ONCE more I was in the town, in a two-storied white house which remindedme of a coffin meant to hold a lot of people. It was a new house, but it lookedas if were in ill health, and was bloated like a beggar who has suddenlybecome rich and has over-eaten. It stood sidewise to the street, and had eightwindows to each floor, but where the face of the house ought to have beenthere were only four windows. The lower windows looked on a narrowpassage and on the yard, and the upper windows on the laundress’s littlehouse and the causeway.
No street, as I understood the term, existed. In front of the house a dirtycauseway ran in two directions, cut in two by a narrow dike. To the left, itextended to the House of Detention, and was heaped with rubbish and logs,and at the bottom stood a thick pool of dark-green filth. On the right, at theend of the causeway, the slimy Xvyexdin Pond stagnated. The middle of thecauseway was exactly opposite the house, and half of it was strewn with filthand over-grown with nettles and horse sorrel, while in the other half thepriest Doriedont Pokrovski had planted a garden in which was a summerhouseof thin lathes painted red. If one threw stones at it, the lathes splitwith a crackling sound.
The place was intolerably depressing and shamelessly dirty. The autumnhad ruthlessly broken up the filthy, rotten earth, changing it into a sort of redresin which clung to one’s feet tenaciously. I had never seen so much dirt inso small a space before, and after being accustomed to the cleanliness of thefields and forests, this corner of the town aroused my disgust.
Beyond the causeway stretched gray, broken-down fences, and in thedistance I recognized the little house in which I had lived when I was shop-boy. The nearness of that house depressed me still more. I had known mymaster before; he and his brother used to be among mother’s visitors. Hisbrother it was who had sung so comically :
“Andrei — papa, Andrei — papa — ”
They were not changed. The elder, with a hook nose and long hair, waspleasant in manner and seemed to be kind; the younger, Victor, had thesame horse-like face and the same freckles. Their mother, grandmother’ssister, was very cross and fault-finding. The elder son was married. His wifewas a splendid creature, white like bread made from Indian corn, with verylarge, dark eyes. She said to me twice during the first day:
“I gave your mother a silk cloak trimmed with jet.”
Somehow I did not want to believe that she had given, and that mymother had accepted, a present. When she reminded me of it again, I said:
“You gave it to her, and that is the end of the matter; there is nothing toboast about.”
She started away from me. “Wh-a-at? To whom are you speaking?”
Her face came out in red blotches, her eyes rolled, and she called herhusband.
He came into the kitchen, with his compasses in his hand and a pencilbehind his ear, listened to what his wife had to say, and then said to me :
“You must speak properly to her and to us all. There must be noinsolence.” Then he said to his wife, impatiently, “Don’t disturb me with yournonsense!”
“What do you mean — nonsense? If your relatives — ”
“The devil take my relatives!” cried the master, rushing away.
I myself was not pleased to think that they were relatives ofgrandmother. Experience had taught me that relatives behave worse to oneanother than do strangers. Their gossip is more spiteful, since they knowmore of the bad and ridiculous sides of one another than strangers, and theyfall out and fight more often.
I liked my master. He used to shake back his hair with a gracefulmovement, and tuck it behind his ears, and he reminded me somehow of“Good Business.” He often laughed merrily; his gray eyes looked kindly uponme, and funny wrinkles played divertingly about his aquiline nose.
“You have abused each other long enough, wild fowl,” he would say to hismother and his wife, showing his small, closely set teeth in a gentle smile.
The mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law abused each other all day. Iwas surprised to see how swiftly and easily they plunged into a quarrel. Thefirst thing in the morning, with their hair unbrushed and their clothesunfastened, they would rush about the rooms as if the house were on fire,and they fussed about all day, only pausing to take breath in the dining-roomat dinner, tea, or supper. They ate and drank till they could eat and drink nomore, and at dinner they talked about the food and disputed lethargically,preparing for a big quarrel. No matter what it was that the mother-in-lawhad prepared, the daughter-in-law was sure to say:—“My mother did not cook it this way.”
“Well, if that is so, she did it badly, that’s all.”
“On the contrary, she did it better.”
“Well, you had better go back to your mother.”
“I am mistress here.”
“And who am I?”
Here the master would intervene.
“That will do, wild fowl! What is the matter with you? Are you mad?”
For some inexplicable reason everything about that house was peculiarand mirth-provoking. The way from the kitchen to the dining-room laythrough a small closet, the only one in the house, through which they carriedthe samovar and the food into the dining-room. It was the cause of merrywitticisms and often of laughable misunderstandings. I slept in the kitchen,between that door and the one leading to the stairs. My head was hot fromthe heat of the cooking-stove, but the draft from the stairs blew on my feet.
When I retired to bed, I used to take all the mats off the floor and wrap themround my feet.
The large reception-room, with its two pier-glasses, its pictures in giltframes, its pair of card-tables, and its dozen Vienna chairs, was a dreary,depressing place. The small drawing-room was simply packed with a medleyof soft furniture, with wedding presents, silver articles, and a tea-service. Itwas adorned with three lamps, one larger than the other two.
In the dark, windowless bedroom, in addition to the wide bed, therewere trunks and cupboards from which came the odors of leaf tobacco andPersian camomile. These three rooms were always unoccupied, while theentire household squeezed itself into the little dining-room. Directly afterbreakfast, at eight o’clock, the master and his brother moved the table, and,laying sheets of white paper upon it, with cases, pencils, and saucerscontaining Indian ink, set to work, one at each end of the table. The table wasshaky, and took up nearly the whole of the room, and when the mistress andthe nurse came out of the nursery they had to brush past the corners.
“Don’t come fussing about here!” Victor would cry.
“Vassia, please tell him not to shout at me,” the mistress would say to herhusband in an offended tone.
“All right; but don’t come and shake the table,” her husband would replypeaceably.
“I am stout, and the room is so small.”
“Well, we will go and work in the large drawing-room.”
But at that she cried indignantly:
“Lord! why on earth should you work in the large drawing-room?”
At the door of the closet appeared the angry face of Matrena Ivanovna,flushed with the heat of the stove. She called out :
“You see how it is, Vassia? She knows that you are working, and yet shecan’t be satisfied with the other four rooms.”
Victor laughed maliciously, but the master said:
“That will do!”
And the daughter-in-law, with a venomously eloquent gesture, sank intoa chair and groaned :
“I am dying! I am dying!”
“Don’t hinder my work, the devil take you!” roared the master, turningpale with the exertion. “This is nothing better than a mad-house. Here am Ibreaking my back to feed you. Oh, you wild fowl!”
At first these quarrels used to alarm me, especially when the mistress,seizing a table knife, rushed into the closet, and, shutting both the doors,began to shriek like a mad thing. For a minute the house was quiet, then themaster, having tried to force the door, stooped down, and called out to me :
“Climb up on my back and unfasten the hook.” I swiftly jumped on hisback, and broke the pane of glass over the door; but when I bent down, themistress hit me over the head with the blade of the knife. However, Isucceeded in opening the door, and the master, dragging his wife into thedining-room after a struggle, took the knife away from her. As I sat in thekitchen rubbing my bruised head, I soon came to the conclusion that I hadsuffered for nothing. The knife was so blunt that it would hardly cut a pieceof bread, and it would certainly never have made an incision in any one’sskin. Besides, there had been no need for me to climb on the master’s back. Icould have broken the glass by standing on a chair, and in any case it wouldhave been easier for a grown person to have unfastened the hook, since hisarms would have been longer. After that episode the quarrels in the houseceased to alarm me.
The brothers used to sing in the church choir; sometimes they used tosing softly over their work. The elder would begin in a baritone :
“The ring, which was the maiden’s heart, I cast from me into the sea.”
And the younger would join with his tenor:
“And I with that very ring Her earthly joy did ruin.”
The mistress would murmur from the nursery: “Have you gone out ofyour minds? Baby is asleep,” or: “How can you, Vassia, a married man, besinging about girls? Besides, the bell will ring for vespers in a minute.”
“What’s the matter now? We are only singing a church tune.”
But the mistress intimated that it was out ox place to sing church tuneshere, there, and everywhere. Besides, and she pointed eloquently to the littledoor.
“We shall have to change our quarters, or the devil knows what willbecome of us,” said the master.
He said just as often that he must get another table, and he said it forthree years in succession.
When I listened to my employers talking about people, I was alwaysreminded of the boot-shop. They used to talk in the same way there. It wasevident to me that my present masters also thought themselves better thanany one in the town. They knew the rules of correct conduct to the minutestdetail, and, guided by these rules, which were not at all clear to me, theyjudged others pitilessly and unsparingly. This sitting in judgment aroused inme a ferocious resentment and anger against the laws of my employers, andthe breaking of those laws became a source of pleasure to me.
I had a lot of work to do. I fulfilled all the duties of a housemaid, washedthe kitchen over on Wednesday, cleaning the samovar and all the coppervessels, and on Saturday cleaned the floor of the rest of the house and bothstaircases. I had to chop and bring in the wood for the stoves, wash up,prepare vegetables for cooking, and go marketing with the mis — tress,carrying her basket of purchases after her, be — sides running errands to theshops and to the chemist.
My real mistress, grandmother’s sister, a noisy, indomitable, implacablyfierce old woman, rose early at six o’clock, and after washing herself in ahurry, knelt before the icon with only her chemise on, and complained longto God about her life, her children, and her daughter-in-law.
“Lord,” she would exclaim, with tears in her voice, pressing her two firstfingers and her thumbs against her forehead — “Lord, I ask nothing, I wantnothing; only give me rest and peace, Lord, by Thy power!”
Her sobs used to wake me up, and, half asleep, I used to peep from underthe blanket, and listen with terror to her passionate prayers. The autumnmorning looked dimly in at the kitchen window through panes washed by therain. On the floor in the cold twilight her gray figure swayed from side toside; she waved her arms alarmingly. Her thin, light hair fell from her smallhead upon her neck and shoulders from under the swathing handkerchief,which kept slipping off. She would replace it angrily with her left hand,muttering “Oh, bother you!”
Striking her forehead with force, beating her breast and her shoulders,she would wail:
“And my daughter-in-law — punish her, O Lord, on my account! Makeher pay for all that she has made me suffer! And open the eyes of my son —open his eyes and Victor’s! Lord, help Victor; be merciful to him!”
Victorushka also slept in the kitchen, and, hearing the groans of hismother, would cry in a sleepy voice :
“Mamasha, you are running down the young wife again. It is reallydreadful.”
“All right; go to sleep,” the old woman would whisper guiltily. She wouldbe silent for a minute perhaps, and then she would begin to murmurvindictively, “May their bones be broken, and may there be no shelter forthem on earth. Lord!”
Even grandfather had never prayed so terribly.
When she had said her prayers she used to wake me up.
“Wake up! You will never get on if you do not get up early. Get thesamovar ready! Bring the wood in! Didn’t you get the sticks ready overnight?’
I tried to be quick in order to escape hearing the frothy whisper of theold woman, but it was impossible to please her. She went about the kitchenlike a winter snow-storm, hissing:
“Not so much noise, you little devil! Wake Victorushka up, and I will giveyou something! Now run along to the shop!”
On weekdays I used to buy two pounds of wheaten bread and twocopecks’ worth of rolls for the young mistress. When I brought it in, thewomen would look at it suspiciously, and, weighing it in the palms of theirhands, would ask :
“Wasn’t there a make-weight? No? Open your mouth!” And then theywould cry triumphantly: “He has gobbled up the make-weight; here are thecrumbs in his teeth! You see, Vassia?”
I worked willingly enough. It pleased me to abolish dirt from the house,to wash the floors, to clean the copper vessels, the warm-holes, and the door-handles. More than once I heard the women remark about me in theirpeaceful moments:
“He is zealous.”
“And clean.”
“Only he is very impudent.”
“Well, Mother, who has educated him?’
They both tried to educate me to respect them, but I regarded them ashalf witted. I did not like them; I would not obey them, and I used to answerthem back. The young mistress must have noticed what a bad effect theirspeeches had upon me, for she said with increasing frequency:
“You ought to remember from what a poor family you have been taken. Igave your mother a silk cloak trimmed with jet.”
One day I said to her:
“Do you want me to skin myself to pay for the cloak?”
“Good gracious!” she cried in a tone of alarm, “this boy is capable ofsetting fire to the place!”
I was extremely surprised. Why did she say that?
They both complained to the master about me on this occasion, and hesaid to me sternly:
“Now, my boy, you had better look out.” But one day he said coolly to hiswife and his mother: “You are a nice pair! You ride the boy as if he were agelding! Any other boy would have run away long ago if you had not workedhim to death first.”
This made the women so angry that they wept, and his wife stamped herfoot, crying:
“How can you speak like that before him, you long-haired fool? What canI do with him after this? And in my state of health, too!”
The mother cried sadly:
“May God forgive you, Vassia Vassilich! Only, mark my words, you arespoiling that boy.”
When they had gone away raging, the master said to me sternly:
“You see, you little devil, what rows you cause! I shall take you back toyour grandfather, and you can be a rag-picker again.”
This insult was more than I could bear, and I said:
“I had a better life as a rag-picker than I have with you. You took me as apupil, and what have you taught me ? To empty the dish-water!”
He took me by the hair, but not roughly, and looked into my eyes, sayingin a tone of astonishment :
“I see you are rebellious. That, my lad, won’t suit me. N-o-o.”
I thought that I should be sent away for this, but a few days later he cameinto the kitchen with a roll of thick paper, a pencil, a square, and a ruler inhis hands.
“When you have finished cleaning the knives, draw this.”
On one sheet of paper was outlined the fagade of a two-storied house,with many windows and absurd decorations.
“Here are compasses for you. Place dots on the paper where the ends ofthe lines come, and then draw from point to point with a ruler, lengthwisefirst — that will be horizontal — and then across — that will be vertical. Nowget on with it.”
I was delighted to have some clean work to do, but I gazed at the paperand the instruments with reverent fear, for I understood nothing aboutthem. However, after washing my hands, I sat down to learn. I drew all thehorizontal lines on the sheet and compared them. They were quite good,although three seemed superfluous. I drew the vertical lines, and observedwith astonishment that the face of the house was absurdly disfigured. Thewindows had crossed over to the partition wall, and one came out behind thewall and hung in mid-air. The front steps were raised in the air to the heightof the second floor; a cornice appeared in the middle of the roof; and adormer-window on the chimney.
For a long time, hardly able to restrain my tears, I gazed at thosemiracles of inaccuracy, trying to make out how they had occurred; and notbeing able to arrive at any conclusion, I decided to rectify the mistakes by theaid of fancy. I drew upon the fagade of the house, upon the cornices, and theedge of the roof, crows, doves, and sparrows, and on the ground in front ofthe windows, people with crooked legs, under umbrellas which did not quitehide their deformities. Then I drew slanting lines across the whole, and tookmy work to my master.
He raised his eyebrows, ruffled his hair, and gruffly inquired :
“What is all this about?”
“That is rain coming down,” I explained. “When it rains, the house lookscrooked, because the rain itself is always crooked. The birds — you see, theseare all birds — are taking shelter. They always do that when it rains. Andthese people are running home. There — that is a lady who has fallen down,and that is a peddler with lemons to sell.”
“I am much obliged to you,” said my master, and bending over the tabletill his hair swept the paper, he burst out laughing as he cried:
“Och! you deserve to be torn up and thrown away yourself, you wildsparrow!”
The mistress came in, and having looked at my work, said to herhusband:
“Beat him!”
But the master said peaceably:
“That’s all right; I myself did not begin any better.”
Obliterating the spoiled house with a red pencil, he gave me some paper.
“Try once more.”
The second copy came out better, except that a window appeared inplace of the front door. But I did not like to think that the house was empty,so I filled it with all sorts of inmates. At the windows sat ladies with fans intheir hands, and cavaliers with cigarettes. One of these, a non-smoker, wasmaking a “long nose” at all the others. A cabman stood on the steps, and nearhim lay a dog.
“Why, you have been scribbling over it again!” the master exclaimedangrily.
I explained to him that a house without inhabitants was a dull place, buthe only scolded me.
“To the devil with all this foolery! If you want to learn, learn! But this isrubbish!”
When at length I learned to make a copy of the fagade which resembledthe original he was pleased.
“There, you see what you can do! Now, if you choose, we shall soon geton,” and he gave me a lesson.
“Make a plan of this house, showing the arrangement of the rooms, theplaces of the doors and win — dows, and the rest. I shall not show you how.
You must do it by yourself.”
I went to the kitchen and debated. How was I to do it? But at this pointmy studies in the art of drawing came to a standstill.
The old mistress came to me and said spitefully:
“So you want to draw?”
Seizing me by the hair, she bumped my head on the table so hard thatmy nose and lips were bruised. Then she darted upon and tore up the paper,swept the instruments from the table, and with her hands on her hips saidtriumphantly:
“That was more than I could stand. Is an outsider to do the work whilehis only brother, his own flesh and blood, goes elsewhere?”
The master came running in, his wife rushed after him, and a wild scenebegan. All three flew at one another, spitting and howling, and it ended inthe women weeping, and the master saying to me :
“You will have to give up the idea for a time, and not learn. You can seefor yourself what comes of it!”
I pitied him. He was so crushed, so defenseless, and quite deafened bythe shrieks of the women. I had realized before that the old woman did notlike my studying, for she used to hinder me purposely, so I always asked herbefore I sat down to my drawing:
“There is nothing for me to do?”
She would answer frowningly:
“When there is I will tell you,” and in a few minutes she would send meon some errand, or she would say: “How beautifully you cleaned the staircasetoday! The corners are full of dirt and dust. Go and sweep them!”
I would go and look, but there was never any dust.
“Do you dare to argue with me?” she would cry.
One day she upset kvass all over my drawings, and at another time shespilt oil from the image lamp over them. She played tricks on me like a younggirl, with childish artfulness, and with childish ignorance trying to concealher artfulness. Never before or since have I met a person who was so soonput into a temper and for such trivial reasons, nor any one so passionatelyfond of complaining about every one and everything. People, as a rule, aregiven to complaining, but she did it with a peculiar delight, as if she weresinging a song.
Her love for her son was like an insanity. It amused me, but at the sametime it frightened me by what I can only describe as its furious intensity.
Sometimes, after her morning prayers, she would stand by the stove, withher elbows resting on the mantel-board, and would whisper hotly:
“My luck! My idol! My little drop of hot blood, like a jewel! Light as anangel! He sleeps. Sleep on, child! Clothe thy soul with happy dreams! Dreamto thyself a bride, beautiful above all others, a princess and an heiress, thedaughter of a merchant! As for your enemies, may they perish as soon asthey are born! And your friends, may they live for a hundred years, and maythe girls run after you like ducks after the drake!”
All this was inexpressibly ludicrous to me. Coarse, lazy Victor was like awoodpecker, with a woodpecker’s large, mottled nose, and the samestubborn and dull nature. Sometimes his mother’s whispers awoke him, andhe muttered sleepily:
“Go to the devil, Mamasha! What do you mean by snorting right in myface? You make life unbearable.”
Sometimes she stole away humbly, laughing:
“Well, go to sleep! Go to sleep, saucy fellow!”
But sometimes her legs seemed to give way, her feet came down heavilyon the edge of the stove, and she opened her mouth and panted loudly, as ifher tongue were on fire, gurgling out caustic words.
“So-o? It’s your mother you are sending to the devil. Ach! you! Myshame! Accursed heart-sore! The devil must have set himself in my heart toruin you from birth!”
She uttered obscene words, words of the drunken streets. It was painfulto listen to her. She slept little, fitfully jumping down from the stovesometimes several times in the night, and coming over to the couch to wakeme.
“What is it?”
“Be quiet!” she would whisper, crossing herself and looking at somethingin the darkness. “O Lord, Elias the prophet, great martyr Varvara, save mefrom sudden death!”
She lighted the candle with a trembling hand. Her round, nosy face wasswollen tensely; her gray eyes, blinking alarmingly, gazed fixedly at thesurroundings, which looked different in the twilight. The kitchen, which waslarge, but encumbered with cupboards and trunks, looked small by night.
There the moonbeams lived quietly; the flame of the lamp burning before theicon quivered; the knives gleamed like icicles on the walls ; on the floor theblack frying-pans looked like faces without eyes.
The old woman would clamber down cautiously from the stove, as if shewere stepping into the water from a river-bank, and, slithering along withher bare feet, went into the corner, where over the wash-stand hung a ewerthat reminded me of a severed head. There was also a pitcher of waterstanding there. Choking and panting, she drank the water, and then lookedout of the window through the pale-blue pattern of hoar-frost on the panes.
“Have mercy on me, O God! have mercy on me!” she prayed in a whisper.
Then putting out the candle, she fell on her knees, and whispered in anaggrieved tone : “Who loves me, Lord? To whom am I necessary?’
Climbing back on the stove, and opening the little door of the chimney,she tried to feel if the flue-plate lay straight, soiling her hands with soot, andfell asleep at that precise moment, just as if she had been struck by aninvisible hand. When I felt resentful toward her I used to think what a pity itwas that she had not married grandfather. She would have led him a life!
She often made me very miserable, but there were days when her puffyface became sad, her eyes were suffused with tears, and she said verytouchingly :
“Do you think that I have an easy time? I brought children into theworld, reared them, set them on their feet, and for what”? To live with themand be their general servant. Do you think that is sweet to me”?
My son has brought a strange woman and new blood into the family. Is itnice for me? Well?”
“No, it is not,” I said frankly.
“Aha! there you are, you seel” And she began to talk shamelessly abouther daughter-in-law. “Once I went with her to the bath and saw her. Do youthink she has anything to flatter herself about? Can she be called beautiful?”
She always spoke objectionably about the relations of husband and wife.
At first her speeches aroused my disgust, but I soon accustomed myself tolisten to them with attention and with great interest, feeling that there wassomething painfully true about them.
“Woman is strength; she deceived God Himself. That is so,” she hissed,striking her hand on the table. “Through Eve are we all condemned to hell.
What do you think of that?”
On the subject of woman’s power she could talk endlessly, and it alwaysseemed as if she were trying to frighten some one in these conversations. Iparticularly remembered that “Eve deceived God.”
Overlooking our yard was the wing of a large building, and of the eightflats comprised in it, four were occupied by officers, and the fifth by theregimental chaplain. The yard was always full of officers’ servants andorderlies, after whom ran laundresses, house — maids, and cooks. Dramasand romances were being carried on in all the kitchens, accompanied bytears, quarrels, and fights. The soldiers quarreled among themselves andwith the landlord’s workmen; they used to beat the women.
The yard was a seething pot of what is called vice, immorality, the wild,untamable appetites of healthy lads. This life, which brought out all the cruelsensuality, the thoughtless tyranny, the obscene boastful — ness of theconqueror, was criticized in every detail by my employers at dinner, tea, andsupper. The old woman knew all the stories of the yard, and told them withgusto, rejoicing in the misfortunes of others. The younger woman listened tothese tales in silence, smiling with her swollen lips. Victor used to burst outlaughing, but the master would frown and say:
“That will do, Mamasha!”
“Good Lord! I mustn’t speak now, I suppose!” the story-tellercomplained; but Victor encouraged her.
“Go on, Mother! What is there to hinder you? We are all your ownpeople, after all.”
I could never understand why one should talk shamelessly before one’sown people.
The elder son bore himself toward his mother with contemptuous pity,and avoided being alone with her, for if that happened, she would surelyoverwhelm him with complaints against his wife, and would never fail to askhim for money. He would hastily press into her hand a ruble or so or severalpieces of small silver.
“It is not right, Mother; take the money. I do not grudge it to you, but itis unjust.”
“But I want it for beggars, for candles when I go to church.”
“Now, where will you find beggars there ? You will end by spoilingVictor.”
“You don’t love your brother. It is a great sin on your part.”
He would go out, waving her away.
Victor’s manner to his mother was coarse and derisive. He was verygreedy, and he was always hun — gry. On Sundays his mother used to bakecustards, and she always hid a few of them in a vessel under the couch onwhich I slept. When Victor left the dinner-table he would get them out andgrumble:
“Couldn’t you have saved a few more, you old fool?”
“Make haste and eat them before any one sees you.”
“I will tell how you steal cakes for me behind their backs.”
Once I took out the vessel and ate two custards, for which Victor nearlykilled me. He disliked me as heartily as I disliked him. He used to jeer at meand make me clean his boots about three times a day, and when I slept in theloft, he used to push up the trap-door and spit in the crevice, trying to aim atmy head.
It may be that in imitation of his brother, who often said “wild fowl,”
Victor also needed to use some catch-words, but his were all senseless andparticularly ab — surd.
“Mamasha! Left wheel! where are my socks?”
And he used to follow me about with stupid questions.
“Alesha, answer me. Whv do we write ‘sinenki’ and pronounce it‘phiniki? Why do we say ‘Kolokola’ and not ‘Okolokola”? Why do we say‘K’derevou’ and not ‘gdye plachou?”
I did not like the way any of them spoke, and having been educated inthe beautiful tongue which grand — mother and grandfather spoke, I couldnot understand at first how words that had no sort of connection came to becoupled together, such as “terribly funny,” “I am dying to eat,” “awfullyhappy.” It seemed to me that what was funny could not be terrible, that to behappy could not be awful, and that people did not die for something to eat.
“Can one say that?” I used to ask them; but they jeered at me:
“I say, what a teacher! Do you want your ears plucked?”
But to talk of “plucking” ears also appeared incorrect to me. One could“pluck” grass and flowers and nuts, but not ears. They tried to prove to methat ears could be plucked, but they did not convince me, and I saidtriumphantly:
“Anyhow, you have not plucked my ears.”
All around me I saw much cruel insolence, filthy shamelessness. It wasfar worse here than in the Kunavin streets, which were full of “houses ofresort” and “street-walkers.” Beneath the filth and brutality in Kunavin therewas a something which made itself felt, and which seemed to explain it all —a strenuous, half-starved existence and hard work. But here they wereoverfed and led easy lives, and the work went on its way without fuss orworry. A corrosive, fretting weariness brooded over all.
My life was hard enough, anyhow, but I felt it still harder whengrandmother came to see me. She would appear from the black flight ofsteps, enter the kitchen, cross herself before the icon, and then bow low toher younger sister. That bow bent me down like a heavy weight, and seemedto smother me.
“Ah, Akulina, is it you?” was my mistress’s cold and negligent greeting tograndmother.
I should not have recognized grandmother. Her lips modestlycompressed, her face changed out of knowledge, she set herself quietly on abench near the door, keeping silence like a guilty creature, except when sheanswered her sister softly and submissively. This was torture to me, and Iused to say angrily :
“What are you sitting there for?”
Winking at me kindly, she replied:
“You be quiet. You are not master here.”
“He is always meddling in matters which do not concern him, howeverwe beat him or scold him,” and the mistress was launched on her complaints.
She often asked her sister spitefully:
“Well, Akulina, so you are living like a beggar?”
“That is a misfortune.”
“It is no misfortune where there is no shame.”
“They say that Christ also lived on charity.”
“Blockheads say so, and heretics, and you, old fool, listen to them! Christwas no beggar, but the Son of God. He will come, it is said, in glory, to judgethe quick and dead — and dead, mind you. You will not be able to hideyourself from Him, Matushka, although you may be burned to ashes. He ispunishing you and Vassili now for your pride, and on my account, because Iasked help from you when you were rich.”
“And I helped you as much as it was in my power to do,” answeredgrandmother, calmly, “and God will pay us back, you know.” <“It was little enough you did, little enough.”
Grandmother was bored and worried by her sister’s untiring tongue. Ilistened to her squeaky voice and wondered how grandmother could put upwith it. In that moment I did not love her.
The young mistress came out of her room and nodded affably tograndmother.
“Come into the dining-room. It is all right; come along!”
The master would receive grandmother joyfully.
“Ah, Akulina, wisest of all, how are you? Is old man Kashirin still alive?”
And grandmother would give him her most cordial smile.
“Are you still working your hardest?”
“Yes; always working, like a convict.”
Grandmother conversed with him affectionately and well, but in the toneof a senior. Sometimes he called my mother to mind.
“Ye-es, Varvara Vassilievna. What a woman! A heroine, eh?”
His wife turned to grandmother and put in:
“Do you remember my giving her that cloak — black silk trimmed withjet?”
“Of course I do.”
“It was quite a good one.”
“Ye-es,” muttered the master, “a cloak, a palm ; and life is a trickster.”11 A play on the words “ tal’ma, cloak ; pal’ma, palm ; shelma, trickster.
“What are you talking about?” asked his wife, suspiciously.
“I? Oh, nothing in particular. Happy days and good people soon passaway.”
“I don’t know what is the matter with you,” said my mistress, uneasily.
Then grandmother was taken to see the new baby, and while I wasclearing away the dirty cups and saucers from the table the master said to me:
“She is a good old woman, that grandmother of yours.”
I was deeply grateful to him for those words, and when I was alone withgrandmother, I said to her, with a pain in my heart:
“Why do you come here? Why? Can’t you see how they — ”
“Ach, Olesha, I see everything,” she replied, looking at me with a kindsmile on her wonderful face, and I felt conscience-stricken. Why, of courseshe saw everything and knew everything, even what was going on in my soulat that moment. Looking round carefully to see that no one was coming, sheembraced me, saying feelingly:
“I would not come here if it were not for you. What are they to me? As amatter of fact, grandfather is ill, and I am tired with looking after him. I havenot been able to do any work, so I have no money, and my son Mikhail hasturned Sascha out. I have him now to give food and drink, too. Theypromised to give you six rubles a month, and I don’t suppose you have had aruble from them, and you have been here nearly half a year.” Then shewhispered in my ear : “They say they have to lecture you, scold you, they saythat you do not obey ; but, dear heart, stay with them. Be patient for twoshort years while you grow strong. You will be patient, yes?”
I promised. It was very difficult. That life oppressed me; it was athreadbare, depressing existence. The only excitement was about food, and Ilived as in a dream. Sometimes I thought that I would have to run away, butthe accursed winter had set in. Snow-storms raged by night, the wind rushedover the top of the house, and the stanchions cracked with the pressure ofthe frost. Whither could I run away?
They would not let me go out, and in truth it was no weather for walking.
The short winter day, full of the bustle of housework, passed with elusiveswiftness. But they made me go to church, on Saturday to vespers and onSunday to high mass.
I liked being in church. Standing somewhere in a corner where there wasmore room and where it was darker, I loved to gaze from a distance at theiconastasis, which looked as if it were swimming in the candlelight flowing inrich, broad streams over the floor of the reading-desk. The dark figures of theicons moved gently, the gold embroidery on the vestments of the priestsquivered joyfully, the candle flames burned in the dark-blue atmosphere likegolden bees, and the heads of the women and children looked like flowers.
All the surroundings seemed to blend harmoniously with the singing thechoir. Everything seemed to be imbued with the weird spirit of legends. Thechurch seemed to oscillate like a cradle, rocking in pitch-black space.
Sometimes I imagined that the church was sunk deep in a lake in whichit lived, concealed, a life peculiar to itself, quite different from any other formof life. I have no doubt now that this idea had its source in grandmother’sstories of the town of Kitej, and I often found myself dreamily swaying,keeping time, as it were, with the movement around me. Lulled intosomnolence by the singing of the choir, the murmur of prayers, the breath ofthe congregation, I concentrated myself upon the melodious, melancholystory:
“They are closing upon us, the accursed Tatars. Yes, these unclean beastsare closing in upon Kitej The glorious ; yea, at the holy hour of matins.
O Lord, our God!
Holy Mother of God!
Save Thy servantsTo sing their morning praises,To listen to the holy chants!
Oi, let not the TatarsJeer at holy church;Let them not put to shameOur women and maidens;Seize the little maids to be their toys,And the old men to be put to a cruel death!
And the God of Sabaoth heard,The Holy Mother heard,These human sighs,These Christians’ plaints.
And He said, the Lord of Sabaoth,To the Holy Angel Michael,‘Go thou, Michael,Make the earth shake under Kitej ;Let Kitej sink into the lake!’
And there to this dayThe people do pray.
Never resting, and never wearyFrom matins to vespers.
Through all the holy offices.
Forever and evermore!”
At that time my head was full of grandmother’s poetry, as full as a beehive ofhoney. I used even to think in verse.
I did not pray in church. I felt ashamed to utter the angry prayers andpsalms of lamentation of grandfather’s God in the presence of grandmother’sGod, Who, I felt sure, could take no more pleasure in them than I did myself,for the simple reason that they were all printed in books, and of course Heknew them all by heart, as did all people of education. And this is why, whenmy heart was oppressed by a gentle grief or irritated by the petty grievancesof every day, I tried to make up prayers for myself. And when I began tothink about my uncongenial work, the words seemed to form themselves intoa complaint without any effort on my part :
“Lord, Lord! I am very miserable! Oh, let me grow up quickly. For thislife I can’t endure. O Lord, forgive! From my studies I get no benefit. For thatdevil’s puppet. Granny Matrena, Howls at me like a wolf, And my life is verybitter!”
To this day I can remember some of these prayers. The workings of thebrain in childhood leave a very deep impression; often they influence one’swhole life.
I liked being in church; I could rest there as I rested in the forests andfields. My small heart, which was already familiar with grief and soiled by themire of a coarse life, laved itself in hazy, ardent dreams. But I went to churchonly during the hard frosts, or when a snow-storm swept wildly up thestreets, when it seemed as if the very sky were frozen, and the wind sweptacross it with a cloud of snow, and the earth lay frozen under the snow-driftsas if it would never live again.
When the nights were milder I used to like to wander through the streetsof the town, creeping along by all the darkest corners. Sometimes I seemedto walk as if I had wings, flying along like the moon in the sky. My shadowcrept in front of me, extinguishing the sparkles of light in the snow, bobbingup and down comically. The night watchman patrolled the streets, rattle inhand, clothed in a heavy sheepskin, his dog at his side. Vague outlines ofpeople came out of yards and flitted along the streets, and the dog gavechase. Sometimes I met gay young ladies with their escorts. I had an ideathat they also were playing truant from vespers.
Sometimes through a lighted fortochka 2 there came a peculiar smell,faint, unfamiliar, suggestive of a kind of life of which I was ignorant. I usedto stand under the windows and inhale it, trying to guess what it was to livelike the people in such a house lived. It was the hour of vespers, and yet theywere singing merrily, laughing, and playing on a sort of guitar. The deep,stringy sound flowed through the fortochka.
2 A small square of glass in the double window which is set on hinges andserves as a ventilator.
Of special interest to me were the one-storied, dwarfed houses at thecorners of the deserted streets, Tikhonovski and Martinovski. I stood thereon a moonlight night in mid-Lent and listened to the weird sounds — itsounded as if some one were singing loudly with his mouth closed — whichfloated out through the fortochka together with a warm steam. The wordswere indistinguishable, but the song seemed to be familiar and intelligible tome; but when I listened to that, I could not hear the stringy sound whichlanguidly interrupted the flow of song. I sat on the curbstone thinking what awonderful melody was being played on some sort of insupportable violin —in supportable because it hurt me to listen to it. Some — times they sang soloudly that the whole house seemed to shake, and the panes of the windowsrattled. Like tears, drops fell from the roof, and from my eyes also.
The night watchman had come close to me without my being aware of it,and, pushing me off the curbstone, said:
“What are you stuck here for?”
“The music,” I explained.
“A likely tale! Be off now!”
I ran quickly round the houses and returned to my place under thewindow, but they were not playing now. From the fortochka proceededsounds of revelry, and it was so unlike the sad music that I thought I must bedreaming. I got into the habit of running to this house every Saturday, butonly once, and that was in the spring, did I hear the violoncello again, andthen it played without a break till midnight. When I reached home I got athrashing.
These walks at night beneath the winter sky througn the deserted streetsof the town enriched me greatly. I purposely chose streets far removed fromthe center, where there were many lamps, and friends of my master whomight have recognized me. Then he would find out how I played truant fromvespers. No “drunkards,” “street-walkers,” or policemen interfered with mein the more remote streets, and I could see into the rooms of the lower floorsif the windows were not frozen over or curtained.
Many and diverse were the pictures which I saw through those windows.
I saw people praying, kissing, quarreling, playing cards, talking busily andsoundlessly the while. It was a cheap panoramic show representing a dumb,fish-like life.
I saw in one basement room two women, a young one and another whowas her senior, seated at a table ; opposite them sat a school-boy reading tothem. The younger woman listened with puckered brows, leaning back in herchair; but the elder, who was thin, with luxuriant hair, suddenly covered herface with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. The school-boy threw downthe book, and when the younger woman had sprung to her feet and goneaway, he fell on his knees before the woman with the lovely hair and began tokiss her hands.
Through another window I saw a large, bearded man with a woman in ared blouse sitting on his knee. He was rocking her as if she had been a baby,and was evidently singing something, opening his mouth wide and rolling hiseyes. The woman was shaking with laughter, throwing herself backward andswinging her feet. He made her sit up straight again, and again began to sing,and again she burst out laughing. I gazed at them for a long time, and wentaway only when I realized that they meant to keep up their merriment allnight.
There were many pictures of this kind which will always remain in mymemory, and often I was so attracted by them that I was late in returninghome. This aroused the suspicions of my employers, who asked me :
“What church did you go to? Who was the officiating priest?”
They knew all the priests of the town; they knew what gospel would beread, in fact, they knew everything. It was easy for them to catch me in a lie.
Both women worshiped the wrathful God of my grandfather — the GodWho demanded that we should approach Him in fear. His name was ever ontheir lips; even in their quarrels they threatened one another:
“Wait! God will punish you! He will plague you for this! Just wait!”
On the Sunday in the first week of Lent the old woman cooked somebutters and burned them all. Flushed with the heat of the stove, she criedangrily:
“The devil take you!” And suddenly, sniffing at the frying-pan, her facegrew dark, and she threw the utensil on the floor and moaned : “Bless me,the pan has been used for flesh food! It is unclean! It did not catch when Iused it clean on Monday.”
Falling on her knees, she entreated with tears :
“Lord God, Father, forgive me, accursed that I am! For the sake of Thysufferings and passion forgive me! Do not punish an old fool, Lord!”
The burned fritters were given to the dog, the pan was destroyed, but theyoung wife began to reproach her mother-in-law in their quarrels.
“You actually cooked fritters in Lent in a pan which had been used forflesh-meat.”
They dragged their God into all the household affairs, into every cornerof their petty, insipid lives, and thus their wretched life acquired outwardsignificance and importance, as if every hour was devoted to the service of aHigher Power. The dragging of God into all this dull emptiness oppressedme, and I used to look involuntarily into the corners, aware of beingobserved by invisible beings, and at night I was wrapped in a cloud of fear. Itcame from the corner where the ever-burning lamp flickered before the icon.
On a level with this shelf was a large window with two sashes joined by astanchion. Fathomless, deep-blue space looked into the window, and if onemade a quick movement, everything became merged in this deep-blue gulf,and floated out to the stars, into the deathly stillness, without a sound, justas a stone sinks when it is thrown into the water.
I do not remember how I cured myself of this terror, but I did curemyself, and that soon. Grandmother’s good God helped me, and I think itwas then that I realized the simple truth, namely, that no harm could cometo me; that I should not be punished without fault of my own; that it was notthe law of life that the innocent should suffer; and that I was not responsiblefor the faults of others.
I played truant from mass too, especially in the spring, the irresistibleforce of which would not let me go to church. If I had a seven-copeck piecegiven me for the collection, it was my destruction. I bought hucklebones,played all the time mass was going on, and was inevitably late home. Andone day I was clever enough to lose all the coins which had been given me forprayers for the dead and the blessed bread, so that I had to take some oneelse’s portion when the priest came from the altar and handed it round.
I was terribly fond of gambling, and it became a craze with me. I wasskilful enough, and strong, and I swiftly gained renown in games ofhucklebones, billiards, and skittles in the neighboring streets.
During Lent I was ordered to prepare for communion, and I went toconfession to our neighbor Father Dorimedont Pokrovski. I regarded him asa hard man, and had committed many sins against him personally. I hadthrown stones at the summer-house in his garden, and had quarreled withhis children. In fact he might call to mind, if he chose, many similar actsannoying to him. This made me feel very uneasy, and when I stood in thepoor little church awaiting my turn to go to confession my heart throbbedtremulously.
But Father Dorimedont greeted me with a good-natured, grumblingexclamation.
“Ah, it is my neighbor! Well, kneel down! What sins have youcommitted?”
He covered my head with a heavy velvet cloth. I inhaled the odor of waxand incense. It was difficult to speak, and I felt reluctant to do so.
“Have you been obedient to your elders?”
“No.”
“Say, 1 have sinned.’ ”
To my own surprise I let fall :
“I have stolen.”
“How was that? Where?” asked the priest, thoughtfully and withouthaste.
“At the church of the three bishops, at Pokrov, and at Nikoli.”
“Well, that is in all the churches. That was wrong, my child; it was a sin.
Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Say, ‘I have sinned.’ What did you steal for? Was it for something toeat?”
“Sometimes and sometimes it was because I had lost money at play, and,as I had to take home some blessed bread, I stole it.”
Father Dorimedont whispered something indistinctly and wearily, andthen, after a few more ques — tions, suddenly inquired sternly:
“Have you been reading forbidden books?”
Naturally I did not understand this question, and I asked : ’
“What books do you mean?”
“Forbidden books. Have you been reading any?”
“No; not one.”
“Your sins are remitted. Stand up!”
I glanced at his face in amazement. He looked thoughtful and kind. I feltuneasy, conscience-stricken. In sending me to confession, my employers hadspoken about its terrors, impressing on me to confess honestly even myslightest sins.
“I have thrown stones at your summer-house,” I deposed.
The priest raised his head and, looking past me, said:
“That was very wrong. Now go!”
“And at your dog.”
“Next!” called out Father Dorimedont, still looking past me.
I came away feeling deceived and offended. To be put to all that anxietyabout the terrors of confession, and to find, after all, that it was not only farfrom terrible, but also uninteresting! The only interesting thing about it wasthe question about the forbidden books, of which I knew nothing. Iremembered the schoolboy reading to the women in that basement room,and “Good Business,” who also had many black, thick books, withunintelligible illustrations.
The next day they gave me fifteen copecks and sent me to communion.
Easter was late. The snow had been melted a long time, the streets were dry,the roadways sent up a cloud of dust, and the day was sunny and cheerful.
Near the church was a group of workmen gambling with hucklebones. Idecided that there was plenty of time to go to communion, and asked if Imight join in.
“Let me play.”
“The entrance-fee is one copeck,” said a pock-marked, ruddy-faced man,proudly. Not less proudly I replied: “I put three on the second pair to theleft.” “The stakes are on!” And the game began. I changed the fifteen-copeckpiece and placed my three copecks on the pair of hucklebones. Whoever hitthat pair would receive that money, but if he failed to hit them, he had to giveme three copecks. I was in luck. Two of them took aim and lost. I had won sixcopecks from grown-up men. My spirits rose greatly. But one of the playersremarked :
“You had better look out for that youngster or he will be running awaywith his winnings.”
This I regarded as an insult, and I said hotly: “Nine copecks on the pairat the extreme left.” However, this did not make much impression on theplayers. Only one lad of my own age cried:
“See how lucky he is, that little devil from the Zvezdrinki; I know him.”
A thin workman who smelt like a furrier said maliciously:
“He is a little devil, is he Goo-oo-ood!”
Taking a sudden aim, he coolly knocked over my stake, and, bendingdown to me, said : “Will that make you howl?’
“Three copecks on the pair to the right!”
“I shall have another three,” he said, but he lost. One could not putmoney on the same “horse” more than three times running, so I chose othernucklebones and won four more copecks. I had a heap of nucklebones. Butwhen my turn came again, I placed money — three times, and lost it all.
Simultaneously mass was finished, the bell rang, and the people came out ofchurch.
“Are you married?” inquired the furrier, intending to seize me by thehair; but I eluded him, and overtaking a lad in his Sunday clothes I inquiredpolitely:
“Have you been to communion ?”
“Well, and suppose I have; what then?” he answered, looking at mecontemptuously.
I asked him to tell me how people took communion, what words thepriest said, and what I ought to have done.
The young fellow shook me roughly and roared out in a terrifying voice :
“You have played the truant from communion, you heretic! Well, I amnot going to tell you anything. Let your father skin you for it!”
I ran home expecting to be questioned, and certain that they woulddiscover that I had not been to communion; but after congratulating me, theold woman asked only one question :
“How much did you give to the clerk? Much?”
“Five copecks,” I answered, without turning a hair.
“And three copecks for himself; that would leave you seven copecks,animal!”
It was springtime. Each succeeding spring was clothed differently, andseemed brighter and pleasanter than the preceding one. The young grass andthe fresh green birch gave forth an intoxicating odor. I had an uncontrollabledesire to loiter in the fields and listen to the lark, lying face downward on thewarm earth; but I had to clean the winter coats and help to put them away inthe trunks, to cut up leaf tobacco, and dust the furniture, and to occupymyself from morning till night with duties which were to me both unpleasantand needless.
In my free hours I had absolutely nothing to live for. In our wretchedstreet there was nothing, and beyond that I was not allowed to go. The yardwas full of cross, tired workmen, untidy cooks, and washer-women, andevery evening I saw disgusting sights so offensive to me that I wished that Iwas blind.
I went up into the attic, taking some scissors and some colored paperwith me, and cut out some lace-like designs with which I ornamented therafters. It was, at any rate, something on which my sorrow could feed. Ilonged with all my heart to go to some place where people slept less,quarreled less, and did not so wearisomely beset God with complaints, anddid not so frequently offend people with their harsh judgments.
On the Saturday after Easter they brought the miraculous icon of OurLady of Vlandimirski from the Oranski Monastery to the town. The imagebecame the guest of the town for half of the month of June, and blessed allthe dwellings of those who attended the church. It was brought to myemployers’ house on a weekday. I was cleaning the copper things in thekitchen when the young mistress cried out in a scared voice from her room:
“Open the front door. They are bringing the Oranski icon here.”
I rushed down, very dirty, and with greasy hands as rough as a brickopened the door. A young man with a lamp in one hand and a thurible in theother grumbled gently:
“Are you all asleep? Give a hand here!”
Two of the inhabitants carried the heavy icon-case up the narrowstaircase. I helped them by supporting the edge, of it with my dirty handsand my shoulder. The monk came heavily behind me, chanting unwillinglywith his thick voice :
“Holy Mother of God, pray for us!”
I thought, with sorrowful conviction:
“She is angry with me because I have touched her with dirty hands, andshe will cause my hands to wither.”
They placed the icon in the corner of the anti-chamber on two chairs,which were covered with a clean sheet, and on each side of it stood twomonks, young and beautiful like angels. They had bright eyes, joyfulexpressions, and lovely hair.
Prayers were said.
“O, Mother Renowned,” the big priest chanted, and all the while he wasfeeling the swollen lobe of his ear, which was hidden in his luxuriant hair.
“Holy Mother of God, pray for u-u-us!” sang the monks, wearily.
I loved the Holy Virgin. According to grandmother’s stories it was shewho sowed on the earth, for the consolation of the poor, all the flowers, allthe joys, every blessing and beauty. And when the time came to salute her,without observing how the adults conducted themselves toward her, I kissedthe icon palpitatingly on the face, the lips. Some one with pow — erful handshurled me to the door. I do not remem — ber seeing the monks go away,carrying the icon, but I remember very well how my employers sat on thefloor around me and debated with much fear and anxiety what wouldbecome of me.
“We shall have to speak to the priest about him and have him taught,”
said the master, who scolded me without rancor.
“Ignoramus! How is it that you did not know that you should not kiss thelips? You must have been taught that at school.”
For several days I waited, resigned, wondering what actually wouldhappen to me. I had touched the icon with dirty hands; I had saluted it in aforbidden manner ; I should not be allowed to go unpunished.
But apparently the Mother of God forgave the involuntary sin which hadbeen prompted by sheer love, or else her punishment was so light that I didnot notice it among the frequent punishments meted out to me by these goodpeople.
Sometimes, to annoy the old mistress, I said compunctiously :
“But the Holy Virgin has evidently forgotten to punish me.”
“You wait,” answered the old woman, maliciously. “We shall see.”
While I decorated the rafters of the attic with pink tea-wrappers, silverpaper, leaves from trees, and all kinds of things, I used to sing anything thatcame into my head, setting the words to church melodies, as the Kalmucksdo on the roads.
“I am sitting in th