the leaping, crackling flames of the fire. He was no longer the Zhukov Petya
had seen as a child and had never forgotten. Nor was it the Zhukov he had
seen in Naples, nor even the Zhukov who had just walked barefoot over the
steppe with the round basket of fish on his head. It was a new
Zhukov-Comrade Vasiilyev, exacting, almost stern, with narrowed, imperative
eyes, a firm mouth and short moustache clipped a foreign way. It was the
sailor who had become a captain.
"Now let's talk about the elections to the Fourth State Duma," Zhukov
went on. "Despite persecution and mass arrests, the Russian
Social-Democratic Party now has a clearer, more definite programme and
tactics than any other party. This is how Vladimir Lenin-Ulyanov, writing in
the Workers' Paper, formulated the situation on the eve of the
elections...."
Gavrik tugged at Petya's sleeve.
"What are you sitting here for, as if you've nothing to do?" he
whispered. "We've got to keep watch."
Petya slipped quietly out of the circle, and suddenly saw his father.
Vasily Petrovich stood leaning against a tree, arms folded, listening so
intently to Rodion Zhukov that he did not even turn his head when Petya
jolted his shoulder in passing. His hair fell in disorder over his lined
forehead and a tiny reflected fire sparkled in each glass of his pince-nez.
Petya and Gavrik circled the orchard and turned on to the road leading
to the terminus. The old horse-tram had recently been replaced by an
electric tram; its deep cello note came to them from the distance, a blue
electric spark travelled along the wire past the gardens, and the bright
light from the windows made the steppe seem still darker. Suddenly Gavrik
stopped and gripped Petya's arm. A number of white figures were walking
along the side of the road in single file, making straight for the Bacheis'
orchard. Before Gavrik had time to whisper, "Police!" Petya distinguished
the white summer tunics. The boys raced breathlessly back to the fire.
"The Liquidators shout about a decent, licensed platform for the
elections. But we Bolsheviks consider that what's needed isn't a platform
for the elections, but elections for carrying out a revolutionary
Social-Democratic platform. We have already used the elections for this and
we shall continue using them, we shall use even the most reactionary tsarist
Duma for revolutionary teaching, agitation, propaganda. That's how it is!"
Rodion Zhukov coughed angrily and reached out to the fire for an ember
to relight his pipe; at that moment Gavrik whispered to Terenty who raised
his hand without getting up.
"Just a minute, comrades. A point of order," he said in a quiet, almost
business-like tone. "First of all please preserve absolute calm and
revolutionary self-control. We're surrounded by police."
Petya expected everyone to jump up and seize weapons. He pulled his
shot-gun off his shoulder-he had not had time to fire it as they ran back to
the farm. Now it's going to start, he thought, fearful yet thrilled.
To his great surprise, however, all remained sitting quietly round the
fire. Only Rodion Zhukov with a sharp movement knocked out his pipe on the
ground and slipped it into his pocket.
"All stop where you are; you, Rodion, and you, Tamara," Terenty turned
to Pavlovskaya, "will have to hide for a little while. We've got a good
place not far from here. Gavrik, off you go! Take our illegal workers to the
gully. They can sit it out there."
"Damn them, they interrupted us at the most important point," said
Rodion Zhukov gaily. "Well, comrades, here you've got a splendid instance of
our tactics-the combination of legal and illegal." His eyes flashed
mischievously yet somehow menacingly in the light of the fire.
"Go on, go on underground," said Terenty impatiently.
Pavlovskaya and Zhukov followed Gavrik, passing beneath the trees and
disappearing into the darkness. A slight shadow that was Marina slipped
after them. Petya made to follow her, gripping his shot-gun, but Terenty
shook his finger in warning and he halted. Everything happened quickly and
quietly, without any stir. When the police officer with three of his men
followed Moustache into the orchard, trying to step quietly and keep their
sabres from rattling, they found a picture of perfect peace-a group of
people sitting by a camp-fire quietly eating supper.
"Who are you? What's the reason for this assembly?" the officer asked
sternly, advancing out of the darkness. Without a doubt he expected his
appearance to be as startling as a clap of thunder. But they went quietly on
with their supper, only the old railwayman carefully licked his wooden spoon
clean, wiped it on his trousers and held it out to the officer saying,
"You're welcome to join us, to have a bite of supper. Akim, move over a bit,
so there's room for His Honour to sit down."
"Nay, what's the good of that," drawled Akim Perepelitsky lazily.
"They've got a whole squad, our stew'll not go round them all. They'd best
go back to the station and eat their prison skilly."
"Get up!" snapped the officer. "Who d'you think you're talking to?"
"No need to be so free, Your Honour, we haven't tended pigs together,"
drawled Akim more lazily still, raised himself on his elbow and spat in the
fire.
"Ugh-rabble!" said the officer viciously, blowing his reddish moustache
and wrinkling his fleshy nose. "You- I'll make you...."
Meanwhile, the policemen stood in the darkness under the trees, ready
at any moment to seize anyone they could lay hands on, although what was
happening was very different from what they had expected.
They had thought they would catch dangerous bomb-throwers red-handed,
that they would have to use their sabres and perhaps fire-arms too. But
instead of that, this man with the moustache had brought them to an orchard
where people sat round a camp-fire peacefully eating their supper and not
only showed no fear of the police but even talked impertinently to the
officer. It looked as though they'd come on a fool's errand.
"My good sir, I haven't the honour of knowing who you are," said Vasily
Petrovich in a voice trembling with indignation, drawing himself up to his
full height and coming up close to the officer. "What do you want here? By
what right do you break into this orchard? And- and-and interrupt people
having their supper," he added, his beard shaking.
"And who might you be?" asked the officer sternly.
"I not only might be, I am the tenant and full master here, on a fully
legal agreement," said Vasily Petrovich, assuming a lofty schoolroom manner.
"These are my labourers ... seasonal labourers, if the term pleases you
better, whom I hired to work in the garden and vineyard." (Terenty nodded
approvingly.) "I am Councillor Bachei, and I won't stand any trespassing on
my grounds at night!" he cried, his voice rising to a shout, and he stamped
his sandaled foot angrily.
"Excuse me, we are not trespassing, we are the police," said the
officer, falling back a step.
"To me you are trespassing!" Vasily Petrovich shouted. "I wish to have
nothing to do with you. Why do you persecute me? Great heavens," and his
voice became plaintive. "When will it all end? First it was that official,
then Faig, then Madame Storozhenko. And now the police. Leave me alone!" he
yelled, beside himself. "Let me live in peace! Lea-ve m-ee a-lo-ne! Or I'll
lodge a complaint-with the Governor, with Major-General Tolmachov!"
Strange as it might seem, his confused speech produced a decided
impression on the officer, especially the mention of Tolmachov. After all,
who could say what he was, this Bachei? Suppose he really did complain to
General Tolmachov?
"You don't need to raise your voice," said the officer, more in
expostulation than threat, and went over to Moustache who had been
sauntering about in the darkness under the trees, carefully looking over all
the men round the fire, one after the other. The officer whispered to him,
coughed, and turned back to Vasily Petrovich.
"We have information that various illegal assemblages are constantly
held here, that banned pamphlets are read and-well, that people assemble.
And all assemblages are at present strictly forbidden."
"But, Your Honour," said Akim Perepelitsky insinuatingly, "people
assemble for work here, to earn a bit- well, to dig round the trees and tie
up the vines, and do the watering.... It's a bit of extra money for a poor
man."
"I'm not talking to you," the officer snapped. "I'm talking to the
tenant."
"I don't see that we have anything to discuss," said Vasily Petrovich.
"As for your assertion that some kind of banned pamphlets are read here and
all the rest of it, that is simply a figment of your diseased imagination,
nothing more."
"Then why do you assemble these people here at night?" asked the
officer wearily-he had realized long ago that the raid was a failure,
because nothing could be proved.
"They 'assemble,'" said Vasily Petrovich with a delicately ironical
emphasis on the word, "because with your kind permission I read lectures to
them."
"Aha, lectures?" The officer pricked up his ears.
"Yes," Vasily Petrovich said, straightening his pince-nez. "Popular
educational lectures on the history of civilization, literature and
astronomy-following the programme authorized by the Ministry of Education.
Have you any objections?"
"Astronomy." The officer shook his head disapprovingly and wrinkled his
fleshy nose. "Of course, if you follow the authorized programme, then it's
all right, you can go on."
"Ah, so you permit it?" cried Vasily Petrovich in mock delight. "You
permit it! How very condescending! Well then-in that case I will not venture
to detain you any longer. Or perhaps you would like to make a search-
confiscation-or whatever you call it? In that case, be so kind. The orchard
is at your disposal!" exclaimed Vasily Petrovich ceremoniously with a broad,
hospitable gesture of both arms as though wishing to embrace all this
wonderful night with its dark trees, camp-fire, glow-worms and starry sky.
"Dad's grand!" thought Petya, his eyes fixed admiringly on his father.
At that moment there was the rustle of skirts and Auntie came running out.
"What's this? What's this? What's going on here?" she panted, turning
alarmed eyes on the officer and the policemen.
"Don't get excited, it's nothing dreadful," said Vasily Petrovich
calmly. "This gentleman had been given false information-that some kind of
illegal assemblages took place here, but fortunately it all turned out to be
a mistake."
"Aha, I understand," said Auntie. "That's probably Madame Storozhenko's
doing."
"I can tell you nothing about that, madame," said the officer, and
after whispering to Moustache, he gestured angrily to the policemen. These
shuffled about a little, then moved away through the orchard in single file
like geese, their white tunics adding to the resemblance in the darkness.
Soon they disappeared through the gate.
"As for those lectures of yours, I shall have to report them to my
superiors,'' the officer said.
"To the Governor himself if you like," replied Vasily Petrovich and
without waiting for them to leave, he lay down by the fire and said in his
ringing teacher's voice,
"Well, gentlemen, let us continue. Last time I acquainted you with the
elementary foundations of astronomy, the wonderful science of the stars. Let
me repeat briefly what I told you. Astronomy is one of the most ancient
sciences of mankind. The Egyptians...."
Petya slipped cautiously out of the circle of fire-light, slung the
shot-gun over his shoulder and followed the police, hugging the shadows of
the trees. As he came up level with the officer and Moustache he heard the
officer saying angrily, "With agents like you, I might as well sit down on
the stove and wait for my belly to boil." "But I swear I had the most
reliable information!"
"Oh, go to hell. Madame Storozhenko greased your palm handsomely and
you went and made fools of us. Coming out here for nothing on a Saturday
night. Thank heaven there's the electric tram now, or we'd have had to
rattle back on that horse-tram!"
So they were leaving. But Petya felt he must see them on the tram with
his own eyes. Then he went back. On the road he saw a small, motionless
figure. It was Motya.
"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.
"Waiting," she whispered. "I was so worried about you...."
"Nobody asked you to," he said. "Go home."
"Have they left?"
"Yes."
"On the electric tram?"
"Yes."
Motya laughed softly.
"What's so funny?"
"It's queer-you and I alone in the empty field, and the night all
round.... Petya," she said after a pause, "weren't you frightened when you
followed them?"
"Silly! What about the gun?"
"Yes, that's right." Motya sighed. "But I nearly died of fear."
The night was dark and warm, with a slight breeze. Now and then a faint
report like a shot came from Arcadia, where fireworks were being let off. A
number of rockets soared into the air, glowing orange, and burst in great
fiery stars that floated slowly down, and then their dry cracks came to
Petya and Motya.
"How lovely!" said Motya and sighed again.
"Go home," was all Petya answered.
She turned and went obediently down the road, and soon disappeared in
the dim silvery light.
Petya turned into the steppe and ran to the familiar gully. Nobody had
told him to see the police safely away, and nobody had told him to go to
Rodion Zhukov afterwards. He was impelled by an unconscious but sure inner
urge. It was as though some force moved him.
It was quite warm in the gully. Rustling through the weeds, Petya felt
his way along the steep rocky side, seeking the opening.
"Is that you, Petya?" Gavrik's voice asked out of the darkness.
"Yes, it's me."
"What's happening?"
"Everything's all right. They've gone."
"And not taken anyone?"
"No, no one."
"That's good. Here, reach out your hand."
Petya did so, and Gavrik pulled him into the cave. For some time they
moved ahead in complete darkness, their shoulders now and then touching the
wall, bringing down trickles of dry soil. Then the passage-way became lower
and narrower so that they had to crawl on all fours. At last a faint light
appeared, the passage widened, and Petya found himself in a large cave hewn
out in the rock, with a sloping, smoke-blackened roof.
A lantern hanging on the wall cast a light, crisscrossed by the shadows
of its bars, so that the cave looked like a cage. It was damp and cool, yet
stuffy. The lack of fresh air was very noticeable. In the corner beneath the
lamp Petya saw a small flat printing-press and guessed this was the one
brought in the boxes he had seen. In a case alongside lay the type which
Gavrik had been bringing from the Odessa Leaflet print-shop for two years.
On the wall hung his familiar blue overalls stained with printer's ink.
Rodion Zhukov w-as sitting on the floor his back against the wall,
smoking his pipe and reading a book, making pencil notes in the margin. The
Pavlovskayas were settled on the boxes in which the press had come. The
mother sat with her old waterproof drawn round her, and Marina was asleep,
her head with its black hair-ribbon resting on her mother's knees, her feet
in their dusty little buttoned shoes, one worn through at the toe, tucked
under her.
All of their belongings lay on the floor beside them- the kerosene
stove wrapped in newspaper, the bundle and the small travelling-bag, which
led to the conclusion that they always had their things packed. They looked
like people sitting in some small, out-of-the-way railway station waiting
for a train.
"It's all right. We can go back," said Gavrik.
Rodion Zhukov did not move, but made Petya tell him everything. Then he
thought a little and asked Petya to tell him again, without hurrying. Only
after Petya had given his story for the second time did Zhukov slip his book
into his pocket, rise, stretch luxuriously and say, "Well, we can go up
again, then. Evidently it was just chance the bastards happened upon me.
Come along, Tamara."
"Get up, dear," said Pavlovskaya, lightly nipping Marina's nose as one
does with a little child. The girl opened her eyes, looked round about, saw
Petya-earth-stained, tousle-headed, with the shot-gun over his
shoulder-smiled sleepily and smoothed her creased hair-ribbon.
"I want to sleep," she said pettishly, but rose obediently and picked
up the kerosene stove.
"No, leave your things here, just in case," said Rodion Zhukov.
"What a darling she is," thought Petya.
When they came out into the fresh air, the stars seemed wonderfully
bright, almost blinding. The steppe was very quiet. Silently, stopping now
and then to listen, they went back to the orchard, climbed over the earthen
weed-grown bank and seated themselves quietly at the fire where Vasily
Petrovich was still lecturing on astronomy.
"Just try to imagine," he said enthusiastically, raising his head to
look at the sky, "that we have the magic power to travel through space with
the speed of light. If that were so, we could easily convince ourselves that
the universe is infinite. Look at that starry sky which arches so
magnificently over us. What do we see? We see myriads of stars, planets, and
nebulae, and finally we see the Milky Way which in turn is nothing other
than another great collection of stars. But all this countless number is
only an infinitesimal part of the universe. So, gentlemen, imagine that we
are flying through space with a speed inconceivable to the human mind and
finally reach the most distant star. What do we find? We find that we see
before us another star-filled firmament. We fly to the farthest star of this
new sky but here too there is no end to the universe. Again a sky full of
stars opens before us. And thus, however far we fly through space, more and
more worlds open before us, and there is no end lo it because the universe
itself is endless."
Vasily Petrovich fell silent, still looking upwards. And all the others
looked silently up too-at the familiar stars, the silvery track of the Milky
Way, thrilled, fascinated by the thought of infinity.
Marina was sitting beside Petya, looking up too; and suddenly he was
swept with a wave of such tenderness, such aching love that tears rose in
his eyes.
"Listen-" he whispered, gently touching her sleeve.
"What?" she said almost soundlessly, without turning her head.
The words "I love you" nearly slipped out, but instead he managed to
say, "It is marvellous, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Marina, with a movement of her head that seemed wonderfully
free and graceful. "The darker the night, the brighter the stars."
Somewhere far away a cock crowed, barely audible; and the slender blue
finger of light from the new Bolshoi Fontan lighthouse rose far up, into the
star-filled sky.
Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
had seen as a child and had never forgotten. Nor was it the Zhukov he had
seen in Naples, nor even the Zhukov who had just walked barefoot over the
steppe with the round basket of fish on his head. It was a new
Zhukov-Comrade Vasiilyev, exacting, almost stern, with narrowed, imperative
eyes, a firm mouth and short moustache clipped a foreign way. It was the
sailor who had become a captain.
"Now let's talk about the elections to the Fourth State Duma," Zhukov
went on. "Despite persecution and mass arrests, the Russian
Social-Democratic Party now has a clearer, more definite programme and
tactics than any other party. This is how Vladimir Lenin-Ulyanov, writing in
the Workers' Paper, formulated the situation on the eve of the
elections...."
Gavrik tugged at Petya's sleeve.
"What are you sitting here for, as if you've nothing to do?" he
whispered. "We've got to keep watch."
Petya slipped quietly out of the circle, and suddenly saw his father.
Vasily Petrovich stood leaning against a tree, arms folded, listening so
intently to Rodion Zhukov that he did not even turn his head when Petya
jolted his shoulder in passing. His hair fell in disorder over his lined
forehead and a tiny reflected fire sparkled in each glass of his pince-nez.
Petya and Gavrik circled the orchard and turned on to the road leading
to the terminus. The old horse-tram had recently been replaced by an
electric tram; its deep cello note came to them from the distance, a blue
electric spark travelled along the wire past the gardens, and the bright
light from the windows made the steppe seem still darker. Suddenly Gavrik
stopped and gripped Petya's arm. A number of white figures were walking
along the side of the road in single file, making straight for the Bacheis'
orchard. Before Gavrik had time to whisper, "Police!" Petya distinguished
the white summer tunics. The boys raced breathlessly back to the fire.
"The Liquidators shout about a decent, licensed platform for the
elections. But we Bolsheviks consider that what's needed isn't a platform
for the elections, but elections for carrying out a revolutionary
Social-Democratic platform. We have already used the elections for this and
we shall continue using them, we shall use even the most reactionary tsarist
Duma for revolutionary teaching, agitation, propaganda. That's how it is!"
Rodion Zhukov coughed angrily and reached out to the fire for an ember
to relight his pipe; at that moment Gavrik whispered to Terenty who raised
his hand without getting up.
"Just a minute, comrades. A point of order," he said in a quiet, almost
business-like tone. "First of all please preserve absolute calm and
revolutionary self-control. We're surrounded by police."
Petya expected everyone to jump up and seize weapons. He pulled his
shot-gun off his shoulder-he had not had time to fire it as they ran back to
the farm. Now it's going to start, he thought, fearful yet thrilled.
To his great surprise, however, all remained sitting quietly round the
fire. Only Rodion Zhukov with a sharp movement knocked out his pipe on the
ground and slipped it into his pocket.
"All stop where you are; you, Rodion, and you, Tamara," Terenty turned
to Pavlovskaya, "will have to hide for a little while. We've got a good
place not far from here. Gavrik, off you go! Take our illegal workers to the
gully. They can sit it out there."
"Damn them, they interrupted us at the most important point," said
Rodion Zhukov gaily. "Well, comrades, here you've got a splendid instance of
our tactics-the combination of legal and illegal." His eyes flashed
mischievously yet somehow menacingly in the light of the fire.
"Go on, go on underground," said Terenty impatiently.
Pavlovskaya and Zhukov followed Gavrik, passing beneath the trees and
disappearing into the darkness. A slight shadow that was Marina slipped
after them. Petya made to follow her, gripping his shot-gun, but Terenty
shook his finger in warning and he halted. Everything happened quickly and
quietly, without any stir. When the police officer with three of his men
followed Moustache into the orchard, trying to step quietly and keep their
sabres from rattling, they found a picture of perfect peace-a group of
people sitting by a camp-fire quietly eating supper.
"Who are you? What's the reason for this assembly?" the officer asked
sternly, advancing out of the darkness. Without a doubt he expected his
appearance to be as startling as a clap of thunder. But they went quietly on
with their supper, only the old railwayman carefully licked his wooden spoon
clean, wiped it on his trousers and held it out to the officer saying,
"You're welcome to join us, to have a bite of supper. Akim, move over a bit,
so there's room for His Honour to sit down."
"Nay, what's the good of that," drawled Akim Perepelitsky lazily.
"They've got a whole squad, our stew'll not go round them all. They'd best
go back to the station and eat their prison skilly."
"Get up!" snapped the officer. "Who d'you think you're talking to?"
"No need to be so free, Your Honour, we haven't tended pigs together,"
drawled Akim more lazily still, raised himself on his elbow and spat in the
fire.
"Ugh-rabble!" said the officer viciously, blowing his reddish moustache
and wrinkling his fleshy nose. "You- I'll make you...."
Meanwhile, the policemen stood in the darkness under the trees, ready
at any moment to seize anyone they could lay hands on, although what was
happening was very different from what they had expected.
They had thought they would catch dangerous bomb-throwers red-handed,
that they would have to use their sabres and perhaps fire-arms too. But
instead of that, this man with the moustache had brought them to an orchard
where people sat round a camp-fire peacefully eating their supper and not
only showed no fear of the police but even talked impertinently to the
officer. It looked as though they'd come on a fool's errand.
"My good sir, I haven't the honour of knowing who you are," said Vasily
Petrovich in a voice trembling with indignation, drawing himself up to his
full height and coming up close to the officer. "What do you want here? By
what right do you break into this orchard? And- and-and interrupt people
having their supper," he added, his beard shaking.
"And who might you be?" asked the officer sternly.
"I not only might be, I am the tenant and full master here, on a fully
legal agreement," said Vasily Petrovich, assuming a lofty schoolroom manner.
"These are my labourers ... seasonal labourers, if the term pleases you
better, whom I hired to work in the garden and vineyard." (Terenty nodded
approvingly.) "I am Councillor Bachei, and I won't stand any trespassing on
my grounds at night!" he cried, his voice rising to a shout, and he stamped
his sandaled foot angrily.
"Excuse me, we are not trespassing, we are the police," said the
officer, falling back a step.
"To me you are trespassing!" Vasily Petrovich shouted. "I wish to have
nothing to do with you. Why do you persecute me? Great heavens," and his
voice became plaintive. "When will it all end? First it was that official,
then Faig, then Madame Storozhenko. And now the police. Leave me alone!" he
yelled, beside himself. "Let me live in peace! Lea-ve m-ee a-lo-ne! Or I'll
lodge a complaint-with the Governor, with Major-General Tolmachov!"
Strange as it might seem, his confused speech produced a decided
impression on the officer, especially the mention of Tolmachov. After all,
who could say what he was, this Bachei? Suppose he really did complain to
General Tolmachov?
"You don't need to raise your voice," said the officer, more in
expostulation than threat, and went over to Moustache who had been
sauntering about in the darkness under the trees, carefully looking over all
the men round the fire, one after the other. The officer whispered to him,
coughed, and turned back to Vasily Petrovich.
"We have information that various illegal assemblages are constantly
held here, that banned pamphlets are read and-well, that people assemble.
And all assemblages are at present strictly forbidden."
"But, Your Honour," said Akim Perepelitsky insinuatingly, "people
assemble for work here, to earn a bit- well, to dig round the trees and tie
up the vines, and do the watering.... It's a bit of extra money for a poor
man."
"I'm not talking to you," the officer snapped. "I'm talking to the
tenant."
"I don't see that we have anything to discuss," said Vasily Petrovich.
"As for your assertion that some kind of banned pamphlets are read here and
all the rest of it, that is simply a figment of your diseased imagination,
nothing more."
"Then why do you assemble these people here at night?" asked the
officer wearily-he had realized long ago that the raid was a failure,
because nothing could be proved.
"They 'assemble,'" said Vasily Petrovich with a delicately ironical
emphasis on the word, "because with your kind permission I read lectures to
them."
"Aha, lectures?" The officer pricked up his ears.
"Yes," Vasily Petrovich said, straightening his pince-nez. "Popular
educational lectures on the history of civilization, literature and
astronomy-following the programme authorized by the Ministry of Education.
Have you any objections?"
"Astronomy." The officer shook his head disapprovingly and wrinkled his
fleshy nose. "Of course, if you follow the authorized programme, then it's
all right, you can go on."
"Ah, so you permit it?" cried Vasily Petrovich in mock delight. "You
permit it! How very condescending! Well then-in that case I will not venture
to detain you any longer. Or perhaps you would like to make a search-
confiscation-or whatever you call it? In that case, be so kind. The orchard
is at your disposal!" exclaimed Vasily Petrovich ceremoniously with a broad,
hospitable gesture of both arms as though wishing to embrace all this
wonderful night with its dark trees, camp-fire, glow-worms and starry sky.
"Dad's grand!" thought Petya, his eyes fixed admiringly on his father.
At that moment there was the rustle of skirts and Auntie came running out.
"What's this? What's this? What's going on here?" she panted, turning
alarmed eyes on the officer and the policemen.
"Don't get excited, it's nothing dreadful," said Vasily Petrovich
calmly. "This gentleman had been given false information-that some kind of
illegal assemblages took place here, but fortunately it all turned out to be
a mistake."
"Aha, I understand," said Auntie. "That's probably Madame Storozhenko's
doing."
"I can tell you nothing about that, madame," said the officer, and
after whispering to Moustache, he gestured angrily to the policemen. These
shuffled about a little, then moved away through the orchard in single file
like geese, their white tunics adding to the resemblance in the darkness.
Soon they disappeared through the gate.
"As for those lectures of yours, I shall have to report them to my
superiors,'' the officer said.
"To the Governor himself if you like," replied Vasily Petrovich and
without waiting for them to leave, he lay down by the fire and said in his
ringing teacher's voice,
"Well, gentlemen, let us continue. Last time I acquainted you with the
elementary foundations of astronomy, the wonderful science of the stars. Let
me repeat briefly what I told you. Astronomy is one of the most ancient
sciences of mankind. The Egyptians...."
Petya slipped cautiously out of the circle of fire-light, slung the
shot-gun over his shoulder and followed the police, hugging the shadows of
the trees. As he came up level with the officer and Moustache he heard the
officer saying angrily, "With agents like you, I might as well sit down on
the stove and wait for my belly to boil." "But I swear I had the most
reliable information!"
"Oh, go to hell. Madame Storozhenko greased your palm handsomely and
you went and made fools of us. Coming out here for nothing on a Saturday
night. Thank heaven there's the electric tram now, or we'd have had to
rattle back on that horse-tram!"
So they were leaving. But Petya felt he must see them on the tram with
his own eyes. Then he went back. On the road he saw a small, motionless
figure. It was Motya.
"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.
"Waiting," she whispered. "I was so worried about you...."
"Nobody asked you to," he said. "Go home."
"Have they left?"
"Yes."
"On the electric tram?"
"Yes."
Motya laughed softly.
"What's so funny?"
"It's queer-you and I alone in the empty field, and the night all
round.... Petya," she said after a pause, "weren't you frightened when you
followed them?"
"Silly! What about the gun?"
"Yes, that's right." Motya sighed. "But I nearly died of fear."
The night was dark and warm, with a slight breeze. Now and then a faint
report like a shot came from Arcadia, where fireworks were being let off. A
number of rockets soared into the air, glowing orange, and burst in great
fiery stars that floated slowly down, and then their dry cracks came to
Petya and Motya.
"How lovely!" said Motya and sighed again.
"Go home," was all Petya answered.
She turned and went obediently down the road, and soon disappeared in
the dim silvery light.
Petya turned into the steppe and ran to the familiar gully. Nobody had
told him to see the police safely away, and nobody had told him to go to
Rodion Zhukov afterwards. He was impelled by an unconscious but sure inner
urge. It was as though some force moved him.
It was quite warm in the gully. Rustling through the weeds, Petya felt
his way along the steep rocky side, seeking the opening.
"Is that you, Petya?" Gavrik's voice asked out of the darkness.
"Yes, it's me."
"What's happening?"
"Everything's all right. They've gone."
"And not taken anyone?"
"No, no one."
"That's good. Here, reach out your hand."
Petya did so, and Gavrik pulled him into the cave. For some time they
moved ahead in complete darkness, their shoulders now and then touching the
wall, bringing down trickles of dry soil. Then the passage-way became lower
and narrower so that they had to crawl on all fours. At last a faint light
appeared, the passage widened, and Petya found himself in a large cave hewn
out in the rock, with a sloping, smoke-blackened roof.
A lantern hanging on the wall cast a light, crisscrossed by the shadows
of its bars, so that the cave looked like a cage. It was damp and cool, yet
stuffy. The lack of fresh air was very noticeable. In the corner beneath the
lamp Petya saw a small flat printing-press and guessed this was the one
brought in the boxes he had seen. In a case alongside lay the type which
Gavrik had been bringing from the Odessa Leaflet print-shop for two years.
On the wall hung his familiar blue overalls stained with printer's ink.
Rodion Zhukov w-as sitting on the floor his back against the wall,
smoking his pipe and reading a book, making pencil notes in the margin. The
Pavlovskayas were settled on the boxes in which the press had come. The
mother sat with her old waterproof drawn round her, and Marina was asleep,
her head with its black hair-ribbon resting on her mother's knees, her feet
in their dusty little buttoned shoes, one worn through at the toe, tucked
under her.
All of their belongings lay on the floor beside them- the kerosene
stove wrapped in newspaper, the bundle and the small travelling-bag, which
led to the conclusion that they always had their things packed. They looked
like people sitting in some small, out-of-the-way railway station waiting
for a train.
"It's all right. We can go back," said Gavrik.
Rodion Zhukov did not move, but made Petya tell him everything. Then he
thought a little and asked Petya to tell him again, without hurrying. Only
after Petya had given his story for the second time did Zhukov slip his book
into his pocket, rise, stretch luxuriously and say, "Well, we can go up
again, then. Evidently it was just chance the bastards happened upon me.
Come along, Tamara."
"Get up, dear," said Pavlovskaya, lightly nipping Marina's nose as one
does with a little child. The girl opened her eyes, looked round about, saw
Petya-earth-stained, tousle-headed, with the shot-gun over his
shoulder-smiled sleepily and smoothed her creased hair-ribbon.
"I want to sleep," she said pettishly, but rose obediently and picked
up the kerosene stove.
"No, leave your things here, just in case," said Rodion Zhukov.
"What a darling she is," thought Petya.
When they came out into the fresh air, the stars seemed wonderfully
bright, almost blinding. The steppe was very quiet. Silently, stopping now
and then to listen, they went back to the orchard, climbed over the earthen
weed-grown bank and seated themselves quietly at the fire where Vasily
Petrovich was still lecturing on astronomy.
"Just try to imagine," he said enthusiastically, raising his head to
look at the sky, "that we have the magic power to travel through space with
the speed of light. If that were so, we could easily convince ourselves that
the universe is infinite. Look at that starry sky which arches so
magnificently over us. What do we see? We see myriads of stars, planets, and
nebulae, and finally we see the Milky Way which in turn is nothing other
than another great collection of stars. But all this countless number is
only an infinitesimal part of the universe. So, gentlemen, imagine that we
are flying through space with a speed inconceivable to the human mind and
finally reach the most distant star. What do we find? We find that we see
before us another star-filled firmament. We fly to the farthest star of this
new sky but here too there is no end to the universe. Again a sky full of
stars opens before us. And thus, however far we fly through space, more and
more worlds open before us, and there is no end lo it because the universe
itself is endless."
Vasily Petrovich fell silent, still looking upwards. And all the others
looked silently up too-at the familiar stars, the silvery track of the Milky
Way, thrilled, fascinated by the thought of infinity.
Marina was sitting beside Petya, looking up too; and suddenly he was
swept with a wave of such tenderness, such aching love that tears rose in
his eyes.
"Listen-" he whispered, gently touching her sleeve.
"What?" she said almost soundlessly, without turning her head.
The words "I love you" nearly slipped out, but instead he managed to
say, "It is marvellous, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Marina, with a movement of her head that seemed wonderfully
free and graceful. "The darker the night, the brighter the stars."
Somewhere far away a cock crowed, barely audible; and the slender blue
finger of light from the new Bolshoi Fontan lighthouse rose far up, into the
star-filled sky.
Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics