
　　“You live by what you steal; what you earn you give to God and theemperor.”
　　“Well, then I’ll willingly make a burnt offering of you,” laughed themaster.
　　They led him on good-naturedly :
　　“Set fire to us, you mean?”
　　“Burn us in a fiery furnace?”
　　Gregory Shishlin, pressing his luxuriant beard to his breast with hishands, said in a sing-song voice :
　　“Brothers, let us do our business without cheating. If we will only livehonestly, how happy and peaceful we shall be, eh? Shall we not, dearpeople?”
　　His blue eyes darkened, grew moist ; at that moment he lookedwonderfully handsome. His question seemed to have upset them all; they allturned away from him in confusion.
　　“A peasant does not cheat much,” grumbled good-looking Osip with asigh, as if he pitied the peasant.
　　The dark bricklayer, bending his round-shouldered back over the table,said thickly:
　　“Sin is like a sort of bog; the farther you go, the more swampy it gets!”
　　And the master said to them, as if he were making a speech :
　　“What about me? I go into it because something calls me. Though I don’twant to.”
　　After this philosophising they again tried to get the better of one another,but when they had finished their accounts, perspiring and tired from theeffort, they went out to the tavern to drink tea, inviting the master to go withthem.
　　On the market-place it was my duty to watch these people, to see thatthey did not steal nails, or bricks, or boards. Every one of them, in additionto my master’s work, held contracts of his own, and would try to stealsomething for his own work under my very nose.
　　They welcomed me kindly, and Shishlin said :
　　“Do you remember how you wanted to come into my gang? And look atyou now; put over me as chief!”
　　“Well, well,” said Osip bantcringly, “keep watch over the river-banks, andmay God help you!”
　　Petr observed in an unfriendly tone :
　　“They have put a young crane to watch old mice.”
　　My duties were a cruel trial to me. I felt ashamed in the presence of thesepeople. They all seemd to possess some special knowledge which was hiddenfrom the rest of the world, and I had to watch them as if they had beenthieves and tricksters. The first part of the time it was very hard for me, butOsip soon noticed this, and one day he said to me privately :
　　“Look here, young fellow, you won’t do any good by sulking —understand ?”
　　Of course I did not understand, but I felt that he realized the absurdity ofmy position, and I soon arrived at a frank understanding with him.
　　He took me aside in a corner and explained:
　　“If you want to know, the biggest thief among us is the bricklayer,Petrukha. He is a man with a large family, and he is greedy. You want towatch him well. Nothing is too small for him; everything comes in handy. Apound of nails, a dozen of bricks, a bag of mortar — he’ll take all. He is agood man. God-fearing, of severe ideas, and well educated, but he loves tosteal! Ephimushka lives like a woman.
　　He is peaceable, and is harmless as far as you are concerned. He isclever, too — humpbacks are never fools! And there’s Gregory Shishlin. Hehas a fad — he will neither take from others nor give of his own. He works fornothing; any one can take him in, but he can deceive no one. He is notgoverned by his reason.”
　　“He is good, then?”
　　Osip looked at me as if I were a long way from him, and uttered thesememorable words :
　　“True enough, he is good. To be good is the easiest way for lazy people.
　　To be good, my boy, does not need brains.”
　　“And what about you?” I asked Osip.
　　He laughed and answered:
　　“I? I am like a young girl. When I am a grandmother I will tell you allabout myself; till then you will have to wait. In the meanwhile you can setyour brains to work to find out where the real T is hidden. Find out; that iswhat you have to do!”
　　He had upset all my ideas of himself and his friends.
　　It was difficult for me to doubt the truth of his statement. I saw thatEphimushka, Petr, and Gregory regarded the handsome old man as moreclever and more learned in worldly wisdom than themselves. They tookcounsel with him about everything, listened attentively to his advice, andshowed him every sign of respect.
　　“Will you be so good as to give us your advice,” they would ask him. Butafter one of these questions, when Osip had gone away, the bricklayer saidsoftly to Grigori:
　　“Heretic!”
　　And Grigori burst out laughing and added:
　　“Clown!”
　　The plasterer warned me in a friendly way:
　　“You look out for yourself with the old man, Maximich. You must becareful, or he will twist you round his finger in an hour; he is a bitter oldman. God save you from the harm he can do.”
　　“What harm?”
　　“That I can’t say!” answered the handsome workman, blinking.
　　I did not understand him in the least. I thought that the most honest andpious man of them all was the bricklayer, Petr; He spoke of everythingbriefly, suggestively; his thoughts rested mostly upon God, hell, and death.
　　“Ekh! my children, my brothers, how can you not be afraid”? How canyou not look forward, when the grave and the churchyard let no one passthem?”
　　He always had the stomachache, and there were some days when hecould not eat anything at all. Even a morsel of bread brought on the pain tosuch an extent as to cause convulsions and a dreadful sickness.
　　Humpbacked Ephimushka also seemed a very good and honest, butalways queer fellow. Sometimes he was happy and foolish, like a harmlesslunatic. He was everlastingly falling in love with different women, aboutwhom he always used the same words:
　　“I tell you straight, she is not a woman, but a flower in cream — ei, bo —o!”
　　When the lively women of Kunavin Street came to wash the floors in theshops, Ephimushka let himself down from the roof, and standing in a cornersomewhere, mumbled, blinking his gray, bright eyes, stretch — ing hismouth from ear to ear:
　　“Such a butterfly as the Lord has sent to me; such a joy has descendedupon me! Well, what is she but a flower in cream, and grateful I ought to befor the chance which has brought me such a gift! Such beauty makes me fullof life, afire!”
　　At first the women used to laugh at him, calling out to each other:
　　“Listen to the humpback running on! Oh Lord!”
　　The slater caused no little laughter. His high cheek-boned face wore asleepy expression, and he used to talk as if he were raving, his honeyedphrases flowing in an intoxicating stream which obviously went to thewomen’s heads. At length one of the elder ones said to her friend in a tone ofamazement :
　　“Just listen to how that man is going on! A clean young fellow he is!”
　　“He sings like a bird.”
　　“Or like a beggar in the church porch,” said an obstinate girl, refusing togive way.
　　But Ephimushka was not like a beggar at all. He stood firmly, like a squattree-trunk; his voice rang out like a challenge; his words became more andmore alluring; the women listened to him in silence. In fact, it seemed as ifhis whole being was flowing away in a tender, narcotic speech.
　　It ended in his saying to his mates in a tone of astonishment at suppertime,or after the Sabbath rest, shak — ing his heavy, angular head:
　　“Well, what a sweet little woman, a dear little thing! I have never beforecome across anything like her!”
　　When he spoke of his conquests Ephimushka was not boastful, norjeered at the victim of his charms, as the others always did. He was onlyjoyfully and gratefully touched, his gray eyes wide open with astonishment.
　　Osip, shaking his head, exclaimed :
　　“Oh, you incorrigible fellow! How old are you?”
　　“Forty — four years, but that’s nothing! I have grown five years youngertoday, as if I had bathed in the healing water of a river. I feel thoroughly fit,and my heart is at peace! Some women can produce that effect, diVThe bricklayer said coarsely:
　　“You are going on for fifty. You had better be careful, or you will find thatyour loose way of life will leave a bitter taste.”
　　“You are shameless, Ephimushka!” sighed Grigori Shishlin.
　　And it seemed to — me that the handsome fellow envied the success ofthe humpback.
　　Osip looked round on us all from under his level silver brows, and saidjestingly:
　　“Every Mashka has her fancies. One will love cups and spoons, anotherbuckles and earrings, but all Mashkas will be grandmothers in time.”
　　Shishlin was married, but his wife was living in the country, so he alsocast his eyes on the floorscrubbers. They were all of them easy of approach.
　　All of them “earned a bit” to add to their income, and they regarded thismethod of earning money in that poverty — stricken area as simply as theywould have regarded any other kind of work. But the handsome workmannever approached the women. He just gazed at them from afar with apeculiar expression, as if he were pitying some one — himself or them. Butwhen they be — gan to sport with him and tempt him, he laughed bash —fully and went away.
　　“Well, you —”
　　“What’s the matter with you, you fool?” asked Ephimushka, amazed. “Doyou mean to say you are going to lose the chance?”
　　“I am a married man,” Grigori reminded him.
　　“Well, do you think your wife will know anything about it?”
　　“My wife would always know if I lived unchastely. I can’t deceive her, mybrother.”
　　“How can she know?”
　　“That I can’t say, but she is bound to know, while she lives chaste herself;and if I lead a chaste life, and she were to sin, I should know it.”
　　“But how?” cried Ephimushka, but Grigori repeated calmly:
　　“That I can’t say.”
　　The slater waved his hands agitatedly.
　　“There, if you please! Chaste, and doesn’t know! Oh, you blockhead!”
　　Shishlin’s workmen, numbering seven, treated him as one of themselvesand not as their master, and behind his back they nicknamed him “The Calf.”
　　When he came to work and saw that they were lazy, he would take atrowel, or a spade, and artistically do the work himself, calling out coaxingly:
　　“Set to work, children, set to work!”
　　One day, carrying out the task which my master had angrily set me, Isaid to Grigori :
　　“What bad workmen you have.”
　　He seemed surprised.
　　“Why?”
　　“This work ought to have been finished yesterday, and they won’t finishit even today.”
　　“That is true; they won’t have time,” he agreed, and after a silence headded cautiously:
　　“Of course, I see that by rights I ought to dismiss them, but you see theyare all my own people from my own village. And then again the punishmentof God is that every man should eat bread by the sweat of his brow, and thepunishment is for all of us — for you and me, too. But you and I labor lessthan they do, and — well, it would be awkward to dismiss them.”
　　He lived in a dream. He would walk along the deserted streets of themarket-place, and suddenly halt — ing on one of the bridges over theObvodni Canal, would stand for a long time at the railings, looking into thewater, at the sky, or into the distance beyond the Oka. If one overtook himand asked:
　　“What are you doing?”
　　“What?” he would reply, waking up and smiling confusedly. “I was juststanding, looking about me a bit.”
　　“God has arranged everything very well, brother,” he would often say.
　　“The sky, the earth, the flowing rivers, the steamboats running. You can geton a boat and go where you like — to Riazan, or to Ribinsk, to Perm, toAstrakhan. I went to Riazan once. It wasn’t bad — a little town — but verydull, duller than Nijni. Our Nijni is wonderful, gay! And Astrakhan is stillduller. There are a lot of Kalmucks there, and I don’t like them. I don’t likeany of those Mordovans, or Kalmucks, Persians, or Germans, or any of theother nations.”
　　He spoke slowly ; his words cautiously felt for sympathy in others, andalways found it in the bricklayer, Petr.
　　“Those are not nations, but nomads,” said Petr with angry conviction.
　　“They came into the world before Christ and they’ll go out of it before Hecomes again.”
　　Grigori became animated ; he beamed.
　　“That’s it, isn’t it? But I love a pure race like the Russians, my brother,with a straight look. I don’t like Jews, either, and I cannot understand howthey are the people of God. It is wisely arranged, no doubt.”
　　The slater added darkly :
　　“Wisely — but there is a lot that is superfluous!”
　　Osip listened to what they said, and then put in, mockingly andcaustically :
　　“There is much that is superfluous, and your conversation belongs tothat category. Ekh! you bab — blers; you want a thrashing, all of you!”
　　Osip kept himself to himself, and it was impossible to guess with whomhe would agree, or with whom he would quarrel. Sometimes he seemedinclined to agree calmly with all men, and with all their ideas; but more oftenone saw that he was bored by all of them, regarding them as half-witted, andhe said to Petr, Grigori, and Ephimushka:
　　“Ekh, you sow’s whelps!”
　　They laughed, not very cheerfully or willingly, but still they laughed.
　　My master gave me five copecks a day for food. This was not enough, andI was rather hungry. Seeing this, the workmen invited me to breakfast andsup — per with them, and sometimes the contractors would invite me to atavern to drink tea with them. I willingly accepted the invitations. I loved tosit among them and listen to their slow speeches, their strange stories. I gavethem great pleasure by my readings out of church books.
　　“You ‘ve stuck to books till you are fed up with them. Your crop is stuffedwith them,” said Osip, regarding me attentively with his cornflower-blueeyes. It was difficult to catch their expression; his pupils always seemed to befloating, melting.
　　“Take it a drop at a time — it is better; and when you are grown up, youcan be a monk and console the people by your teaching, and in that way youmay become a millionaire.”
　　“A missioner,” corrected the bricklayer in a voice which for some reasonsounded aggrieved.
　　“What?” asked Osip.
　　“A missioner is what you mean! You are not deaf, are you?”
　　“All right, then, a missioner, and dispute with heretics. And even thosewhom you reckon as heretics have the right to bread. One can live even witha heretic, if one exercises discretion.”
　　Grigori laughed in an embarrassed manner, and Petr said in his beard :
　　“And wizards don’t have a bad time of it, and other kinds of godlesspeople.”
　　But Osip returned quickly:
　　“A wizard is not a man of education; education is not usually apossession of the wizard.”
　　And he told me :
　　“Now look at this; just listen. In our district there lived a peasant, Tushekwas his name, an emaciated little man, and idle. He lived like a feather,blown about here and there by the wind, neither a worker nor a do-nothing.
　　Well, one day he took to praying, because he had nothing else to do, andafter wandering about for two years, he suddenly showed himself in a newcharacter. His hair hung down over his shoulders ; he wore a skull-cap, and abrown cassock of leather; he looked on all of us with a baneful eye, and saidstraight out : ‘Repent, ye cursed!’ And why not repent, especially if youhappened to be a woman”? And the business ran its course: Tushek overfed,Tushek drunk, Tushek having his way with the women to his heart’s content—”
　　The bricklayer interrupted him angrily :
　　“What has that got to do with the matter, his over-feeding, oroverdrinking”?”
　　“What else has to do with it, then?”
　　“His words are all that matter.”
　　“Oh, I took no notice of his words; I am abundantly gifted with wordsmyself.”
　　“We know all we want to know about Tushinkov, Dmitri Vassilich,” saidPetr indignantly, and Grigori said nothing, but let his head droop, and gazedinto his glass.
　　“I don’t dispute it,” replied Osip peaceably. “I was just telling ourMaximich of the different pathways to the morsel — ”
　　“Some of the roads lead to prison!”
　　“Occasionally,” agreed Osip. “But you will meet with priests on all kindsof paths; one must learn where to turn off.”
　　He was always somewhat inclined to make fun of these pious people, theplasterer and the bricklayer; perhaps he did not like them, but he skilfullyconcealed the fact. His attitude towards people was always elusive.
　　He looked upon Ephimushka more indulgently, with more favor thanupon the other. The slater did not enter into discussions about God, thetruth, sects, the woes of humanity, as his friends did. Setting his chairsidewise to the table, so that its back should not be in the way of his hump,he would calmly drink glass after glass of tea. Then, suddenly alert, he wouldglance round the smoky room, listening to the incoherent babel of voices,and darting up, swiftly disap — pear. That meant that some one had comeinto the tavern to whom Ephimushka owed money, — he had a good dozencreditors, — so, as some of them used to beat him when they saw him, he justfled from sin.
　　“They get angry, the oddities!” he would say in a tone of surprise. “Can’tthey understand that if I had the money I would give it to them?”
　　“Oh, bitter poverty!” Osip sped after him.
　　Sometimes Ephimushka sat deep in thought, hearing and seeingnothing; his high cheek-boned face softened, his pleasant eyes lookingpleasanter than usual.
　　“What are you thinking about?” they would ask him. .
　　“I was thinking that if I were rich I would marry a real lady, anoblewoman — by God, I would! A colonel’s daughter, for example, and,Lord! how I would love her! I should be on fire with love of her. because, mybrothers, I once roofed the country house of a certain colonel — ”
　　“And he had a widowed daughter; we ‘ve heard all that before!”
　　interrupted Petr in an unfriendly tone.
　　But Ephimushka, spreading his hands out on his knees, rocked to andfro, his hump looking as if it were chiselling the air, and continued:
　　“Sometimes she went into the garden, all in white: glorious she looked. Ilooked at her from the roof, and I didn’t know what the sun had done to me.
　　But what caused that white light? It was as if a white dove had flown fromunder her feet! She was just a cornflower in cream! With such a lady as that,one would like all one’s life to be night.”
　　“And how would you get anything to eat?” asked Petr gruffly. But this didnot disturb Ephimushka.
　　“Lord!” he exclaimed. “Should we want much? Besides, she is rich.”
　　Osip laughed.
　　“And when are you going in for all this dissipation, Ephimushka, yourogue?”
　　Ephimushka never talked on any other subject but women, and he wasan unreliable workman. At one time he worked excellently and profitably, atanother time he did not get on at all; his wooden hammer tapped the ridgeslazily, leaving crevices. He always smelt of train-oil, but he had a smell of hisown as well, a healthy, pleasant smell like that of a newly cut tree.
　　One could discuss everything that was interesting with the carpenter. Hiswords always stirred one’s feelings, but it was hard to tell when he wasserious and when joking.
　　With Grigori it was better to talk about God; this was a subject which heloved, and on which he was an authority.
　　“Grisha,” I asked, “do you know there are people who do not believe inGod?”
　　He laughed quietly.
　　“What do you mean?”
　　“They say there is no God.”
　　“Oh, that’s what you mean! I know that.”
　　And as if he were brushing away invisible flies, he went on:
　　“King David said in his time, you remember, ‘The fool hath said in hisheart “There is no God.” ’ That’s what he said about that kind of fool. Wecan’t do without God!”
　　Osip said, as if agreeing with him :
　　“Take away God from Petrukha here, and he will show you!”
　　Shishlin’s handsome face became stern. He touched his beard withfingers the nails of which were covered with dried lime, and saidmysteriously:
　　“God dwells in every incarnate being; the conscience and all the inner lifeis God-given.”
　　“And sin?’
　　“Sin comes from the flesh, from Satan! Sin is an external thing, likesmallpox, and nothing more! He who thinks too much of sin, sins all themore. If you do not remember sin, you will not sin. Thoughts about sin arefrom Satan, the lord of the flesh, who suggests.”
　　The bricklayer queried this.
　　“You are wrong there.”
　　“I am not! God is sinless, and man is in His image and likeness. It is theimage of God, the flesh, which sins, but His likeness cannot sin; it is a spirit.”
　　He smiled triumphantly, but Petr growled :
　　“That is wrong.”
　　“According to you, I suppose,” Osip asked the brick-layer, “if you don’tsin, you can’t repent, and if you don’t repent, you won’t be saved?”
　　“That’s a more hopeful way. Forget the devil and you cease to love God,the fathers said.”
　　Shishlin was not intemperate, but two glasses would make him tipsy. Hisface would be flushed, his eyes childish, and his voice would be raised insong.
　　“How good everything is, brothers! Here we live, work a little, and haveas much as we want to eat, God be praised! Ah, how good it is!”
　　He wept. The tears trickled down his beard and gleamed on the silkenhairs like false pearls.
　　His laudation of our life and those tears were unpleasant to me. Mygrandmother had sung the praises of life more convincingly, moresympathetically, and not so crudely.
　　All these discussions kept me in a continual tension, and aroused a dullemotion in me. I had already read many books about peasants, and I sawhow utterly unlike the peasants in the books were to those in real life. Inbooks they were all unhappy. Good or evil characters, they were all poorer inwords and ideas than peasants in real life. In books they spoke less of God, ofsects, of churches, and more of government, land, and law. They spoke lessabout women, too, but quite as coarsely, though more kindly. For thepeasants in real life, women were a pastime, but a danger — ous one. Onehad to be artful with women; other — wise they would gain the upper handand spoil one’s whole life. The muzhik in books may be good or bad, but he isaltogether one or the other. The real muzhik is neither wholly good norwholly bad, but he is wonderfully interesting. If the peasant in real life doesnot blurt out all his thoughts to you, you have a feeling that he is keepingsomething back which he means to keep for himself alone, and that veryunsaid, hidden thing is the most important thing about him.
　　Of all the peasants I had read of in books, the one I liked the best wasPetr in “The Carpenter’s Gang.” I wanted to read the story to my comrades,and I brought the book to the Yarmaka. I often spent the night in one oranother of the workshops ; sometimes it was because I was so tired that Ilacked the strength to get home.
　　When I told them that I had a book about carpenters, my statementaroused a lively interest, espe — cially in Osip. He took the book out of myhands, and turned over the leaves distrustfully, shaking his head.
　　“And it is really written about us! Oh, you rascal! Who wrote it? Somegentleman? I thought as much! Gentlemen, and chinovniks especially, areexperts at anything. Where God does not even guess, a chinovnik has it allsettled in his mind. That’s what they live for.”
　　“You speak very irreverently of God, Osip,” observed Petr.
　　“That’s all right! My words are less to God than a snowflake or a drop ofrain are to me. Don’t you worry; you and I don’t touch God.”
　　He suddenly began to play restlessly, throwing off sharp little sayingslike sparks from a flint, cutting off with them, as with scissors, whatever wasdispleasing to him. Several times in the course of the day he asked me :
　　“Are we going to read, Maximich? That’s right! A good idea!”
　　When the hour for rest arrived we had supper with him in his workshop,and after supper appeared Petr with his assistant Ardalon, and Shishlin withthe lad Phoma. In the shed where the gang slept there was a lamp burning,and I began to read. They listened without speaking, but they moved about,and very soon Ardalon said crossly:
　　“I’ve had enough of this!”
　　And he went out. The first to fall asleep was Grigori, with his mouth opensurprisingly; then the carpenters fell asleep ; but Petr, Osip, and Phoma drewnearer to me and listened attentively. When I finished reading Osip put outthe lamp at once. By the stars it was nearly midnight.
　　Petr asked in the darkness :
　　“What was that written for? Against whom?”
　　“Now for sleep!” said Osip, taking off his boots.
　　Petr persisted in his question :
　　“I asked, against whom was that written?”
　　“I suppose they know!” replied Osip, arranging himself for sleep on ascaffolding.
　　“If it is written against stepmothers, it is a waste of time. It won’t makestepmothers any better,” said the bricklayer firmly. “And if it is meant forPetr. it is also futile; his sin in his answer. For murder you go to Siberia, andthat’s all there is about it! Books are no good for such sins; no use, eh?”
　　Osip did not reply, and the bricklayer added :
　　“They can do nothing themselves and so they discuss other people’swork. Like women at a meeting. Good-by, it is bedtime.”
　　He stood for a minute in the dark blue square of the open door, andasked:
　　“Are you asleep, Osip? What do you think about it?”
　　“Eh?” responded the carpenter sleepily.
　　“All right; go to sleep.”
　　Shishlin had fallen on his side where he had been sitting. Phoma lay onsome trampled straw beside me. The whole neighborhood was asleep. In thedistance rose the shriek of the railway engines, the heavy rumbling of ironwheels, the clang of buffers. In the shed rose the sound of snoring indifferent keys. I felt uncomfortable. I had expected some sort of discussion,and there had been nothing of the kind.
　　But suddenly Osip spoke softly and evenly :
　　“My child, don’t you believe anything of that. You are young; you have along while to live; treasure > up your thoughts. Your own sense is worthtwice some one else’s. Are you asleep, Phoma?”
　　“No,” replied Phoma with alacrity.
　　“That’s right! You have both received some education, so you go onreading. But don’t believe all you read. They can print anything, you know.
　　That is their business!”
　　He lowered his feet from the scaffolding, and resting his hands on theedge of the plank, bent over us, and continued:
　　“How ought you to regard books? Denunciation of certain people, that’swhat a book is! Look, they say, and see what sort of a man this is — acarpenter, or any one else — and here is a gentleman, a different kind ofman! A book is not written without an object, and generally around someone.”
　　Phoma said thickly:
　　“Petr was right to kill that contractor!”
　　“That was wrong. It can never be right to kill a man. I know that you donot love Grigori, but put that thought away from you. We are none of us richpeople. Today I am master, tomorrow a workman again.”
　　“I did not mean you, Uncle Osip.”
　　“It is all the same.”
　　“You are just — ”
　　“Wait; I am telling you why these books are written,” Osip interruptedPhoma’s angry words. “It is a very cunning idea! Here we have a gentlemanwithout a muzhik; here a muzhik without a gentleman! Look now! Both thegentleman and the muzhik are badly off. The gentleman grows weak, crazy,and the muzhik becomes boastful, drunken, sickly, and offensive. That’swhat happens! But in his lord’s castle it was better, they say. The lord hidhimself behind the muzhik and the muzhik behind the master, and so theywent round and round, well-fed, and peaceful. I don’t deny that it was morepeaceful living with the nobles. It was no advantage to the lord if his muzhikwas poor, but it was to his good if he was rich and intelligent. He was then aweapon in his hand. I know all about it; you see I lived in a nobleman’sdomain for nearly forty years. There’s a lot of my experience written on myhide.”
　　I remembered that the carter, Petr, who committed suicide, used to talkin the same way about the nobility, and it was very unpleasant to my mindthat the ideas of Osip should run on the same lines as those of that evil oldman.
　　Osip touched my leg with his hand, and went on :
　　“One must understand books and all sorts of writings. No one doesanything without a reason, and books are not written for nothing, but tomuddle people’s heads. Every one is created with intelligence, without whichno one can wield an ax, or sew a shoe.”
　　He spoke for a long time, and lay down. Again he jumped up, throwinggently his well turned, quaint phrases into the darkness and quietness.
　　“They say that the rlobles are quite a different race from the peasants,but it is not true. We are just like the nobles, only we happen to have beenbom low down in the scale. Of course a noble learns from books, while Ilearn by my own noddle, and a gentleman has a delicate skin; that is all thedifference. No — o, lads, it is time there was a new way of living; all thesewritings ought to be thrown aside! Let every one ask himself ‘What am IT Aman! ‘And what is he? Also a man! What then? Does God need hissuperfluous wealth? No-o, we are equal in the sight of God when it comes togifts.”
　　At last, in the morning, when the dawn had put out the light of the stars,Osip said to me:
　　“You see how I could write? I have talked about things that I have neverthought about. But you mustn’t place too much faith in what I say. I wastalking more because I was sleepless than with any serious intention. You liedown and think of something to amuse you. Once there was a raven whichflew from the fields to the hills, from boundary to boundary, and livedbeyond her time; the Lord punished her. The raven is dead and dried up.
　　What is the meaning of that? There is no meaning in it, none. Now go tosleep; it will soon be time to get up.”
Chapter 18
    AS Yaakov, the stoker, had done in his time, so now Osip grew and grew inmy eyes, until he hid all other people from me. There was some resemblanceto the stoker in him, but at the same time he reminded me of grandfather,the valuer, Petr Vassiliev, Smouri, and the cook. When I think of all thepeople who are firmly fixed in my memory, he has left behind a deeperimpression than any of them, an impres — sion which has eaten into it, asoxide eats into a brass bell. What was remarkable about him was that he hadtwo sets of ideas. In the daytime, at his work among people, his lively, simpleideas were business-like and easier to understand than those to which hegave vent when he was off duty, in the evenings, when he went with me intothe town to see his cronies, the dealers, or at night when he could not sleep.
　　He had special night thoughts, many-sided like the flame of a lamp. Theyburned brightly, but where were their real faces? On which side was this orthat idea, nearer and dearer to Osip.
　　He seemed to me to be much cleverer than any one else I had met, and Ihovered about him, as I used to do with the stoker, trying to find out aboutthe man, to understand him. But he glided away from me; it was impossibleto grasp him. Where was the real man hidden? How far could I believe inhim?
　　I remember how he said to me :
　　“You must find out for yourself where I am hidden. Look for me!”
　　My self-love was piqued, but more than that, it had become a matter oflife and death to me to understand the old man.
　　With all his elusiveness he was substantial. He looked as if he could goon living for a hundred years longer and still remain the same, sounchangeably did he preserve his ego amid the instability of the peoplearound him. The valuer had made upon me an equal impression ofsteadfastness, but it was not so pleasing to me. Osip’s steadfastness was of adifferent kind; although I cannot explain how, it was more pleasing.
　　The instability of human creatures is too often brought to one’s notice;their acrobatic leaps from one position to another upset me. I had long agogrown weary of being surprised by these inexplicable somersaults, and theyhad by degrees extinguished my lively interest in humanity, disturbed mylove for it.
　　One day at the beginning of July, a rackety hackney cab came dashing upto the place where we were working. On the box-seat a drunken driver sat,hiccuping gloomily. He was bearded, hatless, and had a bruised lip. GrigoriShishlin rolled about in the carriage, drunk, while a fat, red-cheeked girl heldhis arm. She wore a straw hat trimmed with a red ribbon and glass cherries ;she had a sunshade in her hand, and goloshes on her bare feet. Waving hersunshade, swaying, she giggled and screamed:
　　“What the devil! The market-place is not open; there is no market-place,and he brings me to the market-place. Little mother — ”
　　Grigori, dishevelled and limp, crept out of the cab, sat on the ground anddeclared to us, the spectators of the scene, with tears:
　　“I am down on my knees; I have sinned greatly! I thought of sin, and Ihave sinned. Ephimushka says ‘Grisha! Grisha!’ He speaks truly, but you —forgive me; I can treat you all. He says truly, ‘We live once only, and nomore.’ ”
　　The girl burst out laughing, stamped her feet, and lost her goloshes, andthe driver called out gruffly :
　　“Let us get on farther! The horse won’t stand still!”
　　The horse, an old, worn-out jade, was covered with foam, and stood asstill as if it were buried. The whole scene was irresistibly comical.
　　Grigori’s workmen rolled about with laughter as they looked at theirmaster, his grand lady, and the bemused coachman.
　　The only one who did not laugh was Phoma, who stood at the door of oneof the shops beside me and muttered :
　　“The devil take the swine. And he has a wife at home — a bee-eautifulwoman!”
　　The driver kept on urging them to start. The girl got out of the cab, liftedGrigori up, set him on his feet, and cried with a wave of her sunshade :
　　“Goon!”
　　Laughing good-naturedly at their master, and envying him, the menreturned to their work at the call of Phoma. It was plain that it wasrepugnant to him to see Grigori made ridiculous.
　　“He calls himself master,” he muttered. “I have not quite a month’s workleft to do here. After that I shall go back to the country. I can’t stand this.”
　　I felt vexed for Grigori; that girl with the cherries looked so annoyinglyabsurd beside him.
　　I often wondered why Grigori Shishlin was the master and PhomaTuchkov the workman. A strong, fair fellow, with curly hair, an aquilinenose, and gray, clever eyes in his round face, Phoma was not like a peasant. Ifhe had been well-dressed, he might have been the son of a merchant of goodfamily. He was gloomy, taciturn, businesslike. Being well educated, he keptthe accounts of the contractor, drew up the estimates, and could set hiscomrades to work success — fully, but he worked unwillingly himself.
　　“You won’t make work last forever,” he said calmly. He despised books.
　　“They can print what they like, but I shall go on thinking as I like,” hesaid. “Books are all nonsense.”
　　But he listened attentively to every one, and if something interested him,he would ask all the details about it, perseveringly, always thinking of it inhis own way, measuring it by his own measure.
　　Once I told Phoma that he ought to be a contractor. He repliedindolently:
　　“If it were a question of turning over thousands, yes. But to worry myselffor the sake of making a few copecks, it is not worth while. No, I am justlooking about; then I shall go into a monastery in Oranko. I am good-looking, powerful in muscle; I may take the fancy of some merchant’s widow!
　　Such things do happen. There was a Sergatzki boy who made his fortune intwo years, and married a girl from these parts, from the town. He had to takean icon to her house, and she saw him.”
　　This was an obsession with him; he knew many tales of how takingservice in a monastery had led people to an easy life. I did not care for thesestories, nor did I like the trend of Phoma’s mind, but I felt sure that he wouldgo to a monastery.
　　When the market was opened, Phoma, to every one’s surprise, went aswaiter to a tavern. I do not say that his mates were surprised, but they allbegan to treat him mockingly. On holidays they would all go together todrink tea, saying to one another :
　　“Let us go and see our Phoma.”
　　And when they arrived at the tavern they would call out:
　　“Hi, waiter! Curly mop, come here!”
　　He would come to them and ask, with his head held high :
　　“What can I get for you?”
　　“Don’t you recognize acquaintances now?”
　　“I never recognize any one.”
　　He felt that his mates despised him and were making fun of him, and helooked at them with dully ex — pectant eyes. His face might have been madeof wood, but it seemed to say:
　　“Well, make haste; laugh and be done with it.”
　　“Shall we give him a tip?” they would ask, and after purposely fumblingin their purses for a long time, they would give him nothing at all.
　　I asked Phoma how he could go out as a waiter when he had meant toenter a monastery.
　　“I never meant to go into a monastery!” he replied, “and I shall not staylong as a waiter.”
　　Four years later I met him in Tzaritzin, still a waiter in a tavern; and laterstill I read in a newspaper that Phoma Tuchkov had been arrested for anattempted burglary.
　　The history of the mason, Ardalon, moved me deeply. He was the eldestand best workman in Petr’s gang. This black-bearded, light-hearted man offorty years also involuntarily evoked the query, “Why was he not the masterinstead of Petr?” He seldom drank vodka and hardly ever drank too much;he knew his work thoroughly, and worked as if he loved it; the bricks seemedto fly from his hands like red doves. In comparison with him, the sickly, leanPetr seemed an absolutely superfluous member of the gang. He used tospeak thus of his work:
　　“I build stone houses for people, and a wooden coffin for myself.”
　　But Ardalon laid his bricks with cheerful energy as he cried: “Work, mychild, for the glory of God.”
　　And he told us all that next spring he would go to Tomsk, where hisbrother-in-law had undertaken a large contract to build a church, and hadinvited him to go as overseer.
　　“I have made up my mind to go. Building churches is work that I love!”
　　he said. And he suggested to me: “Come with me! It is very easy, brother, foran educated person to get on in Siberia. There, education is a trump card!”
　　I agreed to his proposition, and he cried triumphantly :
　　“There! That is business and not a joke.”
　　Toward Petr and Grigori he behaved with good-natured derision, like agrown-up person towards children, and he said to Osip :
　　“Braggarts! Each shows the other his cleverness, as if they were playingat cards. One says: ‘My cards are all such and such a color,’ and the othersays, ‘And mine are trumps!’ ”
　　Osip observed hesitatingly:
　　“How could it be otherwise? Boasting is only human; all the girls walkabout with their chests stuck out.”
　　“All, yes, all. It is God, God all the time. But they hoard up moneythemselves!” said Ardalon impatiently.
　　“Well, Grisha doesn’t/’
　　“I am speaking for myself. I would go with this God into the forest, thedesert. I ‘am weary of being here. In the spring I shall go to Siberia.”
　　The workmen, envious of Ardalon, said:
　　“If wc had such a chance in the shape of a brother-in-law, we should notbe afraid of Siberia either.”
　　And suddenly Ardalon disappeared. He went away from the workshopon Sunday, and for three days no one knew where he was.
　　This made anxious conjectures.
　　“Perhaps he has been murdered.”
　　“Or maybe he is drowned.”
　　But Ephimushka came, and declared in an embarrassed manner:
　　“He has gone on the drink.”
　　“Why do you tell such lies?” cried Petr incredulously.
　　“He has gone on the drink; he is drinking madly. He is just like a comkiln which burns from the very center. Perhaps his much-loved wife is dead.”
　　“He is a widower! Where is he?”
　　Petr angrily set out to save Ardalon, but the latter fought him.
　　Then Osip, pressing his lips together firmly, thrust his hands in hispockets and said:
　　“Shall I go have a look at him, and see what it is all about? He is a goodfellow.”
　　I attached myself to him.
　　“Here’s a man,” said Osip on the way, “who lives for years quite decently,when suddenly he loses control of himself, and is all over the place. Look,Maximich, and learn.”
　　We went to one of the cheap “houses of pleasure” of Kunavin Village, andwe were welcomed by a predatory old woman. Osip whispered to her, andshe ushered us into a small empty room, dark and dirty, like a stable. On asmall bed slept, in an abandoned attitude, a large, stout woman. The oldwoman thrust her fist in her side and said :
　　“Wake up, frog, wake up!”
　　The woman jumped up in terror, rubbing her face with her hands, andasked :
　　“Good Lord I who is it? What is it?”
　　“Detectives are here,” said Osip harshly. With a groan the womandisappeared, and he spat after her and explained to me:
　　“They are more afraid of detectives than of the devil.”
　　Taking a small glass from the wall, the old woman raised a piece of thewall-paper.
　　“Look! Is he the one you want?”
　　Osip looked through a chink in the partition.
　　“That is he! Get the woman away.”
　　I also looked through the chink into just such a narrow stable as the onewe were in. On the sill of the window, which was closely shuttered, burned atin lamp, near which stood a squinting, naked, Tatar woman, sewing achemise. Behind her, on two pillows on the bed, was raised the bloated faceof Arda — lon, his black, tangled beard projecting.
　　The Tatar woman shivered, put on her chemise, and came past the bed,suddenly appearing in our room.
　　Osip looked at her and again spat.
　　“Ugh! Shameless hussy!”
　　“And you are an old fool!” she replied, laughing, Osip laughed too, andshook a threatening finger at her.
　　We went into the Tatar’s stable. The old man sat on the bed at Ardalon’sfeet and tried for a long time unsuccessfully to awaken him. He muttered:
　　“All right, wait a bit. We will go — ”
　　At length he awoke, gazed wildly at Osip and at me, and closing hisbloodshot eyes, murmured :
　　“Well, well!”
　　“What is the matter with you?” asked Osip gently, without reproaches,but rather sadly.
　　“I was driven to it,” explained Ardalon hoarsely, and coughing.
　　“How?”
　　“Ah, there were reasons.”
　　“You were not contented, perhaps?”
　　“What is the good — ”
　　Ardalon took an open bottle of vodka from the table, and began to drinkfrom it. He then asked Osip:
　　“Would you like some? There ought to be something to eat here as well.”
　　The old man poured some of the spirit into his mouth, swallowed it,frowned, and began to chew a small piece of bread carefully, but muddledArdalon said drowsily:
　　“So I have thrown in my lot with the Tatar woman. She is a pure Tatar, asEphimushka says, young, an orphan from Kasimov; she was getting ready forthe fair.”
　　From the other side of the wall some one said in broken Russian:
　　“Tatars are the best, like young hens. Send him away; he is not yourfather.”
　　“That’s she,” muttered Ardalon, gazing stupidly at the wall.
　　“I have seen her,” said Osip.
　　Ardalon turned to me:
　　“That is the sort of man I am, brother.”
　　I expected Osip to reproach Ardalon, to give him a lecture which wouldmake him repent bitterly. But nothing of the kind happened; they sat side byside, shoulder to shoulder, and uttered calm, brief words. It was melancholyto see them in that dark, dirty stable. The woman called ludicrous wordsthrough the chink in the wall, but they did not listen to them. Osip took awalnut off the table, cracked it against his boot, and began to remove theshell neatly, as he asked :
　　“All your money gone?”
　　“There is some with Petrucha.”
　　“I say! Aren’t you going away? If you were to go to Tomsk, now — ”
　　“What should I go to Tomsk for?”
　　“Have you changed your mind, then?”
　　“If I had been going to strangers, it would have been different.”
　　“What do you mean?”
　　“But to go to my sister and my brother-in-law — ”
　　“What of it?”
　　“It is not particularly pleasant to begin again with one’s own people.”
　　“The beginning is the same anywhere.”
　　“All the same —”
　　They talked in such an amicably serious vein that the Tatar woman leftoff teasing them, and coming into the room, took her frock down from thewall in silence, and disappeared.
　　“She is young,” said Osip.
　　Ardalon glanced at him and without annoyance replied :
　　“Ephimushka is wrong-headed. He knows nothing, except about women.
　　But the Tatar woman is joyous; she maddens us all.”
　　“Take care; you won’t be able to escape from her,” Osip warned him, andhaving eaten the walnut, took his leave.
　　On the way back I asked Osip:
　　“Why did you go to him?”
　　“Just to look at him. He is a man I have known a long time. I have seenma-a-ny such cases. A man leads a decent life, and suddenly he behaves as ifhe had just escaped from prison.” He repeated what he had said before, “Oneshould be on one’s guard against vodka.”
　　But after a minute he added :
　　“But life would be dull without it.”
　　“Without vodka ?”
　　“Well, yes! When you drink, it is just as if you were in another world.”
　　Ardalon never came back for good. At the end of a few days he returnedto work, but soon disappeared again, and in the spring I met him among thedock laborers ; he was melting the ice round the barges in the harbor. Wegreeted each other in friendly fashion and went to a tavern for tea, afterwhich he boasted :
　　“You remember what a workman I was, eh? I tell you straight, I was anexpert at my own business! I could have earned hundreds.”
　　“However, you did not.”
　　“No, I didn’t earn them,” he cried proudly. “I spit upon work!”
　　He swaggered. The people in the tavern listened to his impassionedwords and were impressed.
　　“You remember what that sly thief Petrucha used to say about work? Forothers stone houses; for himself a wooden coffin! Well, that’s true of allwork!” I said:
　　“Petrucha is ill. He is afraid of death.”
　　But Ardalon cried :
　　“I am ill, too; my heart is out of order.”
　　On holidays I often wandered out of the town to “Millioni Street,” wherethe dockers lived, and saw how quickly Ardalon had settled down amongthose uncouth ruffians. Only a year ago, happy and serious-minded, Ardalonhad now become as noisy as any of them. He had acquired their curious,shambling walk, looked at people defiantly, as if he were inviting every oneto fight with him, and was always boast — ing:
　　“You see how I am received; I am like a chieftain here!”
　　Never grudging the money he had earned, he liberally treated thedockers, and in fights he always took the part of the weakest. He often cried :
　　“That’s not fair, children! You’ve got to fight fair!”
　　And so they called him “Fairplay,” which delighted him.
　　I ardently studied these people, closely packed in that old and dirty sackof a street. All of them were people who had cut themselves off from ordinarylife, but they seemed to have created a life of their own, independent of anymaster, and gay. Careless, audacious, they reminded me of grandfather’sstories about the bargemen who so easily transformed themselves intobrigands or hermits. When there was no work, they were not squeamishabout committing small thefts from the barges and steamers, but that didnot trouble me, for I saw that life was sewn with theft, like an old coat withgray threads. At the same time I saw that these people never worked withenthusiasm, unsparing of their energies, as happened in cases of urgency,such as fires, or the breaking of the ice. And, as a rule, they lived more of aholiday life than any other people.
　　But Osip, having noticed my friendship with Ardalon, warned me in afatherly way :
　　“Look here, my boy; why this close friendship with the folk of MillioniStreet? Take care you don’t do yourself harm by it.”
　　I told him as well as I could how I liked these people who lived so gaily,without working.
　　“Birds of the air they are!” he interrupted me, laughing. “That’s whatthey are — idle, useless people; and work is a calamity to them!”
　　“What is work, after all? As they say, the labors of the righteous don’tprocure them stone houses to live in!”
　　I said this glibly enough. I had heard the proverb so often, and felt thetruth of it.
　　But Osip was very angry with me, and cried :
　　“Who says so? Fools, idlers! And you are a youngster; you ought not tolisten to such things! Oh, you —! That is the nonsense which is uttered by theenvious, the unsuccessful. Wait till your feathers are grown ; then you canfly! And I shall tell your master about this friendship of yours.”
　　And he did tell. The master spoke to me about the matter.
　　“You leave the Millioni folk alone, Pyeshkov! They are thieves andprostitutes, and from there the path leads to the prison and the hospital. Letthem alone!”
　　I began to conceal my visits to Millioni Street, but I soon had to givethem up. One day I was sitting with Ardalon and his comrade, Robenok, onthe roof of a shed in the yard of one of the lodging-houses. Robenok wasrelating to us amusingly how he had made his way on foot from Rostov, onthe Don, to Moscow. He had been a soldier-sapper, a Geogrivsky horseman,and he was lame. In the war with Turkey he had been wounded in the knee.
　　Of low stature, he had a terrible strength in his arms, a strength which was ofno profit to him, for his lameness prevented him from working. He had hadan illness which had caused the hair to fall from his head and face ; his headwas like that of a new-born infant.
　　With his brown eyes sparkling he said :
　　“Well, at Serpoukhov I saw a priest sitting in a sledge. Tather,’ I said,‘give something to a Turkish hero.’ ”
　　Ardalon shook his head and said :
　　“That’s a lie!”
　　“Why should I lie?” asked Robenok, not in the least offended, and myfriend growled in lazy reproof :
　　“You are incorrigible! You have the chance of becoming a watchman —they always put lame men to that job — and you stroll about aimlessly, andtell lies.”
　　“Well, I only do it to make people laugh. I lie just for the sake ofamusement.”
　　“You ought to laugh at yourself.”
　　In the yard, which was dark and dirty although the weather was dry andsunny, a woman appeared and cried, waving some sort of a rag about herhead :
　　“Who will buy a petticoat? Hi, friends!”
　　Women crept out from the hidden places of the house and gatheredclosely round the seller. I recognized her at once; it was the laundress,Natalia. I jumped down from the roof, but she, having given the petticoat tothe first bidder, had already quietly left the yard.
　　“How do you do?” I greeted her joyfully as I caught her at the gate.
　　“What next, I wonder?” she exclaimed, glancing at me askance, and thenshe suddenly stood still, crying angrily: “God save us! What are you doinghere?”
　　Her terrified exclamation touched and confused me. I realized that shewas afraid for me; terror and amazement were shown so plainly in herintelligent face. I soon explained to her that I was not living in that street, butonly went there sometimes to see what there was to see.
　　“See?” she cried angrily and derisively. “What sort of a place is this thatyou should want to see it? It’s the women you ‘re after.”
　　Her face was wrinkled, dark shadows lay under her eyes, and her lipsdrooped feebly.
　　Standing at the door of a tavern she said :
　　“Come in; I am going to have some teal You are well-dressed, not likethey dress here, yet I cannot believe what you say.”
　　But in the tavern she seemed to believe me, and as she poured out tea,she began to tell me how she had only awakened from sleep an hour ago, andhad not had anything to eat or drink yet.
　　“And when I went to bed last night I was as drunk as drunk. I can’t evenremember where I had the drink, or with whom.”
　　I felt sorry for her, awkward in her presence, and I wanted to ask herwhere her daughter was. After she had drunk some vodka and hot tea, shebegan to talk in a familiar, lively way, coarsely, like all the women of thatstreet, but when I asked about her daughter she was sobered at once, andcried:
　　“What do you want to know for? No, my boy, you won’t get hold of her;don’t think it!”
　　She drank more, and then she said :
　　“I have nothing to do with my daughter. What am I? A laundress! Whatsort of a mother for her? She is well brought up, educated. That she is, mybrother! She left me to live with a rich friend, as a teacher, like — ”
　　After a silence she said :
　　“That’s how it is! The laundress doesn’t please you, but the street —walker does?”
　　That she was a street-walker I had seen at once, of course. There was noother kind of woman in that street. But when she told me so herself, my eyesfilled with tears of shame and pity for her. I felt as if she had burned me bymaking that admission, — she, who not long ago had been so brave,independent, and clever.
　　“Ekh! you!” she said, looking at me and sighing. “Go away from thisplace, I beg you! I urge you, don’t come here, or you will be lost!”
　　Then she began to speak softly and brokenly, as if she were talking toherself, bending over the table and drawing figures on the tray with herfingers.
　　“But what are my entreaties and my advice to you? When my owndaughter would not listen to me I cried to her: ‘You can’t throw aside yourown mother. What are you thinking of?’ And she — she said, T shall stranglemyself!’ And she went away to Kazan ; she wants to learn to be a midwife.
　　Good — good! But what about me? You see what I am now? What have I tocling to? And so I went on the streets.”
　　She fell into a silence, and thought for a long time, soundlessly movingher lips. It was plain that she had forgotten me. The corners of her lipsdrooped; her mouth was curved like a sickle, and it was a torturing sight tosee how her lips quivered, and how the wavering furrows on her face spokewithout words. Her face was like that of an aggrieved child. Strands of hairhad fallen from under her headkerchief, and lay on her cheek, or coiledbehind her small ear. Her tears dropped into her cup of cold tea, and seeingthis, she pushed the cup away and shut her eyes tightly, squeezing out twomore tears. Then she wiped her face with her handkerchief. I could not bearto stay with her any longer. I rose quietly.
　　“Good-by!”
　　“Eh? Go — go to the devil!” She waved me away without looking at me;she had apparently forgotten who was with her.
　　I returned to Ardalon in the yard. He had meant to come with me tocatch crabs, and I wanted to tell him about the woman. But neither he norRobenok were on the roof of the shed; and while I was looking for him in thedisorderly yard, there arose from the street the sound of one of those rowswhich were frequent there.
　　I went out through the gate and came into collision with Natalia,sobbing, wiping her bruised face with her headkerchief. Setting straight herdisordered hair with her other hand, she went blindly along the footpath,and following her came Ardalon and Robenok. The latter was saying:
　　“Give her one more; come on!”
　　Ardalon overtook the woman, flourishing his fist. She turned her bosomfull toward himi; her face was terrible ; her eyes blazed with hatred.
　　“Go on, hit me!” she cried.
　　I hung on to Ardalon’s arm; he looked at me in amazement.
　　“What’s the matter with you?”
　　“Don’t touch her!” I just managed to say.
　　He burst out laughing.
　　“She is your lover? Aie, that Natashka, she has devoured our littlemonk.”
　　Robenok laughed, too, holding his sides, and for a long time they roastedme with their hot obscenity. It was unbearable! But while they were thusoccupied, Natalia went away, and I, losing my temper at last, struck Robenokin the chest with my head, knocking him over, and ran away.
　　For a long time after that I did not go near Million! Street. But I sawArdalon once again; I met him on the ferry-boat.
　　“Where have you been hiding yourself?” he asked joyfully.
　　When I told him that it was repulsive to me to remember how he hadknocked Natalia about and ob — scenely insulted me, Ardalon laughed goodnaturedly.
　　“Did you take that seriously? We only rubbed it into you for a joke! As forher, why shouldn’t she be knocked about, a street-walker? People beat theirwives, so they are certainly not going to have more mercy on such as that!
　　Still, it was only a joke, the whole thing. I understand, you know, that the fistis no good for teaching!”
　　“What have you got to teach her? How are you better than she is?”
　　He put his hands on my shoulders and, shaking me, said banteringly:
　　“In our disgraceful state no one of us is better than another.”
　　Then he laughed and added boastfully:
　　“I understand everything from within and without, brother, everything! Iam not wood!”
　　He was a little tipsy, at the jovial stage; he looked at me with the tenderpity of a good master for an unintelligent pupil.
　　Sometimes I met Pavl Odintzov. He was livelier than ever, dressed like adandy, and talked to me condescendingly and always reproachfully.
　　“You are throwing yourself away on that kind of work! They are nothingbut peasants.”
　　Then he would sadly retail all the latest news from the workshop.
　　“Jikharev is still taken up with that cow. Sitanov is plainly fretting; hehas begun to drink to excess. The wolves have eaten Golovev; he was cominghome from Sviatka; he was drunk, and the wolves devoured him.” Andbursting into a gay peal of laughter he comically added:
　　“They ate him and they all became drunk themselves! They were verymerry and walked about the forests on their hind legs, like performing dogs.
　　Then they fell to fighting and in twenty-four hours they were all dead!”
　　I listened to him and laughed, too, but I felt that the workshop and all Ihad experienced in it was very far away from me now.
　　This was rather a melancholy reflection.
Chapter 19
    THERE was hardly any work in the market-square during the winter, andinstead I had in numerable trivial duties to perform in the house. Theyswallowed up the whole day, but the evenings were left free. Once more Iread to the household novels which were unpalatable to me, from the “Neva”
　　and the “Moscow Gazette”; but at night I occupied myself by reading goodbooks and by attempts at writing poetry.
　　One day when the women had gone out to vespers and my master waskept at home through indisposition, he asked me :
　　“Victor is making fun of you because he says you write poetry, Pyeshkov.
　　Is that true? Well then, read it to me!”
　　It would have been awkward to refuse, and I read several of my poeticalcompositions. These evidently did not please him, but he said :
　　“Stick to it! Stick to it! You may become a Pushkin; have you readPushkin?”
　　“Do the goblins have funeral rites ?
　　Are the witches given in marriage ?”
　　In his time people still believed in goblins, but he did not believe in themhimself. Of course he was just joking.
　　“Ye-es, brother,” he drawled thoughtfully, “You ought to have beentaught, but now it is too late. The devil knows what will become of you! Ishould hide that note-book of yours more carefully, for if the women get holdof it, they will laugh at you. Women, brother, love to touch one on a weakspot.”
　　For some time past my master had been quiet and thoughtful; he had atrick of looking about him cautiously, and the sound of the bell startled him.
　　Some — times he would give way to a painful irritability about trifles, wouldscold us all, and rush out of the house, returning drunk late at night. One feltthat something had come into his life which was known only to himself,which had lacerated his heart; and that he was living not sensibly, orwillingly, but simply by force of habit.
　　On Sundays from dinner-time till nine o’clock I was free to go out andabout, and the evenings I spent at a tavern in Yamski Street. The host, astout and always perspiring man, was passionately fond of singing, and thechoristers of most of the churches knew this, and used to frequent his house.
　　He treated them with vodka, beer, or tea, for their songs. The choristers werea drunken and uninteresting set of people; they sang unwillingly, only for thesake of the hospitality, and almost always it was church music. As certain ofthe pious drunkards did not consider that the tavern was the place for them,the host used to invite them to his private room, and I could only hear thesinging through the door. But frequently peasants from the villages, andartisans came. The tavern-keeper himself used to go about the towninquiring for singers, asking the peasants who came in on market-days, andinviting them to his house.
　　The singer was always given a chair close to the bar, his back to a cask ofvodka; his head was outlined against the bottom of the cask as if it were in around frame.
　　The best singer of all — and they were always particularly good singers —was the small, lean harness — maker, Kleshtchkov, who looked as if he hadbeen squeezed, and had tufts of red hair on his head. His little nose gleamedlike that of a corpse; his. benign, dreamy eyes were immovable.
　　Sometimes he closed his eyes, leaned the back of his head against thebottom of the cask, protruding his chest, and in his soft but all-conqueringtenor voice sang the quick moving:
　　“Ekh! how the fog has fallen upon the clean fields already!
　　And has hidden the distant roads!”
　　Here he would stop, and resting his back against the bar, bendingbackwards, went on, with his face raised toward the ceiling:
　　“Ekh! where — where am I going?
　　Where shall I find the broad ro-oad?”
　　His voice was small like himself, but it was unwearied ; he permeated thedark, dull room of the tav — ern with silvery chords, melancholy words. Hisgroans and cries conquered every one ; even the drunken ones becameamazedly surprised, gazing down in si-lence at the tables in front of them. Asfor me, my heart was torn, and overflowed with those mighty feel-ings whichgood music always arouses as it miracu — lously touches the very depths ofthe soul.
　　It was as quiet in the tavern as in a church, and the singer seemed like agood priest, who did not preach, but with all his soul, and honestly, prayedfor the whole human family, thinking aloud, as it were, of all the grievouscalamities which beset human life. Bearded men gazed upon him; childlikeeyes blinked in fierce, wild faces ; at moments some one sighed, and thisseemed to emphasize the triumphant power of the music. At such times italways seemed to me that the lives led by most people were unreal andmeaningless, and that the reality of life lay here.
　　In the corner sat the fat-faced old-clothes dealer, Luissukha, a repulsivefemale, a shameless, loose woman. She hid her head on her fat shoulder andwept, furtively wiping the tears from her bold eyes. Not far from her sat thegloomy chorister, Mitropolski, a hirsute young fellow who looked like adegraded deacon, with great eyes set in his drunken face. He gazed into theglass of vodka placed before him, took it up, and raised it to his mouth, andthen set it down again on the table, carefully and noiselessly. For somereason he could not drink.
　　And all the people in the tavern seemed to be glued to their places, as ifthey were listening to something long forgotten, but once dear and near tothem.
　　When Kleshtchkov, having finished his song, modestly sank down in thechair, the tavern-keeper, giving him a glass of wine, would say with a smile ofsatisfaction :
　　“Well, that was very good, sure! Although you can hardly be said to sing,so much as to recite! However, you are a master of it, whatever they say! Noone could say otherwise.”
　　Kleshtchkov, drinking his vodka without haste, coughed carefully andsaid quietly:
　　“Any one can sing if he has a voice, but to show what kind of soul thesong contains is only given to me.”
　　“Well, you needn’t boast, anyhow.”
　　“He who has nothing to boast about, does not boast,” said the singer asquietly but more firmly than before.
　　“You are conceited, Kleshtchkov!” exclaimed the host, annoyed.
　　“One can’t be more conceited than one’s conscience allows.”
　　And from the corner the gloomy Mitropolski roared :
　　“What do you know about the singing of this fallen angel, you worms,you dirt!”
　　He always opposed every one, argued with every one, broughtaccusations against every one; and almost every Sunday he was cruellypunished for this by one of the singers, or whoever else had a mind for thebusiness.
　　The tavern-keeper loved Kleshtchkov’s singing, but he could not endurethe singer. He used to complain about him, and obviously sought occasionsto humiliate him and to make him ridiculous. This fact was known to thefrequenters of the tavern and to Kleshtchkov himself.
　　“He is a good singer, but he is proud; he wants taking down,” he said,and several guests agreed with him.
　　“That’s true; he’s a conceited fellow!”
　　“What’s he got to be conceited about? His voice? That comes from God;he has nothing to do with it! And he hasn’t a very powerful voice, has he?”
　　the tavern-keeper persisted.
　　His audience agreed with him.
　　“True, it is not so much his voice as his intelligence.”
　　One day after the singer had refreshed himself and gone away, thetavern-keeper tried to persuade Luissukha.
　　“Why don’t you amuse yourself with Kleshtchkov for a bit, MarieEvdokimova; you’d shake him up, wouldn’t you? What would you want forit?”
　　“If I were younger,” she said with a laugh.
　　The tavern-keeper cried loudly and warmly:
　　“What can the young ones do? But you — you will get hold of him! Weshall see him dancing round you! When he is bowed down by grief he will beable to sing, won’t he? Take him in hand, Evdokimova, and do me a favor,will you?”
　　But she would not do it. Large and fat, she lowered her eyes and playedwith the fringe of the hand — kerchief which covered her bosom, as she saidin a monotonous, lazy drawl:
　　“It’s a young person that is needed here. If I were younger, well, I wouldnot think twice about it.”
　　Almost every night the tavern-keeper tried to make Kleshtchkov drunk,but the latter, after two or three songs and a glassful after each, wouldcarefully wrap up his throat with a knitted scarf, draw his cap well over histufted head, and depart.
　　The tavern-keeper often tried to find a rival for Kleshtchkov. Theharness-maker would sing a song and then the host, after praising him,would say :
　　“Here is another singer. Come along now, show what you can do!”
　　Sometimes the singer had a good voice, but I do not remember anoccasion on which any of Kleshtchkov’s rivals sang so simply and soulfully asthat little conceited harness-maker.
　　“M— yes,” said the tavern-keeper, not without regret, “it’s good,certainly! The chief thing is that it is a voice, but there’s no soul in it.”
　　The guests teased him:
　　“No, you can’t better the harness-maker, you see!”
　　And Kleshtchkov, looking at them all from under his red, tuftedeyebrows, said to the tavern-keeper calmly and politely:
　　“You waste your time. You will never find a singer with my gifts to set upin opposition to me; my gift is from God.”
　　“We are all from God!”
　　“You may ruin yourself by the drink you give, but you’ll never find one.”
　　The tavern-keeper turned purple and muttered: “How do we know? Howdo we know?”
　　But Kleshtchkov pointed out to him firmly :
　　“Again I tell you this is singing, not a cock-fight.”
　　“I know that! Why do you keep harping on it?”
　　“I am not harping on it; I am simply pointing out something to you. If asong is nothing but a diversion, it comes from the devil!”
　　“All right! You ‘d better sing again.”
　　“I can always sing, even in my sleep,” agreed Kleshtchkov, and carefullyclearing his throat he began to sing.
　　And all nonsense, trashy talk, and ambitions vanished into smoke as by amiracle; the refreshing streams of a different life, reflective, pure, full of loveand sadness, flowed over us all.
　　I envied that man, envied intensely his talent and his power over people.
　　The way he took advantage of this power was so wonderful! I wanted to makethe acquaintance of the harness-maker, to hold a long conversation withhim, but I could not summon up courage to go to him.
　　Kleshtchkov had such a strange way of looking at everybody with his paleeyes, as if he could not see any one in front of him. But there was somethingabout him which offended me and prevented me from liking him; and Iwanted to like him for himself, not only when he was singing. It wasunpleasant to see him pull his cap over his head, like an old man, and swathehis neck, just for show, in that red, knitted scarf of which he said:
　　“My little one knitted this; my only little girl.”
　　When he was not singing he pouted importantly, rubbed his dead, frozennose with his fingers, and answered questions in monosyllables, andunwillingly. When I approached him and asked him something, he looked atme and said:
　　“Go away, lad!”
　　I much preferred the chorister, Mitropolski. When he appeared in thetavern, he would walk into his corner with the gait of a man carrying a heavyload, move a chair away with the toe of his boot, and sit down with hiselbows on the table, resting his large shaggy head on his hands. After he haddrunk two or three glasses in silence, he would utter a resounding cry. Everyone would start and look towards him, but with his chin in his hands hegazed at them defiantly, his mane of unbrushed hair wildly surrounding hispuffy, sallow face.
　　“What are you looking af? What do you see?” he would ask with suddenpassion.
　　Sometimes they replied:
　　“We are looking at a werwolf.”
　　There were evenings on which he drank in silence, and in silencedeparted, heavily dragging his feet. Several times I heard him denouncepeople, playing the prophet:
　　“I am the incorruptible servant of my God, and I denounce you. BeholdIsaiah! Woe to the town of Ariel. Come, ye wicked, and ye rogues, and allkinds of dark monstrosities living in the mire of your own base desires! Woeto the ships of this world, for they carry lewd people on their sinful way. Iknow you, drunkards, gluttons, dregs of this world; there is no timeappointed for you. Accursed ones, the very earth refuses to receive you intoher womb!”
　　His voice resounded so that the window-panes shook, which delightedhis audience. They praised the prophet :
　　“He barks finely, the shaggy cur!”
　　It was easy to become acquainted with him; it cost no more than to offerhim hospitality; he required a decanter of vodka and a portion of ox liver.
　　When I asked him to tell me what kind of books one ought to read, heanswered me with stubborn ferocity by another question:
　　“Why read at all?”
　　But mollified by my confusion, he added in ringing tones :
　　“Have you read Ecclesiastes ?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Read Ecclesiastes. You need nothing more. There is all the wisdom ofthe world, only there are sheep who do not understand it; that is to say, noone understands it. Can you sing at all?”
　　“No.”
　　“Why? You ought to sing. It is the most ridiculous way of passing time.”
　　Some one asked him from an adjacent table:
　　“But you sing yourself?”
　　“Yes; but I am a vagrant. Well?”
　　“Nothing.”
　　“That is nothing new. Every one knows that there is nothing in thatblockhead of yours, and there never will be anything. Amen!”
　　In this tone he was in the habit of speaking to me and to every one else,although after the second or third time of my treating him, he began to bemore gentle with me. One day he actually said with a shade of surprise:
　　“I look at you and I cannot make out what you are, who are you, or whyyou are! But whatever you are, may the devil take you!”
　　He behaved in an incomprehensible manner to Kleshtchkov. He listenedto him with manifest enjoyment sometimes even with a benign smile, but hewould not make closer acquaintance with him, and spoke about him coarselyand contemptuously.
　　“That barber’s block! He knows how to breathe, he understands what tosing about, but for the rest, he is an ass.”
　　“Whyr’
　　“Like all his kind.”
　　I should have liked to talk with him when he was sober, but when soberhe only bellowed, and looked upon all the world with misty, dull eyes. Ilearned from some one that this permanently inebriated man had studied inthe Kazan Academy, and might have become a prelate. I did not believe this.
　　But one day when I was telling him about myself, I recalled the name of thebishop, Chrisanph. He tossed his head and said:
　　“Chrisanph? I know him. He was my tutor and benefactor. At Kazan, inthe academy, I remember! Chrisanph means ‘golden flower.’ Yes, that was atrue saying of Pavm Beruind. Yes, he was a flower of gold, Chrisanph!”
　　“And who is Pavm Beruind?” I added, but Mitropolski replied shortly:
　　“That is none of your business.”
　　When I reached home I wrote in my note-book, “I must read the worksof Pavm Beruind.” I felt, somehow, that I should find therein the answers tomany questions which perplexed me.
　　The singer was very fond of using names which were unknown to me,and curiously coined words. This irritated me greatly.
　　“Life is not aniso?” he said.
　　“What is aniso?” I asked.
　　“Something advantageous to you,” he answered, and my perplexityamused him.
　　These little sayings, and the fact that he had studied in the academy, ledme to think that he knew a great deal, and I was offended with him for notspeaking of his knowledge, or if he did allude to it, being so unintelligible. Orwas it that I had no right to ask him,? However, he left an impression on mymind. I liked the drunken boldness of his denunciations, which weremodelled on those of the prophet Isaias.
　　“Oh, unclean and vile ones of earth!” he roared, “the worst among youare famous, and the best are persecuted. The day of judgment draws nigh.
　　You will repent then, but it will be too late, too late!”
　　As I listened to his roar, I remembered “Good Business,” the laundressNatalia, ruined so hideously and easily. Queen Margot, wrapped in a cloud ofdirty scandal. I already had some memories!
　　My brief acquaintance with this man finished curiously.
　　I met him in the spring, in the fields near the camp. He was walking likea camel, moving his head from side to side, solitary, bloated-looking.
　　“Going for a walk?” he asked hoarsely. “Let us go together. I also amtaking a walk. I am ill. Brother; yes.”
　　We walked some yards without speaking, when suddenly we saw a manin a pit which had been made under a tent. He was sitting in the bottom ofthe pit, leaning on one side, his shoulder resting against the side of thetrench. His coat was drawn up on one side above his ear, as if he had beentrying to take it off and had not succeeded.
　　“Drunk,” decided the singer, coming to a standstill.
　　But on the young grass under the man’s arm lay a large revolver, not farfrom him lay a cap, and beside it stood a bottle of vodka, hardly begun. Itsempty neck was buried in the long grass. The face of the man was hidden byhis overcoat, as if he were ashamed.
　　For a moment we stood in silence. Then Mitropolski, planting his feetwide apart, said:
　　“He has shot himself.”
　　Then I understood that the man was not drunk, but dead, but it cameupon me so suddenly that I could not believe it. I remember that I feltneither fear nor pity as I looked at that large, smooth skull, visible above theovercoat, and on that livid ear. I could not believe that a man would killhimself on such a pleasant spring day.
　　The singer rubbed his unshaven cheeks with his hand, as if he were cold,and said hoarsely :
　　“He is an oldish man. Perhaps his wife has left him, or he has made offwith money not belonging to him.”
　　He sent me into the town to fetch the police, and himself sat down on theedge of the pit, letting his feet hang over, wrapping his worn overcoat closelyround him. Having informed the police of the suicide, I ran back quickly, butin the meantime the chor — ister had drunk the dead man’s vodka, and cameto meet me, waving the empty bottle.
　　“This is what ruined him,” he cried, and furiously dashing the bottle tothe ground, smashed it to atoms.
　　The town constable had followed me. He looked into the pit, took off hishat, and crossing himself indecisively, asked the singer :
　　“Who may you be?”
　　“That is not your business.”
　　The policeman reflected, and then asked more politely:
　　“What account do you give of yourself, then? Here is a dead man, andhere are you, drunk!”
　　“I have been drunk for twenty years!” said the singer proudly, strikinghis chest with the palm of his hand.
　　I felt sure that they would arrest him for drinking the vodka. Peoplecame rushing from the town; a severe-looking police inspector cartie in acab. descended into the pit, and, lifting aside the overcoat of the suicide,looked into his face.
　　“Who saw him first ?”
　　“I,” said Mitropolski.
　　The inspector looked at him and drawled ominously :
　　“A-ah! Congratulations, my lord!”
　　Sightseers began to gather round; there were a dozen or so of people.
　　Panting, excited, they surrounded the pit and looked down into it, and one ofthem cried :
　　“It is a chinovnik who lives in our street; I know him!”
　　The singer, swaying, with his cap off, stood before the inspector, andargued with him inarticulately, shouting something indistinctly. Then theinspector struck him in the chest. He reeled and sat down, and the policemanwithout haste took some string from his pocket and bound the hands of thesinger. He folded them meekly behind his back, as if he were used to thisprocedure. Then the inspector began to shout angrily to the crowd:
　　“Be off, now!”
　　After this there came another, older policeman, with moist, red eyes, hismouth hanging open from weariness, and he took hold of the end of the cordwith which the singer was bound, and gently led him into the town. I alsowent away dejected from the field. Through my memory, like a dull echo,rang the avenging words:
　　“Woe to the town Ariel!”
　　And before my eyes rose that depressing spectacle of the policemanslowly drawing the string from the pocket of his ulster, and the awe-inspiringprophet meekly folding his red, hairy hands behind his back, and crossinghis wrists as if he were used to it.
　　I soon heard that the prophet had been sent out of the town. And afterhim, Kleshtchkov disappeared; he had married well, and had gone to live in adistrict where a harness-maker’s workshop had been opened.
　　I had praised his singing so warmly to my master that he said one day:
　　“I must go and hear him!”
　　And so one night he sat at a little table opposite to me, raising his browsin astonishment, his eyes wide open.
　　On the way to the tavern he had made fun of me, and during the firstpart of the time he was in the tavern, he was railing at me, at the peoplethere, and at the stuffy smell of the place. When the harness-maker began tosing he smiled derisively, and began to pour himself a glass of beer, but hestopped half-way, saying :
　　“Who the devil —?”
　　His hand trembled; he set the bottle down gently, and began to listenwith intentness.
　　“Ye-es, Brother,” he said with a sigh, when Kleshtchkov had finishedsinging, “he can sing! The devil take him! He has even made the air hot.”
　　The harness-maker sang again, with his head back, gazing up at theceiling:
　　“On the road from the flourishing villageA young girl came over the dewy fields.”
　　“He can sing,” muttered my master, shaking his head and smiling.
　　And Kleshtchkov poured forth his song, clear as the music of a reed:
　　“And the beautiful maiden answered him:
　　‘An orphan am I, no one wants me,’ ”
　　“Good!” whispered my master, blinking his reddening eyes. “Phew! it isdevilish good!”
　　I looked at him and rejoiced, and the sobbing words of the songconquered the noise of the tavern, sounded more powerful, more beautiful,more touching every moment.
　　I live solitary in our village.
　　A young girl am I ; they never ask me out.
　　Oie, poor am I, my dress it is not fine;I am not fit, I know, for a brave young man.
　　A widower would marry me to do his work;I do not wish to bow myself to such a fate.
　　My master wept undisguisedly; he sat with his head bent; his prominentnose twitched, and tears splashed on his knees. After the third song, agitatedand dishevelled, he said:
　　“I can’t sit here any longer; I shall be stifled with these odors. Let us gohome.”
　　But when we were in the street he said :
　　“Come along, Pyeshkov, let us go to a restaurant and have something toeat. I don’t want to go home!”
　　He hailed a sledge, without haggling about the charge, and said nothingwhile we were on the way, but in the restaurant, after taking a table in acorner, he began at once in an undertone, looking about him the while, tocomplain angrily.
　　“He has thoroughly upset me, that goat; to such a state of melancholy hehas driven me! Here you are — you read and think about things — just tellme now, what the devil is the use of it all? One lives; forty years pass by; onehas a wife and children, and no one to talk to! There are times when I wantto unburden my soul, to talk to some one about all sorts of things, but thereis no one I can talk to. I can’t talk to my wife; I have nothing in common withher. What is she, after all? She has her children and the house; that’s herbusiness. She is a stranger to my soul. A wife is your friend till the first childcomes. In fact, she is — on the whole — Well, you can see for yourself shedoes not dance to my piping. Flesh without spirit, the devil take you! It is agrief to me, Brother.”
　　He drank the cold, bitter beer feverishly, was silent for a time, rufflinghis long hair, and then he went on :
　　“Human creatures are riff-raff for the most part. Brother! There you are,for instance, talking to the workmen. Oh yes, I understand there is a lot oftrickery, and baseness; it is true. Brother; they are thieves all of them! But doyou think that what you say makes any difference to them! Not an atom! No!
　　They are all — Petr, Osip as well — rogues! They speak about me, and youspeak for me, and all — what is the use of it, Brother?”
　　I was dumb from sheer amazement.
　　“That’s it!” said my master, smiling. “You were right to think of going toPersia. There you would understand nothing; it is a foreign language theyspeak there! But in your own language you’ll hear nothing but baseness!”
　　“Has Osip been telling you about me?” I asked.
　　“Well, yes! But what did you expect ? He talks more than any of them; heis a gossip. He is a sly creature, Brother! No, Pyeshkov, words don’t touchthem. Am I not right? And what the devil is the use of it? And what the devildifference does it make? None! It is like snow in the autumn, falling in themud and melting. It only makes more mud. You had far better hold yourtongue.”
　　He drank glass after glass of beer. He did not get drunk, but he talkedmore and more quickly and fiercely.
　　“The proverb says, ‘Speech is silver, silence is golden.’ Ekh, Brother, it isall sorrow, sorrow! He sang truly, ‘Solitary I live in our village.’ Human life isall loneliness.”
　　He glanced round, lowered his voice, and continued :
　　“And I had found a friend after my own heart. There was a woman whohappened to be alone, as good as a widow; her husband had beencondemned to Siberia for coining money, and was in prison there. I becameacquainted with her; she was penniless; it was that, you know, which led toour acquaintance. I looked at her and thought, ‘What a nice little person!’
　　Pretty, you know, young, simply wonderful. I saw her once or twice, and thenI said to her : ‘Your husband is a rogue. You are not living honestly yourself.
　　Why do you want to go to Siberia after him?’ But she would follow him intoexile. She said to me: ‘Whatever he is, I love him; he is good to me I It may bethat it was for me he sinned. I have sinned with you. For’ his sake,’ she said,‘I had to have money; he is a gentleman and accustomed to live well. If I hadbeen single,’ she said, ‘I should have lived honorably. You are a good man,too,’ she said, ‘and I like you very much, but don’t talk to me about thisagain.’ The devil! I gave her all I had — eighty rubles or thereabouts — and Isaid: ‘You must pardon me, but I cannot see you any more. I cannot!’ And Ileft her — and that’s how — ”
　　He was silent, and then he suddenly became drunk. He sank into ahuddled-up heap and muttered :
　　“Six times I went to see her. You can’t understand what it was like! Imight have gone to her flat six more times, but I could not make up my mindto it. I could not! Now she has gone away.”
　　He laid his hands on the table, and in a whisper, moving his fingers,said :
　　“God grant I never meet her again! God grant it! Then it would be goingto the devil! Let us go home. Come!”
　　We went. He staggered along, muttering:
　　“That’s how it is, Brother.”
　　I was not surprised by the story he had told me; I had long ago guessedthat something unusual had happened to him. But I was greatly depressed bywhat he had said about life, and more by what he had said about Osip.
Chapter 20
    I LIVED three years as overseer in that dead town, amid empty buildings,watching the workmen pull down clumsy stone shops in the autumn, andrebuild them in the same way in the spring.
　　The master took great care that I should earn his five rubles. If the floorof a shop had to be laid again, I had to remove earth from the whole area tothe depth of one arshin. The dock laborers were paid a ruble for this work,but I received nothing; and while I was thus occupied, I had no time to lookafter the carpenters, who unscrewed the locks and handles from the doorsand committed petty thefts of all kinds.
　　Both the workmen and the contractors tried in every way to cheat me, tosteal something, and they did it almost openly, as if they were performing anunpleasant duty; were not in the least indignant when I accused them, butwere merely amazed.
　　“You make as much fuss over five rubles as you would over twenty. It isfunny to hear you!”
　　I pointed out to my riiaster that, while he saved one ruble by my labor,he lost ten times more in this way, but he merely blinked at me and said :
　　“That will do! You are making that up!”
　　I understood that he suspected me of conniving at the thefts, whicharoused in me a feeling of repulsion towards him, but I was not offended. Inthat class of life they all steal, and even the master liked to take what did notbelong to him.
　　When, after the fair, he looked into one of the shops which he was torebuild, and saw a forgotten samovar, a piece of crockery, a carpet, or a pairof scissors which had been forgotten, even sometimes a case, or somemerchandise, my master would say, smiling:
　　“Make a list of the things and take them all to the store-room.”
　　And he would take them home with him from the store-room, telling mesometimes to cross them off the list.
　　I did not love “things”; I had no desire to possess them; even books werean embarrassment to me. I had none of my own, save the little volumes ofBeranger and the songs of Heine. I should have liked to obtain Pushkin, butthe book-dealer in the town was an evil old man, who asked a great deal toomuch for Pushkin’s works. The furniture, carpets, and mirrors, which bulkedso largely in my master’s house, gave me no pleasure, irritated me by theirmelancholy clumsiness and smell of paint and lacquer. Most of all I dislikedthe mistress’s room, which reminded me of a trunk packed with all kinds ofuseless, superfluous objects. And I was disgusted with my master forbringing home other people’s things from the store-house. Queen Margot’srooms had been cramped too, but they were beautiful in spite of it.
　　Life, on the whole, seemed to me to be a disconnected, absurd affair;there was too much of the ob — viously stupid about it. Here we werebuilding shops which the floods inundated in the spring, soaking through thefloors, making the outer doors hang crooked. When the waters subsided thejoists had begun to rot. Annually the water had overflowed the market-placefor the last ten years, spoiling the buildings and the bridges. These yearlyfloods did enor — mous damage, and yet they all knew that the waters wouldnot be diverted of themselves.
　　Each spring the breaking of the ice cut up the barges, and dozens ofsmall vessels. The people groaned and built new ones, which the ice againbroke. It was like a ridiculous treadmill whereon one remains always in thesame place. I asked Osip about it. He looked amazed, and then laughed.
　　“Oh, you heron! What a young heron he is! What is it to do with you atall? What is it to you,But then he spoke more gravely, although he could not extinguish thelight of merriment in his pale blue eyes, which had a clearness not belongingto old age.
　　“That’s a very intelligent observation! Let us suppose that the affair doesnot concern you; all the same it may be worth something to you tounderstand it. Take this case, for example — ”
　　And he related in a dry speech, interspersed lavishly with quaint sayings,unusual comparisons, and all kinds of drollery:
　　“Here is a case where people are to be pitied; they have only a little land,and in the springtime the Volga overflows its banks, carries away the earth,and lays it upon its own sand-banks. Then others complain that the bed ofthe Volga is choked up. The spring-time streams and summer rains tear upthe gulleys, and again earth is carried away to the river.”
　　He spoke without either pity or malice, but as if he enjoyed hisknowledge of the miseries of life, and although his words were in agreementwith my own ideas, yet it was unpleasant to listen to them.
　　“Take another instance; fires.”
　　I don’t think I can remember a summer when the forests beyond theVolga did not catch fire. Every July the sky was clouded by a muddy yellowsmoke; the leaden sun, all its brightness gone, looked down on the earth likea bad eye.
　　“As for forests, who cares about them?” said Osip. “They all belong to thenobles, or the crown; the peasants don’t own them. And if towns catch fire,that is not a very serious business either. Rich people live in towns ; they arenot to be pitied. But take the villages. How many villages are burned downevery summer? Not less than a hundred, I should think; that’s a seriousloss!”
　　He laughed softly.
　　“Some people have property and don’t know how to manage it, andbetween ourselves, a man has to work not so much on his own behalf, or onthe land, as against fire and water.”
　　“Why do you laugh ?”
　　“Why not? You won’t put a fire out with your tears, nor will they makethe floods more mighty.”
　　I knew that this handsome old man was more clever than any one I hadmet; but what were his real sympathies and antipathies? I was thinkingabout this all the time he was adding his little dry sayings to my store.
　　“Look round you, and see how little people preserve their own, or otherpeople’s strength. How your master squanders yours! And how much doeswater cost in a village? Reflect a little; it is better than any cleverness whichcomes from learning. If a peasant’s hut is burned, another one can be put upin its place, but when a worthy peasant loses his sight, you can’t set thatright! Look at Ardalon, for example, or Grisha ; see how a man can breakout! A foolish fellow, the first, but Grisha is a man of understanding. Hesmokes like a hayrick. Women attacked him, as worms attack a murderedman in a wood.”
　　I asked him without anger, merely out of curiosity:
　　“Why did you go and tell the master about my ideas?’
　　He answered calmly, even kindly:
　　“So that he might know what harmful ideas you have. It was necessary,in order that he may teach you better ones. Who should teach you, if not he?
　　I did not speak to him out of malice, but out of pity for you. You are not astupid lad, but the devil is racking your brain. If I had caught you stealing, orrun — ning after the girls, or drinking, I should have held my tongue. But Ishall always repeat all your wild talk to the master; so now you know.”
　　“I won’t talk to you, then!”
　　He was silent, scratching the resin off his hands with his nails. Then helooked at me with an expression of affection and said:
　　“That you will! To whom else will you talk? There is no one else.”
　　Clean and neat, Osip at times reminded me of the stoker, Yaakov,absolutely indifferent to every one. Sometimes he reminded me of the valuer,Petr Vassiliev, sometimes of the drayman, Petr; occasionally he revealed atrait which was like grandfather. In one way or another he was like all the oldmen I had known. They were all amazingly interesting old men, but I feltthat it was impossible to live with them ; it would be oppressive andrepulsive. They had corroded their own hearts, as it were ; their cleverspeeches hid hearts red with rust. Was Osip good-hearted? No. Malevolent?
　　Also no. That he was clever was all that was clear to me. But while itastounded me by its pliability, that intelligence of his deadened me, and theend of it was that I felt he was inimical to me in all kinds of ways.
　　In my heart seethed the black thoughts :
　　“All human creatures are strangers to one another despite their sweetwords and smiles. And more; we are all strangers on the earth, too; no oneseems to be bound to it by a powerful feeling of love. Grandmother aloneloved to be alive, and loved all crea — tures — grandmother and graciousQueen Margot.
　　Sometimes these and similar thoughts increased the density of the darkfog around me. Life had become suffocating and oppressive; but how could Ilive a different life? Whither could I go? I had no one to talk to, even, exceptOsip, and I talked to him more and more often. He listened to my heatedbabbling with evident interest, asked me questions, drove home a point, andsaid calmly :
　　“The persistent woodpecker is not terrible; no one is afraid of him. Butwith all my heart I advise you to go into a monastery and live there till youare grown up. You will have edifying conversations with holy men to consoleyou, you will be at peace, and you will be a source of revenue to the monks.
　　That’s my sincere advice to you. It is evident that you are not fit for worldlybusiness.”
　　I had no desire to enter a monastery, but I felt that I was being entangledand bewildered in the enchanted circle of the incomprehensible. I wasmiserable. Life for me was like a forest in autumn. The mushrooms had comeand gone, there was nothing to do in the empty forest, and I seemed to knowall there was to know in it.
　　I did not drink vodka, and I had nothing to do with girls; books took theplace of these two forms of intoxication for me. But the more I read, theharder it was for me to go on living the empty, unnecessary life that mostpeople lived.
　　I had only just turned fifteen years of age, but sometimes I felt like anelderly man. I was, as it were, inwardly swollen and heavy with all I had livedthrough and read, or restlessly pondered. Looking into myself, I discoveredthat my receptacle for impressions was like a dark lumber-room closelypacked with all kinds of things, of which I had neither the strength nor thewit to rid myself.
　　And although they were so numerous, all these cumbersome articleswere not solidly packed, but floated about, and made me waver as watermakes a piece of crockery waver which does not stand firm.
　　I had a fastidious dislike of unhappiness, illness, and grievances. When Isaw cruelty, blood, fights even verbal baiting of a person, it aroused aphysical repulsion in me which was swiftly transformed into a cold fury. Thismade me fight myself, like a wild beast, after which I would be painfullyashamed of myself.
　　Sometimes I was so passionately desirous of beating a bully that I threwmyself blindly into a fight, and even now I remember those attacks ofdespair, born of m/ impotence, with shame and grief.
　　Within me dwelt two persons. One was cognizant of only too manyabominations and obscenities, somewhat timid for that reason, was crushedby the knov/ledge of everyday horrors, and had begun to view life and peopledistrustfully, contemptuously, with a feeble pity for every one, includinghimself. This person dreamed of a quiet, solitary life with books, withoutpeople, of monasteries, of a forest-keeper’s lodge, a railway signal box, ofPersia, and the office of the night watchman somewhere on the outskirts ofthe town. Only to see fewer people, to be remote from human creatures!
　　The other person, baptized by the holy spirit of noble and wise books,observing the overwhelming strength of the daily horrors of life, felt howeasily that strength might sap one’s brain-power, trample the heart withdirty footprints, and, fighting against it with all his force, with clenched teethand fists, was always ready for a quarrel or a fight. He loved and pitiedactively, and, like the brave hero in French novels, drew his sword from hisscabbard on the slightest provocation, and stood in a warlike position.
　　At that time I had a bitter enemy in the door-keeper of one of thebrothels in Little Pokrovski Street. I made his acquaintance one morning as Iwas going to the market-place; he was dragging from a hackney-carriage,standing at the gate in front of the house, a girl who was dead drunk. Heseized her by the legs in their wrinkled stockings, and thus held her shamelessly,bare to the waist, exclaiming and laughing. He spat upon her body,and she came down with a jolt out of the carriage, dishevelled, blind, withopen mouth, with her soft arms hanging behind her as if they had no joints.
　　Her spine, the back of her neck, and her livid face struck the seat of thecarriage and the step, and at length she fell on the pavement, striking herhead on the stones.
　　The driver whipped up his horse and drove off, and the porter, takingone foot in each hand and stepping backward, dragged her along as if shehad been a corpse. I lost control of myself and made a rush at him, but asluck would have it, I hurled myself against, or accidentally ran into arainwater-barrel, which saved both the porter and me a great deal ofunpleasantness. Striking him on the rebound, I knocked him over, darted upthe steps, and desperately pulled the bell-handle. Some infuriated peoplerushed on the scene, and as I could not explain anything, I went away,picking up the barrel.
　　On the way I overtook the cab. The driver looked down at me from thecoach-box and said:
　　“You knocked him over smartly.”
　　I asked him angrily how he could allow the portel to make sport of thegirl, and he replied calmly, with a fastidious air:
　　“As for me, let them go to the dogs! A gentleman paid me when he puther in my cab. What is it to me if one person beats another?”
　　“And if he had killed her?’
　　“Oh, well ; you soon kill that sort!” said the driver, as if he had repeatedlytried to kill drunken girls.
　　After that I saw the porter nearly every day. When I passed up the streethe would be sweeping the pavement, or sitting on the steps as if he werewaiting for me. As I approached him he would stand up, tuck up his sleeves,and announce kindly:
　　“I am going to smash you to atoms now!”
　　He was over forty, small, bow-legged, with a pendulous paunch. Whenhe laughed he looked at me with beaming eyes, and it was terribly strange tome to see that they were kind and merry. He could not fight, because hisarms were shorter than mine, and after two or three turns he let me go,leaned his back against the gate, and said, apparently in great surprise :
　　“All right; you wait, clever!”
　　These fights bored me, and one day I said to him :
　　“Listen, fool! Why don’t you let me alone?”
　　“Why do you fight, then?” he asked reproachfully.
　　I asked him in turn why he had maltreated the girl.
　　“What did it matter to you? Are you sorry for her?’
　　“Of course I am!”
　　He was silent, rubbing his lips, and then asked:
　　“And would you be sorry for a cat?”
　　“Yes, I should.”
　　Then he said:
　　“You are a fool, rascal! Wait; I’ll show you something.”
　　I never could avoid passing up that street — it was the shortest way —but I began to get up earlier, in order not to meet the man. However, in a fewdays I saw him again, sitting on the steps and stroking a smoke-colored catwhich lay on his knees. When I was about three paces from him he jumpedup, seized the cat by the legs, and dashed its head against the stonebalustrade, so that I was splashed with the warm blood. He then hurled thecat under my feet and stood at the gate, crying:
　　“What now?”
　　What could I do? Wc rolled about the yard like two curs, and afterward,as I sat on a grassy slope, nearly crazy with inexpressible grief, I bit my lipsto keep myself from howling. When I remember it I shiver with a feeling ofsickening repulsion, amazed that I did not go out of my mind and kill someone.
　　Why do I relate these abominations? So that you may know, kind sirs,that is not all past and done with! You have a liking for grim fantasies; youare delighted with horrible stories well told; the grotesquely terrible excitesyou pleasantly. But I know of genuine horrors, everyday terrors, and I havean undeniable right to excite you unpleasantly by telling you about them, inorder that you may remember how we live, and under what circumstances. Alow and unclean life it is, ours, and that is the truth!
　　I am a lover of humanity and I have no desire to make any onemiserable, but one must not be sentimental, nor hide the grim truth with themotley words of beautiful lies. Let us face life as it is! All that is good andhuman in our hearts and brains needs renewing. What went to my head mostof all was the attitude of the average man toward women. From my readingof novels I had learned to look upon woman as the best and most significantthing in life. Grandmother had strengthened me in this belief by her storiesabout Our Lady and Vassilissia the Wise. What I knew of the unhappylaundress, Natalia, and those hundred and thousands of glances and smileswhich I observed, with which women, the mothers of life, adorn this life ofsordid joys, sordid loves, also helped me.
　　The books of Turgenieff sang the praises of woman, and with all the goodI knew about women I had adorned the image of Queen Margot in mymemory. Heine and Turgenieff especially gave me much that was preciousfor this purpose.
　　In the evenings as I was returning from the market-place I used to halton the hill by the walls of the Kreml and look at the sun setting beyond theVolga. Fiery streams flowed over the heavens; the terrestrial, beloved riverhad turned purple and blue. Sometimes in such moments the land lookedlike an enor — mous convict barge ; it had the appearance of a pig be — inglazily towed along by an invisible steamer.
　　But I thought more often of the great world, of towns which I had readabout, of foreign countries where people lived in a different manner. Writersof other countries depicted life as cleaner, more attractive, less burdensomethan that life which seethed slug — gishly and monotonously around me.
　　This thought calmed my disturbed spirit, aroused visions of the possibility ofa different life for me.
　　And I felt that I should meet some simple-minded, wise man who wouldlead me on that broad, bright road.
　　One day as I sat on a bench by the walls of the Kreml my Uncle Yaakovappeared at my side. I had not noticed his approach, and I did not recognizehim at once. Although we had lived in the same town during several years,we had met seldom, and then only accidentally and for a mere glimpse ofeach other.
　　“Ekh! how you have stretched out!” he said jestingly, and we fell totalking like two people long ac — quainted but not intimate.
　　From what grandmother had told me I knew that Uncle Yaakov hadspent those years in quarrelling and idleness; he had had a situation asassistant warder at the local goal, but his term of service ended badly. Thechief warder being ill, Uncle Yaakov arranged festivities in his own quartersfor the convicts. This was discovered, and he was dismissed and handed overto the police on the charge of having let the prisoners out to “take a walk” inthe town at night. None of them had escaped, but one was caught in the actof trying to throttle a certain deacon. The business draggged on for a longtime, but the matter never came into court; the convicts and the warderswere able to exculpate my good uncle. But now he lived without working onthe earnings of his son who sang in the church choir at Rukavishnikov, whichwas famous at that time. He spoke oddly of this son:
　　“He has become very solemn and important! He is a soloist. He getsangry if the samovar is not ready to time, or if his clothes are not brushed. Avery dapper fellow he is, and clean.”
　　Uncle himself had aged considerably; he looked grubby and fallen away.
　　His gay, curly locks had grown very scanty, and his ears stuck out ; in thewhites of his eyes and on the leathery skin of his shaven cheeks thereappeared thick, red veins. He spoke jestingly, but it seemed as if there weresomething in his mouth which impeded his utterance, although his teethwere sound.
　　I was glad to have the chance of talking to a man who knew how to livewell, had seen much, and must therefore know much. I well remembered hislively, comical songs and grandfather’s words about him:
　　“In songs he is King David, but in business he plots evil, like Absalom!”
　　On the promenade a well-dressed crowd passed and repassed :
　　luxuriously attired gentlemen, chinovniks, officers ; uncle was dressed in ashabby, autumn overcoat, a battered cap, and brown boots, and was visiblypricked by annoyance at the thought of his own costume. We went into oneof the public-houses on the Pochainski Causeway, taking a table near thewindow which opened on the market-place.
　　“Do you remember how you sang:
　　“A beggar hung his leggings to dry,And another beggar came and stole them away?”
　　When I had uttered the words of the song, I felt for the first time theirmocking meaning, and it seemed to me that my gay uncle was both witty andmalicious. But he, pouring vodka into a glass, said thoughtfully :
　　“Well, I am getting on in years, and I have made very little of my life.
　　That song is not mine; it was composed by a teacher in the seminary. Whatwas his name now? He is dead; I have forgotten. We were great friends. Hewas a bachelor. He died in his sleep, in a fit. How many people have gone tosleep that I can remember! It would be hard to count them. You don’t drink?
　　That is right; don’t! Do you see your grandfather often? He is not a happy oldman. I believe he is going out of his mind.”
　　After a few drinks he became more lively, held him-self up, lookedyounger, and began to speak with more animation. I asked him for the storyof the convicts.
　　“You heard about it?” he inquired, and with a glance around, andlowering his voice, he said :
　　“What about the convicts? I was not their judge, you know ; I saw themmerely as human creatures, and I said : ‘Brothers, let us live together inharmony, let us live happily! There is a song,’ I said, ‘which runs like this :
　　“Imprisonment to happiness is no bar. Let them do with us as they will!
　　Still we shall live for sake of laughter, He is a fool who lives otherwise.”
　　He laughed, glanced out of the window on the darkening causeway, andcontinued, smoothing his whis — kers :
　　“Of course they were dull in that prison, and as soon as the roll-call wasover, they came to me. We had vodka and dainties, sometimes provided byme, sometimes by themselves. I love songs and dancing, and among themwere some excellent singers and dancers. It was astonishing! Some of themwere in fetters, and it was no calumny to say that I undid their chains ; it istrue. But bless you, they knew how to take them off by themselves without ablacksmith; they are a handy lot of people; it is astonishing! But to say that Ilet them wander about the town to rob people is rubbish, and it was neverproved!”
　　He was silent, gazing out of the window on the causeway where themerchants were shutting up their chests of goods ; iron bars rattled, rustyhinges creaked, some boards fell with a resounding crash. Then winking atme gaily, he continued in a low voice :
　　“To speak the truth, one of them did really go out at night, only he wasnot one of the fettered ones, but simply a local thief from the lower end of thetown; his sweetheart lived not far away on the Pechorka. And the affair withthe deacon happened through a mistake; he took the deacon for a merchant.
　　It was a winter night, in a snowstorm; everybody was wearing a fur coat ;how could he tell the difference in his haste between a deacon and amerchant?”
　　This struck me as being funny, and he laughed himself as he said:
　　“Yes, by gad! It was the very devil — ”
　　Here my uncle became unexpectedly and strangely angry. He pushedaway his plate of savories, frowned with an expression of loathing, and,smoking a cigarette, muttered:
　　“They rob one another; then they catch one another and put one anotheraway in prisons in Siberia, in the galleys; but what is it to do with me? I spitupon them all! I have my own soul!”
　　The shaggy stoker stood before me ; he also had been wont to “spit upon”
　　people, and he also was called Yaakov.
　　“What are you thinking about ?” asked my uncle softly.
　　“Were you sorry for the convicts?”
　　“It is easy to pity them, they are such children; it is amazing! SometimesI would look at one of them and think: I am not worthy to black his boots;although I am set over him! Clever devils, skilful with their hands.”
　　The wine and his reminiscences had again pleasantly animated him.
　　With his elbows resting on the window-sill, waving his yellow hand with thecigarette between its fingers, he spoke with energy:
　　“One of them, a crooked fellow, an engraver and watchmaker, wasconvicted of coining. You ought to have heard how he talked! It was like asong, a flame! ‘Explain to me,’ he would say; ‘why may the exchequer coinmoney while I may not? Tell me that!’ And no one could tell him why, noone, not even I, and I was chief over him. There was another, a well-knownMoscow thief, quiet mannered, foppish, neat as a pin, who used to saycourteously: ‘People work till their senses are blunted, and I have no desireto do the same. I have tried it. You work and work till weariness has made afool of you, get drunk on two copecks, lose seven copecks at cards, get awoman to be kind to you for five copecks, and then, all over again, cold andhungry. No,’ he says, ‘I am not playing that game.’ ”
　　Uncle Yaakov bent over the table and continued, reddening to the tips ofhis ears. He was so excited that even his small ears quivered.
　　“They were no fools. Brother; they knew what was right! To the devilwith red tape! Take myself, for instance; what has my life been? I look backon !t with shame, everything by snatches, stealthily; my sorrows were myown, but all my joys were stolen. Either my father shouted, ‘Don’t you dare!’
　　or my wife screamed, ‘You cannot!’ I was afraid to throw down a ruble. Andso all my life has passed away, and here I am acting the lackey to my ownson. Why should I hide it? I serve him, Brother, meekly, and he scolds melike a gentleman. He says, ‘Father!’ and I obey like a footman. Is that what Iwas born for, and what I struggled on in poverty for — that I should beservant to my own son? But, even without that, why was I born? Whatpleasure have I had in life?”
　　I listened to him inattentively. However, I said reluctantly, and notexpecting an answer:
　　“I don’t know what sort of a life mine will be.”
　　He burst out laughing.
　　“Well, and who does know? I have never met any one yet who knew! Sopeople live; he who can get accustomed to anything — ”
　　And again he began to speak in an offended, angry tone:
　　“One of the men I had was there for assault, a man from Orla, agentleman, who danced beautifully. He made us all laugh by a song aboutVanka :
　　“Vanka passes by the churchyard,That is a very simple matter!
　　Ach! Vanka, draw your horns inFor you won’t get beyond the graveyard!
　　“I don’t think that is at all funny, but it is true! As you can’t come back, youcan’t see beyond the graveyard. In that case it is the same to me whether Iam a convict, or a warder over convicts.”
　　He grew tired of talking, drank his vodka, and looked into the emptydecanter with one eye, like a bird. He silently lighted another cigarette,blowing the smoke through his mustache.
　　“Don’t struggle, don’t hope for anything, for the grave and thechurchyard let no man pass them,” the mason, Petr, used to say sometimes,yet he was absolutely dissimilar to Uncle Yaakov. How many such sayings Iknew already!
　　I had nothing more to ask my uncle about. It was melancholy to be withhim, and I was sorry for him. I kept recalling his lively songs and the soundof the guitar which produced joy out of a gentle melancholy.
　　I had not forgotten merry Tzigan. I had not forgotten, and as I looked atthe battered countenance of Uncle Yaakov, I thought involuntarily:
　　“Does he remember how he crushed Tzigan to death with the cross?”
　　But I had no desire to ask him about it. I looked into the causeway, whichwas flooded with a gray August fog. The smell of apples and melons floatedup to me. Along the narrow streets of the town the lamps gleamed; I knew itall by heart. At that moment I heard the siren of the Ribinsk steamer, andthen of that other which was bound for Perm.
　　“Well, we ‘d better go,” said my uncle.
　　At the door of the tavern as he shook my hand he said jokingly:
　　“Don’t be a hypochondriac. You are rather inclined that way, eh? Spit onit! You are young. The chief thing you have to remember is that Tate is nohindrance to happiness.’ Well, good-by; I am going to Uspen!”
　　My cheerful uncle left me more bewildered than ever by hisconversation.
　　I walked up to the town and came out in the fields. It was midnight;heavy clouds floated in the sky, obliterating my shadow on the earth by theirown black shadows. Leaving the town for the fields, I reached the Volga, andthere I lay in the dusty grass and looked for a long time at the river, themeadow, on that motionless earth. Across the Volga the shadows of theclouds floated slowly; by the time they had reached the meadows they lookedbrighter, as if they had been washed in the water of the river. Everythingaround seemed half asleep, stupefied as it were, moving unwillingly, andonly because it was compelled to do so, and not from a flaming love ofmovement and life.
　　And I desired so ardently to cast a beneficent spell over the whole earthand myself, which would cause every one, myself included, to be swept by ajoyful whirlwind, a festival dance of people, loving one another in this life,spending their lives for the sake of others, beautiful, brave, honorable.
　　I thought:
　　“I must do something for myself, or I shall be ruined.”
　　On frowning autumn days, when one not only did not see the sun, butdid not feel it, either — forgot all about it, in fact — on autumn days, morethan once — I happened to be wandering in the forest. Having left the highroad and lost all trace of the pathways, I at length grew tired of looking forthem. Setting my teeth, I went straight forward, over fallen trees which wererotting, over the unsteady mounds which rose from the marshes, and in theend I always came out on the right road.
　　It was in this way that I made up my mind.
　　In the autumn of that year I went to Kazan, in the secret hope of findingsome means of studying there.
The End