four hours to row to Bolshoi Fontan. And another four hours back. Yes, a
fisherman needs a sail. Without a sail it's no use putting out to sea. It's
a disgrace. A boat without a sail is the same as a man without a soul."
Grandpa thought about a sail all the time.
That was since the night Terenti had dropped in for a minute to see the
family. He had brought the children presents, given his wife three rubles
for provisions, and said that he would try to see about a new sail in a
couple of days.
From then on Grandpa became more cheerful.
His days were filled with dreams of the new sail. He could see it as
clearly as if it stood before him: taut, strong, billowing in the fresh
breeze.
Worn out by his constant thoughts of the sail, Grandpa would fall into
a state of semi-consciousness. He would no longer know where he was or what
he was doing. Only his senses were alive.
Little by little his awareness of what was himself and what not himself
would begin to fade. He merged, as it were, with the world about him,
turning into odours, sounds, colours. . ..
A cabbage butterfly with lemon-coloured veins on its ivory wings
fluttered by. He was the butterfly, and at the same time he was the flight
of the butterfly.
A wave broke over the pebbles. He was its refreshing noise. His lips
became salty from spray carried over by the wind. He was the wind and the
salt.
A child sat among the dandelions. He was that child, and he was also
those bright chicken-yellow flowers towards which the child's hands reached.
He was the sail, the sun, the sea. .. . He was all.
But he did not live to see the sail.
When Petya came to the shore one morning he did not find Grandpa near
the hut. A bench had been set up where his bed usually stood, and a tall old
man with a Kiev cross hanging from his dark neck was planning a board.
A long taut shaving twisted itself out of the plane.
Nearby stood Motya in tight shoes and a brand-new but unattractive
print dress.
"Grandpa died today," she said, coming up close to the boy. "Do you
want to look?"
She took Petya's hand in her own cold hand and, trying to keep her
shoes from squeaking, led him into the hut.
Grandpa lay on the same sagging bed, his eyes closed and bulging, his
chin tied with a handkerchief. His big hands were folded high on his chest,
over the icon of St. Nicholas, and held a small yellow candle. A column of
such bright and hot sunlight came through the clean-washed window that the
candle flame was not seen at all. There was only a little hollow of melted
wax and the black hook of the wick surrounded by wavy air to show that the
candle was burning.
Two days later Grandpa was buried.
The night before the funeral Terenti came. He knew nothing of Grandpa's
death. On his shoulder he carried a huge, heavy package-the promised sail.
He dumped it in the corner and stood for a while looking down at
Grandpa in the unpainted pine coffin. Then, without crossing himself, he
firmly kissed the old man on his hard, icy lips and went out in silence.
Gavrik accompanied Terenti along the shore as far as Maly Fontan.
Terenti gave him some instructions about the funeral, which, of course, he
would not be able to attend, then shook hands and disappeared into the
darkness.
...Four blond-moustached fishermen carried Grandpa on their shoulders
in the light open coffin.
In front, next to the undertaker in a tattered dress-suit, who carried
a crude cross on his shoulder, walked Gavrik, clean, washed, neatly combed.
On a towel he carried a huge clay bowl of kolevo.
Behind the coffin walked Motya's mother with Zhenechka in her arms,
Motya, Petya, and a few neighbours, fishermen, in their Sunday best. There
were eight of them in all. But as the procession approached the cemetery it
grew larger and larger.
In some mysterious way news of the funeral of the old fisherman who had
been beaten up in jail had spread all along the shore from Langeron to
Lustdorf.
Whole families and groups of fishermen-from Maly Fontan, Sredny Fontan,
Valtukh, Arcadia, and Zolotoi Bereg-came out of seaside lanes to join the
procession.
Now a crowd of about three hundred marched in deep silence behind the
pauper's coffin of Grandpa.
It was the last day of April. Rain was gathering. Sparrows with
outspread wings were bathing in the soft dust of the lanes. A grey asphalt
sky hung over the gardens. Against it the monotonous young green of the
trees, hanging limp in expectation of the rain, stood out sharply.
Cocks crowed sleepily in the backyards. Not a single ray of sunshine
came through the thick, muggy clouds.
Near the cemetery the procession was joined by factory-hands and
railwaymen from Chumka, Sakhalinchik, the Odessa Goods Station, Moldavanka,
and Near and Distant Mills. The policeman on duty at the cemetery looked in
alarmed surprise at the huge crowd streaming through the gates.
Like the city, the cemetery had its main street, cathedral square,
central district, boulevard, and poverty-stricken outskirts. Death, too,
seemed helpless before the power of wealth. Even after he died a man
remained either rich or poor.
The crowd silently walked down the main street of the shady town of the
dead, past marble, granite, and labradorite family vaults-those small,
luxurious villas behind whose wrought-iron fences haughty stone angels with
lowered wings stood amid the black greenery of cypress and myrtle.
Each plot of land here had been bought at a fabulous price and was
owned by dynasties of the rich.
The crowd passed the central section and turned down a less wealthy
street which had no villas, no mausoleums. Behind the iron fences lay marble
slabs bordered by bushes of lilac and yellow acacia. The rains had washed
the gilt from the carved names; small cemetery snails covered the marble
plaques, greyed by time.
Then came wooden fences and mounds covered with sod.
After that were tedious rows of barren soldiers' graves with crosses as
alike as rifles at the present.
But even this section of the cemetery was too prosperous for Grandpa.
He was buried near the wall, in a narrow glade strewn with the purple shells
of Easter eggs. Behind the wall the caps of mounted police could already be
seen. The mourners formed a close circle around the grave. The light
pauper's coffin was slowly let down with strips of linen.
On every side Petya saw lowered faces and big black hands crumpling
workers' and fishermen's caps.
The silence was so complete and so sullen, and the air so stifling,
that the boy felt something dreadful would happen in Nature-a tornado, a
hurricane, an earthquake -at the first sharp sound.
But oppressive silence reigned.
Motya was also depressed by the silence. With one hand she held on to
Petya's Gymnasium belt and with the other to her mother's skirt. She stood
motionless, watching the yellow mound of clay grow over the grave.
At last a faint, almost noiseless stir passed through the crowd. One
after another, without hurrying or pushing, people came up to the fresh
grave, crossed themselves, bowed low, and offered their hand first to
Motya's mother and then to Gavrik.
Gavrik, who had given the bowl to Petya to hold, scooped up kolevo with
a new wooden spoon and poured it into the cupped hands or the outstretched
caps; he did it neatly, with a preoccupied frown, thriftily, giving a little
to each so that there should be some for all. With tender respect, trying
not to drop a single grain, each mourner put the kolevo into his mouth and
walked away to give his place to another.
This was all that Grandpa's family could offer to the friends and
acquaintances who shared their grief.
To some of the fishermen who came up for kolevo Gavrik bowed and said,
"Terenti sends you his regards. He asks you not to forget the May Day outing
at twelve o'clock tomorrow, in your own boats, opposite Arcadia."
"We'll be there."
Finally there were only four purple comfits left in the bowl.
Gavrik made a dignified bow to those for whom nothing remained, said,
"Excuse us", and distributed the four sweets among Zhenechka, Motya, and
Petya, not forgetting himself, either.
"It's not bad," he said as he handed Petya the sweet. "Krakhmalnikov
Brothers. Eat it, in Grandpa's memory. Will you come to the May Day outing
with us tomorrow?"
"I will," Petya said. He faced the grave and bowed low, as everybody
else had.
The crowd slowly dispersed. The cemetery became deserted. Somewhere in
the distance, on the other side of the wall, a lone voice started to sing. A
chorus of voices joined in:
Farewell, comrade, you honestly trod
Your valorous, noble path. . . .
But a police whistle immediately resounded. The song stopped. Petya
heard running feet on the other side of the wall. Then all was quiet.
A few drops of rain fell on the grave. But the rain was only teasing;
it stopped before it had really started. It became muggier and gloomier than
ever.
Motya, her mother, Gavrik, and Petya crossed themselves for the last
time and set out for home. Petya said good-bye to his friends at Kulikovo
Field.
"So don't forget," said Gavrik significantly.
"Naturally." Petya nodded with dignity.
Then, with a show of nonchalance, he strolled up to Motya.
"Say, Motya," he whispered quickly, blushing with humiliation at having
to ask a girl a question, "what's a May Day outing?"
Motya's face took on a strict, somewhat solemn expression.
"Workers' Easter," she replied.
THE MAY DAY OUTING
All night long a warm, gentle rain had fallen. It had started in April
and ended in May; a little after eight o'clock the wind had carried away the
last drops.
The sky had not yet cleared, and now it merged with the sea, from which
rose a steaming mist; there was no horizon. The bathing huts seemed to hang
in milky air. Glossy, curving reflections of the piles swayed in the
bottle-green water.
Not only was the water warm but it actually looked warm. Gavrik and
Petya rowed along with pleasure.
At first they bore down hard, to see who could outpull the other. But
Petya was no match for Gavrik. The little fisherman easily got the upper
hand over the Gymnasium pupil, and the boat kept describing circles.
"Stop your fooling, lads," Terenti called from his seat in the stern,
where he was toying with his iron cane. "You'll overturn us."
The boys stopped competing but they immediately thought up a new game:
who could row with the less splash?
Up until then they had not splashed much at all. But the moment they
tried not to, spray flew from their oars as though on purpose. The boys
began to shoulder and elbow each other.
"Get away, you tramp!" shouted Petya, doubling over with laughter.
"You're a tramp yourself!" Gavrik retorted, tightening his lips.
Suddenly, quite by accident, his oar threw up such a fountain that Terenti
barely managed to save himself by sliding to the floor of the boat.
The two boys choked with laughter. Petya laughed so hard that bubbles
formed on his lips.
"Why all the splashing, you little hellhound?"
"None of your lip."
Terenti nearly lost his temper, but then he too was taken by a fit of
irrepressible boyish merriment. Making a ferocious face, he gripped the
gunwales and rocked the boat with all his might.
The boys rolled on top of each other and their heads knocked together.
They cried blue murder. Then they began to pound the water madly with their
oars, drenching Terenti from both sides.
Terenti did not let it go at that: he quickly bent over, turned aside
his screwed-up face and, working his palms with lightning speed, shot water
at the boys. In a minute all three were wet from head to foot. Laughing and
sputtering, they lay back on the thwarts and moaned in exhaustion.
The wind was clearing away the mist. The sun dazzled the eye from the
water as if a mirror had suddenly been placed beside the boat.
The shore emerged from the haze like a transfer picture.
A bright May day began to sparkle in all its blue, violet, and green
colours.
"Well, we've had our fun, and that's that," Terenti said sternly. With
his sleeve he wiped his wet forehead, across which ran a satiny white scar.
"Let's be on our way."
The boys grew serious and leaned upon their oars.
Petya worked hard, puffing and sticking out his tongue. To tell the
truth, he felt a bit tired. But he would never admit it in front of Gavrik.
Something else troubled him, too: he was dying to know whether the May
Day outing had already begun or not. But he did not want to ask because he
was afraid of making a fool of himself, as he had that time about Near
Mills.
Motya had told him that a May Day outing was a workers' Easter. Well,
they had been rowing along the shore a good half-hour now, but so far there
was no sign of any Easter cake, or ham, or Easter eggs. But perhaps that was
as it should be. It wasn't an ordinary Easter, after all, but a workers'
Easter.
Finally the boy could hold out no longer.
"I say there," he asked Terenti, "has the May Day outing started yet?"
"No, not yet."
"When will it, then? Soon?"
The minute the words were out of his mouth Petya prepared an
exaggeratedly gay and flattering smile.
From his many years of experience in conversing with adults he knew
what would follow. "It'll start when it begins." "But when will it begin?"
"When it starts."
To Petya's surprise, however, Terenti answered him as if he were a real
grown-up.
"First we'll pick someone up at Maly Fontan and then we'll begin."
At Maly Fontan they really did pick up a passenger: a dandified
gentleman carrying a cane and a string bag. In a single leap he was in the
boat and sitting beside Terenti. He threw a furtive glance at the shore and
said, "Turn to. Cast off."
It was the sailor.
But-my God! How elegant he was!
The boys gaped at him, enraptured and at the same time crushed by his
unexpected splendour. They had never imagined a human being could be so
magnificent.
He wore cream-coloured trousers, green socks and dazzling white canvas
shoes. But that was not all.
A red silk handkerchief showed from the pocket of his navy-blue jacket,
and a sapphire horseshoe gleamed in his tie with the "peacock's eye" design.
But that was not all.
He wore a bulging starched shirt-front, and a starched collar with
wings turned down like a visiting card propped his cheeks. But that was not
all.
A straw hat with a striped ribbon sat at a dashing angle on the back of
his head.
But that was not all.
A watch chain with a mass of trinkets on it dangled across his stomach,
and on his hands, with their elegantly crooked fingers, were grey cloth
gloves. That was the finishing touch.
While up until now the boys had not definitely settled who were the
grandest beings on earth-Army Staff clerks or kvass vendors-now it was
laughable even to consider the question.
One could boldly, sight unseen, give up all the kvass vendors and all
the staff-clerks for the sailor's curly little moustache.
The boys were so busy looking at the dandy that they forgot all about
rowing.
"Look, Petya!" Gavrik exclaimed. "Look-he's wearing gloves!"
The sailor spat through his teeth, farther than the boys had ever spat
in their dreams. "Why should everybody be able to see my anchor?" he said,
with an angry glance at Gavrik. "I covered it up. Come now, lads, that's
enough fooling."
He suddenly assumed an important air, twirled his moustache, glared at
Terenti, who was bent double with laughter, and barked: "Ahoy there, you in
the cutter! Listen to my command! Oars ready! Give way together! 'Un, 'un!"
he sang out, acting the bosun. "Back starboard! Un, un!
The boys leaned on their oars. The boat turned to the open sea, towards
the gleaming silver flame of midday.
Ahead of them, half a mile from shore, a cluster of fishing boats could
be seen.
A burning feeling of exultant fear gripped Petya. Exactly the same
feeling he had had in the autumn the first time he followed Gavrik into a
section of the city surrounded by the police.
But then the boys had been alone. Now they were with powerful and
mysterious grown-ups, who gave not the slightest sign that they had ever
seen Petya before.
Petya knew, however, that they remembered him very well. Once the
sailor even winked at him, as if to say, "Here we are, brother, still alive
and kicking!"
For his part, Petya also made believe he was seeing the sailor for the
first time in his life.
All this made it jolly, although a bit upsetting. In general, the
occupants of the boat were in a keyed-up and somehow over-joyous mood.
Soon the boat was among a host of other fishing craft bobbing up and
down in one place opposite Arcadia, as arranged.
A whole flotilla of boats painted in different colours surrounded
Grandpa's old, weather-beaten tub.
Gathered there were all the fishermen who the day before had walked
behind Grandpa's coffin-fishermen from Maly Fontan, Sredny Fontan, Valtukh,
Arcadia, and Zolotoi Bereg. There were some from farther off, from Lustdorf
and Dofinovka, and even one from Ochakov.
They were all old friends and neighbours.
Taking advantage of the occasion, the fishermen were leaning over the
sides of their boats and talking. They were making so much noise it sounded
like a marketplace. Each new boat was greeted with shouts, jets of spray,
and the splash of oars.
No sooner had Grandpa's boat, bumping and scraping against other boats,
made its way into the circle, where a few empty Sanzenbacher beer bottles
already floated, when cries came from all sides:
"Hi, Terenti!"
"Easy there! You'll sink our tubs with your iron-clad!"
"Hey, you tramps, make way for the chief politico!"
"Say, Terenti old boy, where'd you pick up that dandy of yours? The
Lord preserve us! Oo-la-la, oui-oui, par-ley-voo!"
Terenti waved his cap, puffed out his cheeks and bowed to all sides
with a show of bashful self-importance.
"Don't pounce on me all at once!" he piped. "At least take turns.
Greetings, Fedya! Greetings, Stepan!
Greetings, Grandpa Vasili! Ah, Mitya? Still alive? I was sure the Maly
Fontan bullheads had swallowed you up long ago! Tell me-how many of you to
the pound, dried? Sasha, swing round to the left!"
Terenti grinned and screwed up his face as he bantered with his old
pals. He looked about him with satisfaction, reading aloud the names of the
boats.
"Sonya, another Sonya, and another Sonya, and again Sonya, and Sonya
from Lustdorf, and another three from Langeron. Hah! Eight Sonyas to one
little me! Nadya, Vera, Lyuba, Shura, Motya. . .. Oh, mother of mine! What
sort of place is this? I want to go home!" he cried in mock horror, covering
his face with his cap.
There were also about four Olgas, half a dozen Natashas, not less than
a dozen Three Bishops, and a big Ochakov boat with the intriguing name Good
Old Pushkin.
When silence and order finally set in, Terenti nudged the sailor with
his elbow.
"Begin, Rodion."
The sailor unhurriedly removed his hat, put it in his lap, and combed
his moustache with a tiny comb. Then he stood up and, placing his legs wide
apart for balance, said in a loud, clear voice, so that everybody could hear
him, "Hello, comrade fishermen of Odessa! May Day greetings to you all!"
His face instantly became bony, snub-nosed, decisive.
"From what I just heard, some of you folks would like to know who I am
and how I come to be here-an elegant gentleman in gloves and a starched
shirt, ooo-la-la, parley-voo, and all that. Well, I can tell you that I'm a
member of the Russian Social-Democratic Labour Party, the Bolshevik faction,
and I was sent here to you by the Odessa Joint Committee. Also that I'm just
the same kind of worker and sailor as all of you here. And now about the
starched shirt and the white trousers and the rest of it. I'll explain that
with a question of my own. All of you here are Odessa fishermen and you
probably can tell me the answer. Why does the mackerel wear such a beautiful
sky-blue skin with dark-blue stripes, like watered silk? You don't know?
Then I can tell you. So that it won't be seen in our blue Black Sea, and so
that it won't be so easy for you to catch it on your fishermen's hooks. Is
that clear?"
There was laughter in the boats. The sailor winked, shook his head, and
said, "Well, I'm just like that fish who specially puts on the kind of coat
you won't notice right off."
Louder laughter came from the boats.
"A whopper of a fish!"
"A whole dolphin!"
"Ain't you afraid of being hooked some day?"
The sailor waited until the calls stopped, and then remarked, "Just try
and catch me. I'm slippery."
Then he continued:
"I look round me, comrades, and I can't help thinking of our sea and
our land. The sun shines bright. The sea is chock-full of all kinds of fish.
The fields are chock-full of wheat. In the orchards there's all kinds of
fruit: there's apples and apricots and cherries and pears. There's grapes.
In the steppe there's horses and oxen and cows and sheep. Down underground
there's gold and silver and iron and everything else. What more could
anybody want? There's plenty for everybody, or so it would seem. Plenty, so
it would seem, for everybody to be happy and satisfied. But what do you
think? No! Everywhere there's always the rich, who don't do a stroke of work
but take everything for themselves. And everywhere there's the poor, who
work day and night like the damned and don't have a damned thing to show for
it! How is that? I can tell you the answer. It's very simple. Take the
fisherman. What does he do? He fishes. He pulls in a catch and takes it to
market. And how much do you think he gets at the market, say, for a hundred
bullheads? Thirty or forty kopeks!"
The sailor paused and glanced round.
"You're lucky if you get thirty," said an old man who looked like
Grandpa and was lying in the bow of a clumsy boat named the Dolphin. "Day
before yesterday I brought in four hundred and she wouldn't give me more
than twenty-five-take it or leave it! And the next minute she started
selling 'em herself for eighty."
All the fishermen began to speak at once. The sailor had touched their
sorest spot. Some complained that it was a dog's life if you had no sail.
Others shouted that the market had them by the throat.
While the grown-ups were making so much noise the boys did not miss
their opportunity. Some of the fishermen had brought their children along on
the outing. In the boats sat well-mannered girls in a brand-new print frocks
and barefoot scowling boys with shiny patches of skin on their apricot
cheeks. They wore sateen Russian blouses and fishermen's caps with anchor
buttons. All of them, naturally, were Gavrik's pals.
And naturally, they started to make no less noise than the grown-ups.
They immediately began to tease one another, and before two minutes had
passed a regular sea battle was on. Gavrik got it in the face with a dead
bullhead, while Petya's cap fell into the water and nearly sank.
There was so much noise and such splashing that Terenti yelled, "Shut
up, everybody, or else I'll have to tear all your ears off!"
"So it comes out," the sailor continued, shouting above the din, "that
the bosses rob us of three-quarters of what we earn by the sweat of our
brow. And what do we do about it? The minute we raise our heads they give it
to us over the noggin with a sword. Crack! They're still thrashing us,
comrades, and pretty hard, too. We raised the red flag on the Potemkin but
we weren't able to hold out. We started an uprising, and the same thing
happened. It's awful to think of how much of our working-class blood has
been spilled all over Russia! How many of our brothers have perished on the
scaffold, in the tsarist torture chambers, in the dungeons of the secret
police! I don't have to tell you. You know it yourself. Only yesterday you
buried a fine old man of yours, who quietly and modestly gave his life so
that his grandsons and great-grandsons might be happy. His noble old
worker's heart had stopped beating. His soul, so precious to us all, has
flown away. Where is it now? It's gone, never to return. For all we know it
may be flying above us now, like a gull, and is happy to see that we aren't
giving up our cause but intend to fight again and again for our freedom-to
fight until we finally throw the hated government from our backs."
The sailor fell silent. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his
handkerchief. The wind played with the piece of red silk as if it were a
small banner.
Deep, complete silence reigned over the boats.
On shore, police whistles were already sounding the alarm. The sailor
looked in that direction and winked.
"Our friends are getting worried. Never mind. Let the pigs squeal, for
all the good it'll do 'em!"
He thumbed his nose fiercely at the shore, which was sprinkled with
elegant umbrellas and panamas.
An instant later the handsome Fedya, lounging in the stern of his
magnificent boat, the Nadya and Vera, struck up the "Longing for Home" march
on his concertina.
Coloured eggs, dried sea-roaches, bread, and bottles appeared in all
the boats as if out of nowhere.
The sailor dug into his string bag and produced some refreshments,
which he divided equally among everybody in the boat. Petya's share was a
wonderful dried sea-roach, two monastery rolls and a purple egg.
The May Day outing really did prove to be a merry workers' Easter.
Policemen ran along the shore, whistling. The boats began to pull away
in different directions.
From the other side of the horizon rose plaster-of-Paris heads of
clouds.
Fedya turned his face up to the sky and dropped his arm over the side
of the boat. In a clear, strong tenor he began to sing the famous sailor's
song:
The sea is broad and deep,
And land is seen no more.
Comrade, were sailing far-
Far from our native shore.
Oars flashed. The song floated on.
"Comrade, I'm done for, I cannot go on,"
The stoker then said to his mate. . . .
Now the song could barely be heard. "Oars ready!" the sailor ordered
the boys. "Give way together!"
Clapping Terenti on the back, he sang out:
A small white ship
In the deep Black Sea.
Soon my darling sailor
Will come home to me.
"Come on, you tramps! Why don't you help?" Terenti and the two boys
gaily chimed in:
Weep no more, Marusya,
You will yet be mine.
Soon I will sail back to you
Across the foamy brine.
A white seagull glided noiselessly over the boat on outspread wings. It
was as if the gull had caught the gay song in flight and carried it off in
its coral beak like a fluttering silver fish.
For a long time the boys followed the bird with their eyes, wondering
whether this could be Grandpa's snow-white soul come to look at his boat and
at his grandsons.
The May Day outing was over.
But they did not come in to the shore right away. They circled about in
the sea for another two hours or so, waiting for the right moment.
First they dropped Terenti off near Zolotoi Bereg, and then they took
the sailor to Langeron.
Before stepping ashore the sailor looked round for a long time. Finally
he waved his hand, said, "Well, here's trusting to luck", put his smart cane
with its horse's head handle of German silver under his arm, and jumped out
of the boat.
"Thanks, lads," he said hastily. "Till our next pleasant meeting."
With these words he disappeared in the crowd of promenaders.
Petya returned home by dinner-time, with blisters on his palms and a
face burned a deep red in one day.
A FAIR WIND
A week passed.
During this time Petya did not make a single visit to the shore. He was
busy getting ready to leave for the farm. He went into town, sometimes with
Daddy, sometimes with Auntie Tatyana, to buy things.
Real summer had already come.
In Odessa, there is no difference at all between May and June. The city
was sweltering. Striped awnings with curved red trimming had been lowered
over balconies and shop-fronts. On them lay the clear-cut shade of acacias
just beginning to bloom.
Dogs ran along with their tongues hanging out, looking for water.
Between the houses, a view of a flaming sea would suddenly open up. In the
"Centre", money-changers and flower-girls sat at little green tables under
big canvas sunshades.
Your heels sank into the soft asphalt. Here and there and everywhere,
tar was bubbling in hellish cauldrons.
What fun it was to spend the whole day going from one shop to another,
buying holiday things for the country: a hoop, sandals, butterfly nets,
fishing rods, rubber balls, fireworks .. . and then to come home on the open
summer horse-tram with all those light odd-shaped packages!
Petya's body was still languishing in the sultry city but his impatient
spirit had flown far ahead: it was already on the steamer, it floated along
in the blue breeze of voyage.
But early one morning a familiar whistle sounded. Petya ran to the
window and saw Gavrik in the middle of the courtyard.
A minute later he was downstairs. Gavrik looked unusually worried. His
greyish face, his tightly pressed lips and the unnatural brightness in his
eyes meant that some misfortune had taken place.
Petya's heart contracted.
"What's up?" he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper without being
aware of it.
Gavrik frowned and turned aside.
"Nothing. Want to go out with us in the boat?"
"When?"
"Now. Me, Motya, and you. Under sail."
"You're lying."
"Only dogs lie."
^Under sail?"
"You can spit in my eye."
"For a trip?"
"Call it a trip. Coming?"
"What a question!"
"Then be snappy!"
A trip in the boat, under sail!
Naturally Petya did not bother to go back for his cap. Ten minutes
later the boys were on the shore.
The boat, with the mast in place and a furled sail on it, lay half in
the water, rocking gently.
Motya, barefooted, stood inside. She was busy putting the oaken
water-keg and a big loaf of rye bread into the box at the stern.
"Give us a hand, Petya," said Gavrik, putting his shoulder to the
stern.
The boys pushed off without any special difficulty and then jumped in.
"We're off!"
Gavrik skilfully unfurled and set the new rectangular sail. The light
breeze slowly filled it. The boat heeled. Kneeling in the stern, Gavrik
attached the heavy rudder with an effort and fixed the tiller to it.
The boat, yielding to the rudder, went straighter.
"Look out!"
Petya squatted and ducked just in time. The boom, turned by the wind,
swung heavily from left to right directly over his head, opening up the
glistening sea and hiding from sight the clay shore where Motya's mother,
shading her eyes with her hand, stood knee-deep in the weeds and wild
parsley.
Gavrik bore down on the tiller and put the weight of his back to it.
The mast tipped. The water along the side began to gurgle. Bouncing up and
slapping the waves with its flat bottom, the boat came out into open water
and then sailed along parallel with the shore. "Where to?" Petya asked,
"You'll see."
"Far?"
"You'll find out."
That hard, tense light came into Gavrik's eyes again.
Petya looked at Motya. She sat on the prow with her bare legs hanging
over the sides and stared straight in front of her. Her cheeks were pulled
in sternly; the wind ruffled her hair, not yet long enough to be braided.
For some time all three were silent.
Suddenly Gavrik reached into his pocket and pulled out a rather large
blue steel watch. He put it importantly to his ear, listened to its ticking,
and then, not without difficulty, pried open the cover with a fingernail
that had a mass of little white spots on it-a sure sign, as everybody knows,
of good luck.
Had Gavrik pulled out a squirming adder or a handful of precious
stones, Petya would have been less surprised.
A pocket-watch of his own! Why, that was almost the same as owning a
bicycle, or a Monte Cristo! Come to think of it, perhaps even more.
Petya caught his breath. He could not believe his eyes. He was crushed.
Meanwhile Gavrik was intently counting the numerals with his
forefinger.
"One o'clock, two, three, four, five. . ." he mumbled. "Nine and a
little bit more. That's all right. We'll make it on time."
"Let's see it!" cried Petya, overcome with amazement.
"Hands off, it's not for sale."
"Is it yours?"
"No."
Gavrik took Petya by the sleeve and pulled him close. "It's the
Committee's," he whispered mysteriously. "See?"
"I see," Petya replied, also in a whisper, although he really did not
see a thing.
"Now listen," Gavrik continued, glancing at Motya out of the corner of
his eye. "Our sailor's caught. See? He's in jail. Been there five days. They
caught him in Langeron, right after the May Day outing. But his papers are
in a different name, and so far it's all right. But if those snakes ever
find out, you can say your prayers for him, because they'll hang him in a
jiffy. See? And they can find out any minute. They can shave off his
moustache and find some skunk who'll give him away. So now you see what a
fix it is?"
"You're kidding!" Petya exclaimed in fright.
"If I said it it means I know what I'm talking about. Now listen to me.
Before they find out who he is, the Committee's going to help him break out.
Today. At half past ten on the dot he's going to break out of jail and go
straight to Bolshoi Fontan. From there he'll sail in our boat back to
Rumania. So now you know where we're going? To Bolshoi Fontan. We're taking
the boat there. Terenti brought me the watch from the Committee so we won't
be late."
Gavrik pulled out the watch again and examined it attentively.
"Almost ten. We'll be just on time."
"How will he break out?" Petya whispered. "What about the guards and
the sentries?"
"That's nothing. At half past ten they let them out for a walk. In the
prison yard. All he has to do is run across the vegetable patches to the
Maly Fontan road. Terenti'll be waiting for him there in a droshky. Then
they'll come straight to the boat. See?"
"Yes. But how'll he get over the prison wall? It's as high as anything.
It's like the second storey. He'll start climbing and they'll shoot him down
with their rifles."
Gavrik made a wry face as if he had eaten something sour.
"Naw! Listen. Why should he climb over the wall? Terenti'll blow it
up."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a funny bloke. Just what I said: blow it up. He'll blow a hole
in it. Last night a man from the Committee put dymanite under it. Today, on
the dot of half past ten, just when our sailor's let out for a walk,
Terenti'll light the fuse on the other side and run to the droshky. He'll
wait. And then the dymanite'll go bang."
Petya gave Gavrik a stern look.
"What'll go bang?"
"The dymanite,"
"The what?"
"The dymanite," Gavrik repeated, but with much less confidence. "What
explodes. Why?"
"Not dymanite but dynamite," Petya said, in the tone of a tutor.
"Call it whatever you want, as long as it blows that wall down."
Only now did the meaning of Gavrik's words sink in. Petya felt
goose-flesh break out on his back.
He looked at his friend with big dark eyes.
"Swear it's true."
"Honour bright."
"Cross yourself."
"By the true and holy Cross on the church."
Gavrik faced the monastery cupolas of Bolshoi Fontan and quickly and
fervently crossed himself. But Petya took his word for it without that. He
had made him cross himself just as a matter of form. Petya felt with all his
heart that it was the truth.
Gavrik lowered the sail. The boat bumped against a small landing stage
for rowing boats on a rugged and deserted shore.
"Got a handkerchief?" Gavrik asked Petya.
"Yes "
"Show it here."
Petya took out a handkerchief at the sight of which Auntie Tatyana
surely would have fainted.
Gavrik, however, was quite satisfied with it.
"It'll come in handy," he said gravely, with an important nod. "Stow it
away."
Then he looked at the watch. It was "ten and just a teeny bit more".
"I'll stay in the boat," Gavrik said, "and you and Motya run up to the
top of the hill and stand in the lane. To meet 'em. The minute you see 'em
wave your handkerchief and I'll put the sail. Understand, Petya?"
"Uh-huh. But what if the sentry kills them?"
"He'll miss," Gavrik said confidently, with a grim smile. "He comes
from Dofinovka. He's a friend. Go up there now, Petya. As soon as you see
'em start waving. Can you do it?"
"What a question!"
Petya and Motya climbed out of the boat and ran up the hill.
Here, as everywhere along the shore from Lustdorf to Langeron, the
children knew every path. Making their way through the bushes of wild lilac,
the boy and the girl reached the top of the high bluff and stopped in a lane
between two villas.
From there they could see both the road and the sea.
Far below, a little boat was bobbing up and down next to an even
smaller landing stage. Gavrik himself could barely be seen.
"Now listen, Motya," said Petya after he had sized up the situation.
"I'll climb this mulberry tree because I can see further from there, and you
keep a sharp eye out too. Let's see who sees 'em first."
To tell the truth, there was no need to climb the tree, for there was
an excellent view from below. But Petya now felt that he was in command. He
was eager to give orders and perform deeds.
He took a run and clambered up the tree, grunting. Before he knew it he
had torn his trousers at the knees. But that did not disturb him. On the
contrary, it only made him grimmer and prouder.
He straddled a branch and frowned.
"Well, what are you standing still for? Walk up and down!"
"Right away."
The girl looked up at Petya with frightened, devoted eyes, pulled her
skirt straight with both hands, and set off sedately down the lane towards
the road.
"Stop! Wait!"
Motya stopped.
"Now, listen. The minute you see 'em, yell to me. And the minute I see
'em I'll yell to you. All right?"
"All right," the girl said in a piping voice.
"Well, go ahead."
Motya turned and walked in the thick shade of greenish-milky acacias
just about to bloom; in the dust she left imprints of her bare heels.
She went to the corner, stood there a while, and then came back.
"Not yet. How about your side?"
"Not on my side either. Go further."
The girl again went to the corner and again returned to say there was
no sight of them on her side.
"The same here. Walk some more."
At first Petya liked this game very much.
It was uncommonly pleasant to sit high up in a tree and strain his eyes
for the sight of a speeding carriage at the end of the lane.
How clearly he pictured it! The carriage flies up, drawn by a horse all
in lather, with the coachman waving his whistling whip overhead. Terenti and
the sailor jump out, revolvers in their hands. Prison guards run after them.
Terenti and the sailor shoot it out with them. One after another the guards
drop dead. Petya waves his handkerchief with all his might, jumps nimbly
from the tree and speeds down the bluff, ahead of everybody else, to help
put up the sail. As to Motya, she only now realises that it was they who
came. But that can't be helped: she's nothing but a girl. . . .
But time passed, and no one drove up. It was becoming tedious.
Petya was tired of looking at the blinding white road. All that came by
was a carriage with an English coachman dressed like Evgeni Onegin, and a
thundering ice-wagon. After the ice-wagon, he felt especially hot and
especially thirsty.
He had long since made a thorough examination of the nearby villa: a
bright-green lawn, gravel on the walks, thuja trees, a statue spotted with
purple blots of shadow, a vase from which long sharp leaves of aloe hung
down, and an artist painting a landscape.
The artist, who had a curly little moustache, a pointed beard and a
velvet beret, sat under an umbrella on a little folding chair with a duck
seat. He was leaning back and poking at the canvas on the easel with a long
brush.
He would take a poke and then a look, another poke and another look.
Fitted on his outstretched left thumb was his palette, that oval board
which was much more beautiful than the picture itself; there, in mad but
magic disorder, were mixed all the colours and shades of the sea, sky, clay,
lilacs, grass, clouds, the boat. . . .
In the meantime the dusty carriage had long since arrived and two men
were coming slowly up the lane. Ahead of them ran Motya, shouting, "They've
already come on my side. Wave your handkerchief! Wave it!"
Petya nearly fell off the tree. He pulled out his handkerchief and
waved it desperately over his head.
The boat started to rock harder. Petya saw that Gavrik was jumping up
and down and waving his hands.
Terenti and the sailor passed under the mulberry tree in which Petya
sat. Sweat streamed down their fiery-red faces. Petya could hear their heavy
breathing.
The sailor limped badly. He was without a hat, and his elegant
cream-coloured trousers-the same trousers in which Petya had last seen him
during the May Day outing-were torn and smeared with brick dust.
His shirt-front was dirty and half-torn, showing a bulging chest shiny
from sweat.
The sailor's clenched fists looked as though they were bound with the
blue cords of his veins. His moustache drooped. His cheekbones jutted out of
his stubbly face. There was a hard sparkle in his eyes. His throat twitched.
"Hello!" cried Petya.
Terenti and the sailor looked up and grinned. Petya thought the sailor
even winked at him.
But now they were already running down to the sea, leaving a cloud of
dust behind them.
"I saw them first!" said Motya.
Petya climbed down from the tree. He made believe he had not heard.
The boy and the girl stood side by side looking down at the boat, which
was setting sail.
They saw the small figure of the sailor jump in. The sail billowed out.
The wind carried it away from shore as though it were a petal. Now only
Terenti and Gavrik stood on the landing stage. A minute later Terenti
disappeared.
Gavrik remained alone. He waved to Petya and Motya, then started
unhurriedly up the bluff.
Bouncing and cleaving the waves, the boat quickly made for the open
sea, the bright-blue, heaving sea.
"He's all by himself," said Petya.
"That's all right. We put in some bread for him. A whole big loaf. And
eight smoked sea-roaches."
Soon Gavrik joined Petya and Motya.
"Thank the Lord we got him off," he said, crossing himself. "It was
some job!"
"What about the boat?" asked Petya. "Will it be lost?"
"Yes, it's lost," Gavrik said glumly, scratching the top of his head.
"How will you get along without a boat?"
"Never fear. We'll manage somehow."
There was nowhere to hurry to.
The children climbed over the fence and stopped quietly behind the
artist.
The landscape was almost finished. They held their breath, spellbound
by the miraculous appearance of a whole world on a little piece of canvas; a
world altogether different from the real one yet at the same time exactly
like it.
"The sea's there, but not the boat," whispered Motya. She laid her hand
on Petya's shoulder, as though by accident, and tittered.
Just then the artist picked up a drop of white on a thin brush, and in
the very middle of the canvas, in the lacquered blue of the sea he had just
painted, he put a small bulging comma.
"The sail!" breathed Motya, enchanted.
Now the painted sea could not be told apart from the real one.
Everything was the same. Even the sail.
Nudging one another, the children stood there for a long time looking
now at the painting, now at the real and very broad open sea, in the misty
blueness of which the little sail of Grandpa's boat, as light and airy as a
seagull, was dissolving.
Below, the sea is crystal azure,
Above, the sun is gold aglow.
But it is storm the rebel thirsts for,
He will find peace in storm alone.
fisherman needs a sail. Without a sail it's no use putting out to sea. It's
a disgrace. A boat without a sail is the same as a man without a soul."
Grandpa thought about a sail all the time.
That was since the night Terenti had dropped in for a minute to see the
family. He had brought the children presents, given his wife three rubles
for provisions, and said that he would try to see about a new sail in a
couple of days.
From then on Grandpa became more cheerful.
His days were filled with dreams of the new sail. He could see it as
clearly as if it stood before him: taut, strong, billowing in the fresh
breeze.
Worn out by his constant thoughts of the sail, Grandpa would fall into
a state of semi-consciousness. He would no longer know where he was or what
he was doing. Only his senses were alive.
Little by little his awareness of what was himself and what not himself
would begin to fade. He merged, as it were, with the world about him,
turning into odours, sounds, colours. . ..
A cabbage butterfly with lemon-coloured veins on its ivory wings
fluttered by. He was the butterfly, and at the same time he was the flight
of the butterfly.
A wave broke over the pebbles. He was its refreshing noise. His lips
became salty from spray carried over by the wind. He was the wind and the
salt.
A child sat among the dandelions. He was that child, and he was also
those bright chicken-yellow flowers towards which the child's hands reached.
He was the sail, the sun, the sea. .. . He was all.
But he did not live to see the sail.
When Petya came to the shore one morning he did not find Grandpa near
the hut. A bench had been set up where his bed usually stood, and a tall old
man with a Kiev cross hanging from his dark neck was planning a board.
A long taut shaving twisted itself out of the plane.
Nearby stood Motya in tight shoes and a brand-new but unattractive
print dress.
"Grandpa died today," she said, coming up close to the boy. "Do you
want to look?"
She took Petya's hand in her own cold hand and, trying to keep her
shoes from squeaking, led him into the hut.
Grandpa lay on the same sagging bed, his eyes closed and bulging, his
chin tied with a handkerchief. His big hands were folded high on his chest,
over the icon of St. Nicholas, and held a small yellow candle. A column of
such bright and hot sunlight came through the clean-washed window that the
candle flame was not seen at all. There was only a little hollow of melted
wax and the black hook of the wick surrounded by wavy air to show that the
candle was burning.
Two days later Grandpa was buried.
The night before the funeral Terenti came. He knew nothing of Grandpa's
death. On his shoulder he carried a huge, heavy package-the promised sail.
He dumped it in the corner and stood for a while looking down at
Grandpa in the unpainted pine coffin. Then, without crossing himself, he
firmly kissed the old man on his hard, icy lips and went out in silence.
Gavrik accompanied Terenti along the shore as far as Maly Fontan.
Terenti gave him some instructions about the funeral, which, of course, he
would not be able to attend, then shook hands and disappeared into the
darkness.
...Four blond-moustached fishermen carried Grandpa on their shoulders
in the light open coffin.
In front, next to the undertaker in a tattered dress-suit, who carried
a crude cross on his shoulder, walked Gavrik, clean, washed, neatly combed.
On a towel he carried a huge clay bowl of kolevo.
Behind the coffin walked Motya's mother with Zhenechka in her arms,
Motya, Petya, and a few neighbours, fishermen, in their Sunday best. There
were eight of them in all. But as the procession approached the cemetery it
grew larger and larger.
In some mysterious way news of the funeral of the old fisherman who had
been beaten up in jail had spread all along the shore from Langeron to
Lustdorf.
Whole families and groups of fishermen-from Maly Fontan, Sredny Fontan,
Valtukh, Arcadia, and Zolotoi Bereg-came out of seaside lanes to join the
procession.
Now a crowd of about three hundred marched in deep silence behind the
pauper's coffin of Grandpa.
It was the last day of April. Rain was gathering. Sparrows with
outspread wings were bathing in the soft dust of the lanes. A grey asphalt
sky hung over the gardens. Against it the monotonous young green of the
trees, hanging limp in expectation of the rain, stood out sharply.
Cocks crowed sleepily in the backyards. Not a single ray of sunshine
came through the thick, muggy clouds.
Near the cemetery the procession was joined by factory-hands and
railwaymen from Chumka, Sakhalinchik, the Odessa Goods Station, Moldavanka,
and Near and Distant Mills. The policeman on duty at the cemetery looked in
alarmed surprise at the huge crowd streaming through the gates.
Like the city, the cemetery had its main street, cathedral square,
central district, boulevard, and poverty-stricken outskirts. Death, too,
seemed helpless before the power of wealth. Even after he died a man
remained either rich or poor.
The crowd silently walked down the main street of the shady town of the
dead, past marble, granite, and labradorite family vaults-those small,
luxurious villas behind whose wrought-iron fences haughty stone angels with
lowered wings stood amid the black greenery of cypress and myrtle.
Each plot of land here had been bought at a fabulous price and was
owned by dynasties of the rich.
The crowd passed the central section and turned down a less wealthy
street which had no villas, no mausoleums. Behind the iron fences lay marble
slabs bordered by bushes of lilac and yellow acacia. The rains had washed
the gilt from the carved names; small cemetery snails covered the marble
plaques, greyed by time.
Then came wooden fences and mounds covered with sod.
After that were tedious rows of barren soldiers' graves with crosses as
alike as rifles at the present.
But even this section of the cemetery was too prosperous for Grandpa.
He was buried near the wall, in a narrow glade strewn with the purple shells
of Easter eggs. Behind the wall the caps of mounted police could already be
seen. The mourners formed a close circle around the grave. The light
pauper's coffin was slowly let down with strips of linen.
On every side Petya saw lowered faces and big black hands crumpling
workers' and fishermen's caps.
The silence was so complete and so sullen, and the air so stifling,
that the boy felt something dreadful would happen in Nature-a tornado, a
hurricane, an earthquake -at the first sharp sound.
But oppressive silence reigned.
Motya was also depressed by the silence. With one hand she held on to
Petya's Gymnasium belt and with the other to her mother's skirt. She stood
motionless, watching the yellow mound of clay grow over the grave.
At last a faint, almost noiseless stir passed through the crowd. One
after another, without hurrying or pushing, people came up to the fresh
grave, crossed themselves, bowed low, and offered their hand first to
Motya's mother and then to Gavrik.
Gavrik, who had given the bowl to Petya to hold, scooped up kolevo with
a new wooden spoon and poured it into the cupped hands or the outstretched
caps; he did it neatly, with a preoccupied frown, thriftily, giving a little
to each so that there should be some for all. With tender respect, trying
not to drop a single grain, each mourner put the kolevo into his mouth and
walked away to give his place to another.
This was all that Grandpa's family could offer to the friends and
acquaintances who shared their grief.
To some of the fishermen who came up for kolevo Gavrik bowed and said,
"Terenti sends you his regards. He asks you not to forget the May Day outing
at twelve o'clock tomorrow, in your own boats, opposite Arcadia."
"We'll be there."
Finally there were only four purple comfits left in the bowl.
Gavrik made a dignified bow to those for whom nothing remained, said,
"Excuse us", and distributed the four sweets among Zhenechka, Motya, and
Petya, not forgetting himself, either.
"It's not bad," he said as he handed Petya the sweet. "Krakhmalnikov
Brothers. Eat it, in Grandpa's memory. Will you come to the May Day outing
with us tomorrow?"
"I will," Petya said. He faced the grave and bowed low, as everybody
else had.
The crowd slowly dispersed. The cemetery became deserted. Somewhere in
the distance, on the other side of the wall, a lone voice started to sing. A
chorus of voices joined in:
Farewell, comrade, you honestly trod
Your valorous, noble path. . . .
But a police whistle immediately resounded. The song stopped. Petya
heard running feet on the other side of the wall. Then all was quiet.
A few drops of rain fell on the grave. But the rain was only teasing;
it stopped before it had really started. It became muggier and gloomier than
ever.
Motya, her mother, Gavrik, and Petya crossed themselves for the last
time and set out for home. Petya said good-bye to his friends at Kulikovo
Field.
"So don't forget," said Gavrik significantly.
"Naturally." Petya nodded with dignity.
Then, with a show of nonchalance, he strolled up to Motya.
"Say, Motya," he whispered quickly, blushing with humiliation at having
to ask a girl a question, "what's a May Day outing?"
Motya's face took on a strict, somewhat solemn expression.
"Workers' Easter," she replied.
THE MAY DAY OUTING
All night long a warm, gentle rain had fallen. It had started in April
and ended in May; a little after eight o'clock the wind had carried away the
last drops.
The sky had not yet cleared, and now it merged with the sea, from which
rose a steaming mist; there was no horizon. The bathing huts seemed to hang
in milky air. Glossy, curving reflections of the piles swayed in the
bottle-green water.
Not only was the water warm but it actually looked warm. Gavrik and
Petya rowed along with pleasure.
At first they bore down hard, to see who could outpull the other. But
Petya was no match for Gavrik. The little fisherman easily got the upper
hand over the Gymnasium pupil, and the boat kept describing circles.
"Stop your fooling, lads," Terenti called from his seat in the stern,
where he was toying with his iron cane. "You'll overturn us."
The boys stopped competing but they immediately thought up a new game:
who could row with the less splash?
Up until then they had not splashed much at all. But the moment they
tried not to, spray flew from their oars as though on purpose. The boys
began to shoulder and elbow each other.
"Get away, you tramp!" shouted Petya, doubling over with laughter.
"You're a tramp yourself!" Gavrik retorted, tightening his lips.
Suddenly, quite by accident, his oar threw up such a fountain that Terenti
barely managed to save himself by sliding to the floor of the boat.
The two boys choked with laughter. Petya laughed so hard that bubbles
formed on his lips.
"Why all the splashing, you little hellhound?"
"None of your lip."
Terenti nearly lost his temper, but then he too was taken by a fit of
irrepressible boyish merriment. Making a ferocious face, he gripped the
gunwales and rocked the boat with all his might.
The boys rolled on top of each other and their heads knocked together.
They cried blue murder. Then they began to pound the water madly with their
oars, drenching Terenti from both sides.
Terenti did not let it go at that: he quickly bent over, turned aside
his screwed-up face and, working his palms with lightning speed, shot water
at the boys. In a minute all three were wet from head to foot. Laughing and
sputtering, they lay back on the thwarts and moaned in exhaustion.
The wind was clearing away the mist. The sun dazzled the eye from the
water as if a mirror had suddenly been placed beside the boat.
The shore emerged from the haze like a transfer picture.
A bright May day began to sparkle in all its blue, violet, and green
colours.
"Well, we've had our fun, and that's that," Terenti said sternly. With
his sleeve he wiped his wet forehead, across which ran a satiny white scar.
"Let's be on our way."
The boys grew serious and leaned upon their oars.
Petya worked hard, puffing and sticking out his tongue. To tell the
truth, he felt a bit tired. But he would never admit it in front of Gavrik.
Something else troubled him, too: he was dying to know whether the May
Day outing had already begun or not. But he did not want to ask because he
was afraid of making a fool of himself, as he had that time about Near
Mills.
Motya had told him that a May Day outing was a workers' Easter. Well,
they had been rowing along the shore a good half-hour now, but so far there
was no sign of any Easter cake, or ham, or Easter eggs. But perhaps that was
as it should be. It wasn't an ordinary Easter, after all, but a workers'
Easter.
Finally the boy could hold out no longer.
"I say there," he asked Terenti, "has the May Day outing started yet?"
"No, not yet."
"When will it, then? Soon?"
The minute the words were out of his mouth Petya prepared an
exaggeratedly gay and flattering smile.
From his many years of experience in conversing with adults he knew
what would follow. "It'll start when it begins." "But when will it begin?"
"When it starts."
To Petya's surprise, however, Terenti answered him as if he were a real
grown-up.
"First we'll pick someone up at Maly Fontan and then we'll begin."
At Maly Fontan they really did pick up a passenger: a dandified
gentleman carrying a cane and a string bag. In a single leap he was in the
boat and sitting beside Terenti. He threw a furtive glance at the shore and
said, "Turn to. Cast off."
It was the sailor.
But-my God! How elegant he was!
The boys gaped at him, enraptured and at the same time crushed by his
unexpected splendour. They had never imagined a human being could be so
magnificent.
He wore cream-coloured trousers, green socks and dazzling white canvas
shoes. But that was not all.
A red silk handkerchief showed from the pocket of his navy-blue jacket,
and a sapphire horseshoe gleamed in his tie with the "peacock's eye" design.
But that was not all.
He wore a bulging starched shirt-front, and a starched collar with
wings turned down like a visiting card propped his cheeks. But that was not
all.
A straw hat with a striped ribbon sat at a dashing angle on the back of
his head.
But that was not all.
A watch chain with a mass of trinkets on it dangled across his stomach,
and on his hands, with their elegantly crooked fingers, were grey cloth
gloves. That was the finishing touch.
While up until now the boys had not definitely settled who were the
grandest beings on earth-Army Staff clerks or kvass vendors-now it was
laughable even to consider the question.
One could boldly, sight unseen, give up all the kvass vendors and all
the staff-clerks for the sailor's curly little moustache.
The boys were so busy looking at the dandy that they forgot all about
rowing.
"Look, Petya!" Gavrik exclaimed. "Look-he's wearing gloves!"
The sailor spat through his teeth, farther than the boys had ever spat
in their dreams. "Why should everybody be able to see my anchor?" he said,
with an angry glance at Gavrik. "I covered it up. Come now, lads, that's
enough fooling."
He suddenly assumed an important air, twirled his moustache, glared at
Terenti, who was bent double with laughter, and barked: "Ahoy there, you in
the cutter! Listen to my command! Oars ready! Give way together! 'Un, 'un!"
he sang out, acting the bosun. "Back starboard! Un, un!
The boys leaned on their oars. The boat turned to the open sea, towards
the gleaming silver flame of midday.
Ahead of them, half a mile from shore, a cluster of fishing boats could
be seen.
A burning feeling of exultant fear gripped Petya. Exactly the same
feeling he had had in the autumn the first time he followed Gavrik into a
section of the city surrounded by the police.
But then the boys had been alone. Now they were with powerful and
mysterious grown-ups, who gave not the slightest sign that they had ever
seen Petya before.
Petya knew, however, that they remembered him very well. Once the
sailor even winked at him, as if to say, "Here we are, brother, still alive
and kicking!"
For his part, Petya also made believe he was seeing the sailor for the
first time in his life.
All this made it jolly, although a bit upsetting. In general, the
occupants of the boat were in a keyed-up and somehow over-joyous mood.
Soon the boat was among a host of other fishing craft bobbing up and
down in one place opposite Arcadia, as arranged.
A whole flotilla of boats painted in different colours surrounded
Grandpa's old, weather-beaten tub.
Gathered there were all the fishermen who the day before had walked
behind Grandpa's coffin-fishermen from Maly Fontan, Sredny Fontan, Valtukh,
Arcadia, and Zolotoi Bereg. There were some from farther off, from Lustdorf
and Dofinovka, and even one from Ochakov.
They were all old friends and neighbours.
Taking advantage of the occasion, the fishermen were leaning over the
sides of their boats and talking. They were making so much noise it sounded
like a marketplace. Each new boat was greeted with shouts, jets of spray,
and the splash of oars.
No sooner had Grandpa's boat, bumping and scraping against other boats,
made its way into the circle, where a few empty Sanzenbacher beer bottles
already floated, when cries came from all sides:
"Hi, Terenti!"
"Easy there! You'll sink our tubs with your iron-clad!"
"Hey, you tramps, make way for the chief politico!"
"Say, Terenti old boy, where'd you pick up that dandy of yours? The
Lord preserve us! Oo-la-la, oui-oui, par-ley-voo!"
Terenti waved his cap, puffed out his cheeks and bowed to all sides
with a show of bashful self-importance.
"Don't pounce on me all at once!" he piped. "At least take turns.
Greetings, Fedya! Greetings, Stepan!
Greetings, Grandpa Vasili! Ah, Mitya? Still alive? I was sure the Maly
Fontan bullheads had swallowed you up long ago! Tell me-how many of you to
the pound, dried? Sasha, swing round to the left!"
Terenti grinned and screwed up his face as he bantered with his old
pals. He looked about him with satisfaction, reading aloud the names of the
boats.
"Sonya, another Sonya, and another Sonya, and again Sonya, and Sonya
from Lustdorf, and another three from Langeron. Hah! Eight Sonyas to one
little me! Nadya, Vera, Lyuba, Shura, Motya. . .. Oh, mother of mine! What
sort of place is this? I want to go home!" he cried in mock horror, covering
his face with his cap.
There were also about four Olgas, half a dozen Natashas, not less than
a dozen Three Bishops, and a big Ochakov boat with the intriguing name Good
Old Pushkin.
When silence and order finally set in, Terenti nudged the sailor with
his elbow.
"Begin, Rodion."
The sailor unhurriedly removed his hat, put it in his lap, and combed
his moustache with a tiny comb. Then he stood up and, placing his legs wide
apart for balance, said in a loud, clear voice, so that everybody could hear
him, "Hello, comrade fishermen of Odessa! May Day greetings to you all!"
His face instantly became bony, snub-nosed, decisive.
"From what I just heard, some of you folks would like to know who I am
and how I come to be here-an elegant gentleman in gloves and a starched
shirt, ooo-la-la, parley-voo, and all that. Well, I can tell you that I'm a
member of the Russian Social-Democratic Labour Party, the Bolshevik faction,
and I was sent here to you by the Odessa Joint Committee. Also that I'm just
the same kind of worker and sailor as all of you here. And now about the
starched shirt and the white trousers and the rest of it. I'll explain that
with a question of my own. All of you here are Odessa fishermen and you
probably can tell me the answer. Why does the mackerel wear such a beautiful
sky-blue skin with dark-blue stripes, like watered silk? You don't know?
Then I can tell you. So that it won't be seen in our blue Black Sea, and so
that it won't be so easy for you to catch it on your fishermen's hooks. Is
that clear?"
There was laughter in the boats. The sailor winked, shook his head, and
said, "Well, I'm just like that fish who specially puts on the kind of coat
you won't notice right off."
Louder laughter came from the boats.
"A whopper of a fish!"
"A whole dolphin!"
"Ain't you afraid of being hooked some day?"
The sailor waited until the calls stopped, and then remarked, "Just try
and catch me. I'm slippery."
Then he continued:
"I look round me, comrades, and I can't help thinking of our sea and
our land. The sun shines bright. The sea is chock-full of all kinds of fish.
The fields are chock-full of wheat. In the orchards there's all kinds of
fruit: there's apples and apricots and cherries and pears. There's grapes.
In the steppe there's horses and oxen and cows and sheep. Down underground
there's gold and silver and iron and everything else. What more could
anybody want? There's plenty for everybody, or so it would seem. Plenty, so
it would seem, for everybody to be happy and satisfied. But what do you
think? No! Everywhere there's always the rich, who don't do a stroke of work
but take everything for themselves. And everywhere there's the poor, who
work day and night like the damned and don't have a damned thing to show for
it! How is that? I can tell you the answer. It's very simple. Take the
fisherman. What does he do? He fishes. He pulls in a catch and takes it to
market. And how much do you think he gets at the market, say, for a hundred
bullheads? Thirty or forty kopeks!"
The sailor paused and glanced round.
"You're lucky if you get thirty," said an old man who looked like
Grandpa and was lying in the bow of a clumsy boat named the Dolphin. "Day
before yesterday I brought in four hundred and she wouldn't give me more
than twenty-five-take it or leave it! And the next minute she started
selling 'em herself for eighty."
All the fishermen began to speak at once. The sailor had touched their
sorest spot. Some complained that it was a dog's life if you had no sail.
Others shouted that the market had them by the throat.
While the grown-ups were making so much noise the boys did not miss
their opportunity. Some of the fishermen had brought their children along on
the outing. In the boats sat well-mannered girls in a brand-new print frocks
and barefoot scowling boys with shiny patches of skin on their apricot
cheeks. They wore sateen Russian blouses and fishermen's caps with anchor
buttons. All of them, naturally, were Gavrik's pals.
And naturally, they started to make no less noise than the grown-ups.
They immediately began to tease one another, and before two minutes had
passed a regular sea battle was on. Gavrik got it in the face with a dead
bullhead, while Petya's cap fell into the water and nearly sank.
There was so much noise and such splashing that Terenti yelled, "Shut
up, everybody, or else I'll have to tear all your ears off!"
"So it comes out," the sailor continued, shouting above the din, "that
the bosses rob us of three-quarters of what we earn by the sweat of our
brow. And what do we do about it? The minute we raise our heads they give it
to us over the noggin with a sword. Crack! They're still thrashing us,
comrades, and pretty hard, too. We raised the red flag on the Potemkin but
we weren't able to hold out. We started an uprising, and the same thing
happened. It's awful to think of how much of our working-class blood has
been spilled all over Russia! How many of our brothers have perished on the
scaffold, in the tsarist torture chambers, in the dungeons of the secret
police! I don't have to tell you. You know it yourself. Only yesterday you
buried a fine old man of yours, who quietly and modestly gave his life so
that his grandsons and great-grandsons might be happy. His noble old
worker's heart had stopped beating. His soul, so precious to us all, has
flown away. Where is it now? It's gone, never to return. For all we know it
may be flying above us now, like a gull, and is happy to see that we aren't
giving up our cause but intend to fight again and again for our freedom-to
fight until we finally throw the hated government from our backs."
The sailor fell silent. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his
handkerchief. The wind played with the piece of red silk as if it were a
small banner.
Deep, complete silence reigned over the boats.
On shore, police whistles were already sounding the alarm. The sailor
looked in that direction and winked.
"Our friends are getting worried. Never mind. Let the pigs squeal, for
all the good it'll do 'em!"
He thumbed his nose fiercely at the shore, which was sprinkled with
elegant umbrellas and panamas.
An instant later the handsome Fedya, lounging in the stern of his
magnificent boat, the Nadya and Vera, struck up the "Longing for Home" march
on his concertina.
Coloured eggs, dried sea-roaches, bread, and bottles appeared in all
the boats as if out of nowhere.
The sailor dug into his string bag and produced some refreshments,
which he divided equally among everybody in the boat. Petya's share was a
wonderful dried sea-roach, two monastery rolls and a purple egg.
The May Day outing really did prove to be a merry workers' Easter.
Policemen ran along the shore, whistling. The boats began to pull away
in different directions.
From the other side of the horizon rose plaster-of-Paris heads of
clouds.
Fedya turned his face up to the sky and dropped his arm over the side
of the boat. In a clear, strong tenor he began to sing the famous sailor's
song:
The sea is broad and deep,
And land is seen no more.
Comrade, were sailing far-
Far from our native shore.
Oars flashed. The song floated on.
"Comrade, I'm done for, I cannot go on,"
The stoker then said to his mate. . . .
Now the song could barely be heard. "Oars ready!" the sailor ordered
the boys. "Give way together!"
Clapping Terenti on the back, he sang out:
A small white ship
In the deep Black Sea.
Soon my darling sailor
Will come home to me.
"Come on, you tramps! Why don't you help?" Terenti and the two boys
gaily chimed in:
Weep no more, Marusya,
You will yet be mine.
Soon I will sail back to you
Across the foamy brine.
A white seagull glided noiselessly over the boat on outspread wings. It
was as if the gull had caught the gay song in flight and carried it off in
its coral beak like a fluttering silver fish.
For a long time the boys followed the bird with their eyes, wondering
whether this could be Grandpa's snow-white soul come to look at his boat and
at his grandsons.
The May Day outing was over.
But they did not come in to the shore right away. They circled about in
the sea for another two hours or so, waiting for the right moment.
First they dropped Terenti off near Zolotoi Bereg, and then they took
the sailor to Langeron.
Before stepping ashore the sailor looked round for a long time. Finally
he waved his hand, said, "Well, here's trusting to luck", put his smart cane
with its horse's head handle of German silver under his arm, and jumped out
of the boat.
"Thanks, lads," he said hastily. "Till our next pleasant meeting."
With these words he disappeared in the crowd of promenaders.
Petya returned home by dinner-time, with blisters on his palms and a
face burned a deep red in one day.
A FAIR WIND
A week passed.
During this time Petya did not make a single visit to the shore. He was
busy getting ready to leave for the farm. He went into town, sometimes with
Daddy, sometimes with Auntie Tatyana, to buy things.
Real summer had already come.
In Odessa, there is no difference at all between May and June. The city
was sweltering. Striped awnings with curved red trimming had been lowered
over balconies and shop-fronts. On them lay the clear-cut shade of acacias
just beginning to bloom.
Dogs ran along with their tongues hanging out, looking for water.
Between the houses, a view of a flaming sea would suddenly open up. In the
"Centre", money-changers and flower-girls sat at little green tables under
big canvas sunshades.
Your heels sank into the soft asphalt. Here and there and everywhere,
tar was bubbling in hellish cauldrons.
What fun it was to spend the whole day going from one shop to another,
buying holiday things for the country: a hoop, sandals, butterfly nets,
fishing rods, rubber balls, fireworks .. . and then to come home on the open
summer horse-tram with all those light odd-shaped packages!
Petya's body was still languishing in the sultry city but his impatient
spirit had flown far ahead: it was already on the steamer, it floated along
in the blue breeze of voyage.
But early one morning a familiar whistle sounded. Petya ran to the
window and saw Gavrik in the middle of the courtyard.
A minute later he was downstairs. Gavrik looked unusually worried. His
greyish face, his tightly pressed lips and the unnatural brightness in his
eyes meant that some misfortune had taken place.
Petya's heart contracted.
"What's up?" he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper without being
aware of it.
Gavrik frowned and turned aside.
"Nothing. Want to go out with us in the boat?"
"When?"
"Now. Me, Motya, and you. Under sail."
"You're lying."
"Only dogs lie."
^Under sail?"
"You can spit in my eye."
"For a trip?"
"Call it a trip. Coming?"
"What a question!"
"Then be snappy!"
A trip in the boat, under sail!
Naturally Petya did not bother to go back for his cap. Ten minutes
later the boys were on the shore.
The boat, with the mast in place and a furled sail on it, lay half in
the water, rocking gently.
Motya, barefooted, stood inside. She was busy putting the oaken
water-keg and a big loaf of rye bread into the box at the stern.
"Give us a hand, Petya," said Gavrik, putting his shoulder to the
stern.
The boys pushed off without any special difficulty and then jumped in.
"We're off!"
Gavrik skilfully unfurled and set the new rectangular sail. The light
breeze slowly filled it. The boat heeled. Kneeling in the stern, Gavrik
attached the heavy rudder with an effort and fixed the tiller to it.
The boat, yielding to the rudder, went straighter.
"Look out!"
Petya squatted and ducked just in time. The boom, turned by the wind,
swung heavily from left to right directly over his head, opening up the
glistening sea and hiding from sight the clay shore where Motya's mother,
shading her eyes with her hand, stood knee-deep in the weeds and wild
parsley.
Gavrik bore down on the tiller and put the weight of his back to it.
The mast tipped. The water along the side began to gurgle. Bouncing up and
slapping the waves with its flat bottom, the boat came out into open water
and then sailed along parallel with the shore. "Where to?" Petya asked,
"You'll see."
"Far?"
"You'll find out."
That hard, tense light came into Gavrik's eyes again.
Petya looked at Motya. She sat on the prow with her bare legs hanging
over the sides and stared straight in front of her. Her cheeks were pulled
in sternly; the wind ruffled her hair, not yet long enough to be braided.
For some time all three were silent.
Suddenly Gavrik reached into his pocket and pulled out a rather large
blue steel watch. He put it importantly to his ear, listened to its ticking,
and then, not without difficulty, pried open the cover with a fingernail
that had a mass of little white spots on it-a sure sign, as everybody knows,
of good luck.
Had Gavrik pulled out a squirming adder or a handful of precious
stones, Petya would have been less surprised.
A pocket-watch of his own! Why, that was almost the same as owning a
bicycle, or a Monte Cristo! Come to think of it, perhaps even more.
Petya caught his breath. He could not believe his eyes. He was crushed.
Meanwhile Gavrik was intently counting the numerals with his
forefinger.
"One o'clock, two, three, four, five. . ." he mumbled. "Nine and a
little bit more. That's all right. We'll make it on time."
"Let's see it!" cried Petya, overcome with amazement.
"Hands off, it's not for sale."
"Is it yours?"
"No."
Gavrik took Petya by the sleeve and pulled him close. "It's the
Committee's," he whispered mysteriously. "See?"
"I see," Petya replied, also in a whisper, although he really did not
see a thing.
"Now listen," Gavrik continued, glancing at Motya out of the corner of
his eye. "Our sailor's caught. See? He's in jail. Been there five days. They
caught him in Langeron, right after the May Day outing. But his papers are
in a different name, and so far it's all right. But if those snakes ever
find out, you can say your prayers for him, because they'll hang him in a
jiffy. See? And they can find out any minute. They can shave off his
moustache and find some skunk who'll give him away. So now you see what a
fix it is?"
"You're kidding!" Petya exclaimed in fright.
"If I said it it means I know what I'm talking about. Now listen to me.
Before they find out who he is, the Committee's going to help him break out.
Today. At half past ten on the dot he's going to break out of jail and go
straight to Bolshoi Fontan. From there he'll sail in our boat back to
Rumania. So now you know where we're going? To Bolshoi Fontan. We're taking
the boat there. Terenti brought me the watch from the Committee so we won't
be late."
Gavrik pulled out the watch again and examined it attentively.
"Almost ten. We'll be just on time."
"How will he break out?" Petya whispered. "What about the guards and
the sentries?"
"That's nothing. At half past ten they let them out for a walk. In the
prison yard. All he has to do is run across the vegetable patches to the
Maly Fontan road. Terenti'll be waiting for him there in a droshky. Then
they'll come straight to the boat. See?"
"Yes. But how'll he get over the prison wall? It's as high as anything.
It's like the second storey. He'll start climbing and they'll shoot him down
with their rifles."
Gavrik made a wry face as if he had eaten something sour.
"Naw! Listen. Why should he climb over the wall? Terenti'll blow it
up."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a funny bloke. Just what I said: blow it up. He'll blow a hole
in it. Last night a man from the Committee put dymanite under it. Today, on
the dot of half past ten, just when our sailor's let out for a walk,
Terenti'll light the fuse on the other side and run to the droshky. He'll
wait. And then the dymanite'll go bang."
Petya gave Gavrik a stern look.
"What'll go bang?"
"The dymanite,"
"The what?"
"The dymanite," Gavrik repeated, but with much less confidence. "What
explodes. Why?"
"Not dymanite but dynamite," Petya said, in the tone of a tutor.
"Call it whatever you want, as long as it blows that wall down."
Only now did the meaning of Gavrik's words sink in. Petya felt
goose-flesh break out on his back.
He looked at his friend with big dark eyes.
"Swear it's true."
"Honour bright."
"Cross yourself."
"By the true and holy Cross on the church."
Gavrik faced the monastery cupolas of Bolshoi Fontan and quickly and
fervently crossed himself. But Petya took his word for it without that. He
had made him cross himself just as a matter of form. Petya felt with all his
heart that it was the truth.
Gavrik lowered the sail. The boat bumped against a small landing stage
for rowing boats on a rugged and deserted shore.
"Got a handkerchief?" Gavrik asked Petya.
"Yes "
"Show it here."
Petya took out a handkerchief at the sight of which Auntie Tatyana
surely would have fainted.
Gavrik, however, was quite satisfied with it.
"It'll come in handy," he said gravely, with an important nod. "Stow it
away."
Then he looked at the watch. It was "ten and just a teeny bit more".
"I'll stay in the boat," Gavrik said, "and you and Motya run up to the
top of the hill and stand in the lane. To meet 'em. The minute you see 'em
wave your handkerchief and I'll put the sail. Understand, Petya?"
"Uh-huh. But what if the sentry kills them?"
"He'll miss," Gavrik said confidently, with a grim smile. "He comes
from Dofinovka. He's a friend. Go up there now, Petya. As soon as you see
'em start waving. Can you do it?"
"What a question!"
Petya and Motya climbed out of the boat and ran up the hill.
Here, as everywhere along the shore from Lustdorf to Langeron, the
children knew every path. Making their way through the bushes of wild lilac,
the boy and the girl reached the top of the high bluff and stopped in a lane
between two villas.
From there they could see both the road and the sea.
Far below, a little boat was bobbing up and down next to an even
smaller landing stage. Gavrik himself could barely be seen.
"Now listen, Motya," said Petya after he had sized up the situation.
"I'll climb this mulberry tree because I can see further from there, and you
keep a sharp eye out too. Let's see who sees 'em first."
To tell the truth, there was no need to climb the tree, for there was
an excellent view from below. But Petya now felt that he was in command. He
was eager to give orders and perform deeds.
He took a run and clambered up the tree, grunting. Before he knew it he
had torn his trousers at the knees. But that did not disturb him. On the
contrary, it only made him grimmer and prouder.
He straddled a branch and frowned.
"Well, what are you standing still for? Walk up and down!"
"Right away."
The girl looked up at Petya with frightened, devoted eyes, pulled her
skirt straight with both hands, and set off sedately down the lane towards
the road.
"Stop! Wait!"
Motya stopped.
"Now, listen. The minute you see 'em, yell to me. And the minute I see
'em I'll yell to you. All right?"
"All right," the girl said in a piping voice.
"Well, go ahead."
Motya turned and walked in the thick shade of greenish-milky acacias
just about to bloom; in the dust she left imprints of her bare heels.
She went to the corner, stood there a while, and then came back.
"Not yet. How about your side?"
"Not on my side either. Go further."
The girl again went to the corner and again returned to say there was
no sight of them on her side.
"The same here. Walk some more."
At first Petya liked this game very much.
It was uncommonly pleasant to sit high up in a tree and strain his eyes
for the sight of a speeding carriage at the end of the lane.
How clearly he pictured it! The carriage flies up, drawn by a horse all
in lather, with the coachman waving his whistling whip overhead. Terenti and
the sailor jump out, revolvers in their hands. Prison guards run after them.
Terenti and the sailor shoot it out with them. One after another the guards
drop dead. Petya waves his handkerchief with all his might, jumps nimbly
from the tree and speeds down the bluff, ahead of everybody else, to help
put up the sail. As to Motya, she only now realises that it was they who
came. But that can't be helped: she's nothing but a girl. . . .
But time passed, and no one drove up. It was becoming tedious.
Petya was tired of looking at the blinding white road. All that came by
was a carriage with an English coachman dressed like Evgeni Onegin, and a
thundering ice-wagon. After the ice-wagon, he felt especially hot and
especially thirsty.
He had long since made a thorough examination of the nearby villa: a
bright-green lawn, gravel on the walks, thuja trees, a statue spotted with
purple blots of shadow, a vase from which long sharp leaves of aloe hung
down, and an artist painting a landscape.
The artist, who had a curly little moustache, a pointed beard and a
velvet beret, sat under an umbrella on a little folding chair with a duck
seat. He was leaning back and poking at the canvas on the easel with a long
brush.
He would take a poke and then a look, another poke and another look.
Fitted on his outstretched left thumb was his palette, that oval board
which was much more beautiful than the picture itself; there, in mad but
magic disorder, were mixed all the colours and shades of the sea, sky, clay,
lilacs, grass, clouds, the boat. . . .
In the meantime the dusty carriage had long since arrived and two men
were coming slowly up the lane. Ahead of them ran Motya, shouting, "They've
already come on my side. Wave your handkerchief! Wave it!"
Petya nearly fell off the tree. He pulled out his handkerchief and
waved it desperately over his head.
The boat started to rock harder. Petya saw that Gavrik was jumping up
and down and waving his hands.
Terenti and the sailor passed under the mulberry tree in which Petya
sat. Sweat streamed down their fiery-red faces. Petya could hear their heavy
breathing.
The sailor limped badly. He was without a hat, and his elegant
cream-coloured trousers-the same trousers in which Petya had last seen him
during the May Day outing-were torn and smeared with brick dust.
His shirt-front was dirty and half-torn, showing a bulging chest shiny
from sweat.
The sailor's clenched fists looked as though they were bound with the
blue cords of his veins. His moustache drooped. His cheekbones jutted out of
his stubbly face. There was a hard sparkle in his eyes. His throat twitched.
"Hello!" cried Petya.
Terenti and the sailor looked up and grinned. Petya thought the sailor
even winked at him.
But now they were already running down to the sea, leaving a cloud of
dust behind them.
"I saw them first!" said Motya.
Petya climbed down from the tree. He made believe he had not heard.
The boy and the girl stood side by side looking down at the boat, which
was setting sail.
They saw the small figure of the sailor jump in. The sail billowed out.
The wind carried it away from shore as though it were a petal. Now only
Terenti and Gavrik stood on the landing stage. A minute later Terenti
disappeared.
Gavrik remained alone. He waved to Petya and Motya, then started
unhurriedly up the bluff.
Bouncing and cleaving the waves, the boat quickly made for the open
sea, the bright-blue, heaving sea.
"He's all by himself," said Petya.
"That's all right. We put in some bread for him. A whole big loaf. And
eight smoked sea-roaches."
Soon Gavrik joined Petya and Motya.
"Thank the Lord we got him off," he said, crossing himself. "It was
some job!"
"What about the boat?" asked Petya. "Will it be lost?"
"Yes, it's lost," Gavrik said glumly, scratching the top of his head.
"How will you get along without a boat?"
"Never fear. We'll manage somehow."
There was nowhere to hurry to.
The children climbed over the fence and stopped quietly behind the
artist.
The landscape was almost finished. They held their breath, spellbound
by the miraculous appearance of a whole world on a little piece of canvas; a
world altogether different from the real one yet at the same time exactly
like it.
"The sea's there, but not the boat," whispered Motya. She laid her hand
on Petya's shoulder, as though by accident, and tittered.
Just then the artist picked up a drop of white on a thin brush, and in
the very middle of the canvas, in the lacquered blue of the sea he had just
painted, he put a small bulging comma.
"The sail!" breathed Motya, enchanted.
Now the painted sea could not be told apart from the real one.
Everything was the same. Even the sail.
Nudging one another, the children stood there for a long time looking
now at the painting, now at the real and very broad open sea, in the misty
blueness of which the little sail of Grandpa's boat, as light and airy as a
seagull, was dissolving.
Below, the sea is crystal azure,
Above, the sun is gold aglow.
But it is storm the rebel thirsts for,
He will find peace in storm alone.