"So that was it?" said Marina menacingly. "So you kissed her, did you?"
She went close up to Petya, with a quick, dexterous movement twisted a
strand of his hair round her finger and gave it a good, hard tug.
"Ow! That hurts!" cried Petya.
"Didn't you hurt me?" said Marina.
Despite all the horror of his situation, Petya could not but appreciate
that splendid answer, taken straight from Turgenev's First Love.
Suddenly Marina gave her mysterious, mermaid laugh and with feminine
inconsequence said, "Listen, Motya, let's just give him a good beating!"
"Let's!" said Motya, and the two girls advanced on Petya with ominous
laughter.
With a quick movement he twisted away from under their very hands and
raced off at top speed, bare heels twinkling.
Off went the girls after him. He could hear their merry, mocking cries.
They were overtaking him. Then Petya decided on a well-known trick-to throw
himself down right under the feet of his pursuers. He was in too great a
hurry, however, he flopped down before the girls were close enough. And
there he was, looking foolish on all fours, while the girls leisurely ran
up, sat astride on him and started pummelling him.
It did not hurt particularly, but it was humiliating.
"Don't kick a man when he's down!" Petya groaned piteously.
Then with triumphant giggles they turned to tickling him. He squealed
with helpless laughter. But just at the right moment Gavrik dropped from the
skies to help his friend.
"Two to one's not fair! Rescue all!" he cried and flung himself down on
the girls. "Come on all! Come on all!"
The summons immediately brought Pavlik, Zhenka and the boys and girls
of Zhenka's gang, and in a few moments all that could be seen under the
trees was a pile of heaving, panting, giggling, squealing bodies, arms and
legs.
That night Vasily Petrovich had slept like the dead- the heavy
dreamless sleep of a tormented exhausted man, devoid of all thought or
feeling.
It was late when he wakened, and for a long time he continued lying,
eyes closed, face to the wall, unable to imagine what would happen to them
all now.
At last he forced himself to rise, dress and go out into the orchard.
There he saw piles of cherries on the sacks and matting spread out under the
trees, and a great many people-some familiar, some strangers-standing on
ladders or sitting on the branches, gathering the crop. He saw horses
cropping the grass near two platforms. And finally he saw Auntie coming
towards him with small energetic steps, smiling cheerfully.
"Well, Vasily Petrovich, everything's settled and it couldn't be
better!"
"What do you mean?" he answered in a monotonous, expressionless voice.
A faint smile appeared on his face, a strange fixed smile like that of a
sleepwalker.
"Oh, good gracious, what else could I mean but our crop, our cherries!"
Auntie answered gaily.
At the word "cherries" Vasily Petrovich started.
"No, no! For pity's sake," he groaned, "for pity's sake spare me all
that-that torture."
"But listen a moment," said Auntie gently.
"I won't listen! I don't want to listen! Leave me alone! I'd sooner
carry sacks at the port!" cried Vasily Petrovich desperately, and, turning,
ran back into the house without looking hack, stumbling, waving his arms.
"Listen to me at least!" Auntie called after him.
He made no reply, he did not want to understand anything except that
this must be another of Auntie's foolish ideas and they were now
irretrievably ruined.
He lay down again on his bed, face to the wall, wanting one thing
only-to be let alone.
Auntie did let him alone, she knew it was no good talking to him. So in
two days everything was done, without Vasily Petrovich's participation.
Platforms drove away and drove back again. Horses snorted. Baskets
creaked. In the evening camp-fires sparkled on the steppe and, together with
the smoke, the wind brought an appetizing smell of stew and baked potatoes,
and the sound of singing. All this made for a cheerful, almost festive
atmosphere. And it was indeed a festival of gay, free work.
Vasily Petrovich, however, saw nothing of it, or rather, he refused to
see anything. He was in the hopeless, desperate, tormented state of a
trusting man who suddenly discovers that he has been grossly deceived. He
realized that the whole world had deceived him.
His world had been one of illusions. And the most dangerous of them had
been his belief that he was a free man of independent mind. For in reality
he, with all his splendid, lofty thoughts, his purity of spirit, his noble
heart, with all his love for his country and his people, had been a mere
slave, as much a slave as the millions of other Russians, a slave of the
church, the state, and what was called "society." As soon as he made a
feeble attempt to be honest and independent, the state poured its wrath upon
him in the person of the official from the Education Department, "society,"
in the person of Faig; and when he tried to live by the labour of his hands
so as to preserve his independence, to earn his bread in the sweat of his
brow, he found that this too was impossible, because it did not happen to
suit. Madame Storozhenko.
Most of the time Vasily Petrovich spent on his bed, but now he no
longer turned his face to the wall, he lay on his back, his arms folded on
his chest, staring at the ceiling with its play of green reflections from
the orchard outside. His jaws were tightly clenched and angry furrows
crossed his handsome forehead.
On the third day Auntie knocked at the door-softly but very decidedly.
"Vasily Petrovich, would you mind coming out for a minute?"
He jumped up and sat on the edge of the bed.
"What is it? What do you want?"
"Come on to the veranda."
"Why?"
"There's something important."
"Will you kindly spare me any important affairs whatsoever."
"All the same, I beg you to come."
Vasily Petrovich caught a new, serious note in Auntie's voice.
"Very well," he said dully. "Just a minute."
He tidied himself, put on his sandals, rinsed his face, smoothed his
hair with a wet brush and went out, prepared for any trials or humiliations.
But instead of a bailiff, a policeman, a notary or something along
those lines, he saw a stout man of middle age in a canvas jacket-apparently
a workman, who held a piece of sugar in his teeth and was drinking tea
"through" it from a saucer balanced on three fingers. Perspiration trickled
down his red, pock-marked face, and judging by the warm smile with which
Auntie regarded him, he was evidently a most admirable person.
"Ah, here you are, let me introduce you," Auntie said. "This is Terenty
Semyonovich Chernoivanenko from Near Mills. You remember, Petya stayed with
him, and our furniture's there."
"I'm Gavrik's brother, your Petya's friend," said Terenty. He carefully
put down the saucer and held out his great hand to Vasily Petrovich. "Very
glad to make your acquaintance. I've heard a lot about you."
"Really?" Vasily Petrovich said, seating himself at the table and
unconsciously assuming his "teacher" pose with one leg flung over the other,
his pince-nez on the black cord dangling from his hand. "Well, well, it
would be interesting to hear exactly what it was you heard about me."
"Oh, just that first you couldn't get on with the authorities because
of Count Tolstoi, and then you couldn't get on with Faig because of that
blockhead Blizhensky," Terenty said with a sigh, "well, and all the rest of
it. And of course, you acted quite rightly and we respect you for it."
Vasily Petrovich pricked up his ears.
"And who are 'we'?" he asked.
Terenty laughed good-naturedly.
" 'We,' Vasily Petrovich, are ordinary working folk. The people, that
is."
Vasily Petrovich's alertness increased. It all .smacked of "politics."
With some uneasiness he looked at Auntie, because this, of course, must be
her latest undertaking, and perhaps a dangerous one. But suddenly he saw a
pile of paper money on the table-green three-ruble notes, blue fives and
pink tens, neatly stacked and tied round with .thread.
"What's that money?" he asked.
"Just imagine," Auntie said with a modest smile of hidden triumph, "our
early cherry crop's sold and this is what we've made."
"Six hundred and fifty-eight rubles clear profit!" Terenty added,
rubbing his hands. "Now you'll be all right!"
"But just a moment," cried Vasily Petrovich, mistrusting his own eyes.
"How did it all happen? The horses? The platforms? Our delivery? What? How?"
"That's simple," Terenty said. "Our firm is on a sound footing. For the
right kind of people we can get hold of anything-horses, platforms, or
packing. Because we're, well ... the proletariat. Everything is in our
hands, Vasily Petrovich. Isn't that so?"
Although the word "proletariat" was one of the most dangerous, smelling
not only of politics but even of revolution, Terenty spoke it so simply and
naturally that Vasily Petrovich accepted it just as naturally, without the
slightest inner protest.
"So it's you who arranged everything?" he said, putting on his
pince-nez and looking at Terenty with renewed cheerfulness.
"Yes, we did it," Terenty answered with a shade of pride, and returned
Vasily Petrovich's cheerful look.
"Our saviour!" said Auntie,
Then she told him in detail and with a good deal of humour about the
sale of the cherries. They had been taken on platforms through the whole
town and sold right from the platforms retail, and their success had been
phenomenal. People grabbed them up, sometimes buying whole
basketfuls-especially the white and pink ones; the black ones were less in
demand.
"And just imagine," said Auntie, wrinkling her nose, her eyes
sparkling, "our Pavlik was the best salesman of all."
"What?" Vasily Petrovich frowned. "Pavlik sold cherries?"
"Of course," Auntie said, "we all did. Do you think I didn't sell them
too? I most certainly did. I put on an old hat a la Madame Storozhenko, sat
on the box by the driver, and drove in triumph along all the streets. Well,
and how could I stop the children after that? They all sold cherries-Petya
and Motya and Marina and little Zhenya."
"Wait a moment," Vasily Petrovich said sternly. "Did my children sell
cherries in the streets? I think I can't have understood you properly."
"Oh, good gracious, there's nothing to understand. They sat on the
platforms and drove along the streets shouting, 'Cherries! Cherries!'
Somebody had to do the shouting. Just think how they enjoyed it! But Pavlik,
Pavlik! He really amazed me. He shouted better than any of the others. I'd
never thought. You know, he's got a voice just like- Sobinov's. And such an
artistic manner, and the most important thing-a real understanding of the
customer! He always knew how to treat them, when to insist on a high price
and when to lower it a bit."
"Oh, this is outrageous!" muttered Vasily Petrovich and was just
preparing to be really angry when he suddenly seemed to hear his Pavlik
calling out in a voice like Sobinov's, "Cherries! Cherries!" and an
involuntary smile slipped under his moustache. He snatched his pince-nez off
and sat back with his benevolent teacher's "He-he-he!" It did not last long,
however, in a moment he was frowning again.
"It's not really very funny, though," he said with a sigh. "If
anything, it's sad. But it's a true saying: When in Rome, do as the Romans
do."
"That's true," Terenty said, "but it's not all the truth. You mustn't
just do as the Romans do, you must fight them. Or they'll gobble you up so
there's nothing left. Take that old bitch Madame Storozhenko-excuse the
language, but it's the only name for her-she almost swallowed you whole. A
good thing we managed to get here in time."
"Yes," said Vasily Petrovich, "I don't know how to thank you. You've
literally saved us from ruin. Thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my
heart!"
"Fine words butter no parsnips," said Terenty with a grin.
Vasily Petrovich looked at Auntie in some perplexity. He did not know
what to do next. Ought he to offer Terenty money? But Terenty evidently
guessed his thought.
"Nay, it's not money I mean," he said. "We helped you out, well, just
to be neighbourly. From a feeling of solidarity. And, of course, not to let
a good man down. Now we want you to help us a bit."
Terenty kept using the word "we," but for some reason it no longer
alarmed Vasily Petrovich.
"How can I help you?" he asked with interest.
"This way." Terenty took out a folded handkerchief and wiped his big,
kindly face and round cropped head with the satiny-white soar on the temple.
"We've got a small study circle, a sort of Sunday school. We read various
pamphlets, books, and newspapers, and so far as we can, we study political
economy. Well, that's all right as far as it goes," and Terenty sighed, "but
it doesn't go far enough. Vasily Petrovich, we're short of general
knowledge. You know-history, geography ... how life began in the world ...
that sort of thing. Now, how do you look at that?"
"You mean, you want me to read some popular lectures?" Vasily Petrovich
asked.
"That's exactly it. Yes, and a bit of Russian literature wouldn't do
any harm either. Pushkin, Gogol, Count Tolstoi. ... In general, whatever you
think is needed, you know more about that. And in return we'll help you with
the orchard. The early cherries are all sold, but there are still the late
cherries, and apples, and pears. And you've a vineyard too. Not very big,
but it'll take a good bit of work. You'll never manage it all by yourselves.
So that's the idea, you help us and we'll help you."
Vasily Petrovich had already resigned himself to the thought that his
educational activities were over, and now such a blaze of joy flared up in
him that for a moment he could hardly master himself. He even rubbed his
hands and flashed his pince-nez in his old class-room manner, .saying,
"Well, well...." But with the memory of the trouble and humiliation
connected with his former work, his enthusiasm quickly died out.
"Ah, no," he said, "no, no! Anything but that! I've had enough." His
face bore an imploring look and he cracked his fingers. "For pity's sake not
that! I vowed to myself. And what sort of teacher am I if they've driven me
out from everywhere?" he concluded bitterly.
"Why, Vasily Petrovich, how can you talk like that!" cried Auntie,
horrified.
"They didn't drive you out, they tried to gobble you up," Terenty said.
"You stuck in the throat of those gentry, so they just tried to get you out
of the way. It's as Simple as that. We stick in their throats too, but they
can't get rid of us. We're too tough. They couldn't settle us properly in
1905, and now, in 1912, they don't have a chance. And you want to deny it!"
he added reproachfully, although Vasily Petrovich had said nothing, only
stared at Terenty, trying to find the connection between 1905, 1912 and his
own fate which had worked out so dreadfully.
"No," he said at last, but with less resolution. "All you say may be
right to a certain extent, but it doesn't make it any easier for me." He was
just going to add that he would rather go to the port and carry sacks, but
for some reason stopped himself, thrust his beard forward and said, "And
that's that."
"All right," Terenty said, "have it your own way. But I think you're
making a mistake. Where's the sense of it if a teacher stops teaching? Why
should you stop? What's it matter that you couldn't agree with that
blockhead of an official and that shark Faig? They're not the people. The
people are still very ignorant, you know it yourself. They need light,
knowledge. The working class lacks educated people. And where can we find
them, when we haven't the means? Who can help us as you can? We've helped
you, you help us. We've got to be neighbourly, Vasily Petrovich. It's not
far from us to you. The same proletariat. It's only two miles from here to
Near Mills, across the steppe as the crow flies. Well, what about it?"
Terenty bent a warm look on Vasily Petrovich. "You won't have to come to us.
We'll come ourselves, if you agree; on Saturday evenings after work, or on
Sundays. We'll earth up your trees and water the orchard and work in the
vineyard, and then you'll teach us a bit after. Out in the open air, under
the trees, on the grass or somewhere on the steppe, in -some quiet spot-that
would really be fine. Especially as the police have been giving us no peace
at all in Near Mills lately. As soon as folks get together anywhere to talk
or read books-there's a raid, a search, a fuss-and come to the
police-station. But this is ideal. Even if they should come it is all plain
and clear-folks working in an orchard, the most ordinary thing in the
world."
Terenty talked gently, almost tenderly, respectfully, now and then just
touching Vasily Petrovich's sleeve with two fingers as softly as though he
were removing a wisp of down. And the more he talked, the more that idea of
lessons under the sky, in the open air, appealed to Vasily Petrovich. It was
just the thing that had been lacking-free enlightenment inspired by free
physical labour.
While Terenty was still talking, Vasily Petrovich made a mental plan of
his first lectures. He would begin, of course, with a popular outline of
general history and physical geography-perhaps to be followed by astronomy.
"Well, Vasily Petrovich, what about it? Do you agree?" Terenty asked.
"Yes, I do," Vasily Petrovich answered decidedly.
That day Auntie went to town, made the payment, and a new life started
at the farm.
For five days of the week everything went on as before. The Bacheis
continued to work in the sweat of their brow, earthing up and watering late
cherry and apple trees. The only change was that now the Pavlovskayas
sometimes joined them.
Petya and Marina had slipped into friendly, somewhat dull, neighbourly
terms. Nevertheless-more from habit than anything else-he would sometimes
look volumes at her to which she usually replied by unobtrusively putting
out her tongue.
Every Saturday afternoon, however, a whole procession would arrive from
Near Mills. Motya, Gavrik and Zhenka came, then tall, thin Sinichkin
carrying his spade carefully wrapped in newspaper under his arms. The old
railwayman with his lamp whom Petya knew from Near Mills and Uncle Fedya
would come striding .along in step like soldiers, Uncle Fedya with a big
copper kettle in his hand and a large, flat loaf of bread under his arm.
The young schoolmistress would come running from the horse-tram
terminus, clasping a few dog-eared pamphlets to her breast.
There were others of Terenty's Sunday guests, workers whom Petya had
often seen in the streets, the workshops or the gardens when he lived in
Near Mills.
Terenty himself usually came last. He would throw off his boots and
jacket, place them neatly under a tree and at once take charge.
"Well, folks, time to stop smoking and get to work."
He distributed the jobs quickly; some people he sent to help with the
earthing, others to weed, or bring water from the cistern, or water the
trees, or work in the vineyard. Then he would take a spade or hoe and start
himself.
They worked for only a couple of hours or so, but got through more than
the Bacheis had done in a week. Then all went to the sea for a bathe,
returned refreshed, sat down soberly in a circle under the trees, and
Terenty went to fetch Vasily Petrovich.
"Certainly, I'm quite ready," he invariably replied, coming out on the
veranda in a freshly-ironed tussore jacket, starched shirt with a black tie,
and pointed kid boots.
He approached the group with his springy teacher's step, erect and
severe, carrying under his arm an exercise book containing the outline of
his lecture which he had been preparing for several days; Terenty
respectfully brought a chair from the veranda and placed it for him.
When Vasily Petrovich appeared, the "pupils" wanted to rise, but with a
quick movement he gestured to them to remain seated, refused the chair and
himself sat down on the grass as though stressing the special, free,
unofficial nature of the studies.
It should be added that this was the only freedom Vasily Petrovich
permitted himself. In nothing else did he deviate a hair's breadth from the
strictest academic tradition.
"Well," he would say, glancing down at his notes, "last time we
discussed the life of primitive man who already knew how to make fire, who
hunted with the aid of crude weapons of stone, but who had not yet learned
to cultivate the land or to sow grain...."
Petya, who sometimes joined the circle, discovered a new father-not the
ordinary, domestic Dad-dear, kind and sometimes unhappy, but a capable
teacher presenting his subject in a clear, logical sequence.
Petya had never realized his father had such a fine, ringing voice, or
that mature working men could listen to him with such childlike attention.
Petya noticed that they even stood a little in awe of him. Once Uncle Fedya
forgot where he was and lighted a cigarette. Then Vasily Petrovich stopped
in the middle of a sentence and fixed such an icy look upon the culprit that
he crushed out the cigarette in his palm, flushed crimson, jumped to his
feet, and standing to attention with bulging eyes jerked out navy-fashion,
"Excuse me, Comrade Lecturer! Won't happen again!"
"Sit down," said Vasily Petrovich coldly and took up his lecture
exactly where he had broken off.
Behind his back Terenty shook his fist at Uncle Fedya, and Petya
realized that his father not only himself took a pride in his profession,
but made others respect it too.
Usually they all spent the night with the Bacheis, rising early to
work, so they cooked their supper immediately after the lecture to get to
sleep in good time.
A fire was lighted beside the twig-and-weed shanties, and a great
cauldron of potato-and-pork stew was hung over it. Night fell; the darkness
under the trees became so intense that from the distance it looked as though
the fire was burning in the mouth of a cave. Black shadowy forms moved round
it; they were gigantic and it seemed that their heads could touch the stars.
It all reminded Petya of a gipsy camp.
When the stew was ready, Terenty would go to the house to invite Vasily
Petrovich to join them.
In a few moments he would appear, this time in domestic garb-an old
Russian shirt and sandals on his bare feet. Someone would hand him a wooden
spoon and, squatting down, he would eat the rather smoky stew with evident
relish and praise it highly.
Then they would drink tea, also smoky, and eat rye bread. Sometimes
fishermen from Bolshoi Fontan whom Terenty knew would join them, bringing
fresh fish. On those occasions supper would continue until long past
midnight. Gradually the talk would turn to political subjects-at first-
cautiously, in veiled- words, then with increasing frankness, with such a
vigour of expression that Vasily Petrovich would produce a yawn, stretch
himself, rise and say, "Well, I won't trouble you any further. Thank you for
the supper, but now I'm for bed. And I advise you to get some sleep too. The
stew was really incomparable."
Nobody urged him to stay. They would put out the fire and gather in
Terenty's shanty, light the railway lantern and continue their talk-but it
was talk of a different nature. Pavlovskaya would join them, bringing along
a thick, worn, cloth-bound book. Petya knew that now they would read Karl
Marx's Capital and the latest issue of the Pravda, and after that they would
discuss Party affairs.
This, however, was not for Petya's ears, not even for Gavrik's. Their
job was to walk all round the orchard and the house, keeping an eye on the
steppe and especially on the roads. If they saw anything suspicious, they
were to give the alarm by firing the shot-gun. But who could appear in the
middle of the night on the steppe, so far from town? Who could ever think
that an innocent orchard concealed a small shanty lighted by a railway
lantern where eight or ten workmen and fishermen were discussing the destiny
of Russia, the destiny of the world, drawing up leaflets, discussing Party
matters and preparing for revolution.
Petya and Gavrik, however, did their duty conscientiously. Petya
carried the old shot-gun they used for scaring birds slung over his
shoulder, while Gavrik now and then slipped his right hand into a pocket to
touch a loaded Browning of which Petya knew nothing.
At first the girls would go round with them, for company. Marina, of
course, knew what it was all about, but Motya innocently thought they were
guarding the orchard against thieves, and followed Petya on tiptoe, never
taking her eyes off the shot-gun.
She was no longer angry with him for being such a little liar, she even
loved him more, especially now when it was so quiet, dark and mysterious all
round, when sleep had laid its hand on everything but the quails and the
crickets, when the whole steppe lay silvery in the starlight.
"Petya, aren't you even a bit afraid of thieves?" she whispered, but
Petya pretended not to have heard.
He was not in the mood for love. And altogether, he had vowed to
himself to have no more dealings with girls. He'd had enough! Better to be a
lone, brave, taciturn man for whom women do not exist.
He gazed intently out on the empty steppe, ears pricked for the
slightest sound. But Motya tiptoed after him and asked, "Petya, if you see a
thief will you shoot him?"
"Of course," Petya answered.
"Then I'll stop up my ears," Motya whispered, faint with fear and love.
"Let me alone!"
She said no more, but in a little while Petya heard a queer sound
behind him, like a cat sneezing. It was Motya's stifled giggle.
"What are you sniggering about?"
"Remember that time Marina and I fooled you?"
"Idiot! It was I that fooled you both," Petya growled.
"You let your imagination run away with you," said Marina in her
mother's voice. During these nocturnal strolls she was very quiet, reserved,
adult, said little and walked beside Gavrik, even taking his arm sometimes.
And although that did give Petya a pang of jealousy, he continued resolutely
in his role of a man for whom love does not exist.
But alas, love did exist, the whole warm night on the steppe seemed
filled with it. It was in everything-the dark sky, thick with summer
star-dust, the crystal choir of crickets, the gentle, warm, scented breeze,
the distant barking of a dog, and especially the glow-worms that seemed like
fires in the far distance, yet you need but stretch out your hand and the
soft, weightless little lamp lay on your palm shedding its dead green light
on a tiny patch of skin.
The girls collected glow-worms and put them in each other's hair. Then
they began to yawn and soon afterwards went to their shanty, floating away
through the darkness like twin constellations.
Gavrik and Petya continued to guard the camp alone until the light
disappeared in Terenty's shanty. Sometimes this was only when dawn was
breaking.
In those early morning hours Gavrik talked with unusual frankness, and
Petya learned much that was new to him. He understood now that a new,
-powerful revolutionary movement had already begun, and that it was led by
Ulyanov-Lenin who, Gavrik said, had moved from Paris to Cracow to be closer
to Russia.
"And do you think it'll really come-revolution?" asked Petya,
pronouncing the dreadful word with an effort.
"I don't just think it, I'm sure of it," Gavrik answered and added in a
whisper, "If you want to know, it's already-"
Petya waited breathlessly for what Gavrik would say next. But Gavrik
said nothing, he. could not find the words for all he had sensed or heard
from Terenty. But Petya understood. The Lena shooting. The strikes. The
meeting on the steppe. The Pravda. The fight with that bully. Prague.
Cracow. Lenin. And finally this night, that lantern in the shanty. What else
was it all but a herald of the mounting tide of revolution?
Soon the late cherries ripened. There were fewer trees this time but no
less bother.
At the height of the picking Madame Storozhenko suddenly appeared. This
time she did not enter but had the britzka stop at the far side of the
scrub-grown earth bank that marked the boundary. For a long time she stood
on the step, steadying herself with a hand on the head of one of the
Persians, watching the work.
"Ragamuffins, scamps, proletarians!" she kept screaming, shaking her
big canvas sunshade threateningly. "I'll teach you to go forcing prices
down! I'll have the police on you!"
Nobody took any notice and she finally drove away, with a parting yell,
"I'll put a stop to your tricks, so help me God!"
The next day platforms came for the cherries. While they were still out
on the steppe, a little distance from the orchard, Petya saw some heavy
boxes thrown off them which afterwards disappeared.
"What boxes were those?" he asked.
"I thought you were asleep," Gavrik replied, evidently none too
pleased. He ignored Petya's question.
"No, but seriously, what were those boxes?"
"What boxes?" Gavrik drawled, with a look of innocence. "Where'd you
see any boxes? There aren't any!"
But Petya had seen them plainly enough.
"Don't play the fool!" he snapped angrily.
Gavrik came and stood in front of him, legs apart.
"Forget them," he said sternly. But there was such mysterious triumph
in his face, such a sly gleam in his eye that Petya's curiosity only flamed
higher.
"Tell me-what were they?" he said again. He knew full well that their
contents was some important secret, and that Gavrik was aching to boast
about it. "Well?" he said insistently.
Then Gavrik brought his face up close, hesitated a moment, and after
looking all round said in a whisper, "A flat press."
Petya could not believe his ears.
"What?" he said.
"A flat press for printing," Gavrik said very distinctly. "Don't you
understand? Dunderhead!"
Dozens of times Petya had passed that little gully on the steppe, thick
with tall weeds, without noticing anything special about it. But when he
looked at it this time he saw the weeds at the bottom stir and two figures
climb out-first Uncle Fedya and then the old railwayman. Now Petya
understood it all. There must be a cave in the rocks at the bottom of the
gully, there were many of these caves all round the city, opening on to the
steppe or among the cliffs, and Petya knew they were the entrances to the
famous Odessa catacombs. So that was where the boxes had gone!
"Get it?" said Gavrik and gave Petya such a keen, almost menacing look
that the boy was just about to pronounce some solemn vow when he caught
himself up, and returning Gavrik's look, said merely, "Yes. I got it."
"I hope you do," said Gavrik. "And remember, you've seen nothing.
Forget it all."
"I know," Petya said, and they both went unhurriedly to the orchard
where the cherries were being poured out in piles on the platform.
Next morning Terenty reappeared on the veranda and put some money on
the table.
"You see how well it works out," he said. "You help us, we help you.
There's a hundred and seventeen here, and we kept back fifteen rubles for
small expenses. I hope you don't object?"
"Oh, of course not, of course not," Vasily Petrovich said.
He never suspected that these "fifteen rubles for small expenses" had
been sent that very day to St. Petersburg, and that in a week's time the
list of acknowledgements of cash received in the Pravda would include a line
that read, "From a group of Odessa workers, 15 rubles."
That was how the cherry crop was marketed.
The next thing would be the early apples. The summer was passing
quietly, everything was going well-except for a small incident which passed
unnoticed by all but Petya, on whom it left an unpleasant impression. . As
he neared the orchard one day after a bathe he saw a man coming out of the
gate. There was something familiar about him. Moved by an inexplicable sense
of danger, Petya slipped quietly into the maize field and squatted down
among the thick stems and rustling leaves. The man passed so close that
Petya could have reached out and touched his dusty serge trousers and grey
canvas shoes. He looked up and saw against the bright blue sky and marble
clouds a head in a summer cap of loofah with two peaks-in front and at the
back-the kind of cap dubbed "Hullo-Good-bye!"; he saw the grey moustache and
pince-nez of dark glass like those worn by the blind. It was Moustache, the
secret police spy whose face had been imprinted on Petya's mind as a child,
on the Turgenev, and whom he had seen again just before his trip abroad,
standing with a coastguard officer on board the Palermo.
The man passed without noticing Petya, his bluely shaved cheeks puffed
out, trumpeting softly a popular march.
Petya waited a little while and then hurried home to find out what this
man had come for. But he got little satisfaction. According to Auntie, it
was a summer resident from Bolshoi Fontan who had simply come for cherries;
Auntie had told him she was sorry but he was too late. He had walked round
the orchard, praised it and said he would most certainly come back in
September when the grapes were ripe. That was all. As it was the middle of
the week only the family had been there, and. Petya felt easier in his mind.
Perhaps the man really was staying at Bolshoi Fontan for the summer and
really had come only for cherries. After all, he was a human being, why
shouldn't he have a summer cottage at Bolshoi Fontan?
Gavrik, however, took it much more seriously, although he agreed that
it might be mere chance". To be on the safe side, Terenty increased the
sentries, and Gavrik and Petya paced the steppe not only on Saturday nights
but during the day as well. It was evidently a false alarm, however, for the
man did not appear again.
One Saturday at the beginning of August Petya and Gavrik, after
circling round the orchard a few times and seeing nothing suspicious, went
to the cliffs, lay down and gazed out to sea. The sun had only just set,
there was a brisk wind and the glow was fading from the pink clouds.
Dolphins played not far from the shore, and on the horizon the white sails
of scows stood out against the sky, for it was the mackerel fishing season.
The scows moved in various directions and frequently changed their
course, now approaching, now withdrawing. Sometimes one of them would come
quite close and pass, tossing, along the coast; then the two could see the
fountains of spray as its flat bottom slapped the water, and the man
standing on the battered bow moving a long rod, bent like a bow, backward
and forward. The boys knew that at the end of the long line was a
bait-brightly painted fish of lead with a multitude of sharp hooks. The
great art of this kind of fishing was to adapt the speed of the bait to the
movement of the shoal. The rapacious mackerel would start to pursue the
shining bait and it must not be pulled too far ahead or made too easy to
seize. The fisherman must tantalize the fish before letting it snap, then it
would be firmly caught.
It was interesting to watch, but Petya and Gavrik were thinking of
something else. They watched the sails, trying to guess which was the one
they awaited.
In addition to the fishing boats they could see far out the smart white
sails of the racing yachts of the fashionable clubs on the last lap of the
annual handicap for the prize offered by the Odessa millionaire Anatre. They
were just racing for the finish, leaning over sharply with the wind-lovely
vessels built at the best wharves of Holland and Britain. At any other time,
of course, Petya and Gavrik would have had eyes for nothing else, but now
Gavrik only remarked contentedly, "It's like Saturday evening on
Deribasovskaya Street. Crowded. Easy to slip through."
"I believe it's that one, look, with the old 'Bolshoi Fontan lighthouse
on her beam," said Petya, pronouncing the words "on her beam" with special
satisfaction.
"No," said Gavrik, ''Akim Perepelitsky's scow is bright blue, only just
painted, and this is all scaled off!"
"I believe you're right."
"I certainly am." "Look! There she is!" -
"Where?"
"Opposite Golden Shore, a bit closer, look, bright blue!"
"It's got a new jib, Perepelitsky's is patched."
"When did they say they'd come?"
"When the sun sets."
"It's set now."
"It's still too light. Needs to get a bit darker first."
"Maybe they won't come at all?"
"Rubbish. This is Party work."
The boys went on staring intently out to sea.
Only a little while before a representative of the Central Committee
had come to Odessa secretly from abroad, from Ulyanov-Lenin, bringing the
Party directives regarding the elections to the Fourth State Duma. For a
week now he had been going everywhere addressing Party meetings about the
political situation. Now he was expected at the farm. As A precautionary
measure a young-fisherman, Akim Perepelitsky, was to bring him on his
fishing boat from Langeron.
The light faded from the clouds, the sea darkened. The yachts passed
and disappeared. The sails of fishing boats became noticeably fewer. A band
was playing far away, in Arcadia, and the wind brought the distant music of
trumpets and the dull thud of a drum. And still Akim Perepelitsky's scow did
not appear.
Suddenly Gavrik cried, "Look, there it is!"
It was not at all where they had expected it to appear -instead of
coming from the Langeron side, it appeared from near to Lustdorf. Evidently
Akim Perepelitsky thought it safer to keep far out to sea until he was
opposite Lustdorf and then turned back to Kovalevsky's dacha. Now the scow
was quite close in, leaping from wave to wave before a brisk wind, making
straight for the shore.
There were two men in it. The one lying back in the stern with the
tiller under his arm was Akim Perepelitsky, Petya knew him at once. The
other-short and thickset, in an old, striped singlet under a fisherman's
canvas coat, barefoot, trousers rolled to his knees-was sitting astride the
side of the boat, skilfully unlashing the jib-sheet. This man Petya did not
immediately recognize.
While the boys raced down the cliff path the sails were furled, the
rudder taken in and dropped in the stern, the keel raised and the scow
grounded gently, the bottom scraping the pebbles as it buried its nose in
the shingle.
Following the unwritten law of the coast, Petya and Gavrik first helped
to pull the heavy boat ashore, and then greeted the arrivals.
"Gosh! It's Uncle Zhukov!" cried Gavrik like a child, shaking hands
vigorously with the Central Committee" representative. "I knew it! I was
sure it was you coming!"
Zhukov looked at Gavrik for a moment. "Aha!" he said at last. "Now I
know you too. Wasn't it you who pulled me out of the water opposite Otrada
Villa seven years ago? Look how you've shot up! I'm sorry about your
grandad.... Aye, he was a good old man, I liked him! Well, may his soul rest
in peace. I remember how he kept praying to St. Nicholas, not that he ever
got anywhere by it...." A shadow from past memories passed over Rodion
Zhukov's face.
"What's your name, by the way? I'm afraid I've forgotten."
"Gavrik. Gavrik Chernoivanenko."
"Chernoivanenko? Any relation to Terenty?"
"Yes, I'm his brother."
"You don't say! And following in his footsteps, I see." "Uncle Zhukov,
I know you too," Petya put in plaintively, tired of seeing the attention of
the Central Committee representative concentrated on Gavrik alone. "I knew
you even before he did. When you hid in the coach, remember? And then on the
Turgenev."
"Well, of all things!" cried Zhukov merrily. "So it looks as if we're
old friends, too, if you're telling the truth."
"I am, I swear it," cried Petya and crossed himself. "Gavrik can tell
you. Gavrik, tell him how I carried cartridges to Alexandrovsky Street!"
"It's right, he did," said Gavrik.
"And I saw you in Naples a year ago. You were with Maxim Gorky. Isn't
that right?"
Zhukov looked at Petya.
"Yes, it's right," he said. "I remember you now. You were in a sailor's
blouse, weren't you?"
"Yes," Petya said and looked at Gavrik in triumph.
"See?"
"Only there's one thing, lads," said Zhukov sternly.
"Forget that I was ever called Uncle Zhukov. That's gone. I'm Vasilyev
now. Don't forget. What's my name?"
"Vasilyev," the boys said in one voice.
"Remember, then.... Well, and what's your name?" he asked, turning to
Petya.
"Petya."
"He's that teacher's son," Gavrik amplified.
"I guessed it," said Zhukov, thought for a moment and added decisively,
"well, don't let's waste time. Let's go. Have they all come?"
"Long ago," Gavrik answered.
"All clear along the way? I gave them my word in Cracow that I'd be as
prudent as a young lady."
"Yes, it's all clear," Gavrik said.
Rodion Zhukov took a round basket of mackerel from the scow and put it
on his head, like any fisherman taking his catch to sell at the villa doors.
"A good catch," said Gavrik with respect.
"A whole basket in one go and with one silver bait," laughed Zhukov,
with a wink at Akim Perepelitsky. Handsome young Akim with a forelock
falling over his forehead swung the oars with lazy grace on to his shoulder
and they began to climb the cliff path.
Gavrik went about fifty paces in front of the two men, Petya the same
distance behind them; if either of them noticed anything suspicious he was
to whistle through his fingers. Petya held his fingers ready, worried by a
foolish fear that if he needed to whistle, he might suddenly be unable to
make a sound. Everything was quiet, however, and avoiding the road, they
made their way to the orchard where Terenty met them by the vineyard. Petya
saw them hug each other with many enthusiastic slaps on the back, and then
go to the shanties where a fire was already crackling under the trees,
sending out showers of golden sparks.
When Petya went up to the shanties a little later, Rodion Zhukov,
smoking a short pipe with a metal lid, was sitting before the fire,
surrounded by a group of people.
"Let's review the events that have taken place in the six months since
the Prague Conference, comrades," he was saying. "In the first place, the
Party exists again. That is the main thing. I don't need to tell you how
this was done, what tremendous difficulties -we had to overcome. There was
the rabid persecution by the tsarist police, the failures, the provocation,
the incessant interruptions in the work of the local centres and the Central
Committee. But now that's all past, thank heaven. Our Party's going ahead
boldly, confidently, broadening its activities and increasing its influence
among the masses. Not in the old way, but in the new way. What was left to
us after the defeat of the 1905 Revolution? Illegal activities, nothing
else. But now in addition to our illegal cells, our secret little groups
even more carefully concealed than before, we have broader, legal Marxist
teaching. It is this combination of legal and illegal that characterizes our
preparations for revolution under the new conditions. We are advancing to a
new .revolution, comrades, under slogans of a democratic republic, an
eight-hour working day and complete confiscation of all the big estates. You
know that these slogans have been caught up over the whole of Russia. They
have been accepted by all the thinking proletariat. To put it briefly, we've
stopped the retreat. Stolypin's liberal counter-revolution is on its last
legs. There are more strikes, mere uprisings. This is a revolutionary
movement of the masses, it is the beginning of the offensive of the working
masses against the tsarist monarchy."
Petya never took his eyes off Rodion Zhukov, off that face lighted by
She went close up to Petya, with a quick, dexterous movement twisted a
strand of his hair round her finger and gave it a good, hard tug.
"Ow! That hurts!" cried Petya.
"Didn't you hurt me?" said Marina.
Despite all the horror of his situation, Petya could not but appreciate
that splendid answer, taken straight from Turgenev's First Love.
Suddenly Marina gave her mysterious, mermaid laugh and with feminine
inconsequence said, "Listen, Motya, let's just give him a good beating!"
"Let's!" said Motya, and the two girls advanced on Petya with ominous
laughter.
With a quick movement he twisted away from under their very hands and
raced off at top speed, bare heels twinkling.
Off went the girls after him. He could hear their merry, mocking cries.
They were overtaking him. Then Petya decided on a well-known trick-to throw
himself down right under the feet of his pursuers. He was in too great a
hurry, however, he flopped down before the girls were close enough. And
there he was, looking foolish on all fours, while the girls leisurely ran
up, sat astride on him and started pummelling him.
It did not hurt particularly, but it was humiliating.
"Don't kick a man when he's down!" Petya groaned piteously.
Then with triumphant giggles they turned to tickling him. He squealed
with helpless laughter. But just at the right moment Gavrik dropped from the
skies to help his friend.
"Two to one's not fair! Rescue all!" he cried and flung himself down on
the girls. "Come on all! Come on all!"
The summons immediately brought Pavlik, Zhenka and the boys and girls
of Zhenka's gang, and in a few moments all that could be seen under the
trees was a pile of heaving, panting, giggling, squealing bodies, arms and
legs.
That night Vasily Petrovich had slept like the dead- the heavy
dreamless sleep of a tormented exhausted man, devoid of all thought or
feeling.
It was late when he wakened, and for a long time he continued lying,
eyes closed, face to the wall, unable to imagine what would happen to them
all now.
At last he forced himself to rise, dress and go out into the orchard.
There he saw piles of cherries on the sacks and matting spread out under the
trees, and a great many people-some familiar, some strangers-standing on
ladders or sitting on the branches, gathering the crop. He saw horses
cropping the grass near two platforms. And finally he saw Auntie coming
towards him with small energetic steps, smiling cheerfully.
"Well, Vasily Petrovich, everything's settled and it couldn't be
better!"
"What do you mean?" he answered in a monotonous, expressionless voice.
A faint smile appeared on his face, a strange fixed smile like that of a
sleepwalker.
"Oh, good gracious, what else could I mean but our crop, our cherries!"
Auntie answered gaily.
At the word "cherries" Vasily Petrovich started.
"No, no! For pity's sake," he groaned, "for pity's sake spare me all
that-that torture."
"But listen a moment," said Auntie gently.
"I won't listen! I don't want to listen! Leave me alone! I'd sooner
carry sacks at the port!" cried Vasily Petrovich desperately, and, turning,
ran back into the house without looking hack, stumbling, waving his arms.
"Listen to me at least!" Auntie called after him.
He made no reply, he did not want to understand anything except that
this must be another of Auntie's foolish ideas and they were now
irretrievably ruined.
He lay down again on his bed, face to the wall, wanting one thing
only-to be let alone.
Auntie did let him alone, she knew it was no good talking to him. So in
two days everything was done, without Vasily Petrovich's participation.
Platforms drove away and drove back again. Horses snorted. Baskets
creaked. In the evening camp-fires sparkled on the steppe and, together with
the smoke, the wind brought an appetizing smell of stew and baked potatoes,
and the sound of singing. All this made for a cheerful, almost festive
atmosphere. And it was indeed a festival of gay, free work.
Vasily Petrovich, however, saw nothing of it, or rather, he refused to
see anything. He was in the hopeless, desperate, tormented state of a
trusting man who suddenly discovers that he has been grossly deceived. He
realized that the whole world had deceived him.
His world had been one of illusions. And the most dangerous of them had
been his belief that he was a free man of independent mind. For in reality
he, with all his splendid, lofty thoughts, his purity of spirit, his noble
heart, with all his love for his country and his people, had been a mere
slave, as much a slave as the millions of other Russians, a slave of the
church, the state, and what was called "society." As soon as he made a
feeble attempt to be honest and independent, the state poured its wrath upon
him in the person of the official from the Education Department, "society,"
in the person of Faig; and when he tried to live by the labour of his hands
so as to preserve his independence, to earn his bread in the sweat of his
brow, he found that this too was impossible, because it did not happen to
suit. Madame Storozhenko.
Most of the time Vasily Petrovich spent on his bed, but now he no
longer turned his face to the wall, he lay on his back, his arms folded on
his chest, staring at the ceiling with its play of green reflections from
the orchard outside. His jaws were tightly clenched and angry furrows
crossed his handsome forehead.
On the third day Auntie knocked at the door-softly but very decidedly.
"Vasily Petrovich, would you mind coming out for a minute?"
He jumped up and sat on the edge of the bed.
"What is it? What do you want?"
"Come on to the veranda."
"Why?"
"There's something important."
"Will you kindly spare me any important affairs whatsoever."
"All the same, I beg you to come."
Vasily Petrovich caught a new, serious note in Auntie's voice.
"Very well," he said dully. "Just a minute."
He tidied himself, put on his sandals, rinsed his face, smoothed his
hair with a wet brush and went out, prepared for any trials or humiliations.
But instead of a bailiff, a policeman, a notary or something along
those lines, he saw a stout man of middle age in a canvas jacket-apparently
a workman, who held a piece of sugar in his teeth and was drinking tea
"through" it from a saucer balanced on three fingers. Perspiration trickled
down his red, pock-marked face, and judging by the warm smile with which
Auntie regarded him, he was evidently a most admirable person.
"Ah, here you are, let me introduce you," Auntie said. "This is Terenty
Semyonovich Chernoivanenko from Near Mills. You remember, Petya stayed with
him, and our furniture's there."
"I'm Gavrik's brother, your Petya's friend," said Terenty. He carefully
put down the saucer and held out his great hand to Vasily Petrovich. "Very
glad to make your acquaintance. I've heard a lot about you."
"Really?" Vasily Petrovich said, seating himself at the table and
unconsciously assuming his "teacher" pose with one leg flung over the other,
his pince-nez on the black cord dangling from his hand. "Well, well, it
would be interesting to hear exactly what it was you heard about me."
"Oh, just that first you couldn't get on with the authorities because
of Count Tolstoi, and then you couldn't get on with Faig because of that
blockhead Blizhensky," Terenty said with a sigh, "well, and all the rest of
it. And of course, you acted quite rightly and we respect you for it."
Vasily Petrovich pricked up his ears.
"And who are 'we'?" he asked.
Terenty laughed good-naturedly.
" 'We,' Vasily Petrovich, are ordinary working folk. The people, that
is."
Vasily Petrovich's alertness increased. It all .smacked of "politics."
With some uneasiness he looked at Auntie, because this, of course, must be
her latest undertaking, and perhaps a dangerous one. But suddenly he saw a
pile of paper money on the table-green three-ruble notes, blue fives and
pink tens, neatly stacked and tied round with .thread.
"What's that money?" he asked.
"Just imagine," Auntie said with a modest smile of hidden triumph, "our
early cherry crop's sold and this is what we've made."
"Six hundred and fifty-eight rubles clear profit!" Terenty added,
rubbing his hands. "Now you'll be all right!"
"But just a moment," cried Vasily Petrovich, mistrusting his own eyes.
"How did it all happen? The horses? The platforms? Our delivery? What? How?"
"That's simple," Terenty said. "Our firm is on a sound footing. For the
right kind of people we can get hold of anything-horses, platforms, or
packing. Because we're, well ... the proletariat. Everything is in our
hands, Vasily Petrovich. Isn't that so?"
Although the word "proletariat" was one of the most dangerous, smelling
not only of politics but even of revolution, Terenty spoke it so simply and
naturally that Vasily Petrovich accepted it just as naturally, without the
slightest inner protest.
"So it's you who arranged everything?" he said, putting on his
pince-nez and looking at Terenty with renewed cheerfulness.
"Yes, we did it," Terenty answered with a shade of pride, and returned
Vasily Petrovich's cheerful look.
"Our saviour!" said Auntie,
Then she told him in detail and with a good deal of humour about the
sale of the cherries. They had been taken on platforms through the whole
town and sold right from the platforms retail, and their success had been
phenomenal. People grabbed them up, sometimes buying whole
basketfuls-especially the white and pink ones; the black ones were less in
demand.
"And just imagine," said Auntie, wrinkling her nose, her eyes
sparkling, "our Pavlik was the best salesman of all."
"What?" Vasily Petrovich frowned. "Pavlik sold cherries?"
"Of course," Auntie said, "we all did. Do you think I didn't sell them
too? I most certainly did. I put on an old hat a la Madame Storozhenko, sat
on the box by the driver, and drove in triumph along all the streets. Well,
and how could I stop the children after that? They all sold cherries-Petya
and Motya and Marina and little Zhenya."
"Wait a moment," Vasily Petrovich said sternly. "Did my children sell
cherries in the streets? I think I can't have understood you properly."
"Oh, good gracious, there's nothing to understand. They sat on the
platforms and drove along the streets shouting, 'Cherries! Cherries!'
Somebody had to do the shouting. Just think how they enjoyed it! But Pavlik,
Pavlik! He really amazed me. He shouted better than any of the others. I'd
never thought. You know, he's got a voice just like- Sobinov's. And such an
artistic manner, and the most important thing-a real understanding of the
customer! He always knew how to treat them, when to insist on a high price
and when to lower it a bit."
"Oh, this is outrageous!" muttered Vasily Petrovich and was just
preparing to be really angry when he suddenly seemed to hear his Pavlik
calling out in a voice like Sobinov's, "Cherries! Cherries!" and an
involuntary smile slipped under his moustache. He snatched his pince-nez off
and sat back with his benevolent teacher's "He-he-he!" It did not last long,
however, in a moment he was frowning again.
"It's not really very funny, though," he said with a sigh. "If
anything, it's sad. But it's a true saying: When in Rome, do as the Romans
do."
"That's true," Terenty said, "but it's not all the truth. You mustn't
just do as the Romans do, you must fight them. Or they'll gobble you up so
there's nothing left. Take that old bitch Madame Storozhenko-excuse the
language, but it's the only name for her-she almost swallowed you whole. A
good thing we managed to get here in time."
"Yes," said Vasily Petrovich, "I don't know how to thank you. You've
literally saved us from ruin. Thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my
heart!"
"Fine words butter no parsnips," said Terenty with a grin.
Vasily Petrovich looked at Auntie in some perplexity. He did not know
what to do next. Ought he to offer Terenty money? But Terenty evidently
guessed his thought.
"Nay, it's not money I mean," he said. "We helped you out, well, just
to be neighbourly. From a feeling of solidarity. And, of course, not to let
a good man down. Now we want you to help us a bit."
Terenty kept using the word "we," but for some reason it no longer
alarmed Vasily Petrovich.
"How can I help you?" he asked with interest.
"This way." Terenty took out a folded handkerchief and wiped his big,
kindly face and round cropped head with the satiny-white soar on the temple.
"We've got a small study circle, a sort of Sunday school. We read various
pamphlets, books, and newspapers, and so far as we can, we study political
economy. Well, that's all right as far as it goes," and Terenty sighed, "but
it doesn't go far enough. Vasily Petrovich, we're short of general
knowledge. You know-history, geography ... how life began in the world ...
that sort of thing. Now, how do you look at that?"
"You mean, you want me to read some popular lectures?" Vasily Petrovich
asked.
"That's exactly it. Yes, and a bit of Russian literature wouldn't do
any harm either. Pushkin, Gogol, Count Tolstoi. ... In general, whatever you
think is needed, you know more about that. And in return we'll help you with
the orchard. The early cherries are all sold, but there are still the late
cherries, and apples, and pears. And you've a vineyard too. Not very big,
but it'll take a good bit of work. You'll never manage it all by yourselves.
So that's the idea, you help us and we'll help you."
Vasily Petrovich had already resigned himself to the thought that his
educational activities were over, and now such a blaze of joy flared up in
him that for a moment he could hardly master himself. He even rubbed his
hands and flashed his pince-nez in his old class-room manner, .saying,
"Well, well...." But with the memory of the trouble and humiliation
connected with his former work, his enthusiasm quickly died out.
"Ah, no," he said, "no, no! Anything but that! I've had enough." His
face bore an imploring look and he cracked his fingers. "For pity's sake not
that! I vowed to myself. And what sort of teacher am I if they've driven me
out from everywhere?" he concluded bitterly.
"Why, Vasily Petrovich, how can you talk like that!" cried Auntie,
horrified.
"They didn't drive you out, they tried to gobble you up," Terenty said.
"You stuck in the throat of those gentry, so they just tried to get you out
of the way. It's as Simple as that. We stick in their throats too, but they
can't get rid of us. We're too tough. They couldn't settle us properly in
1905, and now, in 1912, they don't have a chance. And you want to deny it!"
he added reproachfully, although Vasily Petrovich had said nothing, only
stared at Terenty, trying to find the connection between 1905, 1912 and his
own fate which had worked out so dreadfully.
"No," he said at last, but with less resolution. "All you say may be
right to a certain extent, but it doesn't make it any easier for me." He was
just going to add that he would rather go to the port and carry sacks, but
for some reason stopped himself, thrust his beard forward and said, "And
that's that."
"All right," Terenty said, "have it your own way. But I think you're
making a mistake. Where's the sense of it if a teacher stops teaching? Why
should you stop? What's it matter that you couldn't agree with that
blockhead of an official and that shark Faig? They're not the people. The
people are still very ignorant, you know it yourself. They need light,
knowledge. The working class lacks educated people. And where can we find
them, when we haven't the means? Who can help us as you can? We've helped
you, you help us. We've got to be neighbourly, Vasily Petrovich. It's not
far from us to you. The same proletariat. It's only two miles from here to
Near Mills, across the steppe as the crow flies. Well, what about it?"
Terenty bent a warm look on Vasily Petrovich. "You won't have to come to us.
We'll come ourselves, if you agree; on Saturday evenings after work, or on
Sundays. We'll earth up your trees and water the orchard and work in the
vineyard, and then you'll teach us a bit after. Out in the open air, under
the trees, on the grass or somewhere on the steppe, in -some quiet spot-that
would really be fine. Especially as the police have been giving us no peace
at all in Near Mills lately. As soon as folks get together anywhere to talk
or read books-there's a raid, a search, a fuss-and come to the
police-station. But this is ideal. Even if they should come it is all plain
and clear-folks working in an orchard, the most ordinary thing in the
world."
Terenty talked gently, almost tenderly, respectfully, now and then just
touching Vasily Petrovich's sleeve with two fingers as softly as though he
were removing a wisp of down. And the more he talked, the more that idea of
lessons under the sky, in the open air, appealed to Vasily Petrovich. It was
just the thing that had been lacking-free enlightenment inspired by free
physical labour.
While Terenty was still talking, Vasily Petrovich made a mental plan of
his first lectures. He would begin, of course, with a popular outline of
general history and physical geography-perhaps to be followed by astronomy.
"Well, Vasily Petrovich, what about it? Do you agree?" Terenty asked.
"Yes, I do," Vasily Petrovich answered decidedly.
That day Auntie went to town, made the payment, and a new life started
at the farm.
For five days of the week everything went on as before. The Bacheis
continued to work in the sweat of their brow, earthing up and watering late
cherry and apple trees. The only change was that now the Pavlovskayas
sometimes joined them.
Petya and Marina had slipped into friendly, somewhat dull, neighbourly
terms. Nevertheless-more from habit than anything else-he would sometimes
look volumes at her to which she usually replied by unobtrusively putting
out her tongue.
Every Saturday afternoon, however, a whole procession would arrive from
Near Mills. Motya, Gavrik and Zhenka came, then tall, thin Sinichkin
carrying his spade carefully wrapped in newspaper under his arms. The old
railwayman with his lamp whom Petya knew from Near Mills and Uncle Fedya
would come striding .along in step like soldiers, Uncle Fedya with a big
copper kettle in his hand and a large, flat loaf of bread under his arm.
The young schoolmistress would come running from the horse-tram
terminus, clasping a few dog-eared pamphlets to her breast.
There were others of Terenty's Sunday guests, workers whom Petya had
often seen in the streets, the workshops or the gardens when he lived in
Near Mills.
Terenty himself usually came last. He would throw off his boots and
jacket, place them neatly under a tree and at once take charge.
"Well, folks, time to stop smoking and get to work."
He distributed the jobs quickly; some people he sent to help with the
earthing, others to weed, or bring water from the cistern, or water the
trees, or work in the vineyard. Then he would take a spade or hoe and start
himself.
They worked for only a couple of hours or so, but got through more than
the Bacheis had done in a week. Then all went to the sea for a bathe,
returned refreshed, sat down soberly in a circle under the trees, and
Terenty went to fetch Vasily Petrovich.
"Certainly, I'm quite ready," he invariably replied, coming out on the
veranda in a freshly-ironed tussore jacket, starched shirt with a black tie,
and pointed kid boots.
He approached the group with his springy teacher's step, erect and
severe, carrying under his arm an exercise book containing the outline of
his lecture which he had been preparing for several days; Terenty
respectfully brought a chair from the veranda and placed it for him.
When Vasily Petrovich appeared, the "pupils" wanted to rise, but with a
quick movement he gestured to them to remain seated, refused the chair and
himself sat down on the grass as though stressing the special, free,
unofficial nature of the studies.
It should be added that this was the only freedom Vasily Petrovich
permitted himself. In nothing else did he deviate a hair's breadth from the
strictest academic tradition.
"Well," he would say, glancing down at his notes, "last time we
discussed the life of primitive man who already knew how to make fire, who
hunted with the aid of crude weapons of stone, but who had not yet learned
to cultivate the land or to sow grain...."
Petya, who sometimes joined the circle, discovered a new father-not the
ordinary, domestic Dad-dear, kind and sometimes unhappy, but a capable
teacher presenting his subject in a clear, logical sequence.
Petya had never realized his father had such a fine, ringing voice, or
that mature working men could listen to him with such childlike attention.
Petya noticed that they even stood a little in awe of him. Once Uncle Fedya
forgot where he was and lighted a cigarette. Then Vasily Petrovich stopped
in the middle of a sentence and fixed such an icy look upon the culprit that
he crushed out the cigarette in his palm, flushed crimson, jumped to his
feet, and standing to attention with bulging eyes jerked out navy-fashion,
"Excuse me, Comrade Lecturer! Won't happen again!"
"Sit down," said Vasily Petrovich coldly and took up his lecture
exactly where he had broken off.
Behind his back Terenty shook his fist at Uncle Fedya, and Petya
realized that his father not only himself took a pride in his profession,
but made others respect it too.
Usually they all spent the night with the Bacheis, rising early to
work, so they cooked their supper immediately after the lecture to get to
sleep in good time.
A fire was lighted beside the twig-and-weed shanties, and a great
cauldron of potato-and-pork stew was hung over it. Night fell; the darkness
under the trees became so intense that from the distance it looked as though
the fire was burning in the mouth of a cave. Black shadowy forms moved round
it; they were gigantic and it seemed that their heads could touch the stars.
It all reminded Petya of a gipsy camp.
When the stew was ready, Terenty would go to the house to invite Vasily
Petrovich to join them.
In a few moments he would appear, this time in domestic garb-an old
Russian shirt and sandals on his bare feet. Someone would hand him a wooden
spoon and, squatting down, he would eat the rather smoky stew with evident
relish and praise it highly.
Then they would drink tea, also smoky, and eat rye bread. Sometimes
fishermen from Bolshoi Fontan whom Terenty knew would join them, bringing
fresh fish. On those occasions supper would continue until long past
midnight. Gradually the talk would turn to political subjects-at first-
cautiously, in veiled- words, then with increasing frankness, with such a
vigour of expression that Vasily Petrovich would produce a yawn, stretch
himself, rise and say, "Well, I won't trouble you any further. Thank you for
the supper, but now I'm for bed. And I advise you to get some sleep too. The
stew was really incomparable."
Nobody urged him to stay. They would put out the fire and gather in
Terenty's shanty, light the railway lantern and continue their talk-but it
was talk of a different nature. Pavlovskaya would join them, bringing along
a thick, worn, cloth-bound book. Petya knew that now they would read Karl
Marx's Capital and the latest issue of the Pravda, and after that they would
discuss Party affairs.
This, however, was not for Petya's ears, not even for Gavrik's. Their
job was to walk all round the orchard and the house, keeping an eye on the
steppe and especially on the roads. If they saw anything suspicious, they
were to give the alarm by firing the shot-gun. But who could appear in the
middle of the night on the steppe, so far from town? Who could ever think
that an innocent orchard concealed a small shanty lighted by a railway
lantern where eight or ten workmen and fishermen were discussing the destiny
of Russia, the destiny of the world, drawing up leaflets, discussing Party
matters and preparing for revolution.
Petya and Gavrik, however, did their duty conscientiously. Petya
carried the old shot-gun they used for scaring birds slung over his
shoulder, while Gavrik now and then slipped his right hand into a pocket to
touch a loaded Browning of which Petya knew nothing.
At first the girls would go round with them, for company. Marina, of
course, knew what it was all about, but Motya innocently thought they were
guarding the orchard against thieves, and followed Petya on tiptoe, never
taking her eyes off the shot-gun.
She was no longer angry with him for being such a little liar, she even
loved him more, especially now when it was so quiet, dark and mysterious all
round, when sleep had laid its hand on everything but the quails and the
crickets, when the whole steppe lay silvery in the starlight.
"Petya, aren't you even a bit afraid of thieves?" she whispered, but
Petya pretended not to have heard.
He was not in the mood for love. And altogether, he had vowed to
himself to have no more dealings with girls. He'd had enough! Better to be a
lone, brave, taciturn man for whom women do not exist.
He gazed intently out on the empty steppe, ears pricked for the
slightest sound. But Motya tiptoed after him and asked, "Petya, if you see a
thief will you shoot him?"
"Of course," Petya answered.
"Then I'll stop up my ears," Motya whispered, faint with fear and love.
"Let me alone!"
She said no more, but in a little while Petya heard a queer sound
behind him, like a cat sneezing. It was Motya's stifled giggle.
"What are you sniggering about?"
"Remember that time Marina and I fooled you?"
"Idiot! It was I that fooled you both," Petya growled.
"You let your imagination run away with you," said Marina in her
mother's voice. During these nocturnal strolls she was very quiet, reserved,
adult, said little and walked beside Gavrik, even taking his arm sometimes.
And although that did give Petya a pang of jealousy, he continued resolutely
in his role of a man for whom love does not exist.
But alas, love did exist, the whole warm night on the steppe seemed
filled with it. It was in everything-the dark sky, thick with summer
star-dust, the crystal choir of crickets, the gentle, warm, scented breeze,
the distant barking of a dog, and especially the glow-worms that seemed like
fires in the far distance, yet you need but stretch out your hand and the
soft, weightless little lamp lay on your palm shedding its dead green light
on a tiny patch of skin.
The girls collected glow-worms and put them in each other's hair. Then
they began to yawn and soon afterwards went to their shanty, floating away
through the darkness like twin constellations.
Gavrik and Petya continued to guard the camp alone until the light
disappeared in Terenty's shanty. Sometimes this was only when dawn was
breaking.
In those early morning hours Gavrik talked with unusual frankness, and
Petya learned much that was new to him. He understood now that a new,
-powerful revolutionary movement had already begun, and that it was led by
Ulyanov-Lenin who, Gavrik said, had moved from Paris to Cracow to be closer
to Russia.
"And do you think it'll really come-revolution?" asked Petya,
pronouncing the dreadful word with an effort.
"I don't just think it, I'm sure of it," Gavrik answered and added in a
whisper, "If you want to know, it's already-"
Petya waited breathlessly for what Gavrik would say next. But Gavrik
said nothing, he. could not find the words for all he had sensed or heard
from Terenty. But Petya understood. The Lena shooting. The strikes. The
meeting on the steppe. The Pravda. The fight with that bully. Prague.
Cracow. Lenin. And finally this night, that lantern in the shanty. What else
was it all but a herald of the mounting tide of revolution?
Soon the late cherries ripened. There were fewer trees this time but no
less bother.
At the height of the picking Madame Storozhenko suddenly appeared. This
time she did not enter but had the britzka stop at the far side of the
scrub-grown earth bank that marked the boundary. For a long time she stood
on the step, steadying herself with a hand on the head of one of the
Persians, watching the work.
"Ragamuffins, scamps, proletarians!" she kept screaming, shaking her
big canvas sunshade threateningly. "I'll teach you to go forcing prices
down! I'll have the police on you!"
Nobody took any notice and she finally drove away, with a parting yell,
"I'll put a stop to your tricks, so help me God!"
The next day platforms came for the cherries. While they were still out
on the steppe, a little distance from the orchard, Petya saw some heavy
boxes thrown off them which afterwards disappeared.
"What boxes were those?" he asked.
"I thought you were asleep," Gavrik replied, evidently none too
pleased. He ignored Petya's question.
"No, but seriously, what were those boxes?"
"What boxes?" Gavrik drawled, with a look of innocence. "Where'd you
see any boxes? There aren't any!"
But Petya had seen them plainly enough.
"Don't play the fool!" he snapped angrily.
Gavrik came and stood in front of him, legs apart.
"Forget them," he said sternly. But there was such mysterious triumph
in his face, such a sly gleam in his eye that Petya's curiosity only flamed
higher.
"Tell me-what were they?" he said again. He knew full well that their
contents was some important secret, and that Gavrik was aching to boast
about it. "Well?" he said insistently.
Then Gavrik brought his face up close, hesitated a moment, and after
looking all round said in a whisper, "A flat press."
Petya could not believe his ears.
"What?" he said.
"A flat press for printing," Gavrik said very distinctly. "Don't you
understand? Dunderhead!"
Dozens of times Petya had passed that little gully on the steppe, thick
with tall weeds, without noticing anything special about it. But when he
looked at it this time he saw the weeds at the bottom stir and two figures
climb out-first Uncle Fedya and then the old railwayman. Now Petya
understood it all. There must be a cave in the rocks at the bottom of the
gully, there were many of these caves all round the city, opening on to the
steppe or among the cliffs, and Petya knew they were the entrances to the
famous Odessa catacombs. So that was where the boxes had gone!
"Get it?" said Gavrik and gave Petya such a keen, almost menacing look
that the boy was just about to pronounce some solemn vow when he caught
himself up, and returning Gavrik's look, said merely, "Yes. I got it."
"I hope you do," said Gavrik. "And remember, you've seen nothing.
Forget it all."
"I know," Petya said, and they both went unhurriedly to the orchard
where the cherries were being poured out in piles on the platform.
Next morning Terenty reappeared on the veranda and put some money on
the table.
"You see how well it works out," he said. "You help us, we help you.
There's a hundred and seventeen here, and we kept back fifteen rubles for
small expenses. I hope you don't object?"
"Oh, of course not, of course not," Vasily Petrovich said.
He never suspected that these "fifteen rubles for small expenses" had
been sent that very day to St. Petersburg, and that in a week's time the
list of acknowledgements of cash received in the Pravda would include a line
that read, "From a group of Odessa workers, 15 rubles."
That was how the cherry crop was marketed.
The next thing would be the early apples. The summer was passing
quietly, everything was going well-except for a small incident which passed
unnoticed by all but Petya, on whom it left an unpleasant impression. . As
he neared the orchard one day after a bathe he saw a man coming out of the
gate. There was something familiar about him. Moved by an inexplicable sense
of danger, Petya slipped quietly into the maize field and squatted down
among the thick stems and rustling leaves. The man passed so close that
Petya could have reached out and touched his dusty serge trousers and grey
canvas shoes. He looked up and saw against the bright blue sky and marble
clouds a head in a summer cap of loofah with two peaks-in front and at the
back-the kind of cap dubbed "Hullo-Good-bye!"; he saw the grey moustache and
pince-nez of dark glass like those worn by the blind. It was Moustache, the
secret police spy whose face had been imprinted on Petya's mind as a child,
on the Turgenev, and whom he had seen again just before his trip abroad,
standing with a coastguard officer on board the Palermo.
The man passed without noticing Petya, his bluely shaved cheeks puffed
out, trumpeting softly a popular march.
Petya waited a little while and then hurried home to find out what this
man had come for. But he got little satisfaction. According to Auntie, it
was a summer resident from Bolshoi Fontan who had simply come for cherries;
Auntie had told him she was sorry but he was too late. He had walked round
the orchard, praised it and said he would most certainly come back in
September when the grapes were ripe. That was all. As it was the middle of
the week only the family had been there, and. Petya felt easier in his mind.
Perhaps the man really was staying at Bolshoi Fontan for the summer and
really had come only for cherries. After all, he was a human being, why
shouldn't he have a summer cottage at Bolshoi Fontan?
Gavrik, however, took it much more seriously, although he agreed that
it might be mere chance". To be on the safe side, Terenty increased the
sentries, and Gavrik and Petya paced the steppe not only on Saturday nights
but during the day as well. It was evidently a false alarm, however, for the
man did not appear again.
One Saturday at the beginning of August Petya and Gavrik, after
circling round the orchard a few times and seeing nothing suspicious, went
to the cliffs, lay down and gazed out to sea. The sun had only just set,
there was a brisk wind and the glow was fading from the pink clouds.
Dolphins played not far from the shore, and on the horizon the white sails
of scows stood out against the sky, for it was the mackerel fishing season.
The scows moved in various directions and frequently changed their
course, now approaching, now withdrawing. Sometimes one of them would come
quite close and pass, tossing, along the coast; then the two could see the
fountains of spray as its flat bottom slapped the water, and the man
standing on the battered bow moving a long rod, bent like a bow, backward
and forward. The boys knew that at the end of the long line was a
bait-brightly painted fish of lead with a multitude of sharp hooks. The
great art of this kind of fishing was to adapt the speed of the bait to the
movement of the shoal. The rapacious mackerel would start to pursue the
shining bait and it must not be pulled too far ahead or made too easy to
seize. The fisherman must tantalize the fish before letting it snap, then it
would be firmly caught.
It was interesting to watch, but Petya and Gavrik were thinking of
something else. They watched the sails, trying to guess which was the one
they awaited.
In addition to the fishing boats they could see far out the smart white
sails of the racing yachts of the fashionable clubs on the last lap of the
annual handicap for the prize offered by the Odessa millionaire Anatre. They
were just racing for the finish, leaning over sharply with the wind-lovely
vessels built at the best wharves of Holland and Britain. At any other time,
of course, Petya and Gavrik would have had eyes for nothing else, but now
Gavrik only remarked contentedly, "It's like Saturday evening on
Deribasovskaya Street. Crowded. Easy to slip through."
"I believe it's that one, look, with the old 'Bolshoi Fontan lighthouse
on her beam," said Petya, pronouncing the words "on her beam" with special
satisfaction.
"No," said Gavrik, ''Akim Perepelitsky's scow is bright blue, only just
painted, and this is all scaled off!"
"I believe you're right."
"I certainly am." "Look! There she is!" -
"Where?"
"Opposite Golden Shore, a bit closer, look, bright blue!"
"It's got a new jib, Perepelitsky's is patched."
"When did they say they'd come?"
"When the sun sets."
"It's set now."
"It's still too light. Needs to get a bit darker first."
"Maybe they won't come at all?"
"Rubbish. This is Party work."
The boys went on staring intently out to sea.
Only a little while before a representative of the Central Committee
had come to Odessa secretly from abroad, from Ulyanov-Lenin, bringing the
Party directives regarding the elections to the Fourth State Duma. For a
week now he had been going everywhere addressing Party meetings about the
political situation. Now he was expected at the farm. As A precautionary
measure a young-fisherman, Akim Perepelitsky, was to bring him on his
fishing boat from Langeron.
The light faded from the clouds, the sea darkened. The yachts passed
and disappeared. The sails of fishing boats became noticeably fewer. A band
was playing far away, in Arcadia, and the wind brought the distant music of
trumpets and the dull thud of a drum. And still Akim Perepelitsky's scow did
not appear.
Suddenly Gavrik cried, "Look, there it is!"
It was not at all where they had expected it to appear -instead of
coming from the Langeron side, it appeared from near to Lustdorf. Evidently
Akim Perepelitsky thought it safer to keep far out to sea until he was
opposite Lustdorf and then turned back to Kovalevsky's dacha. Now the scow
was quite close in, leaping from wave to wave before a brisk wind, making
straight for the shore.
There were two men in it. The one lying back in the stern with the
tiller under his arm was Akim Perepelitsky, Petya knew him at once. The
other-short and thickset, in an old, striped singlet under a fisherman's
canvas coat, barefoot, trousers rolled to his knees-was sitting astride the
side of the boat, skilfully unlashing the jib-sheet. This man Petya did not
immediately recognize.
While the boys raced down the cliff path the sails were furled, the
rudder taken in and dropped in the stern, the keel raised and the scow
grounded gently, the bottom scraping the pebbles as it buried its nose in
the shingle.
Following the unwritten law of the coast, Petya and Gavrik first helped
to pull the heavy boat ashore, and then greeted the arrivals.
"Gosh! It's Uncle Zhukov!" cried Gavrik like a child, shaking hands
vigorously with the Central Committee" representative. "I knew it! I was
sure it was you coming!"
Zhukov looked at Gavrik for a moment. "Aha!" he said at last. "Now I
know you too. Wasn't it you who pulled me out of the water opposite Otrada
Villa seven years ago? Look how you've shot up! I'm sorry about your
grandad.... Aye, he was a good old man, I liked him! Well, may his soul rest
in peace. I remember how he kept praying to St. Nicholas, not that he ever
got anywhere by it...." A shadow from past memories passed over Rodion
Zhukov's face.
"What's your name, by the way? I'm afraid I've forgotten."
"Gavrik. Gavrik Chernoivanenko."
"Chernoivanenko? Any relation to Terenty?"
"Yes, I'm his brother."
"You don't say! And following in his footsteps, I see." "Uncle Zhukov,
I know you too," Petya put in plaintively, tired of seeing the attention of
the Central Committee representative concentrated on Gavrik alone. "I knew
you even before he did. When you hid in the coach, remember? And then on the
Turgenev."
"Well, of all things!" cried Zhukov merrily. "So it looks as if we're
old friends, too, if you're telling the truth."
"I am, I swear it," cried Petya and crossed himself. "Gavrik can tell
you. Gavrik, tell him how I carried cartridges to Alexandrovsky Street!"
"It's right, he did," said Gavrik.
"And I saw you in Naples a year ago. You were with Maxim Gorky. Isn't
that right?"
Zhukov looked at Petya.
"Yes, it's right," he said. "I remember you now. You were in a sailor's
blouse, weren't you?"
"Yes," Petya said and looked at Gavrik in triumph.
"See?"
"Only there's one thing, lads," said Zhukov sternly.
"Forget that I was ever called Uncle Zhukov. That's gone. I'm Vasilyev
now. Don't forget. What's my name?"
"Vasilyev," the boys said in one voice.
"Remember, then.... Well, and what's your name?" he asked, turning to
Petya.
"Petya."
"He's that teacher's son," Gavrik amplified.
"I guessed it," said Zhukov, thought for a moment and added decisively,
"well, don't let's waste time. Let's go. Have they all come?"
"Long ago," Gavrik answered.
"All clear along the way? I gave them my word in Cracow that I'd be as
prudent as a young lady."
"Yes, it's all clear," Gavrik said.
Rodion Zhukov took a round basket of mackerel from the scow and put it
on his head, like any fisherman taking his catch to sell at the villa doors.
"A good catch," said Gavrik with respect.
"A whole basket in one go and with one silver bait," laughed Zhukov,
with a wink at Akim Perepelitsky. Handsome young Akim with a forelock
falling over his forehead swung the oars with lazy grace on to his shoulder
and they began to climb the cliff path.
Gavrik went about fifty paces in front of the two men, Petya the same
distance behind them; if either of them noticed anything suspicious he was
to whistle through his fingers. Petya held his fingers ready, worried by a
foolish fear that if he needed to whistle, he might suddenly be unable to
make a sound. Everything was quiet, however, and avoiding the road, they
made their way to the orchard where Terenty met them by the vineyard. Petya
saw them hug each other with many enthusiastic slaps on the back, and then
go to the shanties where a fire was already crackling under the trees,
sending out showers of golden sparks.
When Petya went up to the shanties a little later, Rodion Zhukov,
smoking a short pipe with a metal lid, was sitting before the fire,
surrounded by a group of people.
"Let's review the events that have taken place in the six months since
the Prague Conference, comrades," he was saying. "In the first place, the
Party exists again. That is the main thing. I don't need to tell you how
this was done, what tremendous difficulties -we had to overcome. There was
the rabid persecution by the tsarist police, the failures, the provocation,
the incessant interruptions in the work of the local centres and the Central
Committee. But now that's all past, thank heaven. Our Party's going ahead
boldly, confidently, broadening its activities and increasing its influence
among the masses. Not in the old way, but in the new way. What was left to
us after the defeat of the 1905 Revolution? Illegal activities, nothing
else. But now in addition to our illegal cells, our secret little groups
even more carefully concealed than before, we have broader, legal Marxist
teaching. It is this combination of legal and illegal that characterizes our
preparations for revolution under the new conditions. We are advancing to a
new .revolution, comrades, under slogans of a democratic republic, an
eight-hour working day and complete confiscation of all the big estates. You
know that these slogans have been caught up over the whole of Russia. They
have been accepted by all the thinking proletariat. To put it briefly, we've
stopped the retreat. Stolypin's liberal counter-revolution is on its last
legs. There are more strikes, mere uprisings. This is a revolutionary
movement of the masses, it is the beginning of the offensive of the working
masses against the tsarist monarchy."
Petya never took his eyes off Rodion Zhukov, off that face lighted by