Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe
a novel
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TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY FAINNA SOLASKO AND EVE MANNING
Russian original title: Хуторок в степи
FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE Moscow
OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/
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DESIGNED BY D. BISTI
CONTENTS
Death of Tolstoi
Skeleton
What Is a Red?
A Heavy Blow
Requiem
The Resignation
An Old Friend
Gavrik's Dream
A Jar of Jam
Mr. Faig
The Sailor's Outfit
Departure
The Letter
On Board
Istanbul
Chicken Broth
The Acropolis
The New Hat
The Mediterranean
Messina
Pliny the Younger
Naples and the Neapolitans
Alexei Maximovich
Vesuvius
A Cinder
The Eternal City
On the Shores of Lake Geneva
Emigres and Tourists
Love at First Eight
A Storm in the Mountains
The Home-Coming
Precious Stones
Sunday
The Kite From a Shop
The Bad Mark
Auntie's New Idea
The Old Woman
Workers of the World, Unite!
The New Home
Snowdrops
The Lena Massacre
The First Issue of the Pravda
The Cottage in .the Steppe
The Death of Warden
The Widow with a Child
The Secret Note
The Rendezvous
Caesar's Commentaries
Queen of the Market
Friends in Need
Don't Kick a Man When He's Down!
Terenty Semyonovich
Glow-Worms
Moustache
The Sail
At the Camp-Fire
Stars
Gusts of wind from the sea brought rain and tore the umbrellas from
people's hands. The streets were shrouded in the grey half-light, and
Petya's heart felt just as dark and dreary as the morning.
Even before he reached the familiar corner he saw a small crowd
gathered around the news-stand. Stacks of overdue papers had just been
dropped off and were being snatched up eagerly. The unfolded pages fluttered
in the wind and were instantly spotted by the rain. Some of the men in the
crowd removed their hats, and a woman sobbed loudly, dabbing a handkerchief
at her eyes and nose.
"So he is dead," Petya thought. He was near enough now to see the wide
black mourning border around the pages and a dark portrait of Lev Tolstoi
with his familiar white beard.
Petya was thirteen and, like all young boys, he was terrified by
thoughts of death. Whenever someone he knew died, Petya's heart would be
gripped by fear and he would recover slowly as after a serious illness. Now,
however, his fear of death was of an entirely different mature. Tolstoi had
not been an acquaintance of theirs. Petya could not conceive of the great
man as living the life of an ordinary mortal. Lev Tolstoi was a famous
writer, just like Pushkin, Gogol, or Turgenev. In the boy's imagination he
was a phenomenon, not a human being. And now he was on his deathbed at
Astapovo Station, and the whole world waited with bated breath for the
announcement of his death. Petya as caught up in the universal anticipation
of an event that seemed incredible and impossible where the immortal known
as "Lev Tolstoi" was concerned. And when the event had become a reality,
Petya was so crushed by the news that he stood motionless, leaning against
the slimy, wet trunk of an acacia.
It was just as mournful and depressing at the gymnasium as in the
streets. The boys were hushed, there was no running up and down the stairs,
and they spoke in whispers, as in church at a requiem mass. During recesses
they sat around in silence on the window-sills. The older boys of the
seventh and eighth forms gathered in small groups on the landings and near
the cloak-room where they furtively rustled the pages of their newspapers,
since it was against the rules to bring them to school. Lessons dragged on
stiffly and quietly with maddening monotony. The inspector or one of the
assistant teachers would look in through the panes of the classroom door,
their faces bearing an identical expression of cold vigilance. Petya felt
that this familiar world of the gymnasium, with the official uniforms and
frock-coats of the teachers, the light-blue stand-up collars of the ushers,
the silent corridors where the tiled floor resounded to the click of the
inspector's heels, the faint odour of incense near the carved oaken doors of
the school chapel on the fourth floor, the occasional jangling of a
telephone in the office downstairs, and the* tinkling of test-tubes in the
physics laboratory-this was a world utterly remote from the great and
terrible thing that, according to Petya, was taking place beyond the walls
of the gymnasium, in the city, in Russia, throughout the world.
What actually was taking place outside?
Petya would look out of the window from time to time, but could see
only the familiar uninteresting scene of the streets leading to the railway.
He saw the wet roof of the law-court, a beautiful structure with a statue of
the blind Themis in front. Beyond was the cupola of the St. Panteleimon
Church, the Alexandrovsky district fire-tower and, in the distance, the
damp, gloomy haze of the workers' quarter with its factory chimneys,
warehouses and a certain leaden darkness on the horizon which reminded him
of something that had happened long ago and which he could not quite place.
It was only after lessons had ended for the day and Petya found himself in
the street that he suddenly remembered it all.
An early twilight descended on the city. Oil lamps lit up the shop
windows, throwing sickly yellow streaks of light on the wet pavements. The
ghostly elongated shadows of passers-by flitted through the mist. Suddenly
there was a sound of singing. Row after row of people with their arms linked
were Founding the corner. A hat-less student marched in front, pressing a
black-framed portrait of Lev Tolstoi to his breast. The damp wind ruffled
his fair hair. "You fell, a victim in the fight," the student was singing in
a defiant tenor above the discordant voices of the crowd. Both the student
and the procession of singing people had suddenly and with great force
brought back to Petya a long-forgotten time and street. Then, as now, the
pavement had glittered in the mist, and along it marched a crowd of
students-mostly men and a few women wearing tiny karakul hats-and factory
workers in high boots. They had sung "You fell a victim." A scrap of red
bunting had bobbed over the heads of the crowd. That had been in 1905.
As if to complete the picture, Petya heard the clickety-clack of
horseshoes striking sparks on the wet granite cobbles. A Cossack patrol
galloped out of a side-street. Their peakless caps were cocked at a rakish
angle and short carbines dangled behind their shoulders. A whip cut the air
near Petya and the strong odour of horses' sweat filled his nostrils. In an
instant everything was a whirling, shouting, running mass.
Petya held his cap with both hands as he jumped out of the way. He
bumped into something hot. It turned over. He saw that it was a brazier
outside the greengrocer's. The hot coals scattered and mixed with the
smoking chestnuts. The street was empty.
For days Tolstoi's death was the sole topic of conversation in Russia.
Extra editions of the newspapers told the story of Tolstoi's departure from
his home in Yasnaya Polyana. Hundreds of telegrams date-lined Astapovo
Station described the last hours and minutes of the great writer. In a flash
the tiny, unknown Astapovo Station became as world-famous as Yasnaya
Polyana, and the name of the obscure station-master Ozolin who had taken the
dying man into his house was on everybody's lips.
Together with the names of Countess Sofya Andreyevna and Chertkov,
these new names-Astapovo and Ozolin- which accompanied Tolstoi to his grave,
were just as frightening to Petya as the black lettering on the white
ribbons of the funeral wreaths.
Petya noted with surprise that this death, which everyone regarded as a
"tragedy," apparently had something to do with the government, the Holy
Synod, the police, and the gendarmerie corps. Whenever he saw the bishop's
carriage with a monk sitting on the box next to the coachman, or the
clattering droshki of the chief of police, he was certain that both the
bishop and the chief of police were rushing somewhere on urgent business
connected with the death of Tolstoi.
Petya had never before seen his father in such a state of mind, not
actually excited, but, rather, exalted and inspired. His usually kind frank
face suddenly became sterner and younger. The hair above his high, classic
forehead was combed back student-fashion. But the aged, red-rimmed eyes full
of tears behind his pince-nez conveyed such grief, that Petya's heart ached
with pity for his father.
Vasily Petrovich came in and put down two stacks of tightly bound
exercise books on the table. Before changing into the old jacket he wore
about the house, he took a handkerchief from the back pocket of his
frock-coat with its frayed silk lapels and wiped his wet face and beard
thoroughly. Then he jerked his head decisively.
"Come on, boys, wash your hands and we'll eat!"
Petya sensed his father's mood. He realized that Vasily Petrovich was
taking Tolstoi's death badly, that for him Tolstoi was not only an adored
writer, he was much more than that, almost the moral centre of his life. All
this he felt keenly, but could not put his feelings into words.
Petya had always responded quickly to his father's moods, and now he
was deeply upset. He grew quiet, and his bright inquiring eyes never once
left his father's face.
Pavlik, who had just turned eight and had become a schoolboy, was
oblivious to all that was taking place; he was completely absorbed in the
affairs of his preparatory class and his first impressions of school.
"During our writing lesson today we raised an obstruction!" he said,
pronouncing the difficult word with obvious pleasure. "Old Skeleton ordered
Kolya Shaposhnikov to leave the room although he wasn't to blame. Then we
all booed with our mouths closed until Skeleton banged so hard on the desk
that the ink-pot bounced up to the ceiling!"
"Stop it! You should be ashamed of yourself," his father said with a
pained look. Suddenly, he burst out, "Heartless brats! You should be
whipped! How could you mock an unfortunate, sick teacher whose days are
almost numbered? How could you be so brutal?" Then, apparently trying to
answer the questions that had been worrying him all those days, he went on:
"Don't you realize that the world cannot live on hate? Hate is contrary to
Christianity and to plain common sense. And this at a time when they are
laying to rest a man who, perhaps, is the last true Christian on earth."
Father's eyes became redder still. Suddenly he smiled wanly and put his
hands on the boys' shoulders. Gazing at each in turn he said:
"Promise me that you will never torture your fellow-creatures."
"I never did," Petya said softly.
Pavlik screwed up his face and pressed his close-cropped head against
Father's frock-coat which smelt of a hot iron and faintly of moth-balls.
"Daddy, I'll never do it again. We didn't know what we were doing," he
said, wiping his eyes with his fists and sniffling.
It's terrible, say what you like, it's terrible," Auntie said at
dinner. She put down the ladle and pressed her fingers to her temples. "You
can think what you like about Tolstoi- personally, I look on him as the
greatest of writers-but all his non-resistance and vegetarianism are
ridiculous, and as for the Russian government, its attitude in the matter is
abominable. We are disgraced in the eyes of the whole world! As big a
disgrace as Port Arthur, Tsushima, or Bloody Sunday."
"I beg you to-" Father said anxiously. "No, please don't beg me. We
have a dull-witted tsar and a dull-witted government! I'm ashamed of being a
Russian."
"Stop, I beg you!" Father shouted. His chin jutted forward and his
beard shook slightly. "His Majesty's person is sacred. He is above
criticism. I won't permit it. Especially in front of the children."
"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," Auntie answered hurriedly.
"Let's drop the subject."
"There's just one thing I can't understand, and that is how an
intelligent, kind-hearted man like you, who loves Tolstoi, can honestly
regard as sacred a man who has covered Russia with gallows and who-"
"For God's sake," Father groaned, "let's not discuss politics. You are
an expert at turning any conversation into a political discussion! Can't we
talk without getting mixed up in politics?"
"My dear Vasily Petrovich, you still haven't realized that everything
in our lives is politics. The government is politics. The church is
politics. The schools are politics. Tolstoi is politics."
"How dare you speak like that?" "But I will!"
"Blasphemy! Tolstoi is not politics." "That's exactly what he is!"
And for long after, while Petya and Pavlik were doing their home-work
in the next room, they could hear the excited voices of Father and Auntie,
interrupting each other.
"Master and Man, Concession, Resurrection!" "War and Peace, Platon
Karatayev!" "Platon Karatayev, too, is politics!" "Anna Karenina, Kitty,
Levin!" "Levin argued communism with his brother!" "Andrei Bolkonsky,
Pierre!" "The Decembrists!" "Haji Murat!" "Nikolai Palkin!" ( The derogatory
nickname of Nicholas I, signifying "cudgel."-Tr).
"Stop, I beg you. The children can hear us."
Pavlik and Petya were sitting quietly at Father's desk, beside the
bronze oil lamp with the green glass lampshade.
Pavlik had finished his home-work and was busy putting together his new
writing outfit of which he was still very proud. He was pasting a transfer
on his pencil-box, patiently rolling up the top layer of wet paper with his
finger. A multi-coloured bouquet of flowers bound with light-blue ribbons
could be seen through it. He heard the voices in the dining-room, but did
not pay any attention to them; his mind was full of the incident that had
taken place during the writing lesson earlier" in the day. The
"obstruction," which at first sight seemed such a daring and funny prank,
now appeared in another light altogether. Pavlik could not banish the
horrible scene from his eyes.
There at the blackboard stood the teacher, old Skeleton. He was in the
last stages of consumption and was ghastly thin. His blue frock-coat hung
loosely about his shoulders. It was too long and old, and very worn, but
there were new gold buttons on it. His starched dickey bulged casually on
his sunken chest and a skinny neck protruded from the wide greasy collar.
Skeleton stood stock-still for a moment or two, challenging the class with
his dark eyes. Then he turned swiftly to the blackboard, picked up a piece
of chalk with his thin, transparent fingers, and began tracing out the
letters.
In the ominous quiet they could hear the scratching of the chalk on the
slate: a light, delicate touch when he outlined a feathery curlicue and a
loud screech as he drew an amazingly straight line at a slant. Skeleton
would crouch and then suddenly straighten again, just like a puppet. He'd
cock his head to one side, utterly oblivious to his surroundings, and either
sing out "stro-o-ke" in a high thin voice, or "line" in a deep rasping one.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line."
Suddenly a voice from the last row, still higher and as fine as a hair,
mimicked, "Stro-o-ke." Skeleton's back twitched, as if he had been stabbed,
but he pretended he hadn't heard. He continued writing, but the chalk was
already crumbling in his emaciated fingers, and his large shoulder-blades
jerked painfully beneath the threadbare frock-coat.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line," he sang out and his neck and large ears
became crimson.
"Stro-o-oke! Str-rr-oke! Stro-o-oke!" mimicked someone in the last row.
All of a sudden Skeleton spun round, strode rapidly down the aisle and
grabbed the first boy at hand. He yanked him up from his desk, dragged him
to the door, and threw him out of the class-room. Then he banged the door so
hard that the panes rattled and dry putty fell all over the parquet floor.
Skeleton walked back to the blackboard with heavy steps. He was
wheezing loudly as he picked up the chalk and was about to continue the
lesson. Just then he heard the hum of steady, barely audible booing.
Startled, he froze into immobility. His knees trembled visibly. His cuffs
and baggy blue trousers trembled too. His black sunken eyes glared at the
boys with undisguised hatred. But he had no way of finding out the culprits.
They were all sitting with their mouths tightly shut, looking quite
indifferent, and yet they were all booing steadily, monotonously, and
imperceptibly. The whole class was booing, but no one could be accused of
it. Then a tortured scream of pain and rage broke from his lips. He was
jerking like a puppet as he hurled the chalk at the blackboard. It broke
into bits. Skeleton stamped his foot. His eyes became bloodshot. His thin
hair was plastered to his damp forehead. His neck twitched convulsively and
he tore open his collar. He rushed over to his desk, hurled the chair aside,
flung the class register against the wall, and began pounding the desk with
his fists. He no longer heard his own voice as he shouted, "Ruffians!
Ruffians!" The inkpot bounced up and down, and the purple liquid stained his
loosened dickey, his bony hands and damp forehead. The scene ended when
Skeleton, suddenly becoming limp, sat down on the window-sill, rested his
head against the frame and was seized with a terrible coughing spell. His
deeply sunken temples, almost black eye-sockets, and bared yellow teeth made
his face look like the skull of a skeleton. Were it not for the sweat
streaming down his forehead, one could have easily taken him for a corpse.
That was the picture Pavlik could not banish from his mind. The boy
felt terribly oppressed; however, his mental state in no way interfered with
the job in hand. He bestowed special care on transferring the picture, for
he did not want to make a hole in the wet paper and spoil the bouquet and
light-blue ribbons that looked so bright in the light of the lamp.
Petya, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly leafing through a thick notebook.
There were emblems scratched out on the black oilskin cover-an anchor, a
heart pierced with an arrow and several mysterious initials. He was
listening to Father and Auntie arguing in the dining-room. Some words were
repeated more often than others; they were: "freedom of thought," "popular
government," "constitution," and, finally, that burning word-"revolution."
"Mark my words, it will all end in another revolution," Auntie said.
"You're an anarchist!" Father shouted shrilly.
"I'm a Russian patriot!"
"Russian patriots have faith in their tsar and their government!"
"Have you faith in them?"
"Yes, I have!"
Then Petya heard Tolstoi mentioned once more.
"Then why did this tsar and this government in whom you have such faith
excommunicate Tolstoi and ban his books?"
"To err is human. They look on Tolstoi as a politician, almost a
revolutionary, but Tolstoi is simply the world's greatest writer and the
pride of Russia. He is above all your parties and revolutions. I'll prove
that in my speech."
"Do you think the authorities will allow you to say that?"
"I don't need permission to say in public that Lev Tolstoi is a great
Russian writer."
"That's what you think."
"I don't think it-I am absolutely sure!"
"You're an idealist. You don't know the kind of country you're living
in. I beg you not to do that! They'll destroy you. Take my advice."
Petya woke up in the middle of the night and saw Vasily Petrovich
sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Petya was used to seeing his father
correct exercise-books at night. This time, however, Father was doing
something else. The stacks of exercise-books were lying untouched, and he
was writing something rapidly in his fine hand. Little fat volumes of an old
edition of Tolstoi's works were scattered about the desk.
"Daddy, what are you writing?" "Go to sleep, sonny," Vasily Petrovich
said. He walked over to the bed, kissed Petya, and made the sign of the
cross over him.
The boy turned his pillow, laid his head on the cool side and fell
asleep again.
Before he dozed off he heard the rapid scratching of a pen, the faint
clinking of the little icon at the head of his bed, saw his father's dark
head next to the green lamp-shade, the warm grow of the candle flame in the
corner beneath the big icon, and the dry palm branch that cast a mysterious
shadow on the wallpaper, as always bringing to mind the branch of Palestine,
the poor sons of Solim, and the wonderful soothing music of Lermontov's
poem:
Peace and silence all around,
On the earth and in the sky....
Next morning, while Vasily Petrovich was busy washing, combing his
hair, and fastening a black tie to a starched collar, Petya had a chance to
see what his father had been writing during the night.
An ancient home-made exercise-book sewn together with coarse thread lay
on the desk. Petya recognized it immediately. Its usual place was in
Father's dresser, next to the other family relics: the yellowed wedding
candles, a spray of orange blossom, his dead mother's white kid gloves and
little bead bag, her tiny mother-of-pearl opera-glasses, some dried leaves
of a wild pear tree that grew on Lermontov's grave, and a collection of odds
and ends which, in Petya's view, were just junk, but to Vasily Petrovich
very precious.
Petya had leafed through the exercise-book once before. Half of it was
taken up with la speech Vasily Petrovich had written on the hundredth
anniversary of Pushkin's birth; there had not been anything in the other
half. The boy now saw that a new speech filled up this yellowed half of the
book. It was written in the same fine hand, and its subject was Tolstoi's
death. This is how it began:
"A great Russian writer is dead. Our literary sun has set."
Vasily Petrovich put on a pair of new cuffs and his best hollow-gold
cufflinks, carefully folded the exercise-book in two and put it in his
side-pocket. Petya watched his father drink a quick glass of tea and then
proceed to the hall where he put on his heavy coat with the frayed velvet
collar. The boy noticed that his fingers were trembling and his pince-nez
was shaking on his nose. For some reason, Petya suddenly felt terribly sorry
for his father. He went over to him and brushed against his coat-sleeve, as
he used to do when he was a very small boy.
"Never mind, we'll show them yet!" Father said and patted his son's
back.
"I still advise you against it," Auntie said solemnly as she looked
into the hall.
"You're wrong," Vasily Petrovich replied in a soft tremulous voice. He
put on his wide-brimmed black hat and went out quickly.
"God grant that I am wrong!" Auntie sighed. "Come on, boys, stop
wasting time or you'll be late for school," she added and went over to help
Pavlik, her favourite, buckle on his satchel, as he had not yet mastered the
fairly simple procedure.
The day slipped by, a short and, at the same time, an interminably long
and dreary November day, full of a vague feeling of expectation, furtive
rumour, and endless repetition of the same agonizing words: "Chertkov,"
"Sofya Andreyevna," "Astapovo," "Ozolin."
It was the day of Tolstoi's funeral.
Petya had spent all his life on the southern sea coast, in the
Novorossiisk steppe region, and had never seen a forest. But now he had a
very clear mental picture of Yasnaya Polyana, of woods fringing an overgrown
ravine. In his mind's eye Petya saw the black trunks of the ancient,
leafless lindens, and the plain pine coffin containing the withered,
decrepit body of Lev Tolstoi being lowered into the grave without priest or
choir boys attending. And overhead the boy could see the ominous clouds and
flocks of crows, exactly like those that circled over the church steeple and
the bleak Kulikovo Field in the rainy twilight.
As usual, Father returned from his classes when the lamp had been lit
in the dining-room. He was excited, happy and deeply moved. When Auntie, not
without anxiety, asked him whether he had delivered his speech and what the
reaction had been, Vasily Petrovich could not restrain the proud smile that
flashed radiantly beneath his pince-nez.
"You could have heard a pin drop," he said, taking his handkerchief out
of his back-pocket and wiping his damp beard. "I never expected the young
bounders to respond so eagerly and seriously. And that goes for the young
ladies too. I repeated it for the seventh form of the Maryinsky School."
"Were you actually given permission to do so?" "I didn't ask anyone's
permission. Why should I? I hold that the literature teacher is fully
entitled to discuss with his class the personality of any famous Russian
writer, especially when the writer in question happens to be Tolstoi. What
is more, I believe that it is my duty to do so." "You're so reckless."
Later in the evening some young people, strangers to the family,
dropped in: two students in very old, faded caps, and a young woman who also
seemed to be a student. One of the youths sported a crooked pince-nez on a
black ribbon, wore top-boots, smoked a cigarette and emitted the smoke
through his nostrils; the young woman had on a short jacket and kept
pressing her little chapped hands to her bosom. For some reason or other
they were reluctant to come into the rooms, and remained in the hall talking
with Vasily Petrovich for a long time. The deep, rumbling bass seemed to
belong to the student with the pince-nez, and the pleading, lisping voice of
the young woman kept repeating the same phrase over and over again at
regular intervals:
"We feel certain that as a progressive and noble-minded person and
public figure, you won't refuse the student body this humble request."
The third visitor kept wiping his wet shoes shyly on the door mat and
blowing his nose discreetly.
It turned out that news of Vasily Petrovich's talk had somehow reached
the Higher Courses for Women and the Medical School of the Imperial
University in Odessa, and the student delegation had come to express their
solidarity and also to request him to repeat his lecture to a
Social-Democratic student circle. Vasily Petrovich, while flattered, was
unpleasantly surprised. He thanked the young people but categorically
refused to address the Social-Democratic circle. He told them that he had
never belonged to any party and had no intention of ever joining one, and
added that he would regard any attempt to turn Tolstoi's death into
something political as a mark of disrespect towards the great writer, as
Tolstoi's abhorrence of all political parties and his negative attitude to
politics generally were common knowledge.
"If that's the case, then please excuse us," the young lady said dryly.
"We are greatly disappointed in you. Comrades, let's go."
The young people departed with dignity, leaving behind the odour of
cheap tobacco and wet footprints on the doorstep.
"What an astonishing thing!" Vasily Petrovich said as he strode up and
down the dining-room, wiping his pince-nez on the lining of his house
jacket. "It's really astonishing how people always find an excuse to talk
politics!"
"I warned you," Auntie said. "And I'm afraid the consequences will be
serious."
Auntie's premonition turned out to be correct, although the results
were not as immediate as she had expected. At least a month went by before
the trouble began. Actually, the approaching events cast a few shadows
before them. However, they seemed so vague that the Bachei family paid
little attention to them.
"Daddy, what's a 'red'?" Pavlik asked unexpectedly, as was his wont, at
dinner one day, his shining, naive eyes fixed on Father.
"Really, now!" Vasily Petrovich said. He was in excellent spirits.
"It's a somewhat strange question. I'd say that red means . . . well-not
blue, yellow, nor brown, h'm, and so on."
"I know that. But I'm talking about people, are there red people?"
"Oh, so that's what you mean! Of course there are. Take the North
American Indians, for example. The so-called redskins."
"They haven't got to that yet in their preparatory class," Petya said
haughtily. "They're still infants."
Pavlik ignored the insult. He kept his eyes on Father and asked:
"Daddy, does that mean you're an Indian?"
"Basically, no." Father laughed so loudly and boisterously that the
pince-nez fell off his nose and all but landed in his soup.
"Then why did Fedya Pshenichnikov say you were a red?"
"Oho! That's interesting. Who is this Fedya Pshenichnikov?"
"He's in my form. His father is senior clerk in the Governor's office
in Odessa."
"Well! If that's the case, then perhaps your Fedya knows best. However,
I think you can see for yourself that I'm not red, the only time I ever get
red is during severe frost."
"I don't like this," Auntie commented.
Not long afterwards a certain Krylevich, the bookkeeper of the mutual
aid society at the boy's school where Vasily Petrovich taught, -dropped in
one evening to see him about some savings-bank matters. When they had
disposed of the matter, Krylevich, whom Vasily Petrovich had always found to
be an unpleasant person, remained for tea. He stayed for an hour and a half,
was incredibly boring, and kept turning the conversation to Tolstoi,
praising Vasily Petrovich for his courage, and begging him for his notes,
saying he wanted to read them at home. Father refused, and his refusal upset
Krylevich. Standing in front of the mirror in the hall, putting on his flat,
greasy cap with the cockade of the Ministry of Education, he said with a
sugary smile:
"I'm sorry you don't want to give me the pleasure, really sorry. Your
modesty is worse than pride."
His visit left a nasty after-taste.
There were other minor happenings of the same order; for instance, some
of their acquaintances would greet Vasily Petrovich in the street with
exaggerated politeness, while others, on the' contrary, were unusually curt
and made no attempt to conceal their disapproval.
Then, just before Christmas, the storm broke.
`
Pavlik, who had just been "let out" for the holidays, was walking up
and down in front of the house in his overlong winter topcoat, meant to last
several seasons, and his new galoshes which made such a pleasant crunching
sound and left such first-rate dotted prints with an oval trade mark in the
middle on the fresh December snow. His report-card for the second quarter
was in his satchel. His marks were excellent, there were no unpleasant
reprimands and he even had "excellent" for attention, diligence, and
behaviour, which, to tell the truth, was overdoing it a bit. But, thanks to
his innocent chocolate-brown crystal-clear eyes, Pavlik had the happy knack
of always landing on his feet.
The boy's mood harmonized with the holiday season, and only one tiny
little worm of anxiety wriggled down in the deep recesses of his soul. The
trouble was that today, after the last lesson, the preparatory class,
throwing caution to the winds, had organized another "obstruction." This
time they took revenge on the doorman who had refused to let them out before
the bell rang. The boys got together and tossed somebody's galosh into the
cast-iron stove that stood next 'to the cloak-room, with the result that a
column of acrid smoke rose up, and the doorman had to flood the stove with
water. At that moment the bell rang, and the preparatory class scattered in
a body. Now Pavlik was worried that the inspector might get to know about
their prank, and that would lead to serious complications. This was the sole
blot in his feeling of pure joy at the thought of the holidays ahead.
Suddenly Pavlik saw what he feared most. A messenger was coming down
the street and heading straight for him; he wore a cap with a blue band land
his coat was trimmed with a lambskin collar from which Pavlik could see the
blue stand-up collar of his tunic. He was carrying a large cardboard-bound
register under his arm. The messenger walked up leisurely to the gate,
looked at the triangular lamp with the house number underneath it, and
stopped. Pavlik's heart sank.
"Where do the Bacheis live?" the messenger asked.
Pavlik realized that his end had come. There could be no doubt that
this was an official note to his father concerning the behaviour of Pavel
Bachei, preparatory-class pupil-in other words, the most dreadful fate that
could befall a schoolboy.
"What is it? Do they want Father?" Pavlik asked with a sickly smile. He
did not recognize his own voice and blushed a deep crimson as he added, "You
can give it to me, I'll deliver it and you won't have to climb the stairs!"
"I must have his signature," the messenger said sternly, curling his
big moustache.
"Second floor, number four," Pavlik whispered and felt hot, choked,
nauseous, and scared to death.
It never dawned on the boy that the messenger was a stranger. And in
any case, this being his first year at school, he could not possibly know
all the personnel.
The moment the front door closed after the messenger the light went out
for Pavlik. The world with all its beauty and freshness no longer existed
for him. It had vanished on the instant. The crimson winter sun was setting
beyond the blue-tinted snow-covered Kulikovo Field and the station; the
bells of the frozen cab horse around the corner tinkled as musically as
ever; the pots of hot cranberry jelly, set out on the balconies to cool,
were steaming as usual, the coat of delicate pale-blue snow on the balcony
railings and the steam curling over the pots seemed as cranberry-red as the
cooling jelly itself; the street, full of the holiday spirit, was as gay and
as lively as ever.
Pavlik no longer noticed any of this. At first he made up his mind that
he would never go home again-he would roam the streets until he died of
hunger or froze to death. Then, after he 'had walked around the
side-streets, he took a sacred vow to change his whole way of life and
never, never take part in any "obstructions" again; moreover, he would be a
model pupil, the best-behaved boy not only in Odessa, but in all Russia, and
thus earn Father's and Auntie's forgiveness. Then he began to feel sorry for
himself, for his ruined life, and even started to cry, smearing the tears
all over his face. In the end pangs of hunger drove him, home and, utterly
exhausted with suffering, he appeared on the threshold after the lamps had
been lit. Pavlik was ready to confess and repent when he suddenly noticed
that the whole family was in a state of great excitement. The excitement,
apparently, had nothing at all to do with the person of Pavlik, as no one
paid the slightest attention to him when he came in.
The dining-room table had not been cleared. Father was striding from
room to room, his shoes squeaking loudly and 'his coat-tails flying. There
were red spots on his face.
"I told you. I warned you," Auntie kept repeating, as she swung back
and forth on the swivel stool in front of the piano with its wax-spotted
silver candlesticks.
Petya was breathing on the window-pane and etching with his finger the
words, "Dear sir, Dear sir."
It turned out that the messenger had been from the office of the
Education Department and had nothing to do with the gymnasium at all. He had
delivered a message to Councillor Bachei, requesting him to appear the
following day "to explain the circumstances which prompted him to deliver an
unauthorized speech to his students on the occasion of Count Tolstoi's
death."
When Vasily Petrovich returned from the Education Department next day,
he sat down in the rocker in his frock-coat and folded his arms behind his
head. The moment Petya saw his pale forehead and trembling jaw, he knew
something terrible had happened.
Father was reclining on the wicker back of the chair and rocking
nervously, shoving off with the toe of his squeaking shoe.
"Vasily Petrovich, for God's sake, tell me what happened," Auntie said
finally, her kind eyes wide with fright.
"Please, leave me alone!" Father said with an effort, and his jaw
twitched more violently.
His pince-nez had slid down, and Petya saw two tiny pink dents on the
bridge of his nose which gave his face the appearance of helpless suffering.
The boy recalled that he had had this same look when Mother had died and lay
in a white coffin covered with hyacinths; then, too, Father had rocked back
and forth nervously, arms folded behind his head, his eyes filled with
tears. Petya walked over to Father, put his arms around his shoulders, which
bore faint traces of dandruff, and hugged him.
"Daddy, don't!" he said gently.
Father shook the boy's arms off, jumped up, and gesticulated so
violently that his starched cuffs popped out with a snap.
"In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ-leave me alone!" he shouted in an
agonized voice and fled into the room that was both his study and bedroom
and the boys' room as well.
He divested himself of jacket and shoes, lay down and turned his face
to the wall.
At the sight of Father lying huddled up, of his white socks and the
blue steel buckle on the crumpled back of his waistcoat, Petya broke down
and began to cry, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
What actually had taken place at the Education Department? To begin
with, Vasily Petrovich had spent a long and uncomfortable time sitting alone
in the cold, officially sumptuous waiting-room on a gilded blue velvet chair
of the kind usually seen in museums or theatre lobbies. Then a dandified
official in the uniform of the Ministry of Education appeared, his figure
reflected in the parquet floor, and informed Vasily Petrovich that His
Excellency would see him.
His Excellency was sitting behind an enormous writing-desk. He was
hunchbacked and, like most hunchbacks, was very short, so that nothing could
be seen of him above the massive malachite desk set with two bronze
malachite candelabra, except a proud, malicious head, iron grey land
closely-cropped, propped up by a high starched collar and white tie. He was
wearing his formal civil service dress-coat with decorations.
"Why did you take the liberty of appearing here without your uniform?"
His Excellency demanded, without offering the caller a seat or getting up
himself.
Vasily Petrovich was taken aback, but when he tried to picture his old
uniform with the rows of holes where Petya had once yanked the buttons off
together with the cloth, he smiled good-naturedly, to his own surprise, and
even waved his hands somewhat humorously.
"I would request you not to act the clown. Don't wave your arms about:
you are in an office, not on the stage."
"My dear sir!" Vasily Petrovich said as the blood rushed to his face.
"Silence!" barked the official in the best departmental manner, as he
crashed his fist down on a pile of papers. "I am a member of the Privy
Council, 'Your Excellency' to you, not 'my dear sir'! Be good enough to
remember where you are and sta-a-and to attention! I summoned you here to
present you with an alternative," he continued, pronouncing the word
"alternative" with evident relish, "to present you with an alternative:
either publicly recant your baleful errors in the presence of the School
Inspector and the students at one of the next lessons, and explain the
demoralizing effects of Count Tolstoi's teachings on Russian society, or
hand in your resignation. Should you refuse to do so, you will be discharged
under Article 3 with no explanation and with all the unfortunate
consequences as far as you are concerned. I will not tolerate
anti-government propaganda in my district. I will mercilessly and
unhesitatingly suppress every instance of it."
"Allow me, Your Excellency!" Vasily Petrovich said in a trembling
voice. "Lev Tolstoi, our famous man of letters, is the pride and glory of
all Russia. I don't understand. What have politics got to do with it?"
"First of all, Count Tolstoi is an apostate, excommunicated from the
Orthodox Church by the Holy Synod. He is a man who dared to encroach upon
the most sacred principles of the Russian Empire and its fundamental laws.
If you cannot grasp this, then government service is not the place for you!"
"I regard that as an insult," Vasily Petrovich said with great
difficulty, as he felt his jaw begin to tremble.
"Get out!" roared the official, rising.
Vasily Petrovich left the office with his knees shaking, a shaking that
he could not control either on the marble staircase, where in two white
niches there were two gypsum busts of the tsar and tsarina in la pearl
tiara, or in the cloak-room, where a massive attendant threw his coat to him
over the barrier, or even later, in the cab, a luxury the Bachei family
indulged in only on very special occasions.
And so here he was, lying on the bed-clothes with his feet tucked up
under him, deeply insulted, powerless, humiliated, and overwhelmed by the
misfortune that had befallen not only him personally but, as he now
realized, his whole family as well. To be discharged under Article 3 with no
grounds stated meant more than the black list and social ostracism, it
signified in all probability an administrative exile, i.e., utter ruin,
poverty, and the end of the family. There was only one way out-a public
recantation.
By nature Vasily Petrovich was neither hero nor martyr. He was an
ordinary kind-hearted, intelligent man, a decent, honest intellectual, the
kind known as an "idealist," and a "pure soul." His university tradition
would not allow him to retreat. In his opinion a "bargain with one's
conscience" was the epitome of moral degradation. And, nevertheless, he
wavered. The pit they had dug for him so ruthlessly would not bear thinking
about. He realized that there was no way out, although he tried to think of
one.
Vasily Petrovich was so disheartened that he even decided to petition
the Emperor and sent for ten kopeks' worth of the best "ministerial"
stationery from the shop round the corner. He still adhered to his belief
that the tsar-the Lord's Anointed-was just and upright.
Perhaps he would actually have written to the tsar, had it not been for
the fact that at this juncture Auntie took a hand in the matter. She told
the cook on no account to go for any "ministerial" stationery, and
addressing herself to Vasily Petrovich said:
"My God, you're the perfect innocent! Don't you understand that they
are one and the same bunch?"
Vasily Petrovich blinked confusedly and kept repeating:
"But what's to be done, Tatyana Ivanovna? Tell me, just what can I do?"
Auntie, however, had no advice to offer. She retreated to her little
room next to the kitchen, sat down at her dressing-table, and pressed a
crumpled lace handkerchief to her red nose.
It was Christmas Eve, the twenty-fourth of December, a day that had a
special meaning for the Bachei family. It was the day of Mother's patron
saint. Every year on that day they visited the cemetery to offer up a mass
for the dead. They set out today too. There was a blizzard blowing and the
blinding whiteness hurt their eyes. The snow-drifts at the cemetery blended
with the white of the sky. Fine, powdery snow crystals rose over the black
iron railings and crosses. The wind whistled through old metal wreaths with
porcelain flowers. Petya stood knee-deep in the fresh snow. He had taken off
his cap, but still had on a hood. He was praying diligently, trying to
visualize his dead mother, but could recall only minor details: a hat with a
feather in it, a veil, the hem of a wide silk dress with a fringe on it. Two
kind eyes were smiling at him through the dotted veil tied under her chin.
That was all Petya could remember. There was a faint trace of a long past
grief that time had healed, the fear of his own death, and the gold letters
of Mother's name on the white marble slab from which the sexton had
carelessly brushed the snow just before they had arrived. Next to it was
Grandma's grave, and there was a vacant place between the two graves where,
as Vasily Petrovich was wont to say, he would one day be laid at rest
between his mother and his wife, the two women he had loved so faithfully
and steadfastly.
Petya crossed himself and bowed at the proper moments, he kept thinking
about his mother, and, at the same time, observed the priest, the
psalm-reader, Father, Pavlik, and Auntie. Pavlik was fidgeting all the time,
the turned-up hood irritated his ears and he kept tugging at it. Auntie was
weeping into her muff quietly. Father stood with eyes fixed on the
tombstone, his folded hands held humbly before him and his greying head with
the long seminarist's hair bent low. Petya knew Father was thinking about
Mother. But he had no idea of the terrible conflict raging within him.
Especially now did Vasily Petrovich miss her, her love, and her moral
support. He thought of the day when he, an eager young man, had read to her
his essay on Pushkin, of how they had both discussed it long and heatedly,
of the glorious morning, when he had put on his new uniform and was standing
in the hall, ready to set out to read his essay, and she had handed him his
freshly-pressed handkerchief, still warm from the hot iron, kissed him
fondly, and crossed him with her thin fingers; and afterwards, when he had
returned home in triumph, they had had a hearty dinner and little Petya,
whom they were training to be an independent young man, had smeared his
porridge all over his fat cheeks and kept repeating, "Daddy! Eat!" his black
eyes sparkling. How long ago, and yet, how close it all seemed! Now Vasily
Petrovich had to decide his fate alone.
For the first time in his life he understood clearly something that he
either could not or refused to understand before: that it was impossible in
Russia to be an honest and independent person if one held a government job.
One had to be a docile tsarist official, with no views of one's own, and
obey the orders of other officials-one's superiors-unquestioningly, no
matter how unjust or even criminal they might be. But worst of all, as far
as Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was the fact that the one responsible for
this state of affairs was none other than the Russian autocrat himself, the
Anointed of the Lord, in whose sanctity and infallibility Vasily Petrovich
had trusted so deeply and implicitly.
Now that this trust had been shaken, Vasily Petrovich turned
whole-heartedly to religion. He offered up prayers for his dead wife, and
implored divine help and guidance. But his prayers no longer brought him
consolation. He crossed himself, bowed low, and yet somehow or other he
seemed to see the priest and psalm-reader, who were rushing through the
service, in a new and different light. Their words and actions no longer
created the religious atmosphere of former years, but, instead, seemed
crude, unnatural, as if Vasily Petrovich himself was not praying, but only
observing two shamans performing some rite. That which formerly had moved
him deeply was now bereft of all its poetry.
The priest, in a mourning chasuble of brocade with a silver cross
embroidered on the back, his short arms wrapped in the dark sleeves of a
protruding tunic, was chanting the beautiful words of the requiem as he
deftly swung the censer to and fro, making the hot coals glow like rubies.
Purple smoke poured from it, turned grey quickly and melted in the wind,
leaving the air heavy with incense.
The psalm-reader had an enormous moustache and his winter overcoat was
exactly like Vasily Petrovich's, even to the frayed velvet collar. His
bulging eyes were reverently half closed, and his voice rose and fell as he
quickly echoed the priest's singing. Both priest and psalm-reader made a
pretence of not hurrying, although Vasily Petrovich could see they were
rushing the service, as they had to officiate at other graves where they
were eagerly awaited and whence impatient relatives were already signalling
them. Their relief was evident when they finally reached the last part and
put all their energy behind the words "the tears at the grave turn to
singing," etc., after which the Bachei family kissed the cold silver cross,
and while the psalm-reader was hurriedly wrapping it up in the stole, Vasily
Petrovich shook the priest's hand and awkwardly pressed two silver rubles
into his palm. The priest said, "I thank you!" and added, "I hear that
you're having trouble with the Education Department. Have faith in the Lord,
perhaps there is a way out. Good-bye for the present. Dreadful weather,
isn't it? A regular blizzard."
Vasily Petrovich had caught a faint trace of insult in those words.
Petya saw his face turn red. Suddenly there flashed into Vasily Petrovich's
mind the Education Department official bawling at him and his own
humiliating fear, and once again the feeling of pride, which until then he
had tried so hard to subordinate to Christian humility, welled up in him. At
that moment he decided that not for anything in the world would he
surrender, and if necessary he would suffer all the consequences for the
sake of Truth.
However, once they had returned home from the cemetery and he had
calmed down a little, his former doubts returned: had he the right to
jeopardize his family?
Meanwhile, the school holidays pursued their usual course, the only
difference being that this time they were not as jolly or as carefree as in
previous years.
Tedious and tiresome as usual was the waiting for nightfall on
Christmas Eve; appetizing smells drifted in from the kitchen while they
awaited the appearance of the first star in the window-the signal to light
the lamps and sit down to dinner and Christmas pudding. They had the usual
Christmas party next day, and carol-singers came in carrying a star hung
with tinsel and a round paper icon in the centre. Blue diamonds of moonlight
glittered festively and mysteriously on the frosted window-panes, and on New
Year's Eve there was apple pie with a new silver coin hidden in it for good
luck. The regimental bands played as usual in the clear, frosty noonday for
the Twelfth-Day parade on Cathedral Square. The holidays were coming to an
end. Some kind of decision had to be made. Vasily Petrovich became
despondent, and his depression affected the boys. Auntie alone tried to keep
up the holiday spirit. She put on a new silk dress, and all her favourite
rings were brought out to adorn her slender fingers; she smelled of "Coeur
de Jeannette" perfume, and she would sit at the piano, open a large folio,
and play Madame Vyaltseva's repertoire of waltzes, polkas, and gipsy
serenades. On Twelfth-Day Eve she decided to have the traditional
fortune-telling. They poured cold water into a basin and dropped melted
paraffin into it, as they had no wax, and then interpreted the various
shapes it froze into; in the kitchen they burned balls of crumpled paper and
then told the meaning of the shadows cast by them on the freshly whitewashed
wall. But there was something strained in all this.
Late at night-the last night of the school holidays-Petya, who was
drowsing off to sleep, again heard Father and Auntie talking heatedly in the
dining-room.
"You cannot and you must not do such a thing!" Auntie was saying in an
excited voice. "What then?" Father asked, and there was a sharp click as he
cracked his knuckles. "What shall I do? How shall we live? Have I the right
to do this? What a tragedy that Zhenya is no longer with us!"
"Believe me, if Zhenya were here now, she would never let you grovel
before these officials!"
Petya soon fell asleep and did not hear any more, but an astonishing
thing happened the next morning: for the first time in his life Vasily
Petrovich did not put on his frock-coat and did not go to his classes.
Instead, the cook was sent to the shop for "ministerial" stationery, and
Vasily Petrovich wrote out his resignation in his clear flowing hand,
unadorned by flourishes or curlicues.
His resignation was accepted coldly. However, there was no further
unpleasantness-apparently, it was not in the interests of the Education
Department to have the story spread round. And so, Vasily Petrovich found
himself out of a job, the most terrible thing that could hap-
pen to a family man with no other means of support except his salary.
Vasily Petrovich had put aside a little money a long time ago; he had
dreamed of going abroad with his wife, and then, after her death, with his
'boys. Now that dream evaporated. This money, together with what he would
get from the mutual aid society, would see the family through the next year,
if they lived frugally. But it was still a mystery how they were to exist
after that, especially as another question arose: how were Petya and Pavlik
to continue at the gymnasium? As the sons of a teacher they had been exempt
from tuition fees; now, however, he would have to pay out of their meagre
budget a sum that was beyond his means.
But worst of all, where Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was his
enforced idleness, for he had been used to work all his life. He did not
know what to do with himself and hung around the house for days on end in
his old jacket, forgetting to go to the barber's, looking older every day,
and making frequent visits to the cemetery where he spent long hours at his
wife's grave.
Pavlik, still too young to be touched by the terrible thing that had
befallen them, continued his former carefree existence. But Petya understood
everything. The thought that he would have to leave school, remove the
cockade from his cap and wear his uniform with hooks instead of shiny metal
buttons, as was the case with boys who had been expelled or had not
matriculated, made him blush with shame. Things were aggravated by an
ominous change in the attitude of the teachers and some of his class-mates.
In short, the New Year could not have begun worse. Petya was most
unhappy and was amazed to see that Auntie, far from being upset or
down-hearted, gave the impression of everything being fine. There was a look
of determination in her eye which implied that she was going to save the
family at all costs.
Her plan was as follows: she would serve tasty, nourishing, and
inexpensive home-cooked meals to working intellectuals, which, to her mind,
would yield enough to keep the family in food. In order to add to the income
Auntie decided to move into the dining-room, move the cook into the kitchen,
and let the two rooms, thus vacated, with board.
Father winced painfully at the mere thought of his home being turned
into an "eating-house," but as there was no other way out, he gave in and
said:
"Do whatever you think best."
That was Auntie's green light. "To let" notices that could be read
clearly from the street were pasted on the windows of the two rooms. On the
gate-post they nailed a little board that said: "Dinners served." It had
been done artistically in oils by Petya and depicted a steaming tureen with
the inscription mentioning single working intellectuals. Auntie believed
that this would impart a social, political, and even an opposition note to
their commercial undertaking. She began to buy new kitchen utensils and put
in a stock of the best and freshest foods; she had a new calico dress and
snow-white apron made for Dunyasha and spent most of her time studying the
Molokhovets Cookery Book, that bible of every well-to-do home. She copied
the most useful recipes into a special notebook and made up tasty and
nourishing menus.
Never before had the Bachei family eaten so well-or, rather, feasted
so. After a month's time they had all put on weight, including Vasily
Petrovich, a fact that seemed strangely at variance with his status of a man
persecuted by the government.
All would have gone well, perhaps even brilliantly, had it not been for
the lack of customers. One might have thought that all the professional
people had agreed never to dine again.
True, the first few days brought some customers. Two well-dressed
bearded gentlemen with sunken cheeks and a fanatical glitter in their eyes
called, discovered that there were no vegetarian dishes on the menu, and
stamped out without bothering to say good-bye.
Then a saucy orderly in a peakless cap, serving in the Modlinsky
Regiment, came in at the back door and asked for two portions of
cabbage-soup for his officer. Auntie explained that there was no
cabbage-soup on the menu, but that there was soupe printaniere. That, said
the soldier, was quite all right with him, provided there was plenty of
bread to go with it, as his gentleman had lost all his money at cards and
was sitting in his quarters with a bad cold and nothing hot in his stomach
for nearly two days. Auntie gave him two portions of soupe printaniere and
plenty of bread on credit, and the orderly doubled down the stairs on his
short, thick legs in worn-down boots, leaving the heavy odour of an infantry
barracks in the kitchen. Two days later he appeared again; this time he
carried off two portions of bouillon and meat patties, also on credit, and
promised to pay as soon as his gentleman won back his money; apparently, his
gentleman never did, because the soldier disappeared for good.
No one else came to dine.
As far as letting the two rooms was concerned, things were not much
better. The very day they put the little cards in the window a newly-wed
couple made inquiries: he was a young army surgeon, and everything he had on
was new and resplendent; she was a plump, dimpled blonde with a beauty-mark
over her Cupid's-bow lips, wearing a squirrel-lined cloak and pert bonnet,
and carrying a tiny muff on a cord. They seemed to be the personification of
happiness. Their new, twenty-four carat gold wedding-rings shone so
dazzlingly, they were surrounded by such a fragrant aroma of scented soap,
cold cream, brilliantine, hair tonic, and Brokar perfume, the mixture of
which seemed to Petya the very essence of newly-weddedness, that the Bachei
flat with its old wallpaper and poorly-waxed floors suddenly appeared to be
small, shabby, and dark.
While the young couple was looking over the rooms, the husband never
once let go of his wife's arm, as if he were afraid she'd run off somewhere;
the wife, in turn, pressed close to him as she looked round in horror and
exclaimed in a loud singsong voice:
"Dahling, it's a barm! It's a real bahn! It smells like a kitchen! No,
no, it's not at all what we're looking for!"
They left hurriedly. The army surgeon's silver spurs tinkled
delicately, and the young wife raised her skirts squeamishly and stepped
gingerly as if afraid to soil her tiny new shoes. It was only after the
downstairs door had banged behind them that Petya realized the strange
foreign word "bahn" was just plain "barn," and he felt so hurt he could have
cried. Auntie's ears were still burning long after they had gone.
No one else came to see the rooms. And so Auntie's plans failed. The
spectre of poverty again rose up before the Bachei family. Despair banished
all hopes. Who knows what the outcome would have been, if salvation had not
come one fine day-out of the blue, as it always does.
It was really a glorious day, one of those March days when the snow has
melted, the earth is black, a watery blueness breaks through the clouds over
the bare branches of the orchards, a fresh breeze sweeps the first dust
along the dry pavements, and the incessant tolling of the Lenten bells booms
over the city like a great bass string. The bakeries sold pastry "skylarks"
with charred raisin eyes, and swarms of rooks circled over Cathedral Square,
over the huge corner house, over Libman's Cafe, and over the double-headed
eagle above Gayevsky's, the chemist's, their spring din and clamour drowning
out the sounds of the city.
It was a day Petya would long remember. It was the day he became a
tutor and, for the first time in his life, was to be paid for a Latin lesson
he gave to another boy. This other boy was Gavrik.
A few days before, on his way home from school, Petya was walking along
slowly, lost in unhappy thoughts and visualizing the day in the near future
when he would be expelled from the gymnasium for arrears of fees.
Suddenly, someone crashed into him from behind and punched his satchel
so hard that his pencil-box shook and clattered. Petya stumbled and nearly
fell; he turned, ready to charge his unseen enemy, and saw Gavrik, his feet
planted apart and a grin on his face.
"Hi, Petya! Where've you been all this time?"
"It's you, you tramp! You're a fine chap, hitting one of your own!"
"Go on! I socked the satchel, not you."
"What if I had fallen?"
"I'd have caught you."
"How are things?"
"Not too bad. Earning a living."
Gavrik lived in Near Mills and Petya rarely saw him nowadays, but their
childhood friendship was as strong as ever. Whenever they would meet and ask
each other the usual "How are things?" Petya would shrug his shoulders and
answer, "Still at school," while Gavrik would furrow his small round
forehead and say, "Earning la living." Each time they met, Petya would hear
the latest story, which inevitably ended the same way: either the current
employer had gone bankrupt or he had cheated Gavrik out of his pay. Such was
the case with the owner of the bathing beach between Sredny Fontan and
Arcadia who had employed Gavrik for the season to unlock the bathing-boxes,
take charge of hiring the striped bathing-suits, and keep an eye on the
bathers' clothes. The beach owner disappeared at the end of the season
without paying him a kopek, all he had had in the end were his tips. It was
the same with the Greek who had hired a gang of dockers and who had brazenly
cheated the men out of more than half their wages. It was the same again
when he had worked as bill-poster, and on many of the other jobs which he
had taken in the hope of being at least a little help to Terenty's family
and at the same time earning a bit for himself.
It was much more fun, although just as unprofitable in the long run, to
work in the "Bioscope Realite" cinema on Richelieu Street, near the
Alexandrovsky police-station In those days the cinema, that famous invention
of the Lumiere brothers, was no longer a novelty, but, none the less, the
magic of "moving pictures" continued to amaze the world. Cinemas mushroomed
up all over the city, -and they became known as "illusions."
An "illusion" signified a multi-coloured electric-light bill-board,
sometimes even with moving letters, and the bravura thunder of the pianola,
a mechanical piano whose keys were pressed down and raced back and forth
automatically, instilling in the audience a greater feeling of awe towards
the inventions of the 20th century. Usually there were slot-machines in the
foyer, and if you put five kopeks in the slot a bar of chocolate would slip
out mysteriously, or brightly-coloured sugar eggs would roll out from under
a bronze hen. Sometimes there would be a wax figure on exhibition in a glass
case. As yet there were no specially built theatres for the "illusions," and
the general practice was to rent a flat and use the largest room for the
screen.
Madame Valiadis, widow of a Greek, an enterprising and highly
imaginative woman, owned the "Bioscope Realite." She decided to wipe out all
her rivals at once. To this end she first engaged Mr. Zingertal, a famous
singer of topical ditties, to appear before each showing, and second, she
decided to revolutionize the silent film by introducing sound effects.
Crowds thronged to the "Bioscope Realite."
Mr. Zingertal, the popular favourite, duly appeared before each
performance in front of a small screen in the former dining-room decorated
with old flowered paper, a room as long and narrow as a pencil-box.
Zingertal, a tall, thin Jew, wore a rather long frock-coat, yellowed pique
vest, striped trousers, white spats and a black top hat which pressed down
on his protruding ears. With a Mephistophelian smile on his long,
clean-shaven, lined and hollow-cheeked face, he sang the popular tunes of
the day, accompanying himself on a tiny violin, tunes such as "The Odessa
girl is the girl for me," "The soldier boys are marching," and, finally, his
hit song "Zingertal, my robin, play me on your violin." Then Madame Valiadis
came on, wearing an ostrich hat and opera gloves minus the fingers to show
off her rings; she sat at the battered old piano and, as the lights dimmed,
began pounding out the accompaniment.
The lamp of the projector hissed, the film buzzed and rattled on, and
tiny, cramped red or blue captions, which seemed to have been typed on a
typewriter, appeared on the screen. Then, in quick succession, carne the
shorts: a panorama of a cloudy Swiss lake that moved along jerkily and with
great effort, followed by a Pathe news-reel with a train thundering into a
station and a parade of helmeted, goose-stepping foreign soldiers who
flashed by so quickly that they seemed to be running-all this was seen as if
through a veil of rain or snow. Then Bleriot's monoplane emerged from the
clouds for an instant-his famous Channel flight from Calais to Dover. Then
came the comedy, and this was Madame Valiadis' greatest moment. Behind the
flickering veil of raindrops a little monkey-like man called Knucklehead,
learning to ride a bicycle, kept bumping into things and knocking them over;
the audience not only saw all this, they heard it as well. The crash and
tinkle of falling glass accompanied the shattering of street lamps on the
screen. Pails banged and clattered as house-painters in blouses tumbled off
ladders and landed on the pavement. Dozens of dinner-sets were smashed to
bits as they slid and dropped from the display window of a china shop. A cat
mewed hysterically when the bicycle wheels rolled over its tail. The enraged
crowd shook their fists and chased the fleeing Knucklehead. Police whistles
screamed. Dogs barked. A fire-engine tore past. Bursts of laughter shook the
darkened "illusion" room. And all the while, unseen by the audience, Gavrik
sweated, earning his fifty kopeks a day. It was he who waited for his cue to
smash the crockery, blow a whistle, bark, mew, ring a bell, shout "Catch
him! Hold him!", stamp his feet to give the effect of a running mob, and
dump on the floor a crate of broken glass, drowning out the unmerciful
pounding on the battered keys that was Ma dame Valiadis' contribution on the
other side of the screen.
Petya helped Gavrik on several occasions. The two of them would raise
such a rumpus behind the screen that crowds would gather in the street. The
popularity of the electric theatre grew tremendously.
But the avaricious widow was far from satisfied. Aware that the public
liked politics, she ordered Zingertal to freshen up his repertoire with
something political, and then raised the price of admission. Zingertal
shrugged his shoulders, smiled his Mephistophelian smile and said, "As you
wish"; next day he appeared with a new number entitled "Neckties, neckties"
instead of the old "The soldier boys are marching."
Pressing the tiny violin to his shoulder with his blue horse-like chin,
he flourished his bow, winked slyly at the audience, and, hinting at
Stolypin, began:
Our Premier, Mr. X,
Hangs ties on people's necks,
A habit which we dreadfully deplore....
Zingertal was thrown out of the city within twenty-four hours; Madame
Valiadis, forced to piay enormous bribes to the police and to close her
"illusion," was ruined, while Gavrik was paid only a quarter of what he had
earned.
GAVRIK'S DREAM
Now Gavrik was standing next to 'Petya in a greasy blue cotton smock
over a tattered coat with a worn-out Astrakhan collar and cap to match, like
those warn by middle-aged bookbinders, type-setters and waiters. ' Petya
realized immediately that his friend had changed jobs again and was earning
his daily bread at some other trade.
Gavrik was going on fifteen. His voice had changed to a youthful bass.
He had not grown very much, but his shoulders were broader and stronger, and
there were fewer freckles on his nose. His features had become more definite
and his clear eyes were firm. And yet, there was still much of the child
about him-such as his deliberate rolling sailor's gait, his habit of
wrinkling his round forehead when puzzled by something- and his amazing
accuracy in spitting through tightly-clenched teeth.
"Well, where are you working now?" Petya asked, his eyes taking in
Gavrik's strange outfit.
"In the Odessa Leaflet print-shop."
"Tell me another!"
"It's the truth!"
"What do you do there?"'
"I deliver the ad proofs to the clients."
"Proofs?" Petya said doubtfully.
"Sure, proofs. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Maybe you've never seen proof-sheets? Here, I'll show you some. See?"
With these words Gavrik put his hand into the breast pocket of his
smock and pulled out a couple of packets of wet paper reeking of kerosene.
"Let me see!" Petya cried, grabbing a packet.
"Keep your paws off," Gavrik said good-naturedly, not at all in anger
or from a desire to offend Petya, but out of sheer habit.
"Come here, I'll show them to you."
The boys walked over to an iron post near the gates, and Gavrik
unrolled a damp paper covered all over with newspaper advertisements as
black and as greasy as shoe polish. Most of them were illustrated, and Petya
immediately recognized them from the pages of the Odessa Leaflet, which the
Bachei family took in. Here were the Fleetfoot Shoes and the Guide Galoshes,
waterproofs with peaked hoods sold by Lurie Bros., Faberge diamonds in open
jewel cases, with black lines radiating from them, bottles of Shustov's
rowan-berry brandy, theatre lyres, furriers' tigers, harness-makers' steeds,
the black cats of fortune-tellers and palmists, skates, carriages, toys,
suits, fur coats, pianos and balalaikas, biscuits and elaborate cream cakes,
Lloyd's ocean liners, and railway locomotives. And, finally, there were the
impressive-looking, long, uninterrupted columns of joint-stock company
reports and bank balances, showing their investments and fantastic
dividends.
Gavrik's small, strong, ink-stained hands held the damp newspaper
sheet, that magic, miniature record of the wealth of a big industrial and
trading centre, so far beyond the reach of Gavrik and the thousands of other
ordinary working people like him.
"There you are!" Gavrik said, and when he noticed that Petya seemed to
be reflecting on the nature of man's wealth, an exercise in which he himself
had often indulged when reading the ads or the signs and posters, he sighed
and added, "Proofs!" Then he gazed ruefully at his canvas shoes that were a
size too big and not the thing for the season. "How are things?"
"Not bad," Petya mumbled, lowering his eyes.
"Tell me another," Gavrik said.
"On my honour!"
"Then why did you take to serving dinners at home?"
Petya blushed crimson.
"It's true, isn't it?" Gavrik insisted.
"What if it is?" Petya said.
"It means you're hard up for money."
"We are not."
"Yes, you are. You can't even make ends meet."
"What do you mean?"
"Come off it, Petya. You can't fool me. I know your old man was booted
out of his job and you haven't a kopek."
That was the first time Petya heard the truth about the family's
finances put so simply and crudely.
"How do you know?" he asked weakly.
"Who doesn't? It's the talk of the town. But don't worry, Petya, they
won't put him in the jug for it."
"Who ... won't be put in the jug?"
"Why, your old man."
"What are you talking about? What do you mean by the jug?"
Gavrik knew that Petya was naive but this was too much for him and he
burst out laughing.
"What a fellow! He doesn't even know what the 'jug' means! It means
being locked up in jail." "Where?"
"In jail!" Gavrik bellowed. "Do you know how people are jailed?"
Petya looked into Gavrik's serious eyes and for the first time he felt
really frightened.
"Take it easy, they won't put your dad in jail," Gavrik said hurriedly.
"They hardly ever jail people for Lev Tolstoi now. Take it from me." He bent
close to Petya and added in a whisper, "They're picking up people right and
left now for illegal books. For the Workers' Paper and The Social-Democrat
too. But Lev Tolstoi doesn't interest them any more."
Petya looked at Gavrik with uncomprehending eyes. "Oh, what's the use
of talking to you," Gavrik said disgustedly.
He had been ready to tell his friend the latest news: for instance,
that his brother Terenty had just returned from exile after all those years
and was now working in the railway-yard, that some of the committee members
had returned with him, that it was "business as usual" again as far as their
activities were concerned, and that it had not been his own idea to get a
job in the print-shop-he had been "spoken for" by these same committee
members for a very definite purpose. Gavrik was about to explain just
exactly what the purpose was, but he saw from Petya's expression that his
friend had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about, land so he
decided to keep mum for the time being.
"How's the dinners-at-home business going?" he asked, changing the
subject. "Are there any cranks who want them?"
Petya shook his head sadly.
"I see," Gavrik said.
"Then it's a flop?"
"Yes."
"What are you going to do?"
"Somebody might rent the rooms."
"You mean you're letting rooms too? Things must be bad!" Gavrik
whistled sympathetically.
"Don't worry, we'll manage. I can give lessons," Petya said stoically.
He had long since made up his mind to become a tutor and coach backward
pupils, but did not quite know how to go about it. As a rule only university
students or senior form boys gave lessons, but there was always room for the
exception. The main thing was to be lucky and find a pupil to coach.
"How can you give lessons when you probably -don't know a darn thing
yourself?" Gavrik said in his usual crude, straightforward way and sniggered
good-naturedly.
Petya was hurt. There had 'been a time when he had really fooled about
instead of swotting, but now he was putting everything he had into his
lessons.
"I'm only kidding," Gavrik said. Suddenly he had a bright idea and
quickly asked, "Look, can you teach Latin too?"
"What a question, of course I can!"
"That's the stuff!" Gavrik exclaimed. "How much would you charge to
coach someone for the third form Latin exams?"
"What do you mean: 'how much'?"
"How much money?"
"I don't know," Petya mumbled in confusion. "Some tutors charge a ruble
a lesson."
"That's far too much. Let's settle for half a ruble."
"What's it all about?" Petya asked.
"Never mind."
Gavrik stood silently for a few minutes, looking down at his moving
fingers, as if making calculations.
"Go on, tell me!" Petya insisted.
"It's nothing very special," Gavrik answered. "Let's go this way." And,
taking Petya by the arm, he led him down the street, peering into his face
sideways.
Gavrik never liked to talk about himself or disclose his plans to
people. Experience had taught him to be secretive. That was why, even though
he had made up his mind to let Petya in on the dream of his life, he could
not bring himself to talk about it, and so they both walked on in silence.
"You see," he began, "but first your word of honour that you won't tell
a soul."
"Honour bright!" Petya exclaimed and involuntarily, from force of
habit, crossed himself, looking the while at the cupolas of St. Panteleimon
Church that shone blue beyond Kulikovo Field.
Gavrik opened his eyes wide and whispered:
"Here's my idea: I want to pass the gymnasium exams for the first,
three forms without attending classes. Two chaps are helping me with the
other subjects, but I'm sort of stuck with Latin."
This was so unexpected that Petya stopped dead in his tracks.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"But why should you study?" Petya blurted out in surprise.
"Why do you study?" Gavrik said with a hard and pugnacious glitter in
his eye. "It's all right for you, but not for me-is that it? For all you
know, it may be more necessary for me than for you."
He might have told Petya that since Terenty had returned from exile he
had been talking a lot about the lack of educated people among the workers,
about the fact that new struggles lay ahead. Probably after consulting some
of the committee members, he had told Gavrik in no uncertain terms that
whether he liked it or not, he would have to pass the gymnasium exams: he
could first take the third form exams, then the sixth form exams, and then
the final school-leaving exams. But Gavrik told Petya nothing of all this.
"Well, are you willing to have a go?" he asked instead. "My offer's
half a ruble a lesson."
Petya felt embarrassed and, at the same time, flattered, and he blushed
a delicate pink with pleasure.
"Oh, I'm willing," he said, and coughed, "only not for money."
"What do you mean? Do you think I'm a beggar? I'm working. Half a ruble
a lesson, four lessons a month. That makes two silver pieces. I can afford
it."
"Nothing doing. I won't take money for the lessons."
"Why won't you take it? Don't be a fool! Money doesn't lie around in
the street. Especially now, when you're so hard up for it. At least you'll
be able to give Auntie something for food."
That had a great effect on Petya. He suddenly pictured himself handing
Auntie some money one fine day and saying nonchalantly, "Oh, it slipped my
mind completely, Auntie. Here, I've earned a bit by giving lessons, please
take it. It'll come in useful."
"All right," Petya answered. "I'll take you on. But remember: if you
start fooling around, it'll be good-bye. I'm not used to taking money for
nothing."
"I don't find it in the woodshed either," Gavrik said glumly. The
friends parted till Sunday, which was the lap-pointed day for the first
lesson.
Never had Petya prepared his own lessons so painstakingly as he was now
preparing for his lessons with Gavrik, for his first appearance in the role
of teacher. Proud and conscious of his responsibility, Petya did his very
best to ensure the success of his venture. He pestered Father with endless
questions about comparative linguistics. He consulted the Brockhaus and
Efron Encyclopaedia and made copious notes. At school he worried the Latin
master for explanations concerning the numerous rules of Latin syntax, a
fact which amazed the teacher, since -he had no great opinion of Petya's
diligence. Petya sharpened several pencils, got out pen and ink, dusted
Father's desk, and arranged on it Pavlik's globe, his own
twenty-five-powered microscope, and a few thick volumes-all with a view to
creating a strictly academic atmosphere and instilling in Gavrik a reverence
for science.
After dinner Vasily Petrovich left for the cemetery. Auntie took Pavlik
to an exhibition. Dunyasha had the afternoon off and went to visit her
relatives. Petya could not have wished for anything better. He paced up and
down the room with his hands behind his back like a veteran schoolmaster and
rehearsed his introductory speech for the first lesson. It would be wrong to
say that he was nervous, but he felt something akin to what a skater feels
as he is about to glide across the rink.
Gavrik was not long in coming. He appeared at exactly the appointed
hour. It was significant that he did not come up the back stairs and through
the kitchen, as was his wont, after whistling from the yard below; Gavrik
rang the front-door bell, said "hullo" quietly, hung up his threadbare coat
in the hall, and smoothed his hair in front of the mirror. His hands were
scrubbed clean, and before entering he carefully tucked his cotton shirt
with its mother-of-pearl buttons under his narrow belt. He had a new
five-kopek notebook with a pink blotter peeping out of it and a new pencil
stuck in the middle. Petya led his friend into the study and sat him down at
the desk, between microscope and globe, which objects drew a guarded look
from Gavrik.
"Well," Petya said sternly and suddenly became embarrassed.
He stopped, waited manfully for his bashfulness to pass, and then tried
once more:
"Well.... Latin is one of the richest and mightiest of the
Indo-European languages. Originally, as was the case with the Umbrian and
Oscan languages, it was one of the group of main dialects of the
non-Etruscan population of Central Italy, the dialect of the inhabitants of
the Latium Plain, whence the Romans came. Is that clear?"
"No," Gavrik said, shaking his head.
"What is unclear?"
"The main dialects of the non-Etruscans," Gavrik repeated carefully,
giving Petya a pitiful look.
"Never mind. You'll soon catch on. It's just because it's new to you.
Let's continue. At a time when the languages of the other peoples of
Italy-say, the Etruscans, Iiapygians, and Ligurians, not counting, of
course, the Umbrians and Sabellians who were akin to the Latins-remained, so
to speak, isolated as local dialects in secluded regions," Petya made a
circle with his arms in a highly professional manner to indicate that the
other languages of Italy had remained secluded, "thanks to the Romans, Latin
not only emerged as the main language of Italy, but developed into the
literary language as well." Petya raised his finger significantly. "Clear?"
"No," Gavrik repeated miserably and shook his head again. "You know
what, Petya? Show me their alphabet instead."
"I know what comes first better than you do," Petya said dryly.
"Maybe we can do the bit about the Etruscans and the Umbrians later,
just now I'd like to take a shot at those Latin letters. Huh?"
"Who's tutor here? You or me?"
"You."
"Very well then, pay attention."
"I'm listening," Gavrik said obediently.
"Good, let's continue," Petya said as he paced up and down with his
arms behind his back, enjoying every moment of his superiority and his
teacher's authority. "Well, er ... about three hundred years later, this
classical literary Latin lost its supremacy and was replaced by a popular
Latin, and so on, and so forth-anyway, it's not all that important." (Gavrik
nodded in agreement.) "The main thing, my friend, is that this very same
Latin finally ended up by having twenty letters in the alphabet, and then
three more were added to it."
"That makes it twenty-three!" Gavrik put in happily.
"Right. Twenty-three letters in all."
"What are they?"
"Don't rush into Hell before your father!" Petya intoned the Latin
master's favourite saying-subconsciously he had been imitating him all the
time. "The letters of the Latin alphabet, which you will now write down,
are: A, B, C, D...."
Gavrik sat up, licked the tip of his pencil, and began copying the
Latin letters gracefully.
"Wait a minute, silly, what are you doing? Write a Latin 'B,' not a
Russian one."
"What's the Latin one like?"
"The same as the Russian 'V.' Understand?"
"I'm not that dumb!"
"Erase what you've written and correct it."
Gavrik pulled a little piece of an "Elephant" India rubber carefully
wrapped up in a scrap of paper from one of the pockets of his wide corduroy
breeches, rubbed the elephant's backside vigorously over the Russian letter,
and wrote the Latin "B" in its place.
"Tell you what," Petya said-he was beginning to feel quite bored with
it all-"you just keep on copying the Latin letters from the book, land I'll
stretch my legs meanwhile."
Gavrik copied diligently, and Petya began to stretch his legs, that is,
he began to walk back and forth with his hands clasped behind him until,
finally, he came to a stop before the dining-room sideboard. It is a
well-known fact that all sideboards have a special magnetism where boys are
concerned, and it rarely happens that a boy passes a sideboard without
peeping in to see what it contains. Petya was no exception, the more so
since Auntie had been careless enough to say:
"... And keep away from the sideboard."
Petya knew perfectly well that she had in mind the large jar of
strawberry jam which his grandmother in Yekaterinoslav had sent them for
Christmas. They had not opened it yet, although it was meant for the
holidays, and as the holidays had already passed, Petya felt a bit
aggrieved. It was really hard to understand Auntie.
Usually so kind and generous, when it came to jam she became
monstrously, inexplicably stingy. One could not even hint at jam in her
presence. A terrified look would come into her eyes and she would rattle
off:
"No, no! By no means! Don't dare go near it. I'll give it to you when
the time comes."
But when that time would come, no one could say. She herself said
nothing and simply threw up her hands in alarm at the very idea. Actually,
it was all very stupid, for hadn't the jam been made and sent expressly for
the purpose of being eaten!
While stretching his legs, Petya opened the sideboard, got up on to a
chair and looked on the very top shelf where the heavy jar of Yekaterinoslav
jam stood. After admiring it for a while he closed the sideboard and
returned to his pupil. Gavrik was labouring away and had already got as far
as "N," which he did not know how to write. Petya helped him, praised his
penmanship, and noted casually:
"By the way, Grandma sent us a six-pound jar of strawberry jam for
Christmas."
"You don't say." '
"Honestly!"
"They don't make jars that big."
"Don't they?" Petya smiled sarcastically
"No, they don't."
"A fat lot you know about jars!" Petya mumbled and stalked into the
dining-room. When he returned, he gingerly placed the heavy jar on the desk
between globe and microscope. "Well, go on, say it's not a six-pounder."
"You win."
Gavrik drew his notebook closer land copied out three more Latin
letters: "O," identical with the Russian letter, "P," resembling the Russian
"R," and a rather strange-looking one called "Q," which gave him not a
little trouble.
"Fine!" Petya exclaimed. He hesitated a moment and added, "What do you
say to trying the jam? Want to?"
"I don't mind," Gavrik said. "But what'll Auntie say?"
"We'll just have a spoonful, she won't even notice the difference."
"Petya went to fetch a spoon, then he patiently untied the bow of the
tight cord. He carefully raised the top paper, which had taken the shape of
a lid and, still more carefully, removed the parchment disk beneath.
The disk had been soaked in rum to keep the jam from spoiling, and
directly underneath lay the glossy, placid surface. With the utmost caution
Petya and Gavrik helped themselves to a full spoon each.
The Yekaterinoslav grandmother was a famous jam-maker, and strawberry
jam was her pride. But this jam in particular was of unrivalled quality.
Never had Petya-to say nothing of Gavrik-tasted anything like it. It was
fragrant, thick, and, at the same time, ethereal, full of large transparent
berries, tender, choice, deliciously sprinkled all over with tiny yellow
seeds, and it just melted in their mouths.
They licked their spoons clean and made the happy discovery that,
actually, the quantity of jam in the jar hadn't gone down a bit-the surface
was still level with the top. No doubt, some physical law of large and small
quantities could well be applied to this particular case: the vast capacity
of the jar and the minute capacity of the tea-spoon, but since neither Petya
nor Gavrik as yet had any idea of this law, they thought it no less than a
miracle that the jam had remained at its former level.
"Exactly as it was," Gavrik said.
"I told you she wouldn't notice it." With these words Petya replaced
the first parchment disk, then the paper lid, rewound the cord tightly, made
exactly the same kind of bow, returned the jar to the sideboard and placed
it on the top shelf.
Meanwhile Gavrik had written out two more letters: "R" and a
shaky-looking "S."
"That's fine!" Petya praised him. "By the way, I think we can safely
try another spoonful."
"Of what?"
"The jam."
"But what about Auntie?"
"Don't be silly. We left it exactly the same as before. Another
spoonful each will still leave as much as there was. Right?"
Gavrik thought about it and agreed. After all, one could not contradict
the obvious.
Petya brought in the jar, untied the tight bow painstakingly, carefully
removed the paper lid and parchment disk, and admired the glossy surface
that shone as before at the very top of the jar; then the two friends had
another spoonful each, licked the spoons, and Petya wound the cord around
the neck of the jar and retied the bow.
This time the jam seemed doubly delicious and their enjoyment of it
twice as fleeting.
"You see, the level hasn't changed!" Petya said triumphantly, as he
lifted the jar that was just as heavy as ever.
"I wouldn't say that," Gavrik rejoined. "This time it's sure to be a
tiny bit lower. I had a good look at it."
Petya raised the jar and examined it closely.
"Nothing of the sort. It's exactly the same, no change."
"That's what you think," Gavrik said. "You can't notice it because the
empty space is hidden by the edges of the paper. Turn back the edge and
you'll see."
Petya lifted up the pleated edge of the paper lid and raised the jar to
the light. The jar was almost as full as before. Almost, but not quite.
There was a space a hair's-breadth wide, but it was a space. This was most
unfortunate, although it was doubtful that Auntie would notice it. Petya
took the jar into the dining-room and replaced it on the top shelf.
"Let's see what you've been scribbling," he said with an affected
gaiety.
Gavrik scratched his head in silence and sighed.
"What's the matter? Are you tired?"
"No. It's not that. I rather think that she'll notice it, even though
only a tiny bit is missing."
"No, she won't."
"I'll bet she will. And you'll be in a fix when she does."
Petya flushed.
"So what! Who cares! After all, Grandma sent it for all of us, and
there's no reason why I shouldn't taste it. If a friend comes to study with
me, surely I can treat him to strawberry jam? Huh! You know what? I'll bring
it in and we'll each have a saucerful. I'm sure Auntie won't say anything.
She'll even praise us for being honest and straightforward about it, for not
doing it in a sneaky way."
"Do you think we ought to?" Gavrik asked timidly.
"What's to stop us!" Petya exclaimed.
Suiting the action to the word he brought in the jar and, certain that
he was doing an honest and honourable deed, measured out two full saucers of
the jam.
"That's enough!" he said firmly, tied up the jar, and put it back in
the sideboard.
But it was far from being enough. It was only now, after they had each
had a saucerful, that the friends began really to appreciate the heavenly
jam. Overcome with an overwhelming and irrepressible desire for at least a
little more, Petya brought the jar in again, and with a look of grim
determination and without even so much as a glance at Gavrik, served out two
more helpings. Petya never dreamed that a saucer could hold so much. When he
held the jar up to the light, he saw that it was at least a third empty.
Each ate his portion and licked his spoon clean.
"Never tasted anything like it!" Gavrik said as he went back to copying
out the letters "T," "U," "V," and "X," experiencing at the same time a
burning desire to have at least one more spoonful of the delectable stuff.
"All right," Petya said resolutely, "we'll eat exactly half of it and
no more!"
When there was exactly half the jam left, Petya tied the cord for the
Last time and carried the jar back to the sideboard, his mind firmly made up
not to go near it again. He tried not to think about Auntie.
"Well, have you had enough?" he asked Gavrik with a wan smile.
"More than enough," Gavrik answered, for the sticky sweetness was
beginning to give him a sour taste.
Petya felt slightly nauseous himself. Bliss was suddenly turning into
something quite the opposite. They no longer wanted even to think about the
jam, and yet, strange as it may seem, they could not get it out of their
minds. It seemed to be taking revenge on them, creating an insane, unnatural
desire for more. It was no use trying to resist the craving. Petya, dazed,
returned once more to the dining-room, and the boys began scooping up
spoonfuls of the nauseating delicacy, having lost all sense of what they
were doing. This was hatred turned to worship, and worship turned to hatred.
Their mouths were puckered up from the acid-sweet taste of the jam. Their
foreheads were damp. The jam stuck in their protesting throats. But they
kept on devouring it as if it were porridge. They were not even eating it,
they were struggling with it, destroying it as a mortal enemy. They came to
their senses when only a thin film of jam left on the very bottom of the jar
evaded their spoons.
At that moment Petya realized the full meaning of the terrible thing
they had done. Like criminals anxious to cover up their tracks, the boys ran
into the kitchen and began feverishly to rinse the sticky jar under the tap,
remembering, however, to take turns drinking the sweetish, cloudy water.
When they had washed and wiped the jar clean, Petya put it back on the
shelf in the sideboard, as if that would somehow remedy the situation. He
comforted himself with the foolish hope that perhaps Auntie had already
forgotten about Grandma's jam, or that when she would see the clean empty
jar she would think they had eaten it long ago. Alas, Petya knew very well
that at best his hopes were foolish.
The boys tried not to look at each other as they walked back to the
writing-desk and resumed the lesson.
"Where were we?" Petya said weakly, for he could hardly keep from
vomiting. "We have twenty of the twenty-three letters. Later on,
historically, two more letters were added."
"Which makes twenty-five," Gavrik said, choking down his sugary saliva.
"Quite right. Copy them out."
Just then Vasily Petrovich came in. He was in that sad but peaceful
mood that always came over him after a visit to the cemetery. He glanced at
the studious boys, and noticing the strange expression of ill-concealed
disgust on their faces, he said:
"I see you are working on the Sabbath, my dear sirs. Having a hard
time? Never mind! The root of learning may be bitter, but its fruits are
sweet."
With these words he tiptoed over to the icons, took from his pocket the
small bottle of wood-oil he had bought in the church shop and carefully
filled the icon-lamp, a task he performed every Sunday.
Soon Auntie returned and was followed by Dunyasha. Pavlik was still
downstairs. They heard the samovar singing in the kitchen. The delicate
tinkle of the china tea-set drifted in from the dining-room.
"I'd better be going," Gavrik said, putting his things together
quickly. "I'll finish the other letters at home. So long. See you next
Sunday!" With a solemn look on his face he ambled through the dining-room,
past the sideboard and into the hall.
"Where are you going?" Auntie asked. "Won't you stay to tea?"
"Thanks, Tatyana Ivanovna, they're waiting for me at home. I've a
couple of chores to do yet."
"You're sure you won't stay? We've got nice strawberry jam. H'm?"
"Oh no, no!" Gavrik exclaimed in alarm. In the hall he whispered to
Petya, "I owe you 50 kopeks," and dashed down the stairs to escape from the
scene of the crime.
"You're not looking well," Auntie said as she turned to Petya. "You
look as if you had tainted sausage. Maybe you're going to be ill. Let's see
your tongue."
Petya hung his head dejectedly and stuck out a marvellously pink
tongue.
"Aha! I know what it is!" Auntie cried. "It's all because of that
Latin. You see, my dear, how difficult it is to be a tutor! Never mind,
we'll open Grandma's jam in honour of your first lesson and you'll be your
old self again in no time."
With these words Auntie walked over to the sideboard, while Petya lay
down on his bed with a groan and stuck his head under the pillow so as not
to hear or see anything.
However, at the very moment that Auntie was gazing in astonishment at
the clean empty jar and trying to puzzle out why it was there and how it had
got into the sideboard, Pavlik rushed into the hall, yelling at the top of
his lungs:
"Faig, Faig! Listen! Faig has driven up to our house in his carriage!"
They all rushed to the windows, including Petya, who had tossed aside
his pillow. True enough, Faig's carriage was at the front gate.
Mr. Faig was one of the best-known citizens in town.
He was as popular as Governor Tolmachov, as Maryiashek, the town idiot,
as Mayor Pelican who achieved fame by stealing a chandelier from the
theatre, as Ratur-Ruter, the editor-publisher, who was often thrashed in
public for his slanderous articles, as Kochubei, the owner of the largest
ice-cream parlour, the source of wholesale food-poisoning every summer, and,
finally, as brave old General Radetsky, the hero of Plevna.
Faig, a Jew who had turned Christian, was a man of great wealth, the
owner and head of an accredited commercial school. His school was a haven
for those young men of means who had been expelled for denseness and bad
behaviour from other schools in Odessa and elsewhere in the Russian Empire.
By paying the appropriate fee one could always graduate and receive a
school-leaving certificate at Faig's school. Faig was a philanthropist and
patron of the Arts. He enjoyed making donations and did so with a splash,
including an announcement in the papers.
He donated suites of furniture and cows to lotteries, contributed large
sums towards improving the cathedral and buying a new bell, he established
the Faig Prize to be awarded annually at the yacht races, and paid fifty
rubles for a glass of champagne at charity bazaars. In short, this Faig, who
had become a legend, was the horn of plenty that poured charity upon the
poor.
However, the main source of his popularity lay in the fact that he rode
around town in his own carriage.
This was no antediluvian contraption of the type that usually bumped
along as part of the funeral cortege. Neither was it a wedding carriage,
upholstered in white satin with crystal headlights and folding step. Nor was
it a bishop's carriage, that screeching conveyance which, in addition to
carrying the bishop, was also used for transporting to private homes the
Icon of the Holy Virgin of Kasperovka associated with Kutuzov and the fall
of Ochakov. Faig's carriage was a coupe de luxe on English springs, with
high box and a coachman dressed according to the height of English fashion.
The doors sported a fictitious coat-of-arms, and, as a finishing touch. a
liveried footman stood on the footboard, which reduced the street loafers to
a state approaching religious ecstasy.
A pair of bob-tailed horses with patent-leather blinkers whisked the
carriage along at la brisk trot. Faig was inside. He was wearing a top hat
and a Palmerston coat, his side whiskers were dyed black, and a Havana was
planted between his teeth. His feet were wrapped in a Scotch plaid.
While the Bachei family was watching Faig's carriage from the windows
and wondering whom he might have come to see, the door-bell rang. Dunyasha
opened the door and nearly swooned. The liveried footman stood before her
with his three-cornered purled hat pressed to his breast.
"Mr. Faig presents his respects to the Bachei family," the footman
said, "and asks to be received."
The Bachei family, who had rushed into the hall, stood there
dumbfounded. Auntie was the only one who had kept a level head. She gave
Vasily Petrovich a meaning look, turned to the footman, and with a polite
smile and in an offhand manner said, "Please ask him up."
The footman bowed and went downstairs, sweeping the stairway with the
long tails of his livery coat.
No sooner had Vasily Petrovich fastened his collar, adjusted his tie,
and got his arms through the sleeves of his good frock-coat, than Mr. Faig
entered. He carried his top hat, his gloves tossed into it, stiffly in one
hand and in the other, which sparkled with the diamonds, he held a cigar. A
democratic smile lit up his face between the black side whiskers. He spread
the aroma of Havana cigar smoke mixed with the scent of Atkinson's perfume.
A battery of badges, medals, and fraternity-pins followed the cut of his
frock-coat. Tiny pearls glowed gently in the buttonholes of his
magnificently starched white shirt-front.
This man, the personification of success and wealth, had suddenly paid
them a call! Faig put his top hat on the hall table and extended his plump
hand to Father in the grand manner. That was all Petya saw, for Auntie
manoeuvred him and Pavlik into the kitchen and kept them there until Mr.
Faig departed.
Judging by the fact that Faig's loud and merry laughter and Father's
chuckle were heard several times, the visit was a friendly one. But what
could be the reason for it? The explanation was forthcoming when Faig, after
being helped into the carriage by the footman and having the Scotch plaid
tucked round his legs, waved his white hand with the cigar and drove off. He
had come to Vasily Petrovich with the offer of a teaching appointment in his
establishment.
It had all been so unexpected and so much like a miracle, that Vasily
Petrovich turned to the icon and crossed himself. Teaching in Faig's school
was much more remunerative than in the gymnasium, because Faig paid his
teachers almost double the salary paid by the government. Vasily Petrovich
was captivated by Faig's matter-of-fact way, his cordiality and democratic
manners which contrasted so pleasantly and unexpectedly with his appearance
and his way of life.
In conversation with Vasily Petrovich, Faig displayed a keen
understanding of contemporary affairs. He was biting and yet restrained when
criticizing the Ministry of Education for its inability to appreciate its
best teachers; he fiercely resented the government's attempts to turn the
schools into military barracks and openly declared that the time had come
for society to take the matter of public education into its own hands and
banish servile officials and petty tyrants such as the head of the Odessa
District Education Department, who had revived the worst traditions of the
Arakcheyev times. He declared that their attitude towards Vasily Petrovich,
in addition to lacking any justification, had been disgusting, and that he
hoped to right the wrong and restore justice, as he considered the matter
his sacred duty to Russian society and science. He hoped that in his
establishment Vasily Petrovich would find full scope for" his abilities as a
brilliant teacher and for his love of the great Russian literature. As a
believer in European methods of education he was sure that he and Vasily
Petrovich would understand one another. As for the formalities, he did not
doubt for a minute that he would get the consent of the Minister of
Education to have Vasily Petrovich officially accredited, since a public
gymnasium was one thing, and a private school something else again. Nor did
Faig conceal the fact that one of the reasons which had prompted him to
engage Vasily Petrovich was that by so doing he would raise the standard of
the school in the eyes of the liberal circles of Odessa society; another was
that it would be a challenge to the government, since, according to Faig,
Vasily Petrovich's famous speech on the occasion of Tolstoi's death had won
him a definite political reputation.
All this was strange and flattering to Vasily Petrovich, although he
winced at the mention of his political reputation. And when Faig added, "You
shall be our standard-bearer," Vasily Petrovich even felt a little
frightened. However, Faig's proposition was accepted, and life in the Bachei
family underwent a miraculous change.
Faig had paid Vasily Petrovich for six months in advance. The sum was
larger than the family had ever dreamed of. Now, whenever Vasily Petrovich
ventured forth, the neighbours watched him enviously from their windows and
said:
"Look, there goes Bachei, the one Faig has taken on."
Once again Vasily Petrovich began to think in terms of a trip abroad.
And at long last, after weighing up his resources and consulting Auntie for
the twentieth time, he decided: we're going!
THE SAILOR'S OUTFIT
Spring, which came early, was warm and glorious. Easter passed and left
pleasant memories. Soon it was examination time, a time Petya always
associated with the brief May thunderstorms, fiery flashes of purple
lightning, the lilac in bloom in the school garden, the dry air of the empty
class-rooms with the desks moved close together and the clouds of chalk
dust, pierced by the warm rays of the afternoon sun that remained suspended
in the air after the last exam.
They began preparing for the trip during examination time. Switzerland,
a country that had always had a special place in Vasily Petrovich's heart,
was their main objective. However, it was decided that they should first go
to Naples by sea, and then cross Italy by rail. This indirect route would be
slightly more expensive, but it would give them the chance to visit Turkey,
Greece, the islands of the Aegean Sea and Sicily, they would be able to see
all the sights of Naples, Rome, Florence, and Venice; then, funds
permitting, they might even pay a brief visit to Paris. Vasily Petrovich had
mapped out the itinerary many years before, when Mother had still been
alive. The two-of them had spent many an evening leafing through travel
guides and writing down the travel expenses. They had noted the price of the
tickets, hotel and boarding-house rates, and even admission prices to
museums and tips were included in their careful calculations.
Despite all this Vasily Petrovich feared to overtax the budget, and so
he studied the rail and steamer ticket prices once more.
There were many arguments about what to take and how to pack. Auntie
suggested that they should buy two very ordinary suitcases and put very
ordinary clothes in them. However, it turned out that Vasily Petrovich was
of another mind completely. He thought they should have a special satchel
and Alpine rucksacks with special straps that would not interfere with
climbing.
Auntie shrugged and laughed, but Petya and Pavlik insisted that only
the special Alpine rucksacks be ordered, and so she gave in. Vasily
Petrovich went to the shop with his own draft of the special travelling-bag
and the special rucksacks. A few days later the Bachei household was richer
by two rucksacks and a rather strange-looking creation of the
luggage-and-harness industry. It was of tartan and bore a vague resemblance
to a huge accordion, covered all over with a multitude of patch-pockets.
These new and still empty travelling-bags and the exciting smell of
leather and dyed material brought visions of far distances into the
household. Then they discovered that the boys could not go abroad in their
school uniforms, they would have to wear "civvies."
That was no problem as far as Pavlik was concerned. He still had last
year's "pre-school" clothes: a pair of short trousers and a middy-blouse.
Petya's outfit presented a problem. It would have been ridiculous to deck a
fourteen-year-old boy out in a grown man's suit with a coat, waistcoat and a
tie. But a little boy's outfit with short trousers was no good either. They
had to find a happy medium. Petya was already in a frenzy of impatience and
the outfit he wanted was undoubtedly influenced by the illustrations in the
works of Jules Verne and Mayne Reid. In his opinion it had to be something
like 'a naval cadet's uniform, consisting of his long school trousers and a
navy-blue blouse, not the kind that little boys wear, but the real thing,
made of heavy flannel.
It was no easy matter to have such a blouse made. No children's
outfitter and no tailor seemed to understand what was expected of them.
Petya, who had already pictured himself as a naval cadet, was desperate.
Gavrik came to his rescue. He suggested a naval outfitter's shop where he
knew someone. He seemed to have friends everywhere!
The shop was located in the so-called Sabansky Barracks, an ancient
white-columned structure.
The enclosed yard, vast and spacious, and the ominous appearance of the
disused fortress, the pyramids of old cannon-balls, anchors, parallel bars,
and the mast with its multi-coloured signal flags, thrilled Petya. An
orderly in a sailor's cap sat on a bench beneath a bell.
"Don't worry," Gavrik said, seeing that Petya had stopped in confusion.
"The fellows here are good chaps." They climbed up the worn steps of an
ancient stairway and found themselves in a dark corridor. It was as cold as
a crypt, and the change was especially noticeable later the noonday heat of
the May sunshine.
Gavrik confidently led his friend through the darkness to a door, and
the boys entered a deep-vaulted room. The walls were twelve feet thick, so
that the two little windows barely let in any light, although they 'directly
faced the sea opposite Quarantine Bay and the white lighthouse with its
circling sea-gulls that stood out so clearly against the choppy blue-green
water.
A sailor wearing the red shoulder-straps of the coastguard service sat
at a large sewing-machine, working the iron treadle with his bare feet as he
hemmed a woollen signal flag. A heap of signal flags lay in a corner.
The sailor stopped sewing when he saw Gavrik. A smile broke over his
pock-marked face, but then he noticed the strange boy standing behind Gavrik
and raised his bushy eyebrows inquiringly.
"It's all right. This is the fellow who's teaching me Latin," Gavrik
said, and Petya realized that the sailor knew all about his friend.
"What's new?" the sailor asked.
"Nothing special," Gavrik answered. "I've come about something else
this time. I was wondering whether you could make a regulation sailor's
blouse for this fellow."
"I haven't got the right material."
"He's got it. Petya, show him the cloth."
Petya handed over the package. The sailor unrolled the soft, fine,
strong navy-blue wool.
"That's the real stuff!" Gavrik said with a touch of pride.
"How much did you pay for it?" the sailor asked.
Petya told him the price and he felt sure the meaning look that the
sailor gave Gavrik was disapproving.
"Don't go thinking things," Gavrik said. "His old man's just a teacher.
They're not well off. They're even hard up for money at times. It so happens
that he needs a regulation blouse."
Gavrik amazed Petya as he explained why he needed the blouse. He had
all the details of the projected journey at his fingertips. Petya caught
several significant glances passing between Gavrik and the sailor.
Perhaps he would not have paid any attention to this, were it not for
the fact that something similar had taken place when he was giving Gavrik a
Latin lesson in Near Mills. Motya had been present during the lesson, and
since Motya regarded Petya as some kind of superior being, an object of
devoted and secret worship, he began to boast for her benefit. His
imagination ran away with him as he described the forthcoming journey. When
he got as far as the splendours of Switzerland Terenty exchanged glances
with Gavrik and then with his guest, Sinichkin, a thin, consumptive worker
wearing top boots and a black cotton shirt beneath a threadbare jacket.
When Terenty looked sat him, Sinichkin shook his head and muttered,
"No, he's no longer there," or something to that effect. Suddenly, he looked
Petya straight in the eye and asked him solemnly:
"Will you be going to France, too? Will you visit Paris?"
And when Petya answered that if their money held out they would
certainly go there, Sinichkin looked at Terenty significantly again, but
they did not ask Petya any more questions.
Petya felt that his forthcoming trip abroad had evoked in Gavrik and
his friends in Near Mills some kind of special interest, but he was in the
dark as to the reason why.
The sailor and Gavrik had exchanged the same sort of glances too.
Perhaps, Petya thought, people always behaved like that in the presence of
someone about to go abroad. Petya had not yet set foot outside his native
city, but he already felt that new experiences awaited him around every
corner. He would suddenly find himself in a side-street he had never trod
before and would stop to look at a tiled house or a garden with the curious
eyes of a tourist.
How many times, for example, had he passed the Sabansky Barracks and
never dreamed that behind its gates was an unknown world-a sleepy, deserted
yard with anchors and cannon-balls, a naval outfitter's shop where a sailor
sewed woollen signal flags, ancient windows in deep niches from which the
sea seemed altogether different and unfamiliar, luring one to explore
far-off lands.
The sailor examined the cloth and praised it. He would make the blouse,
but his charge would be five rubles. Gavrik shoved Petya aside, looked hard
at the sailor, shook his head reproachfully, and said that one ruble would
be far too much. They bargained a long time, and finally the sailor said he
would do the job for two rubles, and only because Petya was "one of us."
What this meant Petya did not understand.
The sailor then wiped the lid of a large sea chest with his sleeve,
said, "Sit down, boys," and went to fetch a copper kettle of boiling water.
They drank tea from tin mugs, sucking lumps of sugar and eating tasty rye
bread that the sailor cut off in large slices, pressing the loaf to his
brawny chest.
Gavrik and the sailor kept up a grave conversation over tea, and,
judging by what was said, Petya concluded that the sailor-Gavrik called him
"Uncle Fedya"-knew Terenty's family well and was actually a distant relative
on his mother's side. The conversation was mostly about family and money
matters. However, from certain hints and veiled expressions, Petya divined
that there was another bond between Terenty and Uncle Fedya. Petya could not
quite get the hang of it, but he vaguely felt a long-forgotten echo of the
terrible and troubled air of 1905.
At last Uncle Fedya pulled out a decrepit oilcloth tape-measure with
the numbers all worn off, measured Petya, and promised to have the blouse
ready in three days. He was as good as his word. In addition, he made a
sailor's cap for the boy with the left-over cloth, and attached an old St.
George ribbon with long ends to it. The cap was free of charge.
Petya had a look at himself in the crooked little mirror that hung on
the wall next to a coloured print of Taras Shevchenko and could not hold
back the happy, radiant smile that spread across his face all the way to his
ears.
Unexpected complications set in when they applied to the chief of
police for travel passports. Vasily Petrovich had to submit written
statements testifying to his loyalty to the state. This was not as easy as
it seemed. He filled out the application forms, and four days later an
officer from the Alexandrovsky police-station knocked at the door with two
witnesses in order to proceed with the inquiry. The mere mention of the word
"inquiry" irritated Vasily Petrovich. And when the inquisitor plumped into a
chair in the dining-room where he spread his greasy folders and put down a
spill-proof ink-well on the clean table-cloth, and in an official tone asked
all kinds of stupid questions about sex, age, religious affiliation, rank,
title, etc., Vasily Petrovich felt like throwing him out; but he controlled
himself and endured the grilling. He signed his name to the inquiry paper,
next to the illegible scrawl of janitor Akimov, one of the witnesses, and
the flourishing signature of the other witness, an insipid, pimply young man
in a technical-school cap with two crossed hammers over the peak.
Soon afterwards a policeman came with a notice requesting Vasily
Petrovich to appear before the chief of police. Vasily Petrovich duly
appeared and had a talk with the chief in his office. They discussed a
variety of subjects, mostly political, and Vasily Petrovich explained why he
had left his job with the Ministry of Education. They parted on amiable
terms.
But that was not all. Vasily Petrovich had to submit a mountain of
documents: his service record, birth certificate, his wife's death
certificate, etc., etc. This took much time and energy and caused endless
frustration. All the copies had to be letter-perfect before they could be
notarised. Petya tagged along with his father on this dreary roundabout.
How unbearable were those typing bureaus where sour and arrogant old
maids in squeaking corsets would get up from behind their Underwoods and
Remingtons, haughtily survey Vasily Petrovich and rudely announce that
nothing could be done before another week! How tired they were of the
stifling, deserted summer streets, criss-crossed by the latticed shadows of
the blossoming white acacias and the notaries' oval signboards with their
black, two-headed eagles!
When all the copies were duly prepared and notarized, it turned out
that there would have to be yet another inquiry.
Time was passing and there were moments when Vasily Petrovich felt so
frustrated that he was ready to abandon the idea of going abroad. But Gavrik
saved the situation once more.
"You're green!" he said to Petya, shrugging his shoulders. "You're a
bunch of innocents. Tell your old man to grease their palms."
"What, bribe them? Never!" Vasily Petrovich thundered when Petya passed
on his friend's advice. "I'll never sink that low!"
But in the end, completely exasperated by red tape, he did sink that
low. And behold, everything changed as if by magic: a certificate of his
loyalty was produced in an instant, and the hitherto unattainable travel
passport was delivered to the house.
They had only to book their tickets and set out. Since they had decided
to travel on an Italian ship, there was something thrilling and foreign even
in the matter of purchasing the tickets. In Lloyd's Travel Agency on
Nikolayevsky Boulevard, next door to the Vorontsov Palace-that is, in the
most fashionable part of the town-the prospective tourists were greeted with
such reverence and politeness that Petya thought his father had been
mistaken for someone else.
A gentleman in a grey morning coat with a large pearl tie-pin stuck in
a brilliantly coloured tie asked them to sit down in the deep leather chairs
which stood around a small mahogany table. The surface of the table,
polished to a high gloss, was littered with Lloyd's narrow, illustrated
prospectuses in various languages. There were photographs of many-storeyed
hotels, palm-trees, ancient ruins and ocean liners. Petya saw tiny white
Remus and Romulus at the jagged tits of the white she-wolf, St. Mark's
winged lion, Vesuvius with an umbrella-like Italian pine in the foreground,
Milan Cathedral, as thin and pointed as a fish-bone, and the leaning Tower
of Pisa; these symbols of Italian cities transported the boy into the realms
of foreign travel.
Undoubtedly, the Travel Agency office belonged to that world too, with
its flamboyant posters, price-lists, impressive rosewood filing cabinets and
counters, ship chronometers instead of ordinary clocks, models of ships in
glass cases, portraits of the King and Queen of Italy, and the gallant
gentleman in the grey morning coat, who chattered away in broken Russian
while selling Vasily Petrovich the pretty second-class tickets from Odessa
to Naples and patting Pavlik, whom he called "leetle signor turisto," on his
close-cropped head.
From then on Petya felt that the journey had begun.
When the tickets were handed to them, together with a sheaf of guides
and prospectuses, and when, in a high state of excitement, they emerged from
Lloyd's, Petya regarded Nikolayevsky Boulevard as the marine embankment of
some foreign city, and the familiar Richelieu monument with the iron bomb on
the pedestal as one of the "sights" which was now to be thoroughly
"inspected," not merely looked at. This feeling was heightened by the ships
of every flag that lay at anchor in the bay far below the boulevard.
The day of departure arrived.
Their ship was scheduled to sail at four in the afternoon. At
one-thirty Dunyasha was sent to hire two cabs. Auntie, in a mantilla and a
little hat with daisies, was seeing them off. She and a speechless, excited
Pavlik climbed into one cab; Vasily Petrovich and Petya, with the Alpine
rucksacks and the tartan travelling-bag packed so tight that it was ready to
burst, got into the other.
A group of idlers stood around discussing the event in loud voices.
Dunyasha, wearing her new calico dress, wiped her tears with her apron.
Vasily Petrovich patted the pockets of his freshly-ironed silk jacket to
make sure he had not forgotten anything, removed his black-banded straw hat,
crossed himself, and said with a show of nonchalance:
"Well, let's be off!"
The crowd parted, the cabs set off, and Dunyasha began to weep aloud.
Petya's feeling that they were already abroad never left him. To get to
the port they had to cross the city through the rich business centre. Then
only did Petya realize how greatly Odessa had changed in the past few years.
The typical provincial nature of this southern city had remained unchanged
on the outskirts. There one could still find the small lime-stone houses
with tiled roofs, the walnut and mulberry trees in the yards, the
bright-green booths of the soft-drinks vendors, Greek coffee-houses, tobacco
shops, and wine cellars with a white lamp in the shape of a bunch of grapes
over the entrance.
The spirit of European capitalism reigned in the town centre. There
were black glass signs with impressive gold lettering in every European
language at the entrance to the banks and company offices. There were
highly-priced luxury goods in the windows of the English and French shops.
Linotypes clattered and rotary presses whirred in the semi-basements
occupied by newspaper print-shops. As they were crossing Greek Street the
drivers pulled up in terror to give way to a new and shiny electric
tram-car, emitting cascades of sparks. This was the city's first
tramway-line, built by a Belgian company, connecting the centre with the
Industry and Trade Fair that had just opened on wasteland near Alexandrovsky
Park.
At the corner of Langeron and Yekaterininskaya streets, directly
opposite the huge Fankoni Cafe where stockbrokers and grain merchants in
Panama hats sat at marble-topped tables set out right on the pavement,
Paris-style, under awnings and surrounded by potted laurel trees, the cab in
which Auntie and Pavlik were travelling was all but overturned by a
bright-red automobile driven by the heir to the famous Ptashnikov Bros,
firm, a grotesquely bloated young man in a tiny yachting cap, who looked
amazingly like a prize Yorkshire pig.
The spirit of "European capitalism" disappeared when they began the
downhill ride to the port and passed the dives, doss-houses, second-hand
shops, and the dead-end lanes where tramps and down-and-outs, pale-faced and
ragged, were playing cards or sleeping on the bare ground. However, the
spirit reappeared when they