mill, the Miller who was a sorcerer, the deep mill-pond, and the Frog
Princess.
Petya's forehead immediately began to ache from the ice water. But it
was a hot day, and he knew that the ache would soon pass.
He also knew for certain that about eight or ten buckets were needed to
water the horses. That would take at least half an hour. Plenty of time for
a stroll.
He carefully picked his way through the mud near the trough-mud as
black as boot-polish and indented with hog tracks. Then he followed a gutter
across a meadow strewn with goose down.
The gutter brought him to a bog overgrown with a tall forest of reeds,
sedge and weeds.
Here cool twilight reigned even when the sun was its highest and
brightest. A rush of heady odours struck Petya's nostrils.
The sharp odour of sedge mingled with the sweet and nutty smell of the
headache shrubs, which actually did make your head ache.
The shrubs were sharp-leafed and covered with blackish-green bolls with
fleshy prickles and long smelly flowers that were remarkably delicate and
remarkably white. Beside them grew nightshade, henbane, and the mysterious
sleeping-grass.
On the path sat a big frog, its eyes closed as though it were
bewitched. Petya tried with all his might to keep from looking at the frog:
he was afraid he might see a little golden crown on its head.
For that matter, the whole place seemed bewitched, like the forests in
fairy-tales.
Surely somewhere nearby wandered the slender, large-eyed Alyonushka,
weeping bitterly over her brother Ivanushka. . ..
And if a little white lamb had suddenly run out from the thicket and
bleated in a thin baby voice, Petya certainly would have been frightened out
of his wits.
The boy decided not to think about the little lamb. But the more he
tried not to, the more he did. And the more he did, the more he was afraid
to be alone in the black greenness of this bewitched place.
He screwed up his eyes as tight as he could, to keep from crying out,
and fled from the poisonous thicket. He did not stop running until he found
himself at the backyard of a small farm.
Behind the wattle fence, on the stakes of which hung a whole collection
of clay pitchers, Petya saw a pleasant little garman, its small arena
covered with wheat fresh from the fields. In the middle of it stood a girl
of about eleven in a long gathered skirt, a short print blouse with puffed
sleeves, and a kerchief that came down to her eyes.
She stood there shielding her eyes against the sun with her elbow and
shifting her bare feet as she drove round the circle, by a long rope, two
horses harnessed one ahead of the other. Scattering the straw lightly with
their hoofs, the horses pulled a ribbed stone roller over the thick layer of
shining wheat. The roller bounced heavily but noiselessly.
A wide board, bent upward in front like a ski, dragged behind the
roller.
Petya knew that the bottom of the board was fitted with a lot of sharp
yellow flints which did an especially good job of knocking the grain out of
the ears.
The board slid along quickly. On it stood a lad of Petya's age, in a
faded shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a cap with the peak over one ear;
he had a hard time keeping his balance, but he did it with a dashing air, as
though he were sliding downhill standing up on a toboggan.
At his feet a tiny fair-haired girl sat on her haunches, like a mouse;
with both her hands she kept a convulsive grip on one of her brother's
trouser-legs.
Round the circle ran an old man, stirring the wheat with a wooden
pitchfork and throwing it under the horses' feet. The circle kept spreading
out, and an old woman was shaping it with a long paddle.
A short distance away, near the rick, a woman with a face black from
the sun and with arms as veined as a man's was labouring away at the handle
of the winnower, as if it were a hurdy-gurdy. Red blades flashed in the
round opening of the drum.
The wind carried a shining cloud of chaff out of the winnowing machine.
Like light, airy muslin it settled on the ground and on the tall weeds; it
floated to the vegetable garden where a scarecrow in a torn cap-it was a
nobleman's cap, with a red band-spread its rags over the dry leaves of ripe
yellow-red steppe tomatoes.
It was clear that the whole peasant family, with the exception of its
head, was at work on this small garman. The head of the family, of course,
was at the war in Manchuria, and quite likely at that very moment he was
crouching in a field of kaoliang while the Japanese were firing shimose at
him.
The people here were poor, and their threshing was on a small scale,
not at all like the rich, noisy, busy threshing Petya was accustomed to at
the other farm. But he found this simple scene fascinating too. He would
have liked very much, for one thing, to take a ride on the board with the
flints, or, at least, to turn the handle of the winnower. At any other time
he surely would have asked the boy to take him along on the board, but the
pity of it was that he had to hurry.
He went back.
Petya was never to forget the simple, touching details of that picture
of peasant labour: the glint of the new straw; the neatly whitewashed back
wall of the clay hut, and beside it the rag dolls and the little dried
gourds called tarakutski, the only toys of peasant children; and on the
ridge of the reed roof, a stork standing on one leg next to his large and
carelessly built nest.
Especially clear was the picture he carried away of the stork, with its
tight-fitting little jacket and pique vest, its red walking stick of a leg
(the other leg was bent under and not to be seen at all), and the long red
beak that made a wooden click, like a night watchman's rattle.
In front of a cottage with a blue notice board reading "Volost
Administration", three saddled cavalry horses were hitched to the porch
posts.
A soldier in dusty boots, with a sword between his knees, sat on the
steps in the shade smoking a cigarette made of coarse tobacco rolled in
newspaper.
"I say there, what are you doing here?" Petya asked him.
The soldier lazily surveyed the city boy from head to foot and ejected
a long stream of yellow spittle through his teeth. "Hunting down a sailor,"
he said indifferently.
What kind of mysterious and terrible man is this sailor who is hiding
somewhere in the steppe nearby, who sets fire to farms and whom soldiers are
hunting? Petya wondered as he walked down the hot, deserted street back to
the well. What if that dreadful highwayman attacked coaches?
Naturally, Petya did not mention his fears to Father and Pavlik. Why
make them worry? But he himself, naturally, would keep a lookout. And to be
on the safe side he shoved his collections farther back under the seat.
As soon as the coach started up the hill he glued his face to the
window and anxiously scanned the roadside, expecting to see the highwayman
pop out at every turn.
He was firmly resolved to stick to his post all the way to town, come
what may.
Meanwhile Father and Pavlik, obviously unaware of the danger, occupied
themselves with the cantaloupes.
In a pillow-case of plain linen that was faded from numerous
launderings and had a little bouquet of flowers embroidered in each corner,
lay ten cantaloupes, bought at a kopeck each. Father took out a firm
greyish-green one covered with a close network of lines, and saying, "Well,
now we shall try these famous cantaloupes", neatly sliced it lengthwise and
opened it like a book. A wonderful fragrance filled the coach.
He cut round the soft insides with his penknife and flipped them out
the window. Then he divided the cantaloupe into thin, appetising slices.
"Looks quite toothsome," he remarked as he laid out the slices on a clean
handkerchief.
Pavlik, who had been fidgeting impatiently all the while, pounced on
the biggest slice with both hands and sank into it up to his ears. He ate
with gurgling sounds of delight; cloudy drops of juice hung from his chin.
Father, on the other hand, put a small slice into his mouth, tried it,
closed his eyes, and said, "Indeed an excellent cantaloupe."
"Yum-yum," Pavlik confirmed.
Here Petya, behind whose back all these unendurable things had been
taking place, could hold out no longer. Forgetting the danger, he threw
himself upon the cantaloupe.
THE RUNAWAY
About ten miles from Akkerman the vineyards began. The cantaloupe had
been eaten long ago and the rind thrown out of the window. The trip was
growing tedious. It would soon be midday.
The fresh morning breeze, which had served as a reminder that autumn
really was in the offing, had subsided completely. The sun beat down as in
the middle of July; its rays were somehow even hotter, drier, broader.
Sand lay nearly all of two feet deep in the road, and the horses
laboured to pull the heavy coach through it. The small front wheels sank in
the sand up to the hub. The large rear wheels wobbled along slowly,
crunching the blue seashells in the sand.
A choking cloud of dust as fine as flour enveloped the travellers.
Their eyebrows and eye-lashes turned grey. The dust gritted between their
teeth. Pavlik goggled his mirror-like, light-chocolate eyes and sneezed
desperately.
The driver turned into a miller.
All about them the vineyards stretched endlessly.
The earth, dry and grey from dust, was covered with the gnarled plaits
of old vines standing in strict chessboard pattern. They looked as if they
were twisted by rheumatism. Had not Nature bethought herself to decorate
them with those wonderful leaves of antique design they might have looked
ugly, repulsive even.
In the rays of the midday sun the leaves, with their jagged edges,
their raised patternwork of curving veins and their turquoise spots of
copper sulphate, looked like fresh greenery.
The young shoots of the vines wound sharply round the tall stakes,
while the old ones were bent under the weight of clusters of grapes.
It took a keen eye, though, to spot the clusters hidden among the
leaves. A person without any experience might pass through several acres
without noticing a single one, yet every vine was hung with them, and they
cried out, "Why, here we are, you strange creature, bushels and bushels of
us, all about you! Pick us and eat, simpleton that you are!" Then, all of a
sudden, the simpleton would notice a cluster under his very nose, then
another, then a third-until, as if by magic, the entire vineyard glowed with
them.
Petya was an expert in these matters. His eye caught the clusters at
once. More, he could even tell the different varieties as they drove past.
And there were a great many varieties. The large light-green Chaus had
cloudy pits visible through their thick skin and hung in long triangular
clusters weighing two or three pounds. The experienced eye would never
confuse them with, say, the Ladies' Fingers, which were also light-green but
longer and shinier. The tender medicinal Shashla might appear to be the twin
of the Pink Muscatel, yet what a world of a difference between them! The
round Shashla grapes, pressed so tightly together in their graceful little
clusters that they lost their shape and almost became cubes, brightly
reflected the sun in their honey-pink bubbles. The Pink Muscatels, however,
were covered with a dull purplish film and did not reflect the sun.
All of them-the blue-black Isabella, the Chaus, the Shashla and the
Muscatel-were so wonderfully ripe and beautiful that even the critical
butterflies alighted on them as if they were flowers, and the feelers of the
butterflies intertwined with the green tendrils of the vines.
From time to time a straw hut could be seen among the vines. Beside it,
in the lacy blue shade of an apple tree or apricot tree, always stood a tub
of copper sulphate.
Petya gazed with longing at those cosy little straw huts.
Well did he know the delight of sitting on the hot dry straw inside
such a hut, in the sultry after-dinner shade.
The oppressive, motionless air would be filled with the aroma of
savoury and fennel. Pods of chick-peas would be drying with a faint crackle.
It was wonderful! What bliss!
The grape-vines would tremble and ripple in the glassy waves of heat.
And over it all would stretch the dusty, pale-blue sky of the steppe, a
sky nearly drained of colour by the heat.
How wonderful!
Suddenly something so extraordinary happened, and with such
breath-taking swiftness, that it was difficult to say what came first and
what after.
At any rate, first a shot rang out. Not the familiar hollow shot from a
fowling-piece which you so often heard in vineyards and inspired no fears.
No. This was the ominous and terrifying crack of an army rifle.
At that same instant a mounted policeman holding a carbine appeared in
the road.
He raised his carbine again and aimed into the depths of the vineyard.
But then he changed his mind, lowered the carbine across his saddle, spurred
the horse, and, leaning forward, jumped over the roadside ditch and the high
embankment right into the vineyard. He slapped down his cap and galloped
straight ahead, trampling the vines. Soon he was lost from sight.
The coach continued on its way.
For a time not a soul was to be seen.
All of a sudden there was a stirring in the bushes on the embankment
behind them. A figure jumped into the ditch and then clambered out into the
road.
Veiled in a thick cloud of dust, the figure raced after the coach.
The driver, on his high seat, was probably the first to notice that
figure. But instead of pulling on the brakes he stood up and waved the whip
furiously over his head. The horses broke into a gallop.
But the stranger had already jumped on the footboard. He opened the
rear door and looked in.
His breath came in painful gasps.
He was a stocky man with a young face pale from fright and brown eyes
filled with what seemed either merriment or deadly fear.
A shiny new cap with a button on it, the kind of cap workmen wore on
holidays, sat awkwardly on his large, round, close-cropped head. Yet under
his tight jacket could be seen an embroidered shirt such as farmhands wore,
so that he seemed to be a farm labourer too.
However, his thick trousers of pilot-cloth, which were velvety with
dust, were neither a workman's nor a farm labourer's.
One of the trouser-legs had pulled up, showing the rust-coloured top of
a rough, double-seamed navy boot.
"The sailor!" The instant this terrifying thought flashed through
Petya's mind he clearly saw, to his horror, a blue anchor tattooed on the
back of the hand clenched round the door-knob.
The stranger was obviously just as embarrassed by his sudden intrusion
as were the passengers themselves.
At sight of the dumbfounded gentleman in pince-nez and the two
frightened children, he moved his lips soundlessly; he seemed to be trying
to say hello, or else to apologise.
But all that came of his efforts was a twisted, confused smile.
Finally he waved his hand and was about to jump from the footboard to
the road, but a mounted detail suddenly appeared ahead. He peered cautiously
round the corner of the coach, and when he caught sight of the soldiers in a
cloud of dust he quickly jumped inside, slamming the door after him.
He looked at the passengers with pleading eyes. Then, without saying a
word, he dropped to all fours. To Petya's horror, he crawled under the seat
where the collections were hidden.
Petya looked in despair at Father. But Father sat absolutely
motionless; his face was impassive and somewhat pale, and his beard jutted
forward determinedly. His hands were folded on his stomach; he was twirling
his thumbs.
His entire appearance said: Nothing has happened. You must not ask any
questions. You must sit in your places and continue travelling as before.
Petya, and little Pavlik too, understood Father at once. Mum's the
word! Under the circumstances that was the simplest and best policy.
As to the driver, he was no problem at all. He was so busy whipping on
the horses that he never even glanced back.
In a word, it was a most curious but unanimous conspiracy of silence.
The mounted detail rode up to the coach.
Soldiers' faces looked in at the window. But the sailor was already far
back under the seat. He was completely out of sight.
The soldiers obviously found nothing suspicious in that peaceful coach
with the children and the egg-plants. They rode on without stopping.
For not less than half an hour after that all were silent. The sailor
lay under the seat without stirring. Tranquillity reigned.
Finally a string of little houses amidst green acacia trees came into
view ahead. The outskirts of the town.
Father was the first to break the silence. "Well, well, we've almost
reached Akkerman," he remarked as if to himself, yet in a deliberately loud
voice, as he stood gazing nonchalantly out the window. "It's already in
sight. How frightfully hot it is! And not a soul in the road."
Petya saw through his father's manoeuvre at once. "We're almost there!"
he shouted. "We're almost there!"
He took Pavlik by the shoulders and pushed him to the window. "Look,
Pavlik," he cried with feigned excitement, "look at that beautiful bird in
the sky!"
"Where?" Pavlik asked with curiosity, sticking out his tongue.
"Goodness gracious, what a stupid thing you are! Why, there it is."
"I don't see it."
"You must be blind."
At that moment there was a rustle behind them, followed by the banging
of the door. Petya quickly turned round. But everything was the same as
before-only now there was no boot sticking out from under the seat.
Petya looked in alarm under the seat to see if his collections were
safe. They were. Everything was in order.
At the window, Pavlik was still moving his head this way and that,
looking for the bird,
"Where's the bird?" he asked querulously, twisting his little mouth.
"Show me the bird. Pe-e-et-ya, where's the bird?"
"Stop whining," Petya said in the tone of a grown-up. "The bird's gone.
It flew away. Don't bother me."
Pavlik gave a deep sigh: he saw that he had been tricked. He looked
under the seat, but to his amazement no one was there.
"Daddy," he said finally, in a shaking voice, "where's the man? Where's
he gone to?"
"Stop chattering," Father said sternly.
Pavlik fell into a sad silence, puzzling over the mysterious
disappearance of the bird and the no less mysterious disappearance of the
man.
The wheels began to clatter over cobblestones. The coach drove into a
shady street lined with acacias.
The grey wobbly trunks of telephone poles flashed by, and roofs of red
tile and blue-painted iron; for a minute the dull water of the estuary
appeared in the distance.
An ice-cream man in a raspberry-coloured shirt walked by in the shade,
carrying his tub on his head.
Judging by the sun, it was already past one o'clock. The Turgenev was
to sail at two.
Father told the driver to go directly to the wharf without stopping at
a hotel. At the wharf, the steamer had just let out a very long and deep
hoot.
THE TURGENEV
Even in the early years of this century the Turgenev was considered
quite out of date.
With her gather long but narrow hull, her two paddle-wheels-their red
float-boards could be seen through the slits of the round paddle-box-and her
two funnels she looked more like a big launch than a small steamer.
To Petya, however, the Turgenev was always one of the miracles of
shipbuilding, and the trip between Odessa and Akkerman seemed no less than a
voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.
A second-class ticket cost a goodly sum: one ruble and ten kopeks. Two
tickets were bought. Pavlik travelled free.
Still, travelling by steamer was much cheaper, and much pleasanter,
besides, than bouncing along in the dust for thirty miles in an Ovidiopol
carriage. This was a rattling vehicle with a Jewish driver in a tattered
gaberdine belted swaggeringly with a coachman's red girdle; a
despondent-looking fellow with red hair and with eyes always pink and
ailing, who tested the five-ruble piece with his teeth. He would drag the
very heart out of his passengers by stopping every two miles to feed oats to
his decrepit nags.
No sooner had they settled themselves in a second-class cabin than
Pavlik, worn out by the heat and the drive, became drowsy. He had to be put
to bed at once on the black oilcloth bunk; the bunk was burning hot from the
sun beating through the rectangular windows.
The windows were framed in highly polished brass, true, but they
spoiled the fun all the same.
Everyone knew that a ship was supposed to have round portholes which
were screwed down when a storm blew up.
In this respect the third-class quarters in the bow of the ship were
much better, for they had real portholes, even though instead of soft bunks
there were only plain wooden plank-benches, like in the horse-trams.
Travelling third class, however, was looked upon as "improper", in just
the same degree as travelling first class was "exorbitant".
By social standing, it was to the middle category of passengers, to the
second class, that the family of the Odessa schoolmaster Batchei belonged.
That was as pleasant and convenient in some cases as it was inconvenient and
humiliating in others. It all depended upon which class their acquaintances
were travelling in.
For that reason Mr. Batchei, so as to avoid unnecessary indignities,
made it a point never to depart from the summer resort in the company of
wealthy neighbours.
The tomato and grape season was then at its height. The loading went on
and on tediously.
Several times Petya stepped out on deck to see whether they would ever
be ready to cast off. Each time it seemed to him that no progress was being
made. The stevedores were following one another up the gangway in an endless
file, carrying crates and baskets on their shoulders, and still the cargo on
the wharf did not diminish.
The boy walked over to the mate, who was in charge of the loading, and
hovered about beside him. He went to the hatchway and looked down it to see
how wine barrels were carefully lowered into the hold on chains, three or
four at a time, tied together.
Every now and then he went so far as to brush his elbow against the
mate. "Accidentally on purpose", to attract attention to himself.
"Don't get in the way, my lad," the mate said, annoyed but indifferent.
Petya took no offence. The main thing was to strike up a conversation
by hook or by crook.
"I say there, tell me please, are we starting soon?"
"We are."
"How soon?"
"As soon as we're loaded we'll start."
"But when will we be loaded?"
"When we start."
Petya gave a loud laugh, to flatter the mate.
"But tell me really-when?"
"Get out of the way, I said!"
Petya walked off with a lively, independent air, as though no
unpleasantness had occurred between them; it was simply that they had
chatted and then parted.
He rested his chin on the rail and again looked at the wharf. Now he
was bored to death by it.
Besides the Turgenev, a great many barges were being loaded.
The whole wharf was crowded with wagons of wheat.
The wheat made a dry, silken rustle as it flowed down the wooden chutes
into the square hatchways of the holds.
A fierce white sun reigned with merciless monotony over that dusty
square which had not the slightest trace of beauty or poetry.
Everything, absolutely everything, seemed dreary and ugly.
Those wonderful tomatoes which had such a warm and delicious gleam in
the shade of wilted leaves in the vegetable gardens now lay packed in
thousands of crates all alike.
Those tender-tender grapes, each cluster of which, in the vineyard,
seemed a work of art, had been squeezed greedily into coarse willow baskets
and hastily sewn round with sacking; and on each basket there was a label
besmeared with paste.
The wheat that had been grown and harvested with such labour-the large
amber wheat fragrant with all the odours of the hot fields-lay there on a
dirty tarpaulin, and men in boots walked over it.
Among the sacks, crates and barrels strode an Akkerman policeman in a
white uniform jacket, with an orange revolver-cord round his sunburned neck
and a long sword at his side.
The motionless river heat, the dust, and the sluggish but never-ending
noise of the tedious loading made Petya sleepy.
On an off-chance, he went up to the mate again to find out if they
would start soon, and again he received the answer that when they were
loaded they would start, and they would be loaded when they started.
Yawning, and reflecting sleepily that everything in the world was
obviously merchandise-the tomatoes were merchandise, the barges were
merchandise, the houses on the earthen shore were merchandise, the
lemon-yellow ricks next to those houses were merchandise, and quite likely
the stevedores were merchandise too-Petya staggered to the cabin and lay
down beside Pavlik. He fell asleep before he knew it, and when he woke up he
found they were already moving.
The cabin had in some strange way changed its position. It had become
much lighter. Across the ceiling ran a mirror-like reflection of rippling
water.
The engine was working. The busy flutter of the paddle-wheels could be
heard.
Petya had missed the most thrilling moment of the departure-missed the
third blast of the siren, the captain's command, the raising of the gangway,
the casting-off. . . .
What made it all the more horrible was that neither Father nor Pavlik
was in the cabin. That meant they had seen it all.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Petya cried out. He felt as if he had been
robbed in his sleep.
As he rushed out of the cabin to the deck he gave his leg a frightful
bang against the sharp brass threshold. But he paid no attention to such a
trifle.
"Drat them! Drat them!"
Petya need not have been so excited, however.
The boat had indeed cast off, but it had not yet set a straight course;
it was only turning about. That meant the most interesting events were still
to come.
There would be "slow ahead", and "dead slow ahead", and "stop", and "go
astern", and "dead astern", and a host of other fascinating things which the
boy knew to perfection.
The wharf moved back, grew smaller, circled about.
The boat was suddenly full of passengers, all crowding together at the
same side. They were still waving their handkerchiefs and hats, with as much
frenzy as if they were bound for the end of the world, while as a matter of
fact they were travelling a distance of exactly thirty miles as the crow
flies.
But such were the traditions of sea travel, and such the hot
temperament of Southerners.
Most of them were third-class passengers and deck passengers from the
lower foredeck, near the hold. They were not allowed on the upper deck,
which was reserved exclusively for the "clean" public of the first and
second classes.
Petya caught sight of Father and Pavlik on the top deck. They were
waving their hats excitedly.
Also on deck were the captain and the entire crew- the mate and two
barefoot deck-hands. The only members of the whole crew who were doing
anything really nautical were the captain and one of the hands. The mate and
the other hand were selling tickets. With their coloured little paper rolls
and a green wire cash-box of the kind usually seen in bakeries, they were
making the round of the passengers who had not had time to buy tickets on
shore.
The captain gave his commands striding back and forth across the deck
between the bridges on either side. Meanwhile, right before the admiring
eyes of the passengers,
the deck-hand looked into the big brass pot of a compass and turned the
steering-wheel, helping it along now and then with his bare foot. The
steering-wheel creaked incredibly and the rudder chains clanged as they
crept backwards and forwards along the side, ready at any moment to tear
away the trains of careless ladies.
The boat was backing and slowly turning.
"Starboard helm!" cried the captain to the helmsman. He had the hoarse,
mustardy voice of a glutton and a bully. He paid not the slightest attention
to the passengers who had gathered in a deferential knot at the compass.
"Starboard helm! More! A little more! Another trifle more! Good! Steady!"
The captain went across to the starboard bridge, opened the speaking
tube, and pressed the pedal. In the depths of the boat a bell ting-a-linged.
The passengers lifted their eyebrows respectfully and exchanged silent
glances. They understood: the captain had just signalled to the engine-room.
What should he do? Run to the bridge to watch the captain call down
into the speaking tube, or remain near the helmsman and the compass? Petya
was ready to tear himself in two.
The speaking tube won.
He seized Pavlik by the hand and dragged him to the bridge. "Look,
Pavlik, look!" he shouted excitedly, not without the secret hope of
astonishing two pretty little girls by his knowledge of things nautical.
"He's going to say 'Go ahead' into the speaking tube."
"Slow astern!" said the captain into the speaking tube.
Down below, the bell immediately ting-a-linged. That meant the command
had been heard.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
Akkerman had disappeared from sight, and so had the ruins of the old
Turkish fortress, yet the steamer was still running down the enormously
broad estuary of the Dniester. There seemed no end to the ugly,
coffee-coloured river, over which the sun had poured a leaden film.
The water was so muddy that the boat's shadow seemed to be lying on
clay.
The passengers felt as though the trip had not yet really begun. They
were all sick of the estuary and were waiting for the sea.
Finally, after about an hour and a half, the steamer neared the mouth
of the estuary.
Petya glued himself to the rail; he did not want to miss even the
slightest detail of the great moment. The water became noticeably lighter,
although it still was fairly muddy.
The waves now were broader and higher. The buoys marking the channel
jutted out of the water like red sticks, and their pointed mushroom caps
rocked unsteadily to and fro.
At times a buoy floated so close to the ship's side that Petya could
clearly see the iron cage in the centre of the mushroom where a lantern was
placed at night.
The Turgenev overtook several black fishing boats and two small boats
with taut dark sails.
The boats, lifted and then dropped by the steamer's wave, began to
rock.
Off the hot sandy Cape of Karolino-Bugaz, with its border-post barracks
and mast, a broad fairway marked by two lines of buoys led out into the open
sea.
Now the captain himself looked at the compass every minute or so and
indicated the course to the helmsman.
This was clearly no trifling matter.
The water became still lighter. Now it was obviously diluted by the
pure blue of the sea.
"Half-speed!" the captain called into the speaking tube.
Ahead of them, sharply divided from the yellow estuary, lay the shaggy
blue-black sea.
"Slow!"
From the sea came a fresh wind.
"Dead slow!"
The engine almost stopped breathing. The float-boards barely slapped
the water. The flat shore stretched so near that wading across to it seemed
the easiest thing in the world.
The small, dazzling white lighthouse at the border post; the high mast
with its gay garlands of naval flags stiffened by the wind; the gunboat
sitting low among the reeds; the small figures of the border guards washing
their linen in the crystal shallow water-all these moved noiselessly past
the ship, their sunlit details as clear and distinct as transfer pictures.
The nearness of the sea made the world clean and fresh again, as if all
the dust had suddenly been blown away from the ship and her passengers.
A change came over the crates and baskets, too. What had been
insufferably dull merchandise gradually turned into cargo, and as the ship
approached the sea it began to creak, as real cargo should.
"Half-speed!"
The border post lay astern; it shifted about and drifted into the
distance. The ship was surrounded by deep water, clear and dark-green. The
moment she entered it she started to roll; the wind whipped spray on the
deck.
"Full speed!"
Murky clouds of soot poured out of the hoarsely spluttering funnels. A
slanting shadow settled across the awning at the stern.
Apparently that old lady, the engine, was not finding it so easy to
battle the strong waves of the open sea. She began to breathe hard.
The ancient plating creaked rhythmically. The anchor under the bowsprit
bowed to the waves.
The wind had already managed to carry off a straw hat; it floated away,
rocking in the broad foamy wake.
Four blind Jews in blue spectacles climbed the ladder to the upper deck
in single file, holding down their bowler hats.
They seated themselves on a bench and then went at it with their
fiddles.
"The Hills of Manchuria" march, played in a sickeningly false key,
mingled with the heavy sighs of the engine.
Up the same ladder ran one of the ship's two stewards, the tails of his
dress coat waving in the wind; he wore white cotton gloves that were
comparatively clean. As he ran he bore along, with the skill of a juggler, a
tray with a fizzing bottle of lemonade.
That was how they entered the sea.
Petya had already inspected the whole ship. He had discovered that
there were no suitable children aboard, hardly anyone with whom a pleasant
acquaintance might be struck up.
At first, true, the two girls for whom he so unsuccessfully showed off
his nautical knowledge had looked promising.
But not for long.
To begin with, the girls were travelling first class, and by speaking
French with their governess they gave him to understand right off that they
had nothing in common with a boy from the second class.
Then, the minute they reached the sea one of the girls became sea-sick;
and-as Petya had seen through the open door-she now lay on a velvet divan in
the unattainable splendour of a first-class cabin; moreover, she lay there
sucking a lemon, which was downright disgusting.
And lastly, though she was undoubtedly beautiful and elegantly
turned-out (she wore a short coat with golden buttons decorated with
anchors, and a sailor hat with a red pompon, French style), the girl who
remained on deck turned out to be singularly capricious, and a cry-baby. She
quarrelled endlessly with her father, a tall, extremely phlegmatic gentleman
with side-whiskers, who wore a flowing cape. He was the very image of Lord
Glenarvan from Captain Grant's Children.
Father and daughter were carrying on the following conversation:
"I'm thirsty, Daddy."
"Never mind, you'll get over it," Lord Glenarvan replied
phlegmatically, without taking his eyes from his binoculars.
The girl stamped her foot. "I'm thirsty," she repeated, raising her
voice.
"Never mind, you'll get over it," her father replied, calmer than ever.
The girl chanted with stubborn fury, "Daddy, I'm thirsty. Daddy, I'm
thirsty. Daddy, I'm thirsty."
Bubbles frothed on her angry lips. In a nagging drawl that would have
tried the patience of an angel, she continued, "Da-aad-dy, I'm
thir-ir-ir-sty. I'm thir-ir-ir-sty."
To which Lord Glenarvan leisurely replied, with even greater
indifference and without raising his voice, "Never mind, you'll get over
it."
This strange duel between the two obstinate creatures had been going on
practically all the way since Akkerman.
Naturally, striking up an acquaintance with her was quite out of the
question.
Then Petya found a fascinating occupation: he followed in the footsteps
of one of the passengers. Everywhere the passenger went, Petya went too.
That was really interesting, especially since Petya had long noticed
something strange about the passenger's behaviour.
Other passengers, perhaps, had not noticed one astonishing
circumstance, but Petya had, and he was greatly struck by it.
This man did not have a ticket, and the mate was very well aware of it.
But for some reason he had said nothing to the strange passenger. More,
he had given him permission-not in so many words, of course-to go wherever
he wished, even into the first-class cabins.
Petya clearly saw what had passed when the mate approached the strange
passenger with his wire cash-box.
"Your ticket?"
The passenger whispered something in the mate's ear. The mate nodded.
"Right you are."
After that, no one disturbed the strange passenger. He walked about the
whole ship, looking into every corner: into the cabins, the engine-room, the
refreshment bar, the lavatory, the hold.
Now who could he be?
A landowner? No. Landowners did not dress that way and did not act that
way.
A Bessarabian landowner always wore a heavy linen dust coat and a white
travelling cap, and the visor of the cap was covered with finger marks.
Next, he would have a drooping corn-coloured moustache, and a small wicker
basket with a padlock on it. In the basket there were always a box of smoked
mackerel, some tomatoes and some Brinza cheese, and two or three quarts of
new white wine in a green bottle.
Landowners travelled second class, for economy's sake; they kept
together, never came out of their cabins, and were always either eating or
playing cards.
Petya had not seen the strange passenger in their company.
He wore a summer cap, true enough, but he had neither a dust coat nor a
wicker basket.
No, decidedly, he was not a landowner.
Then perhaps he was a postal official, or a schoolmaster?
Hardly.
Although under his jacket he did wear a pongee shirt with a turned-down
collar, and instead of a tie a cord with little pompons, his curled-up
moustache which was as black as boot-polish and his smooth-shaven chin
obviously did not fit in with that.
And as for the smoked pince-nez-uncommonly large ones they were-on the
coarse fleshy nose with hairy nostrils, they did not fit any category of
passenger whatsoever.
Besides, there were those pinstripe trousers and those sandals over
thick white socks.
Yes, something was definitely fishy here.
Petya shoved his hands in his pockets (which, by the way, was strictly
forbidden) and strolled along with a most independent air, following the
strange passenger all over the ship.
At first the passenger stood for a while in the narrow passage-way
between the engine-room and the galley.
The galley gave off the sour, smoky reek of an eating-house, and from
the open ventilators of the engine-room there came a hot wind smelling of
superheated steam, iron, boiling water and oil.
The engine-room skylight was raised, and Petya could look down into
it-which he did with delight.
He knew the engine from A to Z, yet he went into raptures each time he
saw it. He could stand there watching it for hours.
As everybody knew, the engine was outdated and good for nothing and so
on, but it was incredibly powerful and astonishing all the same.
The steel connecting rods covered with thick green grease slid back and
forth with amazing ease, considering they weighed a ton.
The pistons pumped furiously. The cast-iron cranks twirled. The brass
discs of the cams rubbed quickly and nervously against one another, exerting
a mysterious influence on the painstaking work of the modest but important
slide valves.
And over all this swirling chaos reigned an immensely huge flywheel. At
first glance it seemed to be turning slowly, but when one took a closer look
one saw that it was going at a tremendous speed and was raising a steady hot
wind.
It was nerve-racking to watch the mechanic as he walked about among
those inexorably moving joints and bent over to apply the long nozzle of his
oil can to them.
But the most amazing thing in the whole engine-room was the ship's one
and only electric lamp.
It hung in a wire muzzle, under a tin plate. (And what a far cry it was
from the blindingly bright electric lamps of today!)
Inside its blackened glass there was a dimly glowing red-hot little
loop of wire which quivered at every vibration of the ship.
But it seemed a miracle. It was associated with the magic word
"Edison", which in the boy's mind had long since lost meaning as a surname
and had taken on mysterious meaning as a phenomenon of Nature, like
"magnetism", or "electricity".
After that the strange man walked unhurriedly round the lower decks.
Petya had the impression he was making a secret but very attentive
study of the passengers who were sitting on their bundles and baskets at the
mast, near the rails, and beside the cargo.
He was ready to bet (betting, by the way, was also strictly forbidden)
that the man was secretly searching for someone.
The stranger stepped unceremoniously over sleeping Moldavians. He
squeezed his way through groups of Jews who were eating olives. He
cautiously raised the edges of a tarpaulin stretched over some crates of
tomatoes.
Asleep on the bare boards of the deck lay a man with his cap over his
cheek and his head nestling in one of the rope fenders which are lowered
over the side to soften the ship's impact against the wharf. His arms were
spread out and his legs were drawn up, just as a child sleeps.
Petya gave a casual glance at the man's legs and then stood petrified:
the trousers had pulled up, and he saw the well-remembered navy boots with
the rust-coloured tops.
There could be no doubt about it. They were the very same boots he had
seen under the seat in the coach that morning.
And even if that was a mere coincidence, there was something else that
most certainly was not. On the sleeping man's hand, in the very same
place-the fleshy triangle beneath the thumb and forefinger-Petya clearly saw
a small blue anchor.
He almost cried out in surprise.
He controlled himself because he noticed that the sleeping man had
attracted the attention of the moustached passenger too.
Moustaches walked past the sleeper several times, trying to peer under
the cap covering his face. But he did not succeed. Then he walked by once
again and stepped on the sleeping man's hand, as if by accident.
"Sorry!"
The other gave a start. He sat up and looked round in fright with
sleepy, uncomprehending eyes.
"Eh? What's up? Where to?" he muttered disjointedly as he rubbed the
coral imprint of the rope on his cheek.
It was he, the very same sailor!
Petya hid behind the hatchway and watched with bated breath to see what
would happen next.
But nothing special happened. After excusing himself again, Moustaches
went on his way, and the sailor turned over on his other side. He did not go
back to sleep, however, but kept looking round in alarm and-so it seemed to
Petya-impatient annoyance.
What should he do? Run to Father? Or tell the whole story to the mate?
No, no!
Petya clearly remembered Father's behaviour in the coach. Evidently the
whole business was something about which he should neither speak to anybody
nor ask any questions, but simply hold his tongue and make believe he knew
nothing.
At this point he decided to hunt up Moustaches and see what he was
doing.
He found him on the first-class deck, which was practically deserted.
He was leaning against a life-boat with a canvas tightly roped over it.
Under the deck-house the invisible wheel was pounding away at water
almost black and covered with a coarse lace of foam. It was making the kind
of noise you heard at a watermill. The ship's shadow, now a rather long one,
slid quickly over the bright waves, which turned a darker and darker blue
the farther away they were.
At the stern waved the white, blue and red merchant navy flag, shot
through by the sun.
Behind her the ship left a broad wake; it widened and melted and
stretched far into the distance, like a well-swept sleigh road at
Princess.
Petya's forehead immediately began to ache from the ice water. But it
was a hot day, and he knew that the ache would soon pass.
He also knew for certain that about eight or ten buckets were needed to
water the horses. That would take at least half an hour. Plenty of time for
a stroll.
He carefully picked his way through the mud near the trough-mud as
black as boot-polish and indented with hog tracks. Then he followed a gutter
across a meadow strewn with goose down.
The gutter brought him to a bog overgrown with a tall forest of reeds,
sedge and weeds.
Here cool twilight reigned even when the sun was its highest and
brightest. A rush of heady odours struck Petya's nostrils.
The sharp odour of sedge mingled with the sweet and nutty smell of the
headache shrubs, which actually did make your head ache.
The shrubs were sharp-leafed and covered with blackish-green bolls with
fleshy prickles and long smelly flowers that were remarkably delicate and
remarkably white. Beside them grew nightshade, henbane, and the mysterious
sleeping-grass.
On the path sat a big frog, its eyes closed as though it were
bewitched. Petya tried with all his might to keep from looking at the frog:
he was afraid he might see a little golden crown on its head.
For that matter, the whole place seemed bewitched, like the forests in
fairy-tales.
Surely somewhere nearby wandered the slender, large-eyed Alyonushka,
weeping bitterly over her brother Ivanushka. . ..
And if a little white lamb had suddenly run out from the thicket and
bleated in a thin baby voice, Petya certainly would have been frightened out
of his wits.
The boy decided not to think about the little lamb. But the more he
tried not to, the more he did. And the more he did, the more he was afraid
to be alone in the black greenness of this bewitched place.
He screwed up his eyes as tight as he could, to keep from crying out,
and fled from the poisonous thicket. He did not stop running until he found
himself at the backyard of a small farm.
Behind the wattle fence, on the stakes of which hung a whole collection
of clay pitchers, Petya saw a pleasant little garman, its small arena
covered with wheat fresh from the fields. In the middle of it stood a girl
of about eleven in a long gathered skirt, a short print blouse with puffed
sleeves, and a kerchief that came down to her eyes.
She stood there shielding her eyes against the sun with her elbow and
shifting her bare feet as she drove round the circle, by a long rope, two
horses harnessed one ahead of the other. Scattering the straw lightly with
their hoofs, the horses pulled a ribbed stone roller over the thick layer of
shining wheat. The roller bounced heavily but noiselessly.
A wide board, bent upward in front like a ski, dragged behind the
roller.
Petya knew that the bottom of the board was fitted with a lot of sharp
yellow flints which did an especially good job of knocking the grain out of
the ears.
The board slid along quickly. On it stood a lad of Petya's age, in a
faded shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a cap with the peak over one ear;
he had a hard time keeping his balance, but he did it with a dashing air, as
though he were sliding downhill standing up on a toboggan.
At his feet a tiny fair-haired girl sat on her haunches, like a mouse;
with both her hands she kept a convulsive grip on one of her brother's
trouser-legs.
Round the circle ran an old man, stirring the wheat with a wooden
pitchfork and throwing it under the horses' feet. The circle kept spreading
out, and an old woman was shaping it with a long paddle.
A short distance away, near the rick, a woman with a face black from
the sun and with arms as veined as a man's was labouring away at the handle
of the winnower, as if it were a hurdy-gurdy. Red blades flashed in the
round opening of the drum.
The wind carried a shining cloud of chaff out of the winnowing machine.
Like light, airy muslin it settled on the ground and on the tall weeds; it
floated to the vegetable garden where a scarecrow in a torn cap-it was a
nobleman's cap, with a red band-spread its rags over the dry leaves of ripe
yellow-red steppe tomatoes.
It was clear that the whole peasant family, with the exception of its
head, was at work on this small garman. The head of the family, of course,
was at the war in Manchuria, and quite likely at that very moment he was
crouching in a field of kaoliang while the Japanese were firing shimose at
him.
The people here were poor, and their threshing was on a small scale,
not at all like the rich, noisy, busy threshing Petya was accustomed to at
the other farm. But he found this simple scene fascinating too. He would
have liked very much, for one thing, to take a ride on the board with the
flints, or, at least, to turn the handle of the winnower. At any other time
he surely would have asked the boy to take him along on the board, but the
pity of it was that he had to hurry.
He went back.
Petya was never to forget the simple, touching details of that picture
of peasant labour: the glint of the new straw; the neatly whitewashed back
wall of the clay hut, and beside it the rag dolls and the little dried
gourds called tarakutski, the only toys of peasant children; and on the
ridge of the reed roof, a stork standing on one leg next to his large and
carelessly built nest.
Especially clear was the picture he carried away of the stork, with its
tight-fitting little jacket and pique vest, its red walking stick of a leg
(the other leg was bent under and not to be seen at all), and the long red
beak that made a wooden click, like a night watchman's rattle.
In front of a cottage with a blue notice board reading "Volost
Administration", three saddled cavalry horses were hitched to the porch
posts.
A soldier in dusty boots, with a sword between his knees, sat on the
steps in the shade smoking a cigarette made of coarse tobacco rolled in
newspaper.
"I say there, what are you doing here?" Petya asked him.
The soldier lazily surveyed the city boy from head to foot and ejected
a long stream of yellow spittle through his teeth. "Hunting down a sailor,"
he said indifferently.
What kind of mysterious and terrible man is this sailor who is hiding
somewhere in the steppe nearby, who sets fire to farms and whom soldiers are
hunting? Petya wondered as he walked down the hot, deserted street back to
the well. What if that dreadful highwayman attacked coaches?
Naturally, Petya did not mention his fears to Father and Pavlik. Why
make them worry? But he himself, naturally, would keep a lookout. And to be
on the safe side he shoved his collections farther back under the seat.
As soon as the coach started up the hill he glued his face to the
window and anxiously scanned the roadside, expecting to see the highwayman
pop out at every turn.
He was firmly resolved to stick to his post all the way to town, come
what may.
Meanwhile Father and Pavlik, obviously unaware of the danger, occupied
themselves with the cantaloupes.
In a pillow-case of plain linen that was faded from numerous
launderings and had a little bouquet of flowers embroidered in each corner,
lay ten cantaloupes, bought at a kopeck each. Father took out a firm
greyish-green one covered with a close network of lines, and saying, "Well,
now we shall try these famous cantaloupes", neatly sliced it lengthwise and
opened it like a book. A wonderful fragrance filled the coach.
He cut round the soft insides with his penknife and flipped them out
the window. Then he divided the cantaloupe into thin, appetising slices.
"Looks quite toothsome," he remarked as he laid out the slices on a clean
handkerchief.
Pavlik, who had been fidgeting impatiently all the while, pounced on
the biggest slice with both hands and sank into it up to his ears. He ate
with gurgling sounds of delight; cloudy drops of juice hung from his chin.
Father, on the other hand, put a small slice into his mouth, tried it,
closed his eyes, and said, "Indeed an excellent cantaloupe."
"Yum-yum," Pavlik confirmed.
Here Petya, behind whose back all these unendurable things had been
taking place, could hold out no longer. Forgetting the danger, he threw
himself upon the cantaloupe.
THE RUNAWAY
About ten miles from Akkerman the vineyards began. The cantaloupe had
been eaten long ago and the rind thrown out of the window. The trip was
growing tedious. It would soon be midday.
The fresh morning breeze, which had served as a reminder that autumn
really was in the offing, had subsided completely. The sun beat down as in
the middle of July; its rays were somehow even hotter, drier, broader.
Sand lay nearly all of two feet deep in the road, and the horses
laboured to pull the heavy coach through it. The small front wheels sank in
the sand up to the hub. The large rear wheels wobbled along slowly,
crunching the blue seashells in the sand.
A choking cloud of dust as fine as flour enveloped the travellers.
Their eyebrows and eye-lashes turned grey. The dust gritted between their
teeth. Pavlik goggled his mirror-like, light-chocolate eyes and sneezed
desperately.
The driver turned into a miller.
All about them the vineyards stretched endlessly.
The earth, dry and grey from dust, was covered with the gnarled plaits
of old vines standing in strict chessboard pattern. They looked as if they
were twisted by rheumatism. Had not Nature bethought herself to decorate
them with those wonderful leaves of antique design they might have looked
ugly, repulsive even.
In the rays of the midday sun the leaves, with their jagged edges,
their raised patternwork of curving veins and their turquoise spots of
copper sulphate, looked like fresh greenery.
The young shoots of the vines wound sharply round the tall stakes,
while the old ones were bent under the weight of clusters of grapes.
It took a keen eye, though, to spot the clusters hidden among the
leaves. A person without any experience might pass through several acres
without noticing a single one, yet every vine was hung with them, and they
cried out, "Why, here we are, you strange creature, bushels and bushels of
us, all about you! Pick us and eat, simpleton that you are!" Then, all of a
sudden, the simpleton would notice a cluster under his very nose, then
another, then a third-until, as if by magic, the entire vineyard glowed with
them.
Petya was an expert in these matters. His eye caught the clusters at
once. More, he could even tell the different varieties as they drove past.
And there were a great many varieties. The large light-green Chaus had
cloudy pits visible through their thick skin and hung in long triangular
clusters weighing two or three pounds. The experienced eye would never
confuse them with, say, the Ladies' Fingers, which were also light-green but
longer and shinier. The tender medicinal Shashla might appear to be the twin
of the Pink Muscatel, yet what a world of a difference between them! The
round Shashla grapes, pressed so tightly together in their graceful little
clusters that they lost their shape and almost became cubes, brightly
reflected the sun in their honey-pink bubbles. The Pink Muscatels, however,
were covered with a dull purplish film and did not reflect the sun.
All of them-the blue-black Isabella, the Chaus, the Shashla and the
Muscatel-were so wonderfully ripe and beautiful that even the critical
butterflies alighted on them as if they were flowers, and the feelers of the
butterflies intertwined with the green tendrils of the vines.
From time to time a straw hut could be seen among the vines. Beside it,
in the lacy blue shade of an apple tree or apricot tree, always stood a tub
of copper sulphate.
Petya gazed with longing at those cosy little straw huts.
Well did he know the delight of sitting on the hot dry straw inside
such a hut, in the sultry after-dinner shade.
The oppressive, motionless air would be filled with the aroma of
savoury and fennel. Pods of chick-peas would be drying with a faint crackle.
It was wonderful! What bliss!
The grape-vines would tremble and ripple in the glassy waves of heat.
And over it all would stretch the dusty, pale-blue sky of the steppe, a
sky nearly drained of colour by the heat.
How wonderful!
Suddenly something so extraordinary happened, and with such
breath-taking swiftness, that it was difficult to say what came first and
what after.
At any rate, first a shot rang out. Not the familiar hollow shot from a
fowling-piece which you so often heard in vineyards and inspired no fears.
No. This was the ominous and terrifying crack of an army rifle.
At that same instant a mounted policeman holding a carbine appeared in
the road.
He raised his carbine again and aimed into the depths of the vineyard.
But then he changed his mind, lowered the carbine across his saddle, spurred
the horse, and, leaning forward, jumped over the roadside ditch and the high
embankment right into the vineyard. He slapped down his cap and galloped
straight ahead, trampling the vines. Soon he was lost from sight.
The coach continued on its way.
For a time not a soul was to be seen.
All of a sudden there was a stirring in the bushes on the embankment
behind them. A figure jumped into the ditch and then clambered out into the
road.
Veiled in a thick cloud of dust, the figure raced after the coach.
The driver, on his high seat, was probably the first to notice that
figure. But instead of pulling on the brakes he stood up and waved the whip
furiously over his head. The horses broke into a gallop.
But the stranger had already jumped on the footboard. He opened the
rear door and looked in.
His breath came in painful gasps.
He was a stocky man with a young face pale from fright and brown eyes
filled with what seemed either merriment or deadly fear.
A shiny new cap with a button on it, the kind of cap workmen wore on
holidays, sat awkwardly on his large, round, close-cropped head. Yet under
his tight jacket could be seen an embroidered shirt such as farmhands wore,
so that he seemed to be a farm labourer too.
However, his thick trousers of pilot-cloth, which were velvety with
dust, were neither a workman's nor a farm labourer's.
One of the trouser-legs had pulled up, showing the rust-coloured top of
a rough, double-seamed navy boot.
"The sailor!" The instant this terrifying thought flashed through
Petya's mind he clearly saw, to his horror, a blue anchor tattooed on the
back of the hand clenched round the door-knob.
The stranger was obviously just as embarrassed by his sudden intrusion
as were the passengers themselves.
At sight of the dumbfounded gentleman in pince-nez and the two
frightened children, he moved his lips soundlessly; he seemed to be trying
to say hello, or else to apologise.
But all that came of his efforts was a twisted, confused smile.
Finally he waved his hand and was about to jump from the footboard to
the road, but a mounted detail suddenly appeared ahead. He peered cautiously
round the corner of the coach, and when he caught sight of the soldiers in a
cloud of dust he quickly jumped inside, slamming the door after him.
He looked at the passengers with pleading eyes. Then, without saying a
word, he dropped to all fours. To Petya's horror, he crawled under the seat
where the collections were hidden.
Petya looked in despair at Father. But Father sat absolutely
motionless; his face was impassive and somewhat pale, and his beard jutted
forward determinedly. His hands were folded on his stomach; he was twirling
his thumbs.
His entire appearance said: Nothing has happened. You must not ask any
questions. You must sit in your places and continue travelling as before.
Petya, and little Pavlik too, understood Father at once. Mum's the
word! Under the circumstances that was the simplest and best policy.
As to the driver, he was no problem at all. He was so busy whipping on
the horses that he never even glanced back.
In a word, it was a most curious but unanimous conspiracy of silence.
The mounted detail rode up to the coach.
Soldiers' faces looked in at the window. But the sailor was already far
back under the seat. He was completely out of sight.
The soldiers obviously found nothing suspicious in that peaceful coach
with the children and the egg-plants. They rode on without stopping.
For not less than half an hour after that all were silent. The sailor
lay under the seat without stirring. Tranquillity reigned.
Finally a string of little houses amidst green acacia trees came into
view ahead. The outskirts of the town.
Father was the first to break the silence. "Well, well, we've almost
reached Akkerman," he remarked as if to himself, yet in a deliberately loud
voice, as he stood gazing nonchalantly out the window. "It's already in
sight. How frightfully hot it is! And not a soul in the road."
Petya saw through his father's manoeuvre at once. "We're almost there!"
he shouted. "We're almost there!"
He took Pavlik by the shoulders and pushed him to the window. "Look,
Pavlik," he cried with feigned excitement, "look at that beautiful bird in
the sky!"
"Where?" Pavlik asked with curiosity, sticking out his tongue.
"Goodness gracious, what a stupid thing you are! Why, there it is."
"I don't see it."
"You must be blind."
At that moment there was a rustle behind them, followed by the banging
of the door. Petya quickly turned round. But everything was the same as
before-only now there was no boot sticking out from under the seat.
Petya looked in alarm under the seat to see if his collections were
safe. They were. Everything was in order.
At the window, Pavlik was still moving his head this way and that,
looking for the bird,
"Where's the bird?" he asked querulously, twisting his little mouth.
"Show me the bird. Pe-e-et-ya, where's the bird?"
"Stop whining," Petya said in the tone of a grown-up. "The bird's gone.
It flew away. Don't bother me."
Pavlik gave a deep sigh: he saw that he had been tricked. He looked
under the seat, but to his amazement no one was there.
"Daddy," he said finally, in a shaking voice, "where's the man? Where's
he gone to?"
"Stop chattering," Father said sternly.
Pavlik fell into a sad silence, puzzling over the mysterious
disappearance of the bird and the no less mysterious disappearance of the
man.
The wheels began to clatter over cobblestones. The coach drove into a
shady street lined with acacias.
The grey wobbly trunks of telephone poles flashed by, and roofs of red
tile and blue-painted iron; for a minute the dull water of the estuary
appeared in the distance.
An ice-cream man in a raspberry-coloured shirt walked by in the shade,
carrying his tub on his head.
Judging by the sun, it was already past one o'clock. The Turgenev was
to sail at two.
Father told the driver to go directly to the wharf without stopping at
a hotel. At the wharf, the steamer had just let out a very long and deep
hoot.
THE TURGENEV
Even in the early years of this century the Turgenev was considered
quite out of date.
With her gather long but narrow hull, her two paddle-wheels-their red
float-boards could be seen through the slits of the round paddle-box-and her
two funnels she looked more like a big launch than a small steamer.
To Petya, however, the Turgenev was always one of the miracles of
shipbuilding, and the trip between Odessa and Akkerman seemed no less than a
voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.
A second-class ticket cost a goodly sum: one ruble and ten kopeks. Two
tickets were bought. Pavlik travelled free.
Still, travelling by steamer was much cheaper, and much pleasanter,
besides, than bouncing along in the dust for thirty miles in an Ovidiopol
carriage. This was a rattling vehicle with a Jewish driver in a tattered
gaberdine belted swaggeringly with a coachman's red girdle; a
despondent-looking fellow with red hair and with eyes always pink and
ailing, who tested the five-ruble piece with his teeth. He would drag the
very heart out of his passengers by stopping every two miles to feed oats to
his decrepit nags.
No sooner had they settled themselves in a second-class cabin than
Pavlik, worn out by the heat and the drive, became drowsy. He had to be put
to bed at once on the black oilcloth bunk; the bunk was burning hot from the
sun beating through the rectangular windows.
The windows were framed in highly polished brass, true, but they
spoiled the fun all the same.
Everyone knew that a ship was supposed to have round portholes which
were screwed down when a storm blew up.
In this respect the third-class quarters in the bow of the ship were
much better, for they had real portholes, even though instead of soft bunks
there were only plain wooden plank-benches, like in the horse-trams.
Travelling third class, however, was looked upon as "improper", in just
the same degree as travelling first class was "exorbitant".
By social standing, it was to the middle category of passengers, to the
second class, that the family of the Odessa schoolmaster Batchei belonged.
That was as pleasant and convenient in some cases as it was inconvenient and
humiliating in others. It all depended upon which class their acquaintances
were travelling in.
For that reason Mr. Batchei, so as to avoid unnecessary indignities,
made it a point never to depart from the summer resort in the company of
wealthy neighbours.
The tomato and grape season was then at its height. The loading went on
and on tediously.
Several times Petya stepped out on deck to see whether they would ever
be ready to cast off. Each time it seemed to him that no progress was being
made. The stevedores were following one another up the gangway in an endless
file, carrying crates and baskets on their shoulders, and still the cargo on
the wharf did not diminish.
The boy walked over to the mate, who was in charge of the loading, and
hovered about beside him. He went to the hatchway and looked down it to see
how wine barrels were carefully lowered into the hold on chains, three or
four at a time, tied together.
Every now and then he went so far as to brush his elbow against the
mate. "Accidentally on purpose", to attract attention to himself.
"Don't get in the way, my lad," the mate said, annoyed but indifferent.
Petya took no offence. The main thing was to strike up a conversation
by hook or by crook.
"I say there, tell me please, are we starting soon?"
"We are."
"How soon?"
"As soon as we're loaded we'll start."
"But when will we be loaded?"
"When we start."
Petya gave a loud laugh, to flatter the mate.
"But tell me really-when?"
"Get out of the way, I said!"
Petya walked off with a lively, independent air, as though no
unpleasantness had occurred between them; it was simply that they had
chatted and then parted.
He rested his chin on the rail and again looked at the wharf. Now he
was bored to death by it.
Besides the Turgenev, a great many barges were being loaded.
The whole wharf was crowded with wagons of wheat.
The wheat made a dry, silken rustle as it flowed down the wooden chutes
into the square hatchways of the holds.
A fierce white sun reigned with merciless monotony over that dusty
square which had not the slightest trace of beauty or poetry.
Everything, absolutely everything, seemed dreary and ugly.
Those wonderful tomatoes which had such a warm and delicious gleam in
the shade of wilted leaves in the vegetable gardens now lay packed in
thousands of crates all alike.
Those tender-tender grapes, each cluster of which, in the vineyard,
seemed a work of art, had been squeezed greedily into coarse willow baskets
and hastily sewn round with sacking; and on each basket there was a label
besmeared with paste.
The wheat that had been grown and harvested with such labour-the large
amber wheat fragrant with all the odours of the hot fields-lay there on a
dirty tarpaulin, and men in boots walked over it.
Among the sacks, crates and barrels strode an Akkerman policeman in a
white uniform jacket, with an orange revolver-cord round his sunburned neck
and a long sword at his side.
The motionless river heat, the dust, and the sluggish but never-ending
noise of the tedious loading made Petya sleepy.
On an off-chance, he went up to the mate again to find out if they
would start soon, and again he received the answer that when they were
loaded they would start, and they would be loaded when they started.
Yawning, and reflecting sleepily that everything in the world was
obviously merchandise-the tomatoes were merchandise, the barges were
merchandise, the houses on the earthen shore were merchandise, the
lemon-yellow ricks next to those houses were merchandise, and quite likely
the stevedores were merchandise too-Petya staggered to the cabin and lay
down beside Pavlik. He fell asleep before he knew it, and when he woke up he
found they were already moving.
The cabin had in some strange way changed its position. It had become
much lighter. Across the ceiling ran a mirror-like reflection of rippling
water.
The engine was working. The busy flutter of the paddle-wheels could be
heard.
Petya had missed the most thrilling moment of the departure-missed the
third blast of the siren, the captain's command, the raising of the gangway,
the casting-off. . . .
What made it all the more horrible was that neither Father nor Pavlik
was in the cabin. That meant they had seen it all.
"Why didn't you wake me?" Petya cried out. He felt as if he had been
robbed in his sleep.
As he rushed out of the cabin to the deck he gave his leg a frightful
bang against the sharp brass threshold. But he paid no attention to such a
trifle.
"Drat them! Drat them!"
Petya need not have been so excited, however.
The boat had indeed cast off, but it had not yet set a straight course;
it was only turning about. That meant the most interesting events were still
to come.
There would be "slow ahead", and "dead slow ahead", and "stop", and "go
astern", and "dead astern", and a host of other fascinating things which the
boy knew to perfection.
The wharf moved back, grew smaller, circled about.
The boat was suddenly full of passengers, all crowding together at the
same side. They were still waving their handkerchiefs and hats, with as much
frenzy as if they were bound for the end of the world, while as a matter of
fact they were travelling a distance of exactly thirty miles as the crow
flies.
But such were the traditions of sea travel, and such the hot
temperament of Southerners.
Most of them were third-class passengers and deck passengers from the
lower foredeck, near the hold. They were not allowed on the upper deck,
which was reserved exclusively for the "clean" public of the first and
second classes.
Petya caught sight of Father and Pavlik on the top deck. They were
waving their hats excitedly.
Also on deck were the captain and the entire crew- the mate and two
barefoot deck-hands. The only members of the whole crew who were doing
anything really nautical were the captain and one of the hands. The mate and
the other hand were selling tickets. With their coloured little paper rolls
and a green wire cash-box of the kind usually seen in bakeries, they were
making the round of the passengers who had not had time to buy tickets on
shore.
The captain gave his commands striding back and forth across the deck
between the bridges on either side. Meanwhile, right before the admiring
eyes of the passengers,
the deck-hand looked into the big brass pot of a compass and turned the
steering-wheel, helping it along now and then with his bare foot. The
steering-wheel creaked incredibly and the rudder chains clanged as they
crept backwards and forwards along the side, ready at any moment to tear
away the trains of careless ladies.
The boat was backing and slowly turning.
"Starboard helm!" cried the captain to the helmsman. He had the hoarse,
mustardy voice of a glutton and a bully. He paid not the slightest attention
to the passengers who had gathered in a deferential knot at the compass.
"Starboard helm! More! A little more! Another trifle more! Good! Steady!"
The captain went across to the starboard bridge, opened the speaking
tube, and pressed the pedal. In the depths of the boat a bell ting-a-linged.
The passengers lifted their eyebrows respectfully and exchanged silent
glances. They understood: the captain had just signalled to the engine-room.
What should he do? Run to the bridge to watch the captain call down
into the speaking tube, or remain near the helmsman and the compass? Petya
was ready to tear himself in two.
The speaking tube won.
He seized Pavlik by the hand and dragged him to the bridge. "Look,
Pavlik, look!" he shouted excitedly, not without the secret hope of
astonishing two pretty little girls by his knowledge of things nautical.
"He's going to say 'Go ahead' into the speaking tube."
"Slow astern!" said the captain into the speaking tube.
Down below, the bell immediately ting-a-linged. That meant the command
had been heard.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
Akkerman had disappeared from sight, and so had the ruins of the old
Turkish fortress, yet the steamer was still running down the enormously
broad estuary of the Dniester. There seemed no end to the ugly,
coffee-coloured river, over which the sun had poured a leaden film.
The water was so muddy that the boat's shadow seemed to be lying on
clay.
The passengers felt as though the trip had not yet really begun. They
were all sick of the estuary and were waiting for the sea.
Finally, after about an hour and a half, the steamer neared the mouth
of the estuary.
Petya glued himself to the rail; he did not want to miss even the
slightest detail of the great moment. The water became noticeably lighter,
although it still was fairly muddy.
The waves now were broader and higher. The buoys marking the channel
jutted out of the water like red sticks, and their pointed mushroom caps
rocked unsteadily to and fro.
At times a buoy floated so close to the ship's side that Petya could
clearly see the iron cage in the centre of the mushroom where a lantern was
placed at night.
The Turgenev overtook several black fishing boats and two small boats
with taut dark sails.
The boats, lifted and then dropped by the steamer's wave, began to
rock.
Off the hot sandy Cape of Karolino-Bugaz, with its border-post barracks
and mast, a broad fairway marked by two lines of buoys led out into the open
sea.
Now the captain himself looked at the compass every minute or so and
indicated the course to the helmsman.
This was clearly no trifling matter.
The water became still lighter. Now it was obviously diluted by the
pure blue of the sea.
"Half-speed!" the captain called into the speaking tube.
Ahead of them, sharply divided from the yellow estuary, lay the shaggy
blue-black sea.
"Slow!"
From the sea came a fresh wind.
"Dead slow!"
The engine almost stopped breathing. The float-boards barely slapped
the water. The flat shore stretched so near that wading across to it seemed
the easiest thing in the world.
The small, dazzling white lighthouse at the border post; the high mast
with its gay garlands of naval flags stiffened by the wind; the gunboat
sitting low among the reeds; the small figures of the border guards washing
their linen in the crystal shallow water-all these moved noiselessly past
the ship, their sunlit details as clear and distinct as transfer pictures.
The nearness of the sea made the world clean and fresh again, as if all
the dust had suddenly been blown away from the ship and her passengers.
A change came over the crates and baskets, too. What had been
insufferably dull merchandise gradually turned into cargo, and as the ship
approached the sea it began to creak, as real cargo should.
"Half-speed!"
The border post lay astern; it shifted about and drifted into the
distance. The ship was surrounded by deep water, clear and dark-green. The
moment she entered it she started to roll; the wind whipped spray on the
deck.
"Full speed!"
Murky clouds of soot poured out of the hoarsely spluttering funnels. A
slanting shadow settled across the awning at the stern.
Apparently that old lady, the engine, was not finding it so easy to
battle the strong waves of the open sea. She began to breathe hard.
The ancient plating creaked rhythmically. The anchor under the bowsprit
bowed to the waves.
The wind had already managed to carry off a straw hat; it floated away,
rocking in the broad foamy wake.
Four blind Jews in blue spectacles climbed the ladder to the upper deck
in single file, holding down their bowler hats.
They seated themselves on a bench and then went at it with their
fiddles.
"The Hills of Manchuria" march, played in a sickeningly false key,
mingled with the heavy sighs of the engine.
Up the same ladder ran one of the ship's two stewards, the tails of his
dress coat waving in the wind; he wore white cotton gloves that were
comparatively clean. As he ran he bore along, with the skill of a juggler, a
tray with a fizzing bottle of lemonade.
That was how they entered the sea.
Petya had already inspected the whole ship. He had discovered that
there were no suitable children aboard, hardly anyone with whom a pleasant
acquaintance might be struck up.
At first, true, the two girls for whom he so unsuccessfully showed off
his nautical knowledge had looked promising.
But not for long.
To begin with, the girls were travelling first class, and by speaking
French with their governess they gave him to understand right off that they
had nothing in common with a boy from the second class.
Then, the minute they reached the sea one of the girls became sea-sick;
and-as Petya had seen through the open door-she now lay on a velvet divan in
the unattainable splendour of a first-class cabin; moreover, she lay there
sucking a lemon, which was downright disgusting.
And lastly, though she was undoubtedly beautiful and elegantly
turned-out (she wore a short coat with golden buttons decorated with
anchors, and a sailor hat with a red pompon, French style), the girl who
remained on deck turned out to be singularly capricious, and a cry-baby. She
quarrelled endlessly with her father, a tall, extremely phlegmatic gentleman
with side-whiskers, who wore a flowing cape. He was the very image of Lord
Glenarvan from Captain Grant's Children.
Father and daughter were carrying on the following conversation:
"I'm thirsty, Daddy."
"Never mind, you'll get over it," Lord Glenarvan replied
phlegmatically, without taking his eyes from his binoculars.
The girl stamped her foot. "I'm thirsty," she repeated, raising her
voice.
"Never mind, you'll get over it," her father replied, calmer than ever.
The girl chanted with stubborn fury, "Daddy, I'm thirsty. Daddy, I'm
thirsty. Daddy, I'm thirsty."
Bubbles frothed on her angry lips. In a nagging drawl that would have
tried the patience of an angel, she continued, "Da-aad-dy, I'm
thir-ir-ir-sty. I'm thir-ir-ir-sty."
To which Lord Glenarvan leisurely replied, with even greater
indifference and without raising his voice, "Never mind, you'll get over
it."
This strange duel between the two obstinate creatures had been going on
practically all the way since Akkerman.
Naturally, striking up an acquaintance with her was quite out of the
question.
Then Petya found a fascinating occupation: he followed in the footsteps
of one of the passengers. Everywhere the passenger went, Petya went too.
That was really interesting, especially since Petya had long noticed
something strange about the passenger's behaviour.
Other passengers, perhaps, had not noticed one astonishing
circumstance, but Petya had, and he was greatly struck by it.
This man did not have a ticket, and the mate was very well aware of it.
But for some reason he had said nothing to the strange passenger. More,
he had given him permission-not in so many words, of course-to go wherever
he wished, even into the first-class cabins.
Petya clearly saw what had passed when the mate approached the strange
passenger with his wire cash-box.
"Your ticket?"
The passenger whispered something in the mate's ear. The mate nodded.
"Right you are."
After that, no one disturbed the strange passenger. He walked about the
whole ship, looking into every corner: into the cabins, the engine-room, the
refreshment bar, the lavatory, the hold.
Now who could he be?
A landowner? No. Landowners did not dress that way and did not act that
way.
A Bessarabian landowner always wore a heavy linen dust coat and a white
travelling cap, and the visor of the cap was covered with finger marks.
Next, he would have a drooping corn-coloured moustache, and a small wicker
basket with a padlock on it. In the basket there were always a box of smoked
mackerel, some tomatoes and some Brinza cheese, and two or three quarts of
new white wine in a green bottle.
Landowners travelled second class, for economy's sake; they kept
together, never came out of their cabins, and were always either eating or
playing cards.
Petya had not seen the strange passenger in their company.
He wore a summer cap, true enough, but he had neither a dust coat nor a
wicker basket.
No, decidedly, he was not a landowner.
Then perhaps he was a postal official, or a schoolmaster?
Hardly.
Although under his jacket he did wear a pongee shirt with a turned-down
collar, and instead of a tie a cord with little pompons, his curled-up
moustache which was as black as boot-polish and his smooth-shaven chin
obviously did not fit in with that.
And as for the smoked pince-nez-uncommonly large ones they were-on the
coarse fleshy nose with hairy nostrils, they did not fit any category of
passenger whatsoever.
Besides, there were those pinstripe trousers and those sandals over
thick white socks.
Yes, something was definitely fishy here.
Petya shoved his hands in his pockets (which, by the way, was strictly
forbidden) and strolled along with a most independent air, following the
strange passenger all over the ship.
At first the passenger stood for a while in the narrow passage-way
between the engine-room and the galley.
The galley gave off the sour, smoky reek of an eating-house, and from
the open ventilators of the engine-room there came a hot wind smelling of
superheated steam, iron, boiling water and oil.
The engine-room skylight was raised, and Petya could look down into
it-which he did with delight.
He knew the engine from A to Z, yet he went into raptures each time he
saw it. He could stand there watching it for hours.
As everybody knew, the engine was outdated and good for nothing and so
on, but it was incredibly powerful and astonishing all the same.
The steel connecting rods covered with thick green grease slid back and
forth with amazing ease, considering they weighed a ton.
The pistons pumped furiously. The cast-iron cranks twirled. The brass
discs of the cams rubbed quickly and nervously against one another, exerting
a mysterious influence on the painstaking work of the modest but important
slide valves.
And over all this swirling chaos reigned an immensely huge flywheel. At
first glance it seemed to be turning slowly, but when one took a closer look
one saw that it was going at a tremendous speed and was raising a steady hot
wind.
It was nerve-racking to watch the mechanic as he walked about among
those inexorably moving joints and bent over to apply the long nozzle of his
oil can to them.
But the most amazing thing in the whole engine-room was the ship's one
and only electric lamp.
It hung in a wire muzzle, under a tin plate. (And what a far cry it was
from the blindingly bright electric lamps of today!)
Inside its blackened glass there was a dimly glowing red-hot little
loop of wire which quivered at every vibration of the ship.
But it seemed a miracle. It was associated with the magic word
"Edison", which in the boy's mind had long since lost meaning as a surname
and had taken on mysterious meaning as a phenomenon of Nature, like
"magnetism", or "electricity".
After that the strange man walked unhurriedly round the lower decks.
Petya had the impression he was making a secret but very attentive
study of the passengers who were sitting on their bundles and baskets at the
mast, near the rails, and beside the cargo.
He was ready to bet (betting, by the way, was also strictly forbidden)
that the man was secretly searching for someone.
The stranger stepped unceremoniously over sleeping Moldavians. He
squeezed his way through groups of Jews who were eating olives. He
cautiously raised the edges of a tarpaulin stretched over some crates of
tomatoes.
Asleep on the bare boards of the deck lay a man with his cap over his
cheek and his head nestling in one of the rope fenders which are lowered
over the side to soften the ship's impact against the wharf. His arms were
spread out and his legs were drawn up, just as a child sleeps.
Petya gave a casual glance at the man's legs and then stood petrified:
the trousers had pulled up, and he saw the well-remembered navy boots with
the rust-coloured tops.
There could be no doubt about it. They were the very same boots he had
seen under the seat in the coach that morning.
And even if that was a mere coincidence, there was something else that
most certainly was not. On the sleeping man's hand, in the very same
place-the fleshy triangle beneath the thumb and forefinger-Petya clearly saw
a small blue anchor.
He almost cried out in surprise.
He controlled himself because he noticed that the sleeping man had
attracted the attention of the moustached passenger too.
Moustaches walked past the sleeper several times, trying to peer under
the cap covering his face. But he did not succeed. Then he walked by once
again and stepped on the sleeping man's hand, as if by accident.
"Sorry!"
The other gave a start. He sat up and looked round in fright with
sleepy, uncomprehending eyes.
"Eh? What's up? Where to?" he muttered disjointedly as he rubbed the
coral imprint of the rope on his cheek.
It was he, the very same sailor!
Petya hid behind the hatchway and watched with bated breath to see what
would happen next.
But nothing special happened. After excusing himself again, Moustaches
went on his way, and the sailor turned over on his other side. He did not go
back to sleep, however, but kept looking round in alarm and-so it seemed to
Petya-impatient annoyance.
What should he do? Run to Father? Or tell the whole story to the mate?
No, no!
Petya clearly remembered Father's behaviour in the coach. Evidently the
whole business was something about which he should neither speak to anybody
nor ask any questions, but simply hold his tongue and make believe he knew
nothing.
At this point he decided to hunt up Moustaches and see what he was
doing.
He found him on the first-class deck, which was practically deserted.
He was leaning against a life-boat with a canvas tightly roped over it.
Under the deck-house the invisible wheel was pounding away at water
almost black and covered with a coarse lace of foam. It was making the kind
of noise you heard at a watermill. The ship's shadow, now a rather long one,
slid quickly over the bright waves, which turned a darker and darker blue
the farther away they were.
At the stern waved the white, blue and red merchant navy flag, shot
through by the sun.
Behind her the ship left a broad wake; it widened and melted and
stretched far into the distance, like a well-swept sleigh road at