Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe a novel ___________________________________________ 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/ ? http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/ __________________________________________ 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 DEATH OF TOLSTOI 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. SKELETON 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." WHAT IS A RED? 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. ` A HEAVY BLOW 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. REQUIEM 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. THE RESIGNATION 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. AN OLD FRIEND 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. A JAR OF JAM 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!" MR. FAIG 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