miracle that the jam had remained at its former level.
"Exactly as it was," Gavrik said.
"I told you she wouldn't notice it." With these words Petya replaced
the first parchment disk, then the paper lid, rewound the cord tightly, made
exactly the same kind of bow, returned the jar to the sideboard and placed
it on the top shelf.
Meanwhile Gavrik had written out two more letters: "R" and a
shaky-looking "S."
"That's fine!" Petya praised him. "By the way, I think we can safely
try another spoonful."
"Of what?"
"The jam."
"But what about Auntie?"
"Don't be silly. We left it exactly the same as before. Another
spoonful each will still leave as much as there was. Right?"
Gavrik thought about it and agreed. After all, one could not contradict
the obvious.
Petya brought in the jar, untied the tight bow painstakingly, carefully
removed the paper lid and parchment disk, and admired the glossy surface
that shone as before at the very top of the jar; then the two friends had
another spoonful each, licked the spoons, and Petya wound the cord around
the neck of the jar and retied the bow.
This time the jam seemed doubly delicious and their enjoyment of it
twice as fleeting.
"You see, the level hasn't changed!" Petya said triumphantly, as he
lifted the jar that was just as heavy as ever.
"I wouldn't say that," Gavrik rejoined. "This time it's sure to be a
tiny bit lower. I had a good look at it."
Petya raised the jar and examined it closely.
"Nothing of the sort. It's exactly the same, no change."
"That's what you think," Gavrik said. "You can't notice it because the
empty space is hidden by the edges of the paper. Turn back the edge and
you'll see."
Petya lifted up the pleated edge of the paper lid and raised the jar to
the light. The jar was almost as full as before. Almost, but not quite.
There was a space a hair's-breadth wide, but it was a space. This was most
unfortunate, although it was doubtful that Auntie would notice it. Petya
took the jar into the dining-room and replaced it on the top shelf.
"Let's see what you've been scribbling," he said with an affected
gaiety.
Gavrik scratched his head in silence and sighed.
"What's the matter? Are you tired?"
"No. It's not that. I rather think that she'll notice it, even though
only a tiny bit is missing."
"No, she won't."
"I'll bet she will. And you'll be in a fix when she does."
Petya flushed.
"So what! Who cares! After all, Grandma sent it for all of us, and
there's no reason why I shouldn't taste it. If a friend comes to study with
me, surely I can treat him to strawberry jam? Huh! You know what? I'll bring
it in and we'll each have a saucerful. I'm sure Auntie won't say anything.
She'll even praise us for being honest and straightforward about it, for not
doing it in a sneaky way."
"Do you think we ought to?" Gavrik asked timidly.
"What's to stop us!" Petya exclaimed.
Suiting the action to the word he brought in the jar and, certain that
he was doing an honest and honourable deed, measured out two full saucers of
the jam.
"That's enough!" he said firmly, tied up the jar, and put it back in
the sideboard.
But it was far from being enough. It was only now, after they had each
had a saucerful, that the friends began really to appreciate the heavenly
jam. Overcome with an overwhelming and irrepressible desire for at least a
little more, Petya brought the jar in again, and with a look of grim
determination and without even so much as a glance at Gavrik, served out two
more helpings. Petya never dreamed that a saucer could hold so much. When he
held the jar up to the light, he saw that it was at least a third empty.
Each ate his portion and licked his spoon clean.
"Never tasted anything like it!" Gavrik said as he went back to copying
out the letters "T," "U," "V," and "X," experiencing at the same time a
burning desire to have at least one more spoonful of the delectable stuff.
"All right," Petya said resolutely, "we'll eat exactly half of it and
no more!"
When there was exactly half the jam left, Petya tied the cord for the
Last time and carried the jar back to the sideboard, his mind firmly made up
not to go near it again. He tried not to think about Auntie.
"Well, have you had enough?" he asked Gavrik with a wan smile.
"More than enough," Gavrik answered, for the sticky sweetness was
beginning to give him a sour taste.
Petya felt slightly nauseous himself. Bliss was suddenly turning into
something quite the opposite. They no longer wanted even to think about the
jam, and yet, strange as it may seem, they could not get it out of their
minds. It seemed to be taking revenge on them, creating an insane, unnatural
desire for more. It was no use trying to resist the craving. Petya, dazed,
returned once more to the dining-room, and the boys began scooping up
spoonfuls of the nauseating delicacy, having lost all sense of what they
were doing. This was hatred turned to worship, and worship turned to hatred.
Their mouths were puckered up from the acid-sweet taste of the jam. Their
foreheads were damp. The jam stuck in their protesting throats. But they
kept on devouring it as if it were porridge. They were not even eating it,
they were struggling with it, destroying it as a mortal enemy. They came to
their senses when only a thin film of jam left on the very bottom of the jar
evaded their spoons.
At that moment Petya realized the full meaning of the terrible thing
they had done. Like criminals anxious to cover up their tracks, the boys ran
into the kitchen and began feverishly to rinse the sticky jar under the tap,
remembering, however, to take turns drinking the sweetish, cloudy water.
When they had washed and wiped the jar clean, Petya put it back on the
shelf in the sideboard, as if that would somehow remedy the situation. He
comforted himself with the foolish hope that perhaps Auntie had already
forgotten about Grandma's jam, or that when she would see the clean empty
jar she would think they had eaten it long ago. Alas, Petya knew very well
that at best his hopes were foolish.
The boys tried not to look at each other as they walked back to the
writing-desk and resumed the lesson.
"Where were we?" Petya said weakly, for he could hardly keep from
vomiting. "We have twenty of the twenty-three letters. Later on,
historically, two more letters were added."
"Which makes twenty-five," Gavrik said, choking down his sugary saliva.
"Quite right. Copy them out."
Just then Vasily Petrovich came in. He was in that sad but peaceful
mood that always came over him after a visit to the cemetery. He glanced at
the studious boys, and noticing the strange expression of ill-concealed
disgust on their faces, he said:
"I see you are working on the Sabbath, my dear sirs. Having a hard
time? Never mind! The root of learning may be bitter, but its fruits are
sweet."
With these words he tiptoed over to the icons, took from his pocket the
small bottle of wood-oil he had bought in the church shop and carefully
filled the icon-lamp, a task he performed every Sunday.
Soon Auntie returned and was followed by Dunyasha. Pavlik was still
downstairs. They heard the samovar singing in the kitchen. The delicate
tinkle of the china tea-set drifted in from the dining-room.
"I'd better be going," Gavrik said, putting his things together
quickly. "I'll finish the other letters at home. So long. See you next
Sunday!" With a solemn look on his face he ambled through the dining-room,
past the sideboard and into the hall.
"Where are you going?" Auntie asked. "Won't you stay to tea?"
"Thanks, Tatyana Ivanovna, they're waiting for me at home. I've a
couple of chores to do yet."
"You're sure you won't stay? We've got nice strawberry jam. H'm?"
"Oh no, no!" Gavrik exclaimed in alarm. In the hall he whispered to
Petya, "I owe you 50 kopeks," and dashed down the stairs to escape from the
scene of the crime.
"You're not looking well," Auntie said as she turned to Petya. "You
look as if you had tainted sausage. Maybe you're going to be ill. Let's see
your tongue."
Petya hung his head dejectedly and stuck out a marvellously pink
tongue.
"Aha! I know what it is!" Auntie cried. "It's all because of that
Latin. You see, my dear, how difficult it is to be a tutor! Never mind,
we'll open Grandma's jam in honour of your first lesson and you'll be your
old self again in no time."
With these words Auntie walked over to the sideboard, while Petya lay
down on his bed with a groan and stuck his head under the pillow so as not
to hear or see anything.
However, at the very moment that Auntie was gazing in astonishment at
the clean empty jar and trying to puzzle out why it was there and how it had
got into the sideboard, Pavlik rushed into the hall, yelling at the top of
his lungs:
"Faig, Faig! Listen! Faig has driven up to our house in his carriage!"
They all rushed to the windows, including Petya, who had tossed aside
his pillow. True enough, Faig's carriage was at the front gate.
Mr. Faig was one of the best-known citizens in town.
He was as popular as Governor Tolmachov, as Maryiashek, the town idiot,
as Mayor Pelican who achieved fame by stealing a chandelier from the
theatre, as Ratur-Ruter, the editor-publisher, who was often thrashed in
public for his slanderous articles, as Kochubei, the owner of the largest
ice-cream parlour, the source of wholesale food-poisoning every summer, and,
finally, as brave old General Radetsky, the hero of Plevna.
Faig, a Jew who had turned Christian, was a man of great wealth, the
owner and head of an accredited commercial school. His school was a haven
for those young men of means who had been expelled for denseness and bad
behaviour from other schools in Odessa and elsewhere in the Russian Empire.
By paying the appropriate fee one could always graduate and receive a
school-leaving certificate at Faig's school. Faig was a philanthropist and
patron of the Arts. He enjoyed making donations and did so with a splash,
including an announcement in the papers.
He donated suites of furniture and cows to lotteries, contributed large
sums towards improving the cathedral and buying a new bell, he established
the Faig Prize to be awarded annually at the yacht races, and paid fifty
rubles for a glass of champagne at charity bazaars. In short, this Faig, who
had become a legend, was the horn of plenty that poured charity upon the
poor.
However, the main source of his popularity lay in the fact that he rode
around town in his own carriage.
This was no antediluvian contraption of the type that usually bumped
along as part of the funeral cortege. Neither was it a wedding carriage,
upholstered in white satin with crystal headlights and folding step. Nor was
it a bishop's carriage, that screeching conveyance which, in addition to
carrying the bishop, was also used for transporting to private homes the
Icon of the Holy Virgin of Kasperovka associated with Kutuzov and the fall
of Ochakov. Faig's carriage was a coupe de luxe on English springs, with
high box and a coachman dressed according to the height of English fashion.
The doors sported a fictitious coat-of-arms, and, as a finishing touch. a
liveried footman stood on the footboard, which reduced the street loafers to
a state approaching religious ecstasy.
A pair of bob-tailed horses with patent-leather blinkers whisked the
carriage along at la brisk trot. Faig was inside. He was wearing a top hat
and a Palmerston coat, his side whiskers were dyed black, and a Havana was
planted between his teeth. His feet were wrapped in a Scotch plaid.
While the Bachei family was watching Faig's carriage from the windows
and wondering whom he might have come to see, the door-bell rang. Dunyasha
opened the door and nearly swooned. The liveried footman stood before her
with his three-cornered purled hat pressed to his breast.
"Mr. Faig presents his respects to the Bachei family," the footman
said, "and asks to be received."
The Bachei family, who had rushed into the hall, stood there
dumbfounded. Auntie was the only one who had kept a level head. She gave
Vasily Petrovich a meaning look, turned to the footman, and with a polite
smile and in an offhand manner said, "Please ask him up."
The footman bowed and went downstairs, sweeping the stairway with the
long tails of his livery coat.
No sooner had Vasily Petrovich fastened his collar, adjusted his tie,
and got his arms through the sleeves of his good frock-coat, than Mr. Faig
entered. He carried his top hat, his gloves tossed into it, stiffly in one
hand and in the other, which sparkled with the diamonds, he held a cigar. A
democratic smile lit up his face between the black side whiskers. He spread
the aroma of Havana cigar smoke mixed with the scent of Atkinson's perfume.
A battery of badges, medals, and fraternity-pins followed the cut of his
frock-coat. Tiny pearls glowed gently in the buttonholes of his
magnificently starched white shirt-front.
This man, the personification of success and wealth, had suddenly paid
them a call! Faig put his top hat on the hall table and extended his plump
hand to Father in the grand manner. That was all Petya saw, for Auntie
manoeuvred him and Pavlik into the kitchen and kept them there until Mr.
Faig departed.
Judging by the fact that Faig's loud and merry laughter and Father's
chuckle were heard several times, the visit was a friendly one. But what
could be the reason for it? The explanation was forthcoming when Faig, after
being helped into the carriage by the footman and having the Scotch plaid
tucked round his legs, waved his white hand with the cigar and drove off. He
had come to Vasily Petrovich with the offer of a teaching appointment in his
establishment.
It had all been so unexpected and so much like a miracle, that Vasily
Petrovich turned to the icon and crossed himself. Teaching in Faig's school
was much more remunerative than in the gymnasium, because Faig paid his
teachers almost double the salary paid by the government. Vasily Petrovich
was captivated by Faig's matter-of-fact way, his cordiality and democratic
manners which contrasted so pleasantly and unexpectedly with his appearance
and his way of life.
In conversation with Vasily Petrovich, Faig displayed a keen
understanding of contemporary affairs. He was biting and yet restrained when
criticizing the Ministry of Education for its inability to appreciate its
best teachers; he fiercely resented the government's attempts to turn the
schools into military barracks and openly declared that the time had come
for society to take the matter of public education into its own hands and
banish servile officials and petty tyrants such as the head of the Odessa
District Education Department, who had revived the worst traditions of the
Arakcheyev times. He declared that their attitude towards Vasily Petrovich,
in addition to lacking any justification, had been disgusting, and that he
hoped to right the wrong and restore justice, as he considered the matter
his sacred duty to Russian society and science. He hoped that in his
establishment Vasily Petrovich would find full scope for" his abilities as a
brilliant teacher and for his love of the great Russian literature. As a
believer in European methods of education he was sure that he and Vasily
Petrovich would understand one another. As for the formalities, he did not
doubt for a minute that he would get the consent of the Minister of
Education to have Vasily Petrovich officially accredited, since a public
gymnasium was one thing, and a private school something else again. Nor did
Faig conceal the fact that one of the reasons which had prompted him to
engage Vasily Petrovich was that by so doing he would raise the standard of
the school in the eyes of the liberal circles of Odessa society; another was
that it would be a challenge to the government, since, according to Faig,
Vasily Petrovich's famous speech on the occasion of Tolstoi's death had won
him a definite political reputation.
All this was strange and flattering to Vasily Petrovich, although he
winced at the mention of his political reputation. And when Faig added, "You
shall be our standard-bearer," Vasily Petrovich even felt a little
frightened. However, Faig's proposition was accepted, and life in the Bachei
family underwent a miraculous change.
Faig had paid Vasily Petrovich for six months in advance. The sum was
larger than the family had ever dreamed of. Now, whenever Vasily Petrovich
ventured forth, the neighbours watched him enviously from their windows and
said:
"Look, there goes Bachei, the one Faig has taken on."
Once again Vasily Petrovich began to think in terms of a trip abroad.
And at long last, after weighing up his resources and consulting Auntie for
the twentieth time, he decided: we're going!
THE SAILOR'S OUTFIT
Spring, which came early, was warm and glorious. Easter passed and left
pleasant memories. Soon it was examination time, a time Petya always
associated with the brief May thunderstorms, fiery flashes of purple
lightning, the lilac in bloom in the school garden, the dry air of the empty
class-rooms with the desks moved close together and the clouds of chalk
dust, pierced by the warm rays of the afternoon sun that remained suspended
in the air after the last exam.
They began preparing for the trip during examination time. Switzerland,
a country that had always had a special place in Vasily Petrovich's heart,
was their main objective. However, it was decided that they should first go
to Naples by sea, and then cross Italy by rail. This indirect route would be
slightly more expensive, but it would give them the chance to visit Turkey,
Greece, the islands of the Aegean Sea and Sicily, they would be able to see
all the sights of Naples, Rome, Florence, and Venice; then, funds
permitting, they might even pay a brief visit to Paris. Vasily Petrovich had
mapped out the itinerary many years before, when Mother had still been
alive. The two-of them had spent many an evening leafing through travel
guides and writing down the travel expenses. They had noted the price of the
tickets, hotel and boarding-house rates, and even admission prices to
museums and tips were included in their careful calculations.
Despite all this Vasily Petrovich feared to overtax the budget, and so
he studied the rail and steamer ticket prices once more.
There were many arguments about what to take and how to pack. Auntie
suggested that they should buy two very ordinary suitcases and put very
ordinary clothes in them. However, it turned out that Vasily Petrovich was
of another mind completely. He thought they should have a special satchel
and Alpine rucksacks with special straps that would not interfere with
climbing.
Auntie shrugged and laughed, but Petya and Pavlik insisted that only
the special Alpine rucksacks be ordered, and so she gave in. Vasily
Petrovich went to the shop with his own draft of the special travelling-bag
and the special rucksacks. A few days later the Bachei household was richer
by two rucksacks and a rather strange-looking creation of the
luggage-and-harness industry. It was of tartan and bore a vague resemblance
to a huge accordion, covered all over with a multitude of patch-pockets.
These new and still empty travelling-bags and the exciting smell of
leather and dyed material brought visions of far distances into the
household. Then they discovered that the boys could not go abroad in their
school uniforms, they would have to wear "civvies."
That was no problem as far as Pavlik was concerned. He still had last
year's "pre-school" clothes: a pair of short trousers and a middy-blouse.
Petya's outfit presented a problem. It would have been ridiculous to deck a
fourteen-year-old boy out in a grown man's suit with a coat, waistcoat and a
tie. But a little boy's outfit with short trousers was no good either. They
had to find a happy medium. Petya was already in a frenzy of impatience and
the outfit he wanted was undoubtedly influenced by the illustrations in the
works of Jules Verne and Mayne Reid. In his opinion it had to be something
like 'a naval cadet's uniform, consisting of his long school trousers and a
navy-blue blouse, not the kind that little boys wear, but the real thing,
made of heavy flannel.
It was no easy matter to have such a blouse made. No children's
outfitter and no tailor seemed to understand what was expected of them.
Petya, who had already pictured himself as a naval cadet, was desperate.
Gavrik came to his rescue. He suggested a naval outfitter's shop where he
knew someone. He seemed to have friends everywhere!
The shop was located in the so-called Sabansky Barracks, an ancient
white-columned structure.
The enclosed yard, vast and spacious, and the ominous appearance of the
disused fortress, the pyramids of old cannon-balls, anchors, parallel bars,
and the mast with its multi-coloured signal flags, thrilled Petya. An
orderly in a sailor's cap sat on a bench beneath a bell.
"Don't worry," Gavrik said, seeing that Petya had stopped in confusion.
"The fellows here are good chaps." They climbed up the worn steps of an
ancient stairway and found themselves in a dark corridor. It was as cold as
a crypt, and the change was especially noticeable later the noonday heat of
the May sunshine.
Gavrik confidently led his friend through the darkness to a door, and
the boys entered a deep-vaulted room. The walls were twelve feet thick, so
that the two little windows barely let in any light, although they 'directly
faced the sea opposite Quarantine Bay and the white lighthouse with its
circling sea-gulls that stood out so clearly against the choppy blue-green
water.
A sailor wearing the red shoulder-straps of the coastguard service sat
at a large sewing-machine, working the iron treadle with his bare feet as he
hemmed a woollen signal flag. A heap of signal flags lay in a corner.
The sailor stopped sewing when he saw Gavrik. A smile broke over his
pock-marked face, but then he noticed the strange boy standing behind Gavrik
and raised his bushy eyebrows inquiringly.
"It's all right. This is the fellow who's teaching me Latin," Gavrik
said, and Petya realized that the sailor knew all about his friend.
"What's new?" the sailor asked.
"Nothing special," Gavrik answered. "I've come about something else
this time. I was wondering whether you could make a regulation sailor's
blouse for this fellow."
"I haven't got the right material."
"He's got it. Petya, show him the cloth."
Petya handed over the package. The sailor unrolled the soft, fine,
strong navy-blue wool.
"That's the real stuff!" Gavrik said with a touch of pride.
"How much did you pay for it?" the sailor asked.
Petya told him the price and he felt sure the meaning look that the
sailor gave Gavrik was disapproving.
"Don't go thinking things," Gavrik said. "His old man's just a teacher.
They're not well off. They're even hard up for money at times. It so happens
that he needs a regulation blouse."
Gavrik amazed Petya as he explained why he needed the blouse. He had
all the details of the projected journey at his fingertips. Petya caught
several significant glances passing between Gavrik and the sailor.
Perhaps he would not have paid any attention to this, were it not for
the fact that something similar had taken place when he was giving Gavrik a
Latin lesson in Near Mills. Motya had been present during the lesson, and
since Motya regarded Petya as some kind of superior being, an object of
devoted and secret worship, he began to boast for her benefit. His
imagination ran away with him as he described the forthcoming journey. When
he got as far as the splendours of Switzerland Terenty exchanged glances
with Gavrik and then with his guest, Sinichkin, a thin, consumptive worker
wearing top boots and a black cotton shirt beneath a threadbare jacket.
When Terenty looked sat him, Sinichkin shook his head and muttered,
"No, he's no longer there," or something to that effect. Suddenly, he looked
Petya straight in the eye and asked him solemnly:
"Will you be going to France, too? Will you visit Paris?"
And when Petya answered that if their money held out they would
certainly go there, Sinichkin looked at Terenty significantly again, but
they did not ask Petya any more questions.
Petya felt that his forthcoming trip abroad had evoked in Gavrik and
his friends in Near Mills some kind of special interest, but he was in the
dark as to the reason why.
The sailor and Gavrik had exchanged the same sort of glances too.
Perhaps, Petya thought, people always behaved like that in the presence of
someone about to go abroad. Petya had not yet set foot outside his native
city, but he already felt that new experiences awaited him around every
corner. He would suddenly find himself in a side-street he had never trod
before and would stop to look at a tiled house or a garden with the curious
eyes of a tourist.
How many times, for example, had he passed the Sabansky Barracks and
never dreamed that behind its gates was an unknown world-a sleepy, deserted
yard with anchors and cannon-balls, a naval outfitter's shop where a sailor
sewed woollen signal flags, ancient windows in deep niches from which the
sea seemed altogether different and unfamiliar, luring one to explore
far-off lands.
The sailor examined the cloth and praised it. He would make the blouse,
but his charge would be five rubles. Gavrik shoved Petya aside, looked hard
at the sailor, shook his head reproachfully, and said that one ruble would
be far too much. They bargained a long time, and finally the sailor said he
would do the job for two rubles, and only because Petya was "one of us."
What this meant Petya did not understand.
The sailor then wiped the lid of a large sea chest with his sleeve,
said, "Sit down, boys," and went to fetch a copper kettle of boiling water.
They drank tea from tin mugs, sucking lumps of sugar and eating tasty rye
bread that the sailor cut off in large slices, pressing the loaf to his
brawny chest.
Gavrik and the sailor kept up a grave conversation over tea, and,
judging by what was said, Petya concluded that the sailor-Gavrik called him
"Uncle Fedya"-knew Terenty's family well and was actually a distant relative
on his mother's side. The conversation was mostly about family and money
matters. However, from certain hints and veiled expressions, Petya divined
that there was another bond between Terenty and Uncle Fedya. Petya could not
quite get the hang of it, but he vaguely felt a long-forgotten echo of the
terrible and troubled air of 1905.
At last Uncle Fedya pulled out a decrepit oilcloth tape-measure with
the numbers all worn off, measured Petya, and promised to have the blouse
ready in three days. He was as good as his word. In addition, he made a
sailor's cap for the boy with the left-over cloth, and attached an old St.
George ribbon with long ends to it. The cap was free of charge.
Petya had a look at himself in the crooked little mirror that hung on
the wall next to a coloured print of Taras Shevchenko and could not hold
back the happy, radiant smile that spread across his face all the way to his
ears.
Unexpected complications set in when they applied to the chief of
police for travel passports. Vasily Petrovich had to submit written
statements testifying to his loyalty to the state. This was not as easy as
it seemed. He filled out the application forms, and four days later an
officer from the Alexandrovsky police-station knocked at the door with two
witnesses in order to proceed with the inquiry. The mere mention of the word
"inquiry" irritated Vasily Petrovich. And when the inquisitor plumped into a
chair in the dining-room where he spread his greasy folders and put down a
spill-proof ink-well on the clean table-cloth, and in an official tone asked
all kinds of stupid questions about sex, age, religious affiliation, rank,
title, etc., Vasily Petrovich felt like throwing him out; but he controlled
himself and endured the grilling. He signed his name to the inquiry paper,
next to the illegible scrawl of janitor Akimov, one of the witnesses, and
the flourishing signature of the other witness, an insipid, pimply young man
in a technical-school cap with two crossed hammers over the peak.
Soon afterwards a policeman came with a notice requesting Vasily
Petrovich to appear before the chief of police. Vasily Petrovich duly
appeared and had a talk with the chief in his office. They discussed a
variety of subjects, mostly political, and Vasily Petrovich explained why he
had left his job with the Ministry of Education. They parted on amiable
terms.
But that was not all. Vasily Petrovich had to submit a mountain of
documents: his service record, birth certificate, his wife's death
certificate, etc., etc. This took much time and energy and caused endless
frustration. All the copies had to be letter-perfect before they could be
notarised. Petya tagged along with his father on this dreary roundabout.
How unbearable were those typing bureaus where sour and arrogant old
maids in squeaking corsets would get up from behind their Underwoods and
Remingtons, haughtily survey Vasily Petrovich and rudely announce that
nothing could be done before another week! How tired they were of the
stifling, deserted summer streets, criss-crossed by the latticed shadows of
the blossoming white acacias and the notaries' oval signboards with their
black, two-headed eagles!
When all the copies were duly prepared and notarized, it turned out
that there would have to be yet another inquiry.
Time was passing and there were moments when Vasily Petrovich felt so
frustrated that he was ready to abandon the idea of going abroad. But Gavrik
saved the situation once more.
"You're green!" he said to Petya, shrugging his shoulders. "You're a
bunch of innocents. Tell your old man to grease their palms."
"What, bribe them? Never!" Vasily Petrovich thundered when Petya passed
on his friend's advice. "I'll never sink that low!"
But in the end, completely exasperated by red tape, he did sink that
low. And behold, everything changed as if by magic: a certificate of his
loyalty was produced in an instant, and the hitherto unattainable travel
passport was delivered to the house.
They had only to book their tickets and set out. Since they had decided
to travel on an Italian ship, there was something thrilling and foreign even
in the matter of purchasing the tickets. In Lloyd's Travel Agency on
Nikolayevsky Boulevard, next door to the Vorontsov Palace-that is, in the
most fashionable part of the town-the prospective tourists were greeted with
such reverence and politeness that Petya thought his father had been
mistaken for someone else.
A gentleman in a grey morning coat with a large pearl tie-pin stuck in
a brilliantly coloured tie asked them to sit down in the deep leather chairs
which stood around a small mahogany table. The surface of the table,
polished to a high gloss, was littered with Lloyd's narrow, illustrated
prospectuses in various languages. There were photographs of many-storeyed
hotels, palm-trees, ancient ruins and ocean liners. Petya saw tiny white
Remus and Romulus at the jagged tits of the white she-wolf, St. Mark's
winged lion, Vesuvius with an umbrella-like Italian pine in the foreground,
Milan Cathedral, as thin and pointed as a fish-bone, and the leaning Tower
of Pisa; these symbols of Italian cities transported the boy into the realms
of foreign travel.
Undoubtedly, the Travel Agency office belonged to that world too, with
its flamboyant posters, price-lists, impressive rosewood filing cabinets and
counters, ship chronometers instead of ordinary clocks, models of ships in
glass cases, portraits of the King and Queen of Italy, and the gallant
gentleman in the grey morning coat, who chattered away in broken Russian
while selling Vasily Petrovich the pretty second-class tickets from Odessa
to Naples and patting Pavlik, whom he called "leetle signor turisto," on his
close-cropped head.
From then on Petya felt that the journey had begun.
When the tickets were handed to them, together with a sheaf of guides
and prospectuses, and when, in a high state of excitement, they emerged from
Lloyd's, Petya regarded Nikolayevsky Boulevard as the marine embankment of
some foreign city, and the familiar Richelieu monument with the iron bomb on
the pedestal as one of the "sights" which was now to be thoroughly
"inspected," not merely looked at. This feeling was heightened by the ships
of every flag that lay at anchor in the bay far below the boulevard.
The day of departure arrived.
Their ship was scheduled to sail at four in the afternoon. At
one-thirty Dunyasha was sent to hire two cabs. Auntie, in a mantilla and a
little hat with daisies, was seeing them off. She and a speechless, excited
Pavlik climbed into one cab; Vasily Petrovich and Petya, with the Alpine
rucksacks and the tartan travelling-bag packed so tight that it was ready to
burst, got into the other.
A group of idlers stood around discussing the event in loud voices.
Dunyasha, wearing her new calico dress, wiped her tears with her apron.
Vasily Petrovich patted the pockets of his freshly-ironed silk jacket to
make sure he had not forgotten anything, removed his black-banded straw hat,
crossed himself, and said with a show of nonchalance:
"Well, let's be off!"
The crowd parted, the cabs set off, and Dunyasha began to weep aloud.
Petya's feeling that they were already abroad never left him. To get to
the port they had to cross the city through the rich business centre. Then
only did Petya realize how greatly Odessa had changed in the past few years.
The typical provincial nature of this southern city had remained unchanged
on the outskirts. There one could still find the small lime-stone houses
with tiled roofs, the walnut and mulberry trees in the yards, the
bright-green booths of the soft-drinks vendors, Greek coffee-houses, tobacco
shops, and wine cellars with a white lamp in the shape of a bunch of grapes
over the entrance.
The spirit of European capitalism reigned in the town centre. There
were black glass signs with impressive gold lettering in every European
language at the entrance to the banks and company offices. There were
highly-priced luxury goods in the windows of the English and French shops.
Linotypes clattered and rotary presses whirred in the semi-basements
occupied by newspaper print-shops. As they were crossing Greek Street the
drivers pulled up in terror to give way to a new and shiny electric
tram-car, emitting cascades of sparks. This was the city's first
tramway-line, built by a Belgian company, connecting the centre with the
Industry and Trade Fair that had just opened on wasteland near Alexandrovsky
Park.
At the corner of Langeron and Yekaterininskaya streets, directly
opposite the huge Fankoni Cafe where stockbrokers and grain merchants in
Panama hats sat at marble-topped tables set out right on the pavement,
Paris-style, under awnings and surrounded by potted laurel trees, the cab in
which Auntie and Pavlik were travelling was all but overturned by a
bright-red automobile driven by the heir to the famous Ptashnikov Bros,
firm, a grotesquely bloated young man in a tiny yachting cap, who looked
amazingly like a prize Yorkshire pig.
The spirit of "European capitalism" disappeared when they began the
downhill ride to the port and passed the dives, doss-houses, second-hand
shops, and the dead-end lanes where tramps and down-and-outs, pale-faced and
ragged, were playing cards or sleeping on the bare ground. However, the
spirit reappeared when they approached the warehouses, commercial agencies,
the stacks of crates and sacks that were like a city, with streets and
alleys, and, finally, the ships of many nations and companies.
The embarkation officer told the drivers where their ship, the Palermo,
was being loaded, and they headed for the wharf. They stopped opposite a
large ship gaily flying the Italian flag, and the boys were most
disappointed to find that she had only one funnel.
As might have been expected, they arrived far too early and had nearly
an hour and a half till sailing time. Loading was in full swing. The arms of
powerful steam winches swung to and fro, lowering bunches of barrels
strapped together and crates that must have weighed a ton into the hold.
Passengers were not allowed on board as yet-not that any were in sight, with
the exception of a group of turbaned Turks or Persians, deck passengers, who
were sitting silently and sullenly on their rug-wrapped belongings.
Suddenly Petya saw Gavrik coming towards him, swinging a spray of white
acacia. Petya could hardly believe his eyes. Had he come to see them off? It
was not at all like Gavrik to do a thing like that.
"What made you come here?" Petya asked. "I've come to see you off,"
Gavrik answered and the nonchalant gesture as he handed Petya the acacia was
magnificent.
"Are you crazy?" Petya felt very embarrassed. "No," Gavrik said. "What
is it then?"
"I'm your pupil, you're my teacher. And Terenty says that we should
respect our teachers. Isn't that right?" There was a quizzical twinkle in
Gavrik's smiling eyes. "Stop fooling."
"I'm not fooling," Gavrik said. And taking Petya by the arm, he said in
a very serious voice, "I want a word with you. Let's take a walk."
They strolled down the pier, through the flocks of lazy pigeons that
kept pecking away at kernels of maize. At the end of the pier they sat down
on a huge anchor. Gavrik looked around, and when he had made sure that there
was no one within earshot, he said, as if continuing an interrupted
conversation:
"Look here. I'll give you a letter, which you must stow away safely.
When you reach a foreign country, stamp it and drop it in a letter-box. But
not in Turkey, because they belong to the same gang. Post it in Italy or
Switzerland, or, best of all, France. Will you do this for us?"
Petya stared at Gavrik in amazement, wondering whether he was joking or
serious. However, he had such a serious look about him that there could be
no doubt.
"Of course I'll do it," Petya said and shrugged.
"Where will you get the money for the stamp?" Gavrik queried.
"Don't worry. We'll be writing to Auntie all the time. That'll be easy
enough."
"I can give you the twenty kopeks for the stamp, maybe you can exchange
it there for their kind of money."
Petya smiled.
"Listen, none of that," Gavrik said severely. "And remember, it's very
important... er ... well." He wanted to say "Party business," but did not.
He tried to think of an appropriate word, but could not, and could only wag
an ink-stained finger significantly in front of Petya's nose.
"I understand," Petya nodded solemnly.
"It's a personal request from Terenty," Gavrik said after a moment's
silence, as if to explain the importance of the matter. "Do you get me?"
"Yes," Petya answered.
Gavrik looked around once more and took the letter out of his pocket.
It was wrapped in newspaper to keep it from getting soiled.
"Where can I hide it?"
"Right here."
Gavrik took off Petya's sailor's cap and pushed the letter carefully
under the lining at the place where one of the seams had not been stitched.
Petya was just about to say that Uncle Fedya had done a pretty sloppy
job on the cap, but at that moment a long shrill whistle drowned out all the
sounds of the port for fully a minute. Then, abruptly, it stopped, as if it
had flown across the city and disappeared into the steppe beyond. The second
blow was a brief one, like a period at the end of la long sentence. Petya
saw the passengers going up the gangway. Gavrik clapped Petya's cap on
again, adjusted the ribbons and the two ran towards the ship.
"There's just one more thing," Gavrik said hurriedly as they raced
along, "if they discover the letter, say you found it, but the best thing,
if you have time, would be to tear it up and get rid of it, although there's
nothing very special in it. So don't be soared."
"I know, I know," Petya answered in a jumpy voice.
"Petya!" Vasily Petrovich, Pavlik and Auntie were shouting together, in
varying stages of despair, as they fussed around the Alpine rucksacks and
travelling-bag.
"You dreadful child!" Father was boiling. "You'll be the death of me!"
"Where have you been? What a thing to do! To disappear just as the
first whistle was blowing!" Auntie was saying excitedly, addressing herself
to Petya and the other passengers, who were arriving in crowds.
"We nearly left without you!" Pavlik bellowed at the top of his lungs.
A sailor picked up their things. They followed him up the gangway over
the mysterious gap between the side of the ship and the harbour wall where
far below the green water glistened dully and a small transparent jellyfish
bobbed on the surface. The captain's mate, an Italian, took their tickets,
and a Russian coastguard officer took Vasily Petrovich's passport. Petya was
positive that the officer eyed his sailor's cap with obvious suspicion.
They went down a steep ladder into the bowels of the ship, each of them
tripping over the high copper coaming, Electric lights burned dimly in the
day-time darkness of the corridors, and when walking on the coconut mats and
cork flooring they were conscious that the ship, which was still moored to
the pier, had a fairly strong list.
A middle-aged Italian stewardess unlocked the door and the sailor
dumped their bags in the small cabin. The sea was dazzlingly reflected on
the porthole side of the very low creamy-white ceiling.
While they were putting their things in the luggage nets, bumping into
one another in the process, the siren blew a second blast-a long
one-followed by two short ones.
When, at long last, after getting lost in the maze of corridors and
stumbling painfully over the high coamings, they found their way up to one
of the decks, the steam winches were no longer rattling, the long arms of
the cranes were motionless, and the only sound breaking in the sunny
stillness was the hiss of escaping steam.
Auntie and Gavrik were part of the small crowd gathered on the pier to
see the ship off. When Gavrik spotted Petya, he shook his fist at him
stealthily and winked. Petya knew exactly what he meant. He fixed his cap
casually and shouted:
"Don't forget your Latin revision!"
"I know it!" Gavrik shouted back, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hie,
haec, hoc! How's that?"
"Correct!"
"There you are!"
"Don't forget: I'll question you on the whole course when I get back!"
Then came that disconcerting pause that always precedes the third
whistle, when neither those on board nor those on the pier know what to say
or do. Auntie was rummaging in her bag for her handkerchief in order to
start waving it at any moment. Gavrik kept his eyes on Petya's cap.
"You might as well go, there's no sense standing about here," Vasily
Petrovich said to Auntie as he leaned over the rail.
"What? What did you say?" Auntie asked, holding her hand to her ear.
"I said you might as well go home!" Vasily Petrovich shouted.
But Auntie shook her head so vigorously that it would seem her one duty
in life was to stay there to the very end.
"Duckie dear," she shouted to Pavlik through her tears, "it'll be cold
at sea. You had better go put on your coat."
Pavlik winced and walked away independently, so that none of the
passengers would think he was "duckie dear." "Duckie dear, put on your
woollen stockings!" There was no stopping Auntie now.
Pavlik had to assume a very casual expression again, to show that none
of this had anything to do with him, although to tell the truth his heart
was heavy at the prospect of parting with Auntie.
The blast of the third whistle shattered the air over the ship. With a
"Exactly as it was," Gavrik said.
"I told you she wouldn't notice it." With these words Petya replaced
the first parchment disk, then the paper lid, rewound the cord tightly, made
exactly the same kind of bow, returned the jar to the sideboard and placed
it on the top shelf.
Meanwhile Gavrik had written out two more letters: "R" and a
shaky-looking "S."
"That's fine!" Petya praised him. "By the way, I think we can safely
try another spoonful."
"Of what?"
"The jam."
"But what about Auntie?"
"Don't be silly. We left it exactly the same as before. Another
spoonful each will still leave as much as there was. Right?"
Gavrik thought about it and agreed. After all, one could not contradict
the obvious.
Petya brought in the jar, untied the tight bow painstakingly, carefully
removed the paper lid and parchment disk, and admired the glossy surface
that shone as before at the very top of the jar; then the two friends had
another spoonful each, licked the spoons, and Petya wound the cord around
the neck of the jar and retied the bow.
This time the jam seemed doubly delicious and their enjoyment of it
twice as fleeting.
"You see, the level hasn't changed!" Petya said triumphantly, as he
lifted the jar that was just as heavy as ever.
"I wouldn't say that," Gavrik rejoined. "This time it's sure to be a
tiny bit lower. I had a good look at it."
Petya raised the jar and examined it closely.
"Nothing of the sort. It's exactly the same, no change."
"That's what you think," Gavrik said. "You can't notice it because the
empty space is hidden by the edges of the paper. Turn back the edge and
you'll see."
Petya lifted up the pleated edge of the paper lid and raised the jar to
the light. The jar was almost as full as before. Almost, but not quite.
There was a space a hair's-breadth wide, but it was a space. This was most
unfortunate, although it was doubtful that Auntie would notice it. Petya
took the jar into the dining-room and replaced it on the top shelf.
"Let's see what you've been scribbling," he said with an affected
gaiety.
Gavrik scratched his head in silence and sighed.
"What's the matter? Are you tired?"
"No. It's not that. I rather think that she'll notice it, even though
only a tiny bit is missing."
"No, she won't."
"I'll bet she will. And you'll be in a fix when she does."
Petya flushed.
"So what! Who cares! After all, Grandma sent it for all of us, and
there's no reason why I shouldn't taste it. If a friend comes to study with
me, surely I can treat him to strawberry jam? Huh! You know what? I'll bring
it in and we'll each have a saucerful. I'm sure Auntie won't say anything.
She'll even praise us for being honest and straightforward about it, for not
doing it in a sneaky way."
"Do you think we ought to?" Gavrik asked timidly.
"What's to stop us!" Petya exclaimed.
Suiting the action to the word he brought in the jar and, certain that
he was doing an honest and honourable deed, measured out two full saucers of
the jam.
"That's enough!" he said firmly, tied up the jar, and put it back in
the sideboard.
But it was far from being enough. It was only now, after they had each
had a saucerful, that the friends began really to appreciate the heavenly
jam. Overcome with an overwhelming and irrepressible desire for at least a
little more, Petya brought the jar in again, and with a look of grim
determination and without even so much as a glance at Gavrik, served out two
more helpings. Petya never dreamed that a saucer could hold so much. When he
held the jar up to the light, he saw that it was at least a third empty.
Each ate his portion and licked his spoon clean.
"Never tasted anything like it!" Gavrik said as he went back to copying
out the letters "T," "U," "V," and "X," experiencing at the same time a
burning desire to have at least one more spoonful of the delectable stuff.
"All right," Petya said resolutely, "we'll eat exactly half of it and
no more!"
When there was exactly half the jam left, Petya tied the cord for the
Last time and carried the jar back to the sideboard, his mind firmly made up
not to go near it again. He tried not to think about Auntie.
"Well, have you had enough?" he asked Gavrik with a wan smile.
"More than enough," Gavrik answered, for the sticky sweetness was
beginning to give him a sour taste.
Petya felt slightly nauseous himself. Bliss was suddenly turning into
something quite the opposite. They no longer wanted even to think about the
jam, and yet, strange as it may seem, they could not get it out of their
minds. It seemed to be taking revenge on them, creating an insane, unnatural
desire for more. It was no use trying to resist the craving. Petya, dazed,
returned once more to the dining-room, and the boys began scooping up
spoonfuls of the nauseating delicacy, having lost all sense of what they
were doing. This was hatred turned to worship, and worship turned to hatred.
Their mouths were puckered up from the acid-sweet taste of the jam. Their
foreheads were damp. The jam stuck in their protesting throats. But they
kept on devouring it as if it were porridge. They were not even eating it,
they were struggling with it, destroying it as a mortal enemy. They came to
their senses when only a thin film of jam left on the very bottom of the jar
evaded their spoons.
At that moment Petya realized the full meaning of the terrible thing
they had done. Like criminals anxious to cover up their tracks, the boys ran
into the kitchen and began feverishly to rinse the sticky jar under the tap,
remembering, however, to take turns drinking the sweetish, cloudy water.
When they had washed and wiped the jar clean, Petya put it back on the
shelf in the sideboard, as if that would somehow remedy the situation. He
comforted himself with the foolish hope that perhaps Auntie had already
forgotten about Grandma's jam, or that when she would see the clean empty
jar she would think they had eaten it long ago. Alas, Petya knew very well
that at best his hopes were foolish.
The boys tried not to look at each other as they walked back to the
writing-desk and resumed the lesson.
"Where were we?" Petya said weakly, for he could hardly keep from
vomiting. "We have twenty of the twenty-three letters. Later on,
historically, two more letters were added."
"Which makes twenty-five," Gavrik said, choking down his sugary saliva.
"Quite right. Copy them out."
Just then Vasily Petrovich came in. He was in that sad but peaceful
mood that always came over him after a visit to the cemetery. He glanced at
the studious boys, and noticing the strange expression of ill-concealed
disgust on their faces, he said:
"I see you are working on the Sabbath, my dear sirs. Having a hard
time? Never mind! The root of learning may be bitter, but its fruits are
sweet."
With these words he tiptoed over to the icons, took from his pocket the
small bottle of wood-oil he had bought in the church shop and carefully
filled the icon-lamp, a task he performed every Sunday.
Soon Auntie returned and was followed by Dunyasha. Pavlik was still
downstairs. They heard the samovar singing in the kitchen. The delicate
tinkle of the china tea-set drifted in from the dining-room.
"I'd better be going," Gavrik said, putting his things together
quickly. "I'll finish the other letters at home. So long. See you next
Sunday!" With a solemn look on his face he ambled through the dining-room,
past the sideboard and into the hall.
"Where are you going?" Auntie asked. "Won't you stay to tea?"
"Thanks, Tatyana Ivanovna, they're waiting for me at home. I've a
couple of chores to do yet."
"You're sure you won't stay? We've got nice strawberry jam. H'm?"
"Oh no, no!" Gavrik exclaimed in alarm. In the hall he whispered to
Petya, "I owe you 50 kopeks," and dashed down the stairs to escape from the
scene of the crime.
"You're not looking well," Auntie said as she turned to Petya. "You
look as if you had tainted sausage. Maybe you're going to be ill. Let's see
your tongue."
Petya hung his head dejectedly and stuck out a marvellously pink
tongue.
"Aha! I know what it is!" Auntie cried. "It's all because of that
Latin. You see, my dear, how difficult it is to be a tutor! Never mind,
we'll open Grandma's jam in honour of your first lesson and you'll be your
old self again in no time."
With these words Auntie walked over to the sideboard, while Petya lay
down on his bed with a groan and stuck his head under the pillow so as not
to hear or see anything.
However, at the very moment that Auntie was gazing in astonishment at
the clean empty jar and trying to puzzle out why it was there and how it had
got into the sideboard, Pavlik rushed into the hall, yelling at the top of
his lungs:
"Faig, Faig! Listen! Faig has driven up to our house in his carriage!"
They all rushed to the windows, including Petya, who had tossed aside
his pillow. True enough, Faig's carriage was at the front gate.
Mr. Faig was one of the best-known citizens in town.
He was as popular as Governor Tolmachov, as Maryiashek, the town idiot,
as Mayor Pelican who achieved fame by stealing a chandelier from the
theatre, as Ratur-Ruter, the editor-publisher, who was often thrashed in
public for his slanderous articles, as Kochubei, the owner of the largest
ice-cream parlour, the source of wholesale food-poisoning every summer, and,
finally, as brave old General Radetsky, the hero of Plevna.
Faig, a Jew who had turned Christian, was a man of great wealth, the
owner and head of an accredited commercial school. His school was a haven
for those young men of means who had been expelled for denseness and bad
behaviour from other schools in Odessa and elsewhere in the Russian Empire.
By paying the appropriate fee one could always graduate and receive a
school-leaving certificate at Faig's school. Faig was a philanthropist and
patron of the Arts. He enjoyed making donations and did so with a splash,
including an announcement in the papers.
He donated suites of furniture and cows to lotteries, contributed large
sums towards improving the cathedral and buying a new bell, he established
the Faig Prize to be awarded annually at the yacht races, and paid fifty
rubles for a glass of champagne at charity bazaars. In short, this Faig, who
had become a legend, was the horn of plenty that poured charity upon the
poor.
However, the main source of his popularity lay in the fact that he rode
around town in his own carriage.
This was no antediluvian contraption of the type that usually bumped
along as part of the funeral cortege. Neither was it a wedding carriage,
upholstered in white satin with crystal headlights and folding step. Nor was
it a bishop's carriage, that screeching conveyance which, in addition to
carrying the bishop, was also used for transporting to private homes the
Icon of the Holy Virgin of Kasperovka associated with Kutuzov and the fall
of Ochakov. Faig's carriage was a coupe de luxe on English springs, with
high box and a coachman dressed according to the height of English fashion.
The doors sported a fictitious coat-of-arms, and, as a finishing touch. a
liveried footman stood on the footboard, which reduced the street loafers to
a state approaching religious ecstasy.
A pair of bob-tailed horses with patent-leather blinkers whisked the
carriage along at la brisk trot. Faig was inside. He was wearing a top hat
and a Palmerston coat, his side whiskers were dyed black, and a Havana was
planted between his teeth. His feet were wrapped in a Scotch plaid.
While the Bachei family was watching Faig's carriage from the windows
and wondering whom he might have come to see, the door-bell rang. Dunyasha
opened the door and nearly swooned. The liveried footman stood before her
with his three-cornered purled hat pressed to his breast.
"Mr. Faig presents his respects to the Bachei family," the footman
said, "and asks to be received."
The Bachei family, who had rushed into the hall, stood there
dumbfounded. Auntie was the only one who had kept a level head. She gave
Vasily Petrovich a meaning look, turned to the footman, and with a polite
smile and in an offhand manner said, "Please ask him up."
The footman bowed and went downstairs, sweeping the stairway with the
long tails of his livery coat.
No sooner had Vasily Petrovich fastened his collar, adjusted his tie,
and got his arms through the sleeves of his good frock-coat, than Mr. Faig
entered. He carried his top hat, his gloves tossed into it, stiffly in one
hand and in the other, which sparkled with the diamonds, he held a cigar. A
democratic smile lit up his face between the black side whiskers. He spread
the aroma of Havana cigar smoke mixed with the scent of Atkinson's perfume.
A battery of badges, medals, and fraternity-pins followed the cut of his
frock-coat. Tiny pearls glowed gently in the buttonholes of his
magnificently starched white shirt-front.
This man, the personification of success and wealth, had suddenly paid
them a call! Faig put his top hat on the hall table and extended his plump
hand to Father in the grand manner. That was all Petya saw, for Auntie
manoeuvred him and Pavlik into the kitchen and kept them there until Mr.
Faig departed.
Judging by the fact that Faig's loud and merry laughter and Father's
chuckle were heard several times, the visit was a friendly one. But what
could be the reason for it? The explanation was forthcoming when Faig, after
being helped into the carriage by the footman and having the Scotch plaid
tucked round his legs, waved his white hand with the cigar and drove off. He
had come to Vasily Petrovich with the offer of a teaching appointment in his
establishment.
It had all been so unexpected and so much like a miracle, that Vasily
Petrovich turned to the icon and crossed himself. Teaching in Faig's school
was much more remunerative than in the gymnasium, because Faig paid his
teachers almost double the salary paid by the government. Vasily Petrovich
was captivated by Faig's matter-of-fact way, his cordiality and democratic
manners which contrasted so pleasantly and unexpectedly with his appearance
and his way of life.
In conversation with Vasily Petrovich, Faig displayed a keen
understanding of contemporary affairs. He was biting and yet restrained when
criticizing the Ministry of Education for its inability to appreciate its
best teachers; he fiercely resented the government's attempts to turn the
schools into military barracks and openly declared that the time had come
for society to take the matter of public education into its own hands and
banish servile officials and petty tyrants such as the head of the Odessa
District Education Department, who had revived the worst traditions of the
Arakcheyev times. He declared that their attitude towards Vasily Petrovich,
in addition to lacking any justification, had been disgusting, and that he
hoped to right the wrong and restore justice, as he considered the matter
his sacred duty to Russian society and science. He hoped that in his
establishment Vasily Petrovich would find full scope for" his abilities as a
brilliant teacher and for his love of the great Russian literature. As a
believer in European methods of education he was sure that he and Vasily
Petrovich would understand one another. As for the formalities, he did not
doubt for a minute that he would get the consent of the Minister of
Education to have Vasily Petrovich officially accredited, since a public
gymnasium was one thing, and a private school something else again. Nor did
Faig conceal the fact that one of the reasons which had prompted him to
engage Vasily Petrovich was that by so doing he would raise the standard of
the school in the eyes of the liberal circles of Odessa society; another was
that it would be a challenge to the government, since, according to Faig,
Vasily Petrovich's famous speech on the occasion of Tolstoi's death had won
him a definite political reputation.
All this was strange and flattering to Vasily Petrovich, although he
winced at the mention of his political reputation. And when Faig added, "You
shall be our standard-bearer," Vasily Petrovich even felt a little
frightened. However, Faig's proposition was accepted, and life in the Bachei
family underwent a miraculous change.
Faig had paid Vasily Petrovich for six months in advance. The sum was
larger than the family had ever dreamed of. Now, whenever Vasily Petrovich
ventured forth, the neighbours watched him enviously from their windows and
said:
"Look, there goes Bachei, the one Faig has taken on."
Once again Vasily Petrovich began to think in terms of a trip abroad.
And at long last, after weighing up his resources and consulting Auntie for
the twentieth time, he decided: we're going!
THE SAILOR'S OUTFIT
Spring, which came early, was warm and glorious. Easter passed and left
pleasant memories. Soon it was examination time, a time Petya always
associated with the brief May thunderstorms, fiery flashes of purple
lightning, the lilac in bloom in the school garden, the dry air of the empty
class-rooms with the desks moved close together and the clouds of chalk
dust, pierced by the warm rays of the afternoon sun that remained suspended
in the air after the last exam.
They began preparing for the trip during examination time. Switzerland,
a country that had always had a special place in Vasily Petrovich's heart,
was their main objective. However, it was decided that they should first go
to Naples by sea, and then cross Italy by rail. This indirect route would be
slightly more expensive, but it would give them the chance to visit Turkey,
Greece, the islands of the Aegean Sea and Sicily, they would be able to see
all the sights of Naples, Rome, Florence, and Venice; then, funds
permitting, they might even pay a brief visit to Paris. Vasily Petrovich had
mapped out the itinerary many years before, when Mother had still been
alive. The two-of them had spent many an evening leafing through travel
guides and writing down the travel expenses. They had noted the price of the
tickets, hotel and boarding-house rates, and even admission prices to
museums and tips were included in their careful calculations.
Despite all this Vasily Petrovich feared to overtax the budget, and so
he studied the rail and steamer ticket prices once more.
There were many arguments about what to take and how to pack. Auntie
suggested that they should buy two very ordinary suitcases and put very
ordinary clothes in them. However, it turned out that Vasily Petrovich was
of another mind completely. He thought they should have a special satchel
and Alpine rucksacks with special straps that would not interfere with
climbing.
Auntie shrugged and laughed, but Petya and Pavlik insisted that only
the special Alpine rucksacks be ordered, and so she gave in. Vasily
Petrovich went to the shop with his own draft of the special travelling-bag
and the special rucksacks. A few days later the Bachei household was richer
by two rucksacks and a rather strange-looking creation of the
luggage-and-harness industry. It was of tartan and bore a vague resemblance
to a huge accordion, covered all over with a multitude of patch-pockets.
These new and still empty travelling-bags and the exciting smell of
leather and dyed material brought visions of far distances into the
household. Then they discovered that the boys could not go abroad in their
school uniforms, they would have to wear "civvies."
That was no problem as far as Pavlik was concerned. He still had last
year's "pre-school" clothes: a pair of short trousers and a middy-blouse.
Petya's outfit presented a problem. It would have been ridiculous to deck a
fourteen-year-old boy out in a grown man's suit with a coat, waistcoat and a
tie. But a little boy's outfit with short trousers was no good either. They
had to find a happy medium. Petya was already in a frenzy of impatience and
the outfit he wanted was undoubtedly influenced by the illustrations in the
works of Jules Verne and Mayne Reid. In his opinion it had to be something
like 'a naval cadet's uniform, consisting of his long school trousers and a
navy-blue blouse, not the kind that little boys wear, but the real thing,
made of heavy flannel.
It was no easy matter to have such a blouse made. No children's
outfitter and no tailor seemed to understand what was expected of them.
Petya, who had already pictured himself as a naval cadet, was desperate.
Gavrik came to his rescue. He suggested a naval outfitter's shop where he
knew someone. He seemed to have friends everywhere!
The shop was located in the so-called Sabansky Barracks, an ancient
white-columned structure.
The enclosed yard, vast and spacious, and the ominous appearance of the
disused fortress, the pyramids of old cannon-balls, anchors, parallel bars,
and the mast with its multi-coloured signal flags, thrilled Petya. An
orderly in a sailor's cap sat on a bench beneath a bell.
"Don't worry," Gavrik said, seeing that Petya had stopped in confusion.
"The fellows here are good chaps." They climbed up the worn steps of an
ancient stairway and found themselves in a dark corridor. It was as cold as
a crypt, and the change was especially noticeable later the noonday heat of
the May sunshine.
Gavrik confidently led his friend through the darkness to a door, and
the boys entered a deep-vaulted room. The walls were twelve feet thick, so
that the two little windows barely let in any light, although they 'directly
faced the sea opposite Quarantine Bay and the white lighthouse with its
circling sea-gulls that stood out so clearly against the choppy blue-green
water.
A sailor wearing the red shoulder-straps of the coastguard service sat
at a large sewing-machine, working the iron treadle with his bare feet as he
hemmed a woollen signal flag. A heap of signal flags lay in a corner.
The sailor stopped sewing when he saw Gavrik. A smile broke over his
pock-marked face, but then he noticed the strange boy standing behind Gavrik
and raised his bushy eyebrows inquiringly.
"It's all right. This is the fellow who's teaching me Latin," Gavrik
said, and Petya realized that the sailor knew all about his friend.
"What's new?" the sailor asked.
"Nothing special," Gavrik answered. "I've come about something else
this time. I was wondering whether you could make a regulation sailor's
blouse for this fellow."
"I haven't got the right material."
"He's got it. Petya, show him the cloth."
Petya handed over the package. The sailor unrolled the soft, fine,
strong navy-blue wool.
"That's the real stuff!" Gavrik said with a touch of pride.
"How much did you pay for it?" the sailor asked.
Petya told him the price and he felt sure the meaning look that the
sailor gave Gavrik was disapproving.
"Don't go thinking things," Gavrik said. "His old man's just a teacher.
They're not well off. They're even hard up for money at times. It so happens
that he needs a regulation blouse."
Gavrik amazed Petya as he explained why he needed the blouse. He had
all the details of the projected journey at his fingertips. Petya caught
several significant glances passing between Gavrik and the sailor.
Perhaps he would not have paid any attention to this, were it not for
the fact that something similar had taken place when he was giving Gavrik a
Latin lesson in Near Mills. Motya had been present during the lesson, and
since Motya regarded Petya as some kind of superior being, an object of
devoted and secret worship, he began to boast for her benefit. His
imagination ran away with him as he described the forthcoming journey. When
he got as far as the splendours of Switzerland Terenty exchanged glances
with Gavrik and then with his guest, Sinichkin, a thin, consumptive worker
wearing top boots and a black cotton shirt beneath a threadbare jacket.
When Terenty looked sat him, Sinichkin shook his head and muttered,
"No, he's no longer there," or something to that effect. Suddenly, he looked
Petya straight in the eye and asked him solemnly:
"Will you be going to France, too? Will you visit Paris?"
And when Petya answered that if their money held out they would
certainly go there, Sinichkin looked at Terenty significantly again, but
they did not ask Petya any more questions.
Petya felt that his forthcoming trip abroad had evoked in Gavrik and
his friends in Near Mills some kind of special interest, but he was in the
dark as to the reason why.
The sailor and Gavrik had exchanged the same sort of glances too.
Perhaps, Petya thought, people always behaved like that in the presence of
someone about to go abroad. Petya had not yet set foot outside his native
city, but he already felt that new experiences awaited him around every
corner. He would suddenly find himself in a side-street he had never trod
before and would stop to look at a tiled house or a garden with the curious
eyes of a tourist.
How many times, for example, had he passed the Sabansky Barracks and
never dreamed that behind its gates was an unknown world-a sleepy, deserted
yard with anchors and cannon-balls, a naval outfitter's shop where a sailor
sewed woollen signal flags, ancient windows in deep niches from which the
sea seemed altogether different and unfamiliar, luring one to explore
far-off lands.
The sailor examined the cloth and praised it. He would make the blouse,
but his charge would be five rubles. Gavrik shoved Petya aside, looked hard
at the sailor, shook his head reproachfully, and said that one ruble would
be far too much. They bargained a long time, and finally the sailor said he
would do the job for two rubles, and only because Petya was "one of us."
What this meant Petya did not understand.
The sailor then wiped the lid of a large sea chest with his sleeve,
said, "Sit down, boys," and went to fetch a copper kettle of boiling water.
They drank tea from tin mugs, sucking lumps of sugar and eating tasty rye
bread that the sailor cut off in large slices, pressing the loaf to his
brawny chest.
Gavrik and the sailor kept up a grave conversation over tea, and,
judging by what was said, Petya concluded that the sailor-Gavrik called him
"Uncle Fedya"-knew Terenty's family well and was actually a distant relative
on his mother's side. The conversation was mostly about family and money
matters. However, from certain hints and veiled expressions, Petya divined
that there was another bond between Terenty and Uncle Fedya. Petya could not
quite get the hang of it, but he vaguely felt a long-forgotten echo of the
terrible and troubled air of 1905.
At last Uncle Fedya pulled out a decrepit oilcloth tape-measure with
the numbers all worn off, measured Petya, and promised to have the blouse
ready in three days. He was as good as his word. In addition, he made a
sailor's cap for the boy with the left-over cloth, and attached an old St.
George ribbon with long ends to it. The cap was free of charge.
Petya had a look at himself in the crooked little mirror that hung on
the wall next to a coloured print of Taras Shevchenko and could not hold
back the happy, radiant smile that spread across his face all the way to his
ears.
Unexpected complications set in when they applied to the chief of
police for travel passports. Vasily Petrovich had to submit written
statements testifying to his loyalty to the state. This was not as easy as
it seemed. He filled out the application forms, and four days later an
officer from the Alexandrovsky police-station knocked at the door with two
witnesses in order to proceed with the inquiry. The mere mention of the word
"inquiry" irritated Vasily Petrovich. And when the inquisitor plumped into a
chair in the dining-room where he spread his greasy folders and put down a
spill-proof ink-well on the clean table-cloth, and in an official tone asked
all kinds of stupid questions about sex, age, religious affiliation, rank,
title, etc., Vasily Petrovich felt like throwing him out; but he controlled
himself and endured the grilling. He signed his name to the inquiry paper,
next to the illegible scrawl of janitor Akimov, one of the witnesses, and
the flourishing signature of the other witness, an insipid, pimply young man
in a technical-school cap with two crossed hammers over the peak.
Soon afterwards a policeman came with a notice requesting Vasily
Petrovich to appear before the chief of police. Vasily Petrovich duly
appeared and had a talk with the chief in his office. They discussed a
variety of subjects, mostly political, and Vasily Petrovich explained why he
had left his job with the Ministry of Education. They parted on amiable
terms.
But that was not all. Vasily Petrovich had to submit a mountain of
documents: his service record, birth certificate, his wife's death
certificate, etc., etc. This took much time and energy and caused endless
frustration. All the copies had to be letter-perfect before they could be
notarised. Petya tagged along with his father on this dreary roundabout.
How unbearable were those typing bureaus where sour and arrogant old
maids in squeaking corsets would get up from behind their Underwoods and
Remingtons, haughtily survey Vasily Petrovich and rudely announce that
nothing could be done before another week! How tired they were of the
stifling, deserted summer streets, criss-crossed by the latticed shadows of
the blossoming white acacias and the notaries' oval signboards with their
black, two-headed eagles!
When all the copies were duly prepared and notarized, it turned out
that there would have to be yet another inquiry.
Time was passing and there were moments when Vasily Petrovich felt so
frustrated that he was ready to abandon the idea of going abroad. But Gavrik
saved the situation once more.
"You're green!" he said to Petya, shrugging his shoulders. "You're a
bunch of innocents. Tell your old man to grease their palms."
"What, bribe them? Never!" Vasily Petrovich thundered when Petya passed
on his friend's advice. "I'll never sink that low!"
But in the end, completely exasperated by red tape, he did sink that
low. And behold, everything changed as if by magic: a certificate of his
loyalty was produced in an instant, and the hitherto unattainable travel
passport was delivered to the house.
They had only to book their tickets and set out. Since they had decided
to travel on an Italian ship, there was something thrilling and foreign even
in the matter of purchasing the tickets. In Lloyd's Travel Agency on
Nikolayevsky Boulevard, next door to the Vorontsov Palace-that is, in the
most fashionable part of the town-the prospective tourists were greeted with
such reverence and politeness that Petya thought his father had been
mistaken for someone else.
A gentleman in a grey morning coat with a large pearl tie-pin stuck in
a brilliantly coloured tie asked them to sit down in the deep leather chairs
which stood around a small mahogany table. The surface of the table,
polished to a high gloss, was littered with Lloyd's narrow, illustrated
prospectuses in various languages. There were photographs of many-storeyed
hotels, palm-trees, ancient ruins and ocean liners. Petya saw tiny white
Remus and Romulus at the jagged tits of the white she-wolf, St. Mark's
winged lion, Vesuvius with an umbrella-like Italian pine in the foreground,
Milan Cathedral, as thin and pointed as a fish-bone, and the leaning Tower
of Pisa; these symbols of Italian cities transported the boy into the realms
of foreign travel.
Undoubtedly, the Travel Agency office belonged to that world too, with
its flamboyant posters, price-lists, impressive rosewood filing cabinets and
counters, ship chronometers instead of ordinary clocks, models of ships in
glass cases, portraits of the King and Queen of Italy, and the gallant
gentleman in the grey morning coat, who chattered away in broken Russian
while selling Vasily Petrovich the pretty second-class tickets from Odessa
to Naples and patting Pavlik, whom he called "leetle signor turisto," on his
close-cropped head.
From then on Petya felt that the journey had begun.
When the tickets were handed to them, together with a sheaf of guides
and prospectuses, and when, in a high state of excitement, they emerged from
Lloyd's, Petya regarded Nikolayevsky Boulevard as the marine embankment of
some foreign city, and the familiar Richelieu monument with the iron bomb on
the pedestal as one of the "sights" which was now to be thoroughly
"inspected," not merely looked at. This feeling was heightened by the ships
of every flag that lay at anchor in the bay far below the boulevard.
The day of departure arrived.
Their ship was scheduled to sail at four in the afternoon. At
one-thirty Dunyasha was sent to hire two cabs. Auntie, in a mantilla and a
little hat with daisies, was seeing them off. She and a speechless, excited
Pavlik climbed into one cab; Vasily Petrovich and Petya, with the Alpine
rucksacks and the tartan travelling-bag packed so tight that it was ready to
burst, got into the other.
A group of idlers stood around discussing the event in loud voices.
Dunyasha, wearing her new calico dress, wiped her tears with her apron.
Vasily Petrovich patted the pockets of his freshly-ironed silk jacket to
make sure he had not forgotten anything, removed his black-banded straw hat,
crossed himself, and said with a show of nonchalance:
"Well, let's be off!"
The crowd parted, the cabs set off, and Dunyasha began to weep aloud.
Petya's feeling that they were already abroad never left him. To get to
the port they had to cross the city through the rich business centre. Then
only did Petya realize how greatly Odessa had changed in the past few years.
The typical provincial nature of this southern city had remained unchanged
on the outskirts. There one could still find the small lime-stone houses
with tiled roofs, the walnut and mulberry trees in the yards, the
bright-green booths of the soft-drinks vendors, Greek coffee-houses, tobacco
shops, and wine cellars with a white lamp in the shape of a bunch of grapes
over the entrance.
The spirit of European capitalism reigned in the town centre. There
were black glass signs with impressive gold lettering in every European
language at the entrance to the banks and company offices. There were
highly-priced luxury goods in the windows of the English and French shops.
Linotypes clattered and rotary presses whirred in the semi-basements
occupied by newspaper print-shops. As they were crossing Greek Street the
drivers pulled up in terror to give way to a new and shiny electric
tram-car, emitting cascades of sparks. This was the city's first
tramway-line, built by a Belgian company, connecting the centre with the
Industry and Trade Fair that had just opened on wasteland near Alexandrovsky
Park.
At the corner of Langeron and Yekaterininskaya streets, directly
opposite the huge Fankoni Cafe where stockbrokers and grain merchants in
Panama hats sat at marble-topped tables set out right on the pavement,
Paris-style, under awnings and surrounded by potted laurel trees, the cab in
which Auntie and Pavlik were travelling was all but overturned by a
bright-red automobile driven by the heir to the famous Ptashnikov Bros,
firm, a grotesquely bloated young man in a tiny yachting cap, who looked
amazingly like a prize Yorkshire pig.
The spirit of "European capitalism" disappeared when they began the
downhill ride to the port and passed the dives, doss-houses, second-hand
shops, and the dead-end lanes where tramps and down-and-outs, pale-faced and
ragged, were playing cards or sleeping on the bare ground. However, the
spirit reappeared when they approached the warehouses, commercial agencies,
the stacks of crates and sacks that were like a city, with streets and
alleys, and, finally, the ships of many nations and companies.
The embarkation officer told the drivers where their ship, the Palermo,
was being loaded, and they headed for the wharf. They stopped opposite a
large ship gaily flying the Italian flag, and the boys were most
disappointed to find that she had only one funnel.
As might have been expected, they arrived far too early and had nearly
an hour and a half till sailing time. Loading was in full swing. The arms of
powerful steam winches swung to and fro, lowering bunches of barrels
strapped together and crates that must have weighed a ton into the hold.
Passengers were not allowed on board as yet-not that any were in sight, with
the exception of a group of turbaned Turks or Persians, deck passengers, who
were sitting silently and sullenly on their rug-wrapped belongings.
Suddenly Petya saw Gavrik coming towards him, swinging a spray of white
acacia. Petya could hardly believe his eyes. Had he come to see them off? It
was not at all like Gavrik to do a thing like that.
"What made you come here?" Petya asked. "I've come to see you off,"
Gavrik answered and the nonchalant gesture as he handed Petya the acacia was
magnificent.
"Are you crazy?" Petya felt very embarrassed. "No," Gavrik said. "What
is it then?"
"I'm your pupil, you're my teacher. And Terenty says that we should
respect our teachers. Isn't that right?" There was a quizzical twinkle in
Gavrik's smiling eyes. "Stop fooling."
"I'm not fooling," Gavrik said. And taking Petya by the arm, he said in
a very serious voice, "I want a word with you. Let's take a walk."
They strolled down the pier, through the flocks of lazy pigeons that
kept pecking away at kernels of maize. At the end of the pier they sat down
on a huge anchor. Gavrik looked around, and when he had made sure that there
was no one within earshot, he said, as if continuing an interrupted
conversation:
"Look here. I'll give you a letter, which you must stow away safely.
When you reach a foreign country, stamp it and drop it in a letter-box. But
not in Turkey, because they belong to the same gang. Post it in Italy or
Switzerland, or, best of all, France. Will you do this for us?"
Petya stared at Gavrik in amazement, wondering whether he was joking or
serious. However, he had such a serious look about him that there could be
no doubt.
"Of course I'll do it," Petya said and shrugged.
"Where will you get the money for the stamp?" Gavrik queried.
"Don't worry. We'll be writing to Auntie all the time. That'll be easy
enough."
"I can give you the twenty kopeks for the stamp, maybe you can exchange
it there for their kind of money."
Petya smiled.
"Listen, none of that," Gavrik said severely. "And remember, it's very
important... er ... well." He wanted to say "Party business," but did not.
He tried to think of an appropriate word, but could not, and could only wag
an ink-stained finger significantly in front of Petya's nose.
"I understand," Petya nodded solemnly.
"It's a personal request from Terenty," Gavrik said after a moment's
silence, as if to explain the importance of the matter. "Do you get me?"
"Yes," Petya answered.
Gavrik looked around once more and took the letter out of his pocket.
It was wrapped in newspaper to keep it from getting soiled.
"Where can I hide it?"
"Right here."
Gavrik took off Petya's sailor's cap and pushed the letter carefully
under the lining at the place where one of the seams had not been stitched.
Petya was just about to say that Uncle Fedya had done a pretty sloppy
job on the cap, but at that moment a long shrill whistle drowned out all the
sounds of the port for fully a minute. Then, abruptly, it stopped, as if it
had flown across the city and disappeared into the steppe beyond. The second
blow was a brief one, like a period at the end of la long sentence. Petya
saw the passengers going up the gangway. Gavrik clapped Petya's cap on
again, adjusted the ribbons and the two ran towards the ship.
"There's just one more thing," Gavrik said hurriedly as they raced
along, "if they discover the letter, say you found it, but the best thing,
if you have time, would be to tear it up and get rid of it, although there's
nothing very special in it. So don't be soared."
"I know, I know," Petya answered in a jumpy voice.
"Petya!" Vasily Petrovich, Pavlik and Auntie were shouting together, in
varying stages of despair, as they fussed around the Alpine rucksacks and
travelling-bag.
"You dreadful child!" Father was boiling. "You'll be the death of me!"
"Where have you been? What a thing to do! To disappear just as the
first whistle was blowing!" Auntie was saying excitedly, addressing herself
to Petya and the other passengers, who were arriving in crowds.
"We nearly left without you!" Pavlik bellowed at the top of his lungs.
A sailor picked up their things. They followed him up the gangway over
the mysterious gap between the side of the ship and the harbour wall where
far below the green water glistened dully and a small transparent jellyfish
bobbed on the surface. The captain's mate, an Italian, took their tickets,
and a Russian coastguard officer took Vasily Petrovich's passport. Petya was
positive that the officer eyed his sailor's cap with obvious suspicion.
They went down a steep ladder into the bowels of the ship, each of them
tripping over the high copper coaming, Electric lights burned dimly in the
day-time darkness of the corridors, and when walking on the coconut mats and
cork flooring they were conscious that the ship, which was still moored to
the pier, had a fairly strong list.
A middle-aged Italian stewardess unlocked the door and the sailor
dumped their bags in the small cabin. The sea was dazzlingly reflected on
the porthole side of the very low creamy-white ceiling.
While they were putting their things in the luggage nets, bumping into
one another in the process, the siren blew a second blast-a long
one-followed by two short ones.
When, at long last, after getting lost in the maze of corridors and
stumbling painfully over the high coamings, they found their way up to one
of the decks, the steam winches were no longer rattling, the long arms of
the cranes were motionless, and the only sound breaking in the sunny
stillness was the hiss of escaping steam.
Auntie and Gavrik were part of the small crowd gathered on the pier to
see the ship off. When Gavrik spotted Petya, he shook his fist at him
stealthily and winked. Petya knew exactly what he meant. He fixed his cap
casually and shouted:
"Don't forget your Latin revision!"
"I know it!" Gavrik shouted back, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hie,
haec, hoc! How's that?"
"Correct!"
"There you are!"
"Don't forget: I'll question you on the whole course when I get back!"
Then came that disconcerting pause that always precedes the third
whistle, when neither those on board nor those on the pier know what to say
or do. Auntie was rummaging in her bag for her handkerchief in order to
start waving it at any moment. Gavrik kept his eyes on Petya's cap.
"You might as well go, there's no sense standing about here," Vasily
Petrovich said to Auntie as he leaned over the rail.
"What? What did you say?" Auntie asked, holding her hand to her ear.
"I said you might as well go home!" Vasily Petrovich shouted.
But Auntie shook her head so vigorously that it would seem her one duty
in life was to stay there to the very end.
"Duckie dear," she shouted to Pavlik through her tears, "it'll be cold
at sea. You had better go put on your coat."
Pavlik winced and walked away independently, so that none of the
passengers would think he was "duckie dear." "Duckie dear, put on your
woollen stockings!" There was no stopping Auntie now.
Pavlik had to assume a very casual expression again, to show that none
of this had anything to do with him, although to tell the truth his heart
was heavy at the prospect of parting with Auntie.
The blast of the third whistle shattered the air over the ship. With a