a novel
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TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY FAINNA SOLASKO AND EVE MANNING
Russian original title: Хуторок в степи
FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE Moscow
OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/
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DESIGNED BY D. BISTI
CONTENTS
Death of Tolstoi
Skeleton
What Is a Red?
A Heavy Blow
Requiem
The Resignation
An Old Friend
Gavrik's Dream
A Jar of Jam
Mr. Faig
The Sailor's Outfit
Departure
The Letter
On Board
Istanbul
Chicken Broth
The Acropolis
The New Hat
The Mediterranean
Messina
Pliny the Younger
Naples and the Neapolitans
Alexei Maximovich
Vesuvius
A Cinder
The Eternal City
On the Shores of Lake Geneva
Emigres and Tourists
Love at First Eight
A Storm in the Mountains
The Home-Coming
Precious Stones
Sunday
The Kite From a Shop
The Bad Mark
Auntie's New Idea
The Old Woman
Workers of the World, Unite!
The New Home
Snowdrops
The Lena Massacre
The First Issue of the Pravda
The Cottage in .the Steppe
The Death of Warden
The Widow with a Child
The Secret Note
The Rendezvous
Caesar's Commentaries
Queen of the Market
Friends in Need
Don't Kick a Man When He's Down!
Terenty Semyonovich
Glow-Worms
Moustache
The Sail
At the Camp-Fire
Stars
Gusts of wind from the sea brought rain and tore the umbrellas from
people's hands. The streets were shrouded in the grey half-light, and
Petya's heart felt just as dark and dreary as the morning.
Even before he reached the familiar corner he saw a small crowd
gathered around the news-stand. Stacks of overdue papers had just been
dropped off and were being snatched up eagerly. The unfolded pages fluttered
in the wind and were instantly spotted by the rain. Some of the men in the
crowd removed their hats, and a woman sobbed loudly, dabbing a handkerchief
at her eyes and nose.
"So he is dead," Petya thought. He was near enough now to see the wide
black mourning border around the pages and a dark portrait of Lev Tolstoi
with his familiar white beard.
Petya was thirteen and, like all young boys, he was terrified by
thoughts of death. Whenever someone he knew died, Petya's heart would be
gripped by fear and he would recover slowly as after a serious illness. Now,
however, his fear of death was of an entirely different mature. Tolstoi had
not been an acquaintance of theirs. Petya could not conceive of the great
man as living the life of an ordinary mortal. Lev Tolstoi was a famous
writer, just like Pushkin, Gogol, or Turgenev. In the boy's imagination he
was a phenomenon, not a human being. And now he was on his deathbed at
Astapovo Station, and the whole world waited with bated breath for the
announcement of his death. Petya as caught up in the universal anticipation
of an event that seemed incredible and impossible where the immortal known
as "Lev Tolstoi" was concerned. And when the event had become a reality,
Petya was so crushed by the news that he stood motionless, leaning against
the slimy, wet trunk of an acacia.
It was just as mournful and depressing at the gymnasium as in the
streets. The boys were hushed, there was no running up and down the stairs,
and they spoke in whispers, as in church at a requiem mass. During recesses
they sat around in silence on the window-sills. The older boys of the
seventh and eighth forms gathered in small groups on the landings and near
the cloak-room where they furtively rustled the pages of their newspapers,
since it was against the rules to bring them to school. Lessons dragged on
stiffly and quietly with maddening monotony. The inspector or one of the
assistant teachers would look in through the panes of the classroom door,
their faces bearing an identical expression of cold vigilance. Petya felt
that this familiar world of the gymnasium, with the official uniforms and
frock-coats of the teachers, the light-blue stand-up collars of the ushers,
the silent corridors where the tiled floor resounded to the click of the
inspector's heels, the faint odour of incense near the carved oaken doors of
the school chapel on the fourth floor, the occasional jangling of a
telephone in the office downstairs, and the* tinkling of test-tubes in the
physics laboratory-this was a world utterly remote from the great and
terrible thing that, according to Petya, was taking place beyond the walls
of the gymnasium, in the city, in Russia, throughout the world.
What actually was taking place outside?
Petya would look out of the window from time to time, but could see
only the familiar uninteresting scene of the streets leading to the railway.
He saw the wet roof of the law-court, a beautiful structure with a statue of
the blind Themis in front. Beyond was the cupola of the St. Panteleimon
Church, the Alexandrovsky district fire-tower and, in the distance, the
damp, gloomy haze of the workers' quarter with its factory chimneys,
warehouses and a certain leaden darkness on the horizon which reminded him
of something that had happened long ago and which he could not quite place.
It was only after lessons had ended for the day and Petya found himself in
the street that he suddenly remembered it all.
An early twilight descended on the city. Oil lamps lit up the shop
windows, throwing sickly yellow streaks of light on the wet pavements. The
ghostly elongated shadows of passers-by flitted through the mist. Suddenly
there was a sound of singing. Row after row of people with their arms linked
were Founding the corner. A hat-less student marched in front, pressing a
black-framed portrait of Lev Tolstoi to his breast. The damp wind ruffled
his fair hair. "You fell, a victim in the fight," the student was singing in
a defiant tenor above the discordant voices of the crowd. Both the student
and the procession of singing people had suddenly and with great force
brought back to Petya a long-forgotten time and street. Then, as now, the
pavement had glittered in the mist, and along it marched a crowd of
students-mostly men and a few women wearing tiny karakul hats-and factory
workers in high boots. They had sung "You fell a victim." A scrap of red
bunting had bobbed over the heads of the crowd. That had been in 1905.
As if to complete the picture, Petya heard the clickety-clack of
horseshoes striking sparks on the wet granite cobbles. A Cossack patrol
galloped out of a side-street. Their peakless caps were cocked at a rakish
angle and short carbines dangled behind their shoulders. A whip cut the air
near Petya and the strong odour of horses' sweat filled his nostrils. In an
instant everything was a whirling, shouting, running mass.
Petya held his cap with both hands as he jumped out of the way. He
bumped into something hot. It turned over. He saw that it was a brazier
outside the greengrocer's. The hot coals scattered and mixed with the
smoking chestnuts. The street was empty.
For days Tolstoi's death was the sole topic of conversation in Russia.
Extra editions of the newspapers told the story of Tolstoi's departure from
his home in Yasnaya Polyana. Hundreds of telegrams date-lined Astapovo
Station described the last hours and minutes of the great writer. In a flash
the tiny, unknown Astapovo Station became as world-famous as Yasnaya
Polyana, and the name of the obscure station-master Ozolin who had taken the
dying man into his house was on everybody's lips.
Together with the names of Countess Sofya Andreyevna and Chertkov,
these new names-Astapovo and Ozolin- which accompanied Tolstoi to his grave,
were just as frightening to Petya as the black lettering on the white
ribbons of the funeral wreaths.
Petya noted with surprise that this death, which everyone regarded as a
"tragedy," apparently had something to do with the government, the Holy
Synod, the police, and the gendarmerie corps. Whenever he saw the bishop's
carriage with a monk sitting on the box next to the coachman, or the
clattering droshki of the chief of police, he was certain that both the
bishop and the chief of police were rushing somewhere on urgent business
connected with the death of Tolstoi.
Petya had never before seen his father in such a state of mind, not
actually excited, but, rather, exalted and inspired. His usually kind frank
face suddenly became sterner and younger. The hair above his high, classic
forehead was combed back student-fashion. But the aged, red-rimmed eyes full
of tears behind his pince-nez conveyed such grief, that Petya's heart ached
with pity for his father.
Vasily Petrovich came in and put down two stacks of tightly bound
exercise books on the table. Before changing into the old jacket he wore
about the house, he took a handkerchief from the back pocket of his
frock-coat with its frayed silk lapels and wiped his wet face and beard
thoroughly. Then he jerked his head decisively.
"Come on, boys, wash your hands and we'll eat!"
Petya sensed his father's mood. He realized that Vasily Petrovich was
taking Tolstoi's death badly, that for him Tolstoi was not only an adored
writer, he was much more than that, almost the moral centre of his life. All
this he felt keenly, but could not put his feelings into words.
Petya had always responded quickly to his father's moods, and now he
was deeply upset. He grew quiet, and his bright inquiring eyes never once
left his father's face.
Pavlik, who had just turned eight and had become a schoolboy, was
oblivious to all that was taking place; he was completely absorbed in the
affairs of his preparatory class and his first impressions of school.
"During our writing lesson today we raised an obstruction!" he said,
pronouncing the difficult word with obvious pleasure. "Old Skeleton ordered
Kolya Shaposhnikov to leave the room although he wasn't to blame. Then we
all booed with our mouths closed until Skeleton banged so hard on the desk
that the ink-pot bounced up to the ceiling!"
"Stop it! You should be ashamed of yourself," his father said with a
pained look. Suddenly, he burst out, "Heartless brats! You should be
whipped! How could you mock an unfortunate, sick teacher whose days are
almost numbered? How could you be so brutal?" Then, apparently trying to
answer the questions that had been worrying him all those days, he went on:
"Don't you realize that the world cannot live on hate? Hate is contrary to
Christianity and to plain common sense. And this at a time when they are
laying to rest a man who, perhaps, is the last true Christian on earth."
Father's eyes became redder still. Suddenly he smiled wanly and put his
hands on the boys' shoulders. Gazing at each in turn he said:
"Promise me that you will never torture your fellow-creatures."
"I never did," Petya said softly.
Pavlik screwed up his face and pressed his close-cropped head against
Father's frock-coat which smelt of a hot iron and faintly of moth-balls.
"Daddy, I'll never do it again. We didn't know what we were doing," he
said, wiping his eyes with his fists and sniffling.
It's terrible, say what you like, it's terrible," Auntie said at
dinner. She put down the ladle and pressed her fingers to her temples. "You
can think what you like about Tolstoi- personally, I look on him as the
greatest of writers-but all his non-resistance and vegetarianism are
ridiculous, and as for the Russian government, its attitude in the matter is
abominable. We are disgraced in the eyes of the whole world! As big a
disgrace as Port Arthur, Tsushima, or Bloody Sunday."
"I beg you to-" Father said anxiously. "No, please don't beg me. We
have a dull-witted tsar and a dull-witted government! I'm ashamed of being a
Russian."
"Stop, I beg you!" Father shouted. His chin jutted forward and his
beard shook slightly. "His Majesty's person is sacred. He is above
criticism. I won't permit it. Especially in front of the children."
"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," Auntie answered hurriedly.
"Let's drop the subject."
"There's just one thing I can't understand, and that is how an
intelligent, kind-hearted man like you, who loves Tolstoi, can honestly
regard as sacred a man who has covered Russia with gallows and who-"
"For God's sake," Father groaned, "let's not discuss politics. You are
an expert at turning any conversation into a political discussion! Can't we
talk without getting mixed up in politics?"
"My dear Vasily Petrovich, you still haven't realized that everything
in our lives is politics. The government is politics. The church is
politics. The schools are politics. Tolstoi is politics."
"How dare you speak like that?" "But I will!"
"Blasphemy! Tolstoi is not politics." "That's exactly what he is!"
And for long after, while Petya and Pavlik were doing their home-work
in the next room, they could hear the excited voices of Father and Auntie,
interrupting each other.
"Master and Man, Concession, Resurrection!" "War and Peace, Platon
Karatayev!" "Platon Karatayev, too, is politics!" "Anna Karenina, Kitty,
Levin!" "Levin argued communism with his brother!" "Andrei Bolkonsky,
Pierre!" "The Decembrists!" "Haji Murat!" "Nikolai Palkin!" ( The derogatory
nickname of Nicholas I, signifying "cudgel."-Tr).
"Stop, I beg you. The children can hear us."
Pavlik and Petya were sitting quietly at Father's desk, beside the
bronze oil lamp with the green glass lampshade.
Pavlik had finished his home-work and was busy putting together his new
writing outfit of which he was still very proud. He was pasting a transfer
on his pencil-box, patiently rolling up the top layer of wet paper with his
finger. A multi-coloured bouquet of flowers bound with light-blue ribbons
could be seen through it. He heard the voices in the dining-room, but did
not pay any attention to them; his mind was full of the incident that had
taken place during the writing lesson earlier" in the day. The
"obstruction," which at first sight seemed such a daring and funny prank,
now appeared in another light altogether. Pavlik could not banish the
horrible scene from his eyes.
There at the blackboard stood the teacher, old Skeleton. He was in the
last stages of consumption and was ghastly thin. His blue frock-coat hung
loosely about his shoulders. It was too long and old, and very worn, but
there were new gold buttons on it. His starched dickey bulged casually on
his sunken chest and a skinny neck protruded from the wide greasy collar.
Skeleton stood stock-still for a moment or two, challenging the class with
his dark eyes. Then he turned swiftly to the blackboard, picked up a piece
of chalk with his thin, transparent fingers, and began tracing out the
letters.
In the ominous quiet they could hear the scratching of the chalk on the
slate: a light, delicate touch when he outlined a feathery curlicue and a
loud screech as he drew an amazingly straight line at a slant. Skeleton
would crouch and then suddenly straighten again, just like a puppet. He'd
cock his head to one side, utterly oblivious to his surroundings, and either
sing out "stro-o-ke" in a high thin voice, or "line" in a deep rasping one.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line."
Suddenly a voice from the last row, still higher and as fine as a hair,
mimicked, "Stro-o-ke." Skeleton's back twitched, as if he had been stabbed,
but he pretended he hadn't heard. He continued writing, but the chalk was
already crumbling in his emaciated fingers, and his large shoulder-blades
jerked painfully beneath the threadbare frock-coat.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line," he sang out and his neck and large ears
became crimson.
"Stro-o-oke! Str-rr-oke! Stro-o-oke!" mimicked someone in the last row.
All of a sudden Skeleton spun round, strode rapidly down the aisle and
grabbed the first boy at hand. He yanked him up from his desk, dragged him
to the door, and threw him out of the class-room. Then he banged the door so
hard that the panes rattled and dry putty fell all over the parquet floor.
Skeleton walked back to the blackboard with heavy steps. He was
wheezing loudly as he picked up the chalk and was about to continue the
lesson. Just then he heard the hum of steady, barely audible booing.
Startled, he froze into immobility. His knees trembled visibly. His cuffs
and baggy blue trousers trembled too. His black sunken eyes glared at the
boys with undisguised hatred. But he had no way of finding out the culprits.
They were all sitting with their mouths tightly shut, looking quite
indifferent, and yet they were all booing steadily, monotonously, and
imperceptibly. The whole class was booing, but no one could be accused of
it. Then a tortured scream of pain and rage broke from his lips. He was
jerking like a puppet as he hurled the chalk at the blackboard. It broke
into bits. Skeleton stamped his foot. His eyes became bloodshot. His thin
hair was plastered to his damp forehead. His neck twitched convulsively and
he tore open his collar. He rushed over to his desk, hurled the chair aside,
flung the class register against the wall, and began pounding the desk with
his fists. He no longer heard his own voice as he shouted, "Ruffians!
Ruffians!" The inkpot bounced up and down, and the purple liquid stained his
loosened dickey, his bony hands and damp forehead. The scene ended when
Skeleton, suddenly becoming limp, sat down on the window-sill, rested his
head against the frame and was seized with a terrible coughing spell. His
deeply sunken temples, almost black eye-sockets, and bared yellow teeth made
his face look like the skull of a skeleton. Were it not for the sweat
streaming down his forehead, one could have easily taken him for a corpse.
That was the picture Pavlik could not banish from his mind. The boy
felt terribly oppressed; however, his mental state in no way interfered with
the job in hand. He bestowed special care on transferring the picture, for
he did not want to make a hole in the wet paper and spoil the bouquet and
light-blue ribbons that looked so bright in the light of the lamp.
Petya, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly leafing through a thick notebook.
There were emblems scratched out on the black oilskin cover-an anchor, a
heart pierced with an arrow and several mysterious initials. He was
listening to Father and Auntie arguing in the dining-room. Some words were
repeated more often than others; they were: "freedom of thought," "popular
government," "constitution," and, finally, that burning word-"revolution."
"Mark my words, it will all end in another revolution," Auntie said.
"You're an anarchist!" Father shouted shrilly.
"I'm a Russian patriot!"
"Russian patriots have faith in their tsar and their government!"
"Have you faith in them?"
"Yes, I have!"
Then Petya heard Tolstoi mentioned once more.
"Then why did this tsar and this government in whom you have such faith
excommunicate Tolstoi and ban his books?"
"To err is human. They look on Tolstoi as a politician, almost a
revolutionary, but Tolstoi is simply the world's greatest writer and the
pride of Russia. He is above all your parties and revolutions. I'll prove
that in my speech."
"Do you think the authorities will allow you to say that?"
"I don't need permission to say in public that Lev Tolstoi is a great
Russian writer."
"That's what you think."
"I don't think it-I am absolutely sure!"
"You're an idealist. You don't know the kind of country you're living
in. I beg you not to do that! They'll destroy you. Take my advice."
Petya woke up in the middle of the night and saw Vasily Petrovich
sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Petya was used to seeing his father
correct exercise-books at night. This time, however, Father was doing
something else. The stacks of exercise-books were lying untouched, and he
was writing something rapidly in his fine hand. Little fat volumes of an old
edition of Tolstoi's works were scattered about the desk.
"Daddy, what are you writing?" "Go to sleep, sonny," Vasily Petrovich
said. He walked over to the bed, kissed Petya, and made the sign of the
cross over him.
The boy turned his pillow, laid his head on the cool side and fell
asleep again.
Before he dozed off he heard the rapid scratching of a pen, the faint
clinking of the little icon at the head of his bed, saw his father's dark
head next to the green lamp-shade, the warm grow of the candle flame in the
corner beneath the big icon, and the dry palm branch that cast a mysterious
shadow on the wallpaper, as always bringing to mind the branch of Palestine,
the poor sons of Solim, and the wonderful soothing music of Lermontov's
poem:
Peace and silence all around,
On the earth and in the sky....
Next morning, while Vasily Petrovich was busy washing, combing his
hair, and fastening a black tie to a starched collar, Petya had a chance to
see what his father had been writing during the night.
An ancient home-made exercise-book sewn together with coarse thread lay
on the desk. Petya recognized it immediately. Its usual place was in
Father's dresser, next to the other family relics: the yellowed wedding
candles, a spray of orange blossom, his dead mother's white kid gloves and
little bead bag, her tiny mother-of-pearl opera-glasses, some dried leaves
of a wild pear tree that grew on Lermontov's grave, and a collection of odds
and ends which, in Petya's view, were just junk, but to Vasily Petrovich
very precious.
Petya had leafed through the exercise-book once before. Half of it was
taken up with la speech Vasily Petrovich had written on the hundredth
anniversary of Pushkin's birth; there had not been anything in the other
half. The boy now saw that a new speech filled up this yellowed half of the
book. It was written in the same fine hand, and its subject was Tolstoi's
death. This is how it began:
"A great Russian writer is dead. Our literary sun has set."
Vasily Petrovich put on a pair of new cuffs and his best hollow-gold
cufflinks, carefully folded the exercise-book in two and put it in his
side-pocket. Petya watched his father drink a quick glass of tea and then
proceed to the hall where he put on his heavy coat with the frayed velvet
collar. The boy noticed that his fingers were trembling and his pince-nez
was shaking on his nose. For some reason, Petya suddenly felt terribly sorry
for his father. He went over to him and brushed against his coat-sleeve, as
he used to do when he was a very small boy.
"Never mind, we'll show them yet!" Father said and patted his son's
back.
"I still advise you against it," Auntie said solemnly as she looked
into the hall.
"You're wrong," Vasily Petrovich replied in a soft tremulous voice. He
put on his wide-brimmed black hat and went out quickly.
"God grant that I am wrong!" Auntie sighed. "Come on, boys, stop
wasting time or you'll be late for school," she added and went over to help
Pavlik, her favourite, buckle on his satchel, as he had not yet mastered the
fairly simple procedure.
The day slipped by, a short and, at the same time, an interminably long
and dreary November day, full of a vague feeling of expectation, furtive
rumour, and endless repetition of the same agonizing words: "Chertkov,"
"Sofya Andreyevna," "Astapovo," "Ozolin."
It was the day of Tolstoi's funeral.
Petya had spent all his life on the southern sea coast, in the
Novorossiisk steppe region, and had never seen a forest. But now he had a
very clear mental picture of Yasnaya Polyana, of woods fringing an overgrown
ravine. In his mind's eye Petya saw the black trunks of the ancient,
leafless lindens, and the plain pine coffin containing the withered,
decrepit body of Lev Tolstoi being lowered into the grave without priest or
choir boys attending. And overhead the boy could see the ominous clouds and
flocks of crows, exactly like those that circled over the church steeple and
the bleak Kulikovo Field in the rainy twilight.
As usual, Father returned from his classes when the lamp had been lit
in the dining-room. He was excited, happy and deeply moved. When Auntie, not
without anxiety, asked him whether he had delivered his speech and what the
reaction had been, Vasily Petrovich could not restrain the proud smile that
flashed radiantly beneath his pince-nez.
"You could have heard a pin drop," he said, taking his handkerchief out
of his back-pocket and wiping his damp beard. "I never expected the young
bounders to respond so eagerly and seriously. And that goes for the young
ladies too. I repeated it for the seventh form of the Maryinsky School."
"Were you actually given permission to do so?" "I didn't ask anyone's
permission. Why should I? I hold that the literature teacher is fully
entitled to discuss with his class the personality of any famous Russian
writer, especially when the writer in question happens to be Tolstoi. What
is more, I believe that it is my duty to do so." "You're so reckless."
Later in the evening some young people, strangers to the family,
dropped in: two students in very old, faded caps, and a young woman who also
seemed to be a student. One of the youths sported a crooked pince-nez on a
black ribbon, wore top-boots, smoked a cigarette and emitted the smoke
through his nostrils; the young woman had on a short jacket and kept
pressing her little chapped hands to her bosom. For some reason or other
they were reluctant to come into the rooms, and remained in the hall talking
with Vasily Petrovich for a long time. The deep, rumbling bass seemed to
belong to the student with the pince-nez, and the pleading, lisping voice of
the young woman kept repeating the same phrase over and over again at
regular intervals:
"We feel certain that as a progressive and noble-minded person and
public figure, you won't refuse the student body this humble request."
The third visitor kept wiping his wet shoes shyly on the door mat and
blowing his nose discreetly.
It turned out that news of Vasily Petrovich's talk had somehow reached
the Higher Courses for Women and the Medical School of the Imperial
University in Odessa, and the student delegation had come to express their
solidarity and also to request him to repeat his lecture to a
Social-Democratic student circle. Vasily Petrovich, while flattered, was
unpleasantly surprised. He thanked the young people but categorically
refused to address the Social-Democratic circle. He told them that he had
never belonged to any party and had no intention of ever joining one, and
added that he would regard any attempt to turn Tolstoi's death into
something political as a mark of disrespect towards the great writer, as
Tolstoi's abhorrence of all political parties and his negative attitude to
politics generally were common knowledge.
"If that's the case, then please excuse us," the young lady said dryly.
"We are greatly disappointed in you. Comrades, let's go."
The young people departed with dignity, leaving behind the odour of
cheap tobacco and wet footprints on the doorstep.
"What an astonishing thing!" Vasily Petrovich said as he strode up and
down the dining-room, wiping his pince-nez on the lining of his house
jacket. "It's really astonishing how people always find an excuse to talk
politics!"
"I warned you," Auntie said. "And I'm afraid the consequences will be
serious."
Auntie's premonition turned out to be correct, although the results
were not as immediate as she had expected. At least a month went by before
the trouble began. Actually, the approaching events cast a few shadows
before them. However, they seemed so vague that the Bachei family paid
little attention to them.
"Daddy, what's a 'red'?" Pavlik asked unexpectedly, as was his wont, at
dinner one day, his shining, naive eyes fixed on Father.
"Really, now!" Vasily Petrovich said. He was in excellent spirits.
"It's a somewhat strange question. I'd say that red means . . . well-not
blue, yellow, nor brown, h'm, and so on."
"I know that. But I'm talking about people, are there red people?"
"Oh, so that's what you mean! Of course there are. Take the North
American Indians, for example. The so-called redskins."
"They haven't got to that yet in their preparatory class," Petya said
haughtily. "They're still infants."
Pavlik ignored the insult. He kept his eyes on Father and asked:
"Daddy, does that mean you're an Indian?"
"Basically, no." Father laughed so loudly and boisterously that the
pince-nez fell off his nose and all but landed in his soup.
"Then why did Fedya Pshenichnikov say you were a red?"
"Oho! That's interesting. Who is this Fedya Pshenichnikov?"
"He's in my form. His father is senior clerk in the Governor's office
in Odessa."
"Well! If that's the case, then perhaps your Fedya knows best. However,
I think you can see for yourself that I'm not red, the only time I ever get
red is during severe frost."
"I don't like this," Auntie commented.
Not long afterwards a certain Krylevich, the bookkeeper of the mutual
aid society at the boy's school where Vasily Petrovich taught, -dropped in
one evening to see him about some savings-bank matters. When they had
disposed of the matter, Krylevich, whom Vasily Petrovich had always found to
be an unpleasant person, remained for tea. He stayed for an hour and a half,
was incredibly boring, and kept turning the conversation to Tolstoi,
praising Vasily Petrovich for his courage, and begging him for his notes,
saying he wanted to read them at home. Father refused, and his refusal upset
Krylevich. Standing in front of the mirror in the hall, putting on his flat,
greasy cap with the cockade of the Ministry of Education, he said with a
sugary smile:
"I'm sorry you don't want to give me the pleasure, really sorry. Your
modesty is worse than pride."
His visit left a nasty after-taste.
There were other minor happenings of the same order; for instance, some
of their acquaintances would greet Vasily Petrovich in the street with
exaggerated politeness, while others, on the' contrary, were unusually curt
and made no attempt to conceal their disapproval.
Then, just before Christmas, the storm broke.
`
Pavlik, who had just been "let out" for the holidays, was walking up
and down in front of the house in his overlong winter topcoat, meant to last
several seasons, and his new galoshes which made such a pleasant crunching
sound and left such first-rate dotted prints with an oval trade mark in the
middle on the fresh December snow. His report-card for the second quarter
was in his satchel. His marks were excellent, there were no unpleasant
reprimands and he even had "excellent" for attention, diligence, and
behaviour, which, to tell the truth, was overdoing it a bit. But, thanks to
his innocent chocolate-brown crystal-clear eyes, Pavlik had the happy knack
of always landing on his feet.
The boy's mood harmonized with the holiday season, and only one tiny
little worm of anxiety wriggled down in the deep recesses of his soul. The
trouble was that today, after the last lesson, the preparatory class,
throwing caution to the winds, had organized another "obstruction." This
time they took revenge on the doorman who had refused to let them out before
the bell rang. The boys got together and tossed somebody's galosh into the
cast-iron stove that stood next 'to the cloak-room, with the result that a
column of acrid smoke rose up, and the doorman had to flood the stove with
water. At that moment the bell rang, and the preparatory class scattered in
a body. Now Pavlik was worried that the inspector might get to know about
their prank, and that would lead to serious complications. This was the sole
blot in his feeling of pure joy at the thought of the holidays ahead.
Suddenly Pavlik saw what he feared most. A messenger was coming down
the street and heading straight for him; he wore a cap with a blue band land
his coat was trimmed with a lambskin collar from which Pavlik could see the
blue stand-up collar of his tunic. He was carrying a large cardboard-bound
register under his arm. The messenger walked up leisurely to the gate,
looked at the triangular lamp with the house number underneath it, and
stopped. Pavlik's heart sank.
"Where do the Bacheis live?" the messenger asked.
Pavlik realized that his end had come. There could be no doubt that
this was an official note to his father concerning the behaviour of Pavel
Bachei, preparatory-class pupil-in other words, the most dreadful fate that
could befall a schoolboy.
"What is it? Do they want Father?" Pavlik asked with a sickly smile. He
did not recognize his own voice and blushed a deep crimson as he added, "You
can give it to me, I'll deliver it and you won't have to climb the stairs!"
"I must have his signature," the messenger said sternly, curling his
big moustache.
"Second floor, number four," Pavlik whispered and felt hot, choked,
nauseous, and scared to death.
It never dawned on the boy that the messenger was a stranger. And in
any case, this being his first year at school, he could not possibly know
all the personnel.
The moment the front door closed after the messenger the light went out
for Pavlik. The world with all its beauty and freshness no longer existed
for him. It had vanished on the instant. The crimson winter sun was setting
beyond the blue-tinted snow-covered Kulikovo Field and the station; the
bells of the frozen cab horse around the corner tinkled as musically as
ever; the pots of hot cranberry jelly, set out on the balconies to cool,
were steaming as usual, the coat of delicate pale-blue snow on the balcony
railings and the steam curling over the pots seemed as cranberry-red as the
cooling jelly itself; the street, full of the holiday spirit, was as gay and
as lively as ever.
Pavlik no longer noticed any of this. At first he made up his mind that
he would never go home again-he would roam the streets until he died of
hunger or froze to death. Then, after he 'had walked around the
side-streets, he took a sacred vow to change his whole way of life and
never, never take part in any "obstructions" again; moreover, he would be a
model pupil, the best-behaved boy not only in Odessa, but in all Russia, and
thus earn Father's and Auntie's forgiveness. Then he began to feel sorry for
himself, for his ruined life, and even started to cry, smearing the tears
all over his face. In the end pangs of hunger drove him, home and, utterly
exhausted with suffering, he appeared on the threshold after the lamps had
been lit. Pavlik was ready to confess and repent when he suddenly noticed
that the whole family was in a state of great excitement. The excitement,
apparently, had nothing at all to do with the person of Pavlik, as no one
paid the slightest attention to him when he came in.
The dining-room table had not been cleared. Father was striding from
room to room, his shoes squeaking loudly and 'his coat-tails flying. There
were red spots on his face.
"I told you. I warned you," Auntie kept repeating, as she swung back
and forth on the swivel stool in front of the piano with its wax-spotted
silver candlesticks.
Petya was breathing on the window-pane and etching with his finger the
words, "Dear sir, Dear sir."
It turned out that the messenger had been from the office of the
Education Department and had nothing to do with the gymnasium at all. He had
delivered a message to Councillor Bachei, requesting him to appear the
following day "to explain the circumstances which prompted him to deliver an
unauthorized speech to his students on the occasion of Count Tolstoi's
death."
When Vasily Petrovich returned from the Education Department next day,
he sat down in the rocker in his frock-coat and folded his arms behind his
head. The moment Petya saw his pale forehead and trembling jaw, he knew
something terrible had happened.
Father was reclining on the wicker back of the chair and rocking
nervously, shoving off with the toe of his squeaking shoe.
"Vasily Petrovich, for God's sake, tell me what happened," Auntie said
finally, her kind eyes wide with fright.
"Please, leave me alone!" Father said with an effort, and his jaw
twitched more violently.
His pince-nez had slid down, and Petya saw two tiny pink dents on the
bridge of his nose which gave his face the appearance of helpless suffering.
The boy recalled that he had had this same look when Mother had died and lay
in a white coffin covered with hyacinths; then, too, Father had rocked back
and forth nervously, arms folded behind his head, his eyes filled with
tears. Petya walked over to Father, put his arms around his shoulders, which
bore faint traces of dandruff, and hugged him.
"Daddy, don't!" he said gently.
Father shook the boy's arms off, jumped up, and gesticulated so
violently that his starched cuffs popped out with a snap.
"In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ-leave me alone!" he shouted in an
agonized voice and fled into the room that was both his study and bedroom
and the boys' room as well.
He divested himself of jacket and shoes, lay down and turned his face
to the wall.
At the sight of Father lying huddled up, of his white socks and the
blue steel buckle on the crumpled back of his waistcoat, Petya broke down
and began to cry, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
What actually had taken place at the Education Department? To begin
with, Vasily Petrovich had spent a long and uncomfortable time sitting alone
in the cold, officially sumptuous waiting-room on a gilded blue velvet chair
of the kind usually seen in museums or theatre lobbies. Then a dandified
official in the uniform of the Ministry of Education appeared, his figure
reflected in the parquet floor, and informed Vasily Petrovich that His
Excellency would see him.
His Excellency was sitting behind an enormous writing-desk. He was
hunchbacked and, like most hunchbacks, was very short, so that nothing could
be seen of him above the massive malachite desk set with two bronze
malachite candelabra, except a proud, malicious head, iron grey land
closely-cropped, propped up by a high starched collar and white tie. He was
wearing his formal civil service dress-coat with decorations.
"Why did you take the liberty of appearing here without your uniform?"
His Excellency demanded, without offering the caller a seat or getting up
himself.
Vasily Petrovich was taken aback, but when he tried to picture his old
uniform with the rows of holes where Petya had once yanked the buttons off
together with the cloth, he smiled good-naturedly, to his own surprise, and
even waved his hands somewhat humorously.
"I would request you not to act the clown. Don't wave your arms about:
you are in an office, not on the stage."
"My dear sir!" Vasily Petrovich said as the blood rushed to his face.
"Silence!" barked the official in the best departmental manner, as he
crashed his fist down on a pile of papers. "I am a member of the Privy
Council, 'Your Excellency' to you, not 'my dear sir'! Be good enough to
remember where you are and sta-a-and to attention! I summoned you here to
present you with an alternative," he continued, pronouncing the word
"alternative" with evident relish, "to present you with an alternative:
either publicly recant your baleful errors in the presence of the School
Inspector and the students at one of the next lessons, and explain the
demoralizing effects of Count Tolstoi's teachings on Russian society, or
hand in your resignation. Should you refuse to do so, you will be discharged
under Article 3 with no explanation and with all the unfortunate
consequences as far as you are concerned. I will not tolerate
anti-government propaganda in my district. I will mercilessly and
unhesitatingly suppress every instance of it."
"Allow me, Your Excellency!" Vasily Petrovich said in a trembling
voice. "Lev Tolstoi, our famous man of letters, is the pride and glory of
all Russia. I don't understand. What have politics got to do with it?"
"First of all, Count Tolstoi is an apostate, excommunicated from the
Orthodox Church by the Holy Synod. He is a man who dared to encroach upon
the most sacred principles of the Russian Empire and its fundamental laws.
If you cannot grasp this, then government service is not the place for you!"
"I regard that as an insult," Vasily Petrovich said with great
difficulty, as he felt his jaw begin to tremble.
"Get out!" roared the official, rising.
Vasily Petrovich left the office with his knees shaking, a shaking that
he could not control either on the marble staircase, where in two white
niches there were two gypsum busts of the tsar and tsarina in la pearl
tiara, or in the cloak-room, where a massive attendant threw his coat to him
over the barrier, or even later, in the cab, a luxury the Bachei family
indulged in only on very special occasions.
And so here he was, lying on the bed-clothes with his feet tucked up
under him, deeply insulted, powerless, humiliated, and overwhelmed by the
misfortune that had befallen not only him personally but, as he now
realized, his whole family as well. To be discharged under Article 3 with no
grounds stated meant more than the black list and social ostracism, it
signified in all probability an administrative exile, i.e., utter ruin,
poverty, and the end of the family. There was only one way out-a public
recantation.
By nature Vasily Petrovich was neither hero nor martyr. He was an
ordinary kind-hearted, intelligent man, a decent, honest intellectual, the
kind known as an "idealist," and a "pure soul." His university tradition
would not allow him to retreat. In his opinion a "bargain with one's
conscience" was the epitome of moral degradation. And, nevertheless, he
wavered. The pit they had dug for him so ruthlessly would not bear thinking
about. He realized that there was no way out, although he tried to think of
one.
Vasily Petrovich was so disheartened that he even decided to petition
the Emperor and sent for ten kopeks' worth of the best "ministerial"
stationery from the shop round the corner. He still adhered to his belief
that the tsar-the Lord's Anointed-was just and upright.
Perhaps he would actually have written to the tsar, had it not been for
the fact that at this juncture Auntie took a hand in the matter. She told
the cook on no account to go for any "ministerial" stationery, and
addressing herself to Vasily Petrovich said:
"My God, you're the perfect innocent! Don't you understand that they
are one and the same bunch?"
Vasily Petrovich blinked confusedly and kept repeating:
"But what's to be done, Tatyana Ivanovna? Tell me, just what can I do?"
Auntie, however, had no advice to offer. She retreated to her little
room next to the kitchen, sat down at her dressing-table, and pressed a
crumpled lace handkerchief to her red nose.
It was Christmas Eve, the twenty-fourth of December, a day that had a
special meaning for the Bachei family. It was the day of Mother's patron
saint. Every year on that day they visited the cemetery to offer up a mass
for the dead. They set out today too. There was a blizzard blowing and the
blinding whiteness hurt their eyes. The snow-drifts at the cemetery blended
with the white of the sky. Fine, powdery snow crystals rose over the black
iron railings and crosses. The wind whistled through old metal wreaths with
porcelain flowers. Petya stood knee-deep in the fresh snow. He had taken off
his cap, but still had on a hood. He was praying diligently, trying to
visualize his dead mother, but could recall only minor details: a hat with a
feather in it, a veil, the hem of a wide silk dress with a fringe on it. Two
___________________________________________
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY FAINNA SOLASKO AND EVE MANNING
Russian original title: Хуторок в степи
FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE Moscow
OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/
__________________________________________
DESIGNED BY D. BISTI
CONTENTS
Death of Tolstoi
Skeleton
What Is a Red?
A Heavy Blow
Requiem
The Resignation
An Old Friend
Gavrik's Dream
A Jar of Jam
Mr. Faig
The Sailor's Outfit
Departure
The Letter
On Board
Istanbul
Chicken Broth
The Acropolis
The New Hat
The Mediterranean
Messina
Pliny the Younger
Naples and the Neapolitans
Alexei Maximovich
Vesuvius
A Cinder
The Eternal City
On the Shores of Lake Geneva
Emigres and Tourists
Love at First Eight
A Storm in the Mountains
The Home-Coming
Precious Stones
Sunday
The Kite From a Shop
The Bad Mark
Auntie's New Idea
The Old Woman
Workers of the World, Unite!
The New Home
Snowdrops
The Lena Massacre
The First Issue of the Pravda
The Cottage in .the Steppe
The Death of Warden
The Widow with a Child
The Secret Note
The Rendezvous
Caesar's Commentaries
Queen of the Market
Friends in Need
Don't Kick a Man When He's Down!
Terenty Semyonovich
Glow-Worms
Moustache
The Sail
At the Camp-Fire
Stars
Gusts of wind from the sea brought rain and tore the umbrellas from
people's hands. The streets were shrouded in the grey half-light, and
Petya's heart felt just as dark and dreary as the morning.
Even before he reached the familiar corner he saw a small crowd
gathered around the news-stand. Stacks of overdue papers had just been
dropped off and were being snatched up eagerly. The unfolded pages fluttered
in the wind and were instantly spotted by the rain. Some of the men in the
crowd removed their hats, and a woman sobbed loudly, dabbing a handkerchief
at her eyes and nose.
"So he is dead," Petya thought. He was near enough now to see the wide
black mourning border around the pages and a dark portrait of Lev Tolstoi
with his familiar white beard.
Petya was thirteen and, like all young boys, he was terrified by
thoughts of death. Whenever someone he knew died, Petya's heart would be
gripped by fear and he would recover slowly as after a serious illness. Now,
however, his fear of death was of an entirely different mature. Tolstoi had
not been an acquaintance of theirs. Petya could not conceive of the great
man as living the life of an ordinary mortal. Lev Tolstoi was a famous
writer, just like Pushkin, Gogol, or Turgenev. In the boy's imagination he
was a phenomenon, not a human being. And now he was on his deathbed at
Astapovo Station, and the whole world waited with bated breath for the
announcement of his death. Petya as caught up in the universal anticipation
of an event that seemed incredible and impossible where the immortal known
as "Lev Tolstoi" was concerned. And when the event had become a reality,
Petya was so crushed by the news that he stood motionless, leaning against
the slimy, wet trunk of an acacia.
It was just as mournful and depressing at the gymnasium as in the
streets. The boys were hushed, there was no running up and down the stairs,
and they spoke in whispers, as in church at a requiem mass. During recesses
they sat around in silence on the window-sills. The older boys of the
seventh and eighth forms gathered in small groups on the landings and near
the cloak-room where they furtively rustled the pages of their newspapers,
since it was against the rules to bring them to school. Lessons dragged on
stiffly and quietly with maddening monotony. The inspector or one of the
assistant teachers would look in through the panes of the classroom door,
their faces bearing an identical expression of cold vigilance. Petya felt
that this familiar world of the gymnasium, with the official uniforms and
frock-coats of the teachers, the light-blue stand-up collars of the ushers,
the silent corridors where the tiled floor resounded to the click of the
inspector's heels, the faint odour of incense near the carved oaken doors of
the school chapel on the fourth floor, the occasional jangling of a
telephone in the office downstairs, and the* tinkling of test-tubes in the
physics laboratory-this was a world utterly remote from the great and
terrible thing that, according to Petya, was taking place beyond the walls
of the gymnasium, in the city, in Russia, throughout the world.
What actually was taking place outside?
Petya would look out of the window from time to time, but could see
only the familiar uninteresting scene of the streets leading to the railway.
He saw the wet roof of the law-court, a beautiful structure with a statue of
the blind Themis in front. Beyond was the cupola of the St. Panteleimon
Church, the Alexandrovsky district fire-tower and, in the distance, the
damp, gloomy haze of the workers' quarter with its factory chimneys,
warehouses and a certain leaden darkness on the horizon which reminded him
of something that had happened long ago and which he could not quite place.
It was only after lessons had ended for the day and Petya found himself in
the street that he suddenly remembered it all.
An early twilight descended on the city. Oil lamps lit up the shop
windows, throwing sickly yellow streaks of light on the wet pavements. The
ghostly elongated shadows of passers-by flitted through the mist. Suddenly
there was a sound of singing. Row after row of people with their arms linked
were Founding the corner. A hat-less student marched in front, pressing a
black-framed portrait of Lev Tolstoi to his breast. The damp wind ruffled
his fair hair. "You fell, a victim in the fight," the student was singing in
a defiant tenor above the discordant voices of the crowd. Both the student
and the procession of singing people had suddenly and with great force
brought back to Petya a long-forgotten time and street. Then, as now, the
pavement had glittered in the mist, and along it marched a crowd of
students-mostly men and a few women wearing tiny karakul hats-and factory
workers in high boots. They had sung "You fell a victim." A scrap of red
bunting had bobbed over the heads of the crowd. That had been in 1905.
As if to complete the picture, Petya heard the clickety-clack of
horseshoes striking sparks on the wet granite cobbles. A Cossack patrol
galloped out of a side-street. Their peakless caps were cocked at a rakish
angle and short carbines dangled behind their shoulders. A whip cut the air
near Petya and the strong odour of horses' sweat filled his nostrils. In an
instant everything was a whirling, shouting, running mass.
Petya held his cap with both hands as he jumped out of the way. He
bumped into something hot. It turned over. He saw that it was a brazier
outside the greengrocer's. The hot coals scattered and mixed with the
smoking chestnuts. The street was empty.
For days Tolstoi's death was the sole topic of conversation in Russia.
Extra editions of the newspapers told the story of Tolstoi's departure from
his home in Yasnaya Polyana. Hundreds of telegrams date-lined Astapovo
Station described the last hours and minutes of the great writer. In a flash
the tiny, unknown Astapovo Station became as world-famous as Yasnaya
Polyana, and the name of the obscure station-master Ozolin who had taken the
dying man into his house was on everybody's lips.
Together with the names of Countess Sofya Andreyevna and Chertkov,
these new names-Astapovo and Ozolin- which accompanied Tolstoi to his grave,
were just as frightening to Petya as the black lettering on the white
ribbons of the funeral wreaths.
Petya noted with surprise that this death, which everyone regarded as a
"tragedy," apparently had something to do with the government, the Holy
Synod, the police, and the gendarmerie corps. Whenever he saw the bishop's
carriage with a monk sitting on the box next to the coachman, or the
clattering droshki of the chief of police, he was certain that both the
bishop and the chief of police were rushing somewhere on urgent business
connected with the death of Tolstoi.
Petya had never before seen his father in such a state of mind, not
actually excited, but, rather, exalted and inspired. His usually kind frank
face suddenly became sterner and younger. The hair above his high, classic
forehead was combed back student-fashion. But the aged, red-rimmed eyes full
of tears behind his pince-nez conveyed such grief, that Petya's heart ached
with pity for his father.
Vasily Petrovich came in and put down two stacks of tightly bound
exercise books on the table. Before changing into the old jacket he wore
about the house, he took a handkerchief from the back pocket of his
frock-coat with its frayed silk lapels and wiped his wet face and beard
thoroughly. Then he jerked his head decisively.
"Come on, boys, wash your hands and we'll eat!"
Petya sensed his father's mood. He realized that Vasily Petrovich was
taking Tolstoi's death badly, that for him Tolstoi was not only an adored
writer, he was much more than that, almost the moral centre of his life. All
this he felt keenly, but could not put his feelings into words.
Petya had always responded quickly to his father's moods, and now he
was deeply upset. He grew quiet, and his bright inquiring eyes never once
left his father's face.
Pavlik, who had just turned eight and had become a schoolboy, was
oblivious to all that was taking place; he was completely absorbed in the
affairs of his preparatory class and his first impressions of school.
"During our writing lesson today we raised an obstruction!" he said,
pronouncing the difficult word with obvious pleasure. "Old Skeleton ordered
Kolya Shaposhnikov to leave the room although he wasn't to blame. Then we
all booed with our mouths closed until Skeleton banged so hard on the desk
that the ink-pot bounced up to the ceiling!"
"Stop it! You should be ashamed of yourself," his father said with a
pained look. Suddenly, he burst out, "Heartless brats! You should be
whipped! How could you mock an unfortunate, sick teacher whose days are
almost numbered? How could you be so brutal?" Then, apparently trying to
answer the questions that had been worrying him all those days, he went on:
"Don't you realize that the world cannot live on hate? Hate is contrary to
Christianity and to plain common sense. And this at a time when they are
laying to rest a man who, perhaps, is the last true Christian on earth."
Father's eyes became redder still. Suddenly he smiled wanly and put his
hands on the boys' shoulders. Gazing at each in turn he said:
"Promise me that you will never torture your fellow-creatures."
"I never did," Petya said softly.
Pavlik screwed up his face and pressed his close-cropped head against
Father's frock-coat which smelt of a hot iron and faintly of moth-balls.
"Daddy, I'll never do it again. We didn't know what we were doing," he
said, wiping his eyes with his fists and sniffling.
It's terrible, say what you like, it's terrible," Auntie said at
dinner. She put down the ladle and pressed her fingers to her temples. "You
can think what you like about Tolstoi- personally, I look on him as the
greatest of writers-but all his non-resistance and vegetarianism are
ridiculous, and as for the Russian government, its attitude in the matter is
abominable. We are disgraced in the eyes of the whole world! As big a
disgrace as Port Arthur, Tsushima, or Bloody Sunday."
"I beg you to-" Father said anxiously. "No, please don't beg me. We
have a dull-witted tsar and a dull-witted government! I'm ashamed of being a
Russian."
"Stop, I beg you!" Father shouted. His chin jutted forward and his
beard shook slightly. "His Majesty's person is sacred. He is above
criticism. I won't permit it. Especially in front of the children."
"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," Auntie answered hurriedly.
"Let's drop the subject."
"There's just one thing I can't understand, and that is how an
intelligent, kind-hearted man like you, who loves Tolstoi, can honestly
regard as sacred a man who has covered Russia with gallows and who-"
"For God's sake," Father groaned, "let's not discuss politics. You are
an expert at turning any conversation into a political discussion! Can't we
talk without getting mixed up in politics?"
"My dear Vasily Petrovich, you still haven't realized that everything
in our lives is politics. The government is politics. The church is
politics. The schools are politics. Tolstoi is politics."
"How dare you speak like that?" "But I will!"
"Blasphemy! Tolstoi is not politics." "That's exactly what he is!"
And for long after, while Petya and Pavlik were doing their home-work
in the next room, they could hear the excited voices of Father and Auntie,
interrupting each other.
"Master and Man, Concession, Resurrection!" "War and Peace, Platon
Karatayev!" "Platon Karatayev, too, is politics!" "Anna Karenina, Kitty,
Levin!" "Levin argued communism with his brother!" "Andrei Bolkonsky,
Pierre!" "The Decembrists!" "Haji Murat!" "Nikolai Palkin!" ( The derogatory
nickname of Nicholas I, signifying "cudgel."-Tr).
"Stop, I beg you. The children can hear us."
Pavlik and Petya were sitting quietly at Father's desk, beside the
bronze oil lamp with the green glass lampshade.
Pavlik had finished his home-work and was busy putting together his new
writing outfit of which he was still very proud. He was pasting a transfer
on his pencil-box, patiently rolling up the top layer of wet paper with his
finger. A multi-coloured bouquet of flowers bound with light-blue ribbons
could be seen through it. He heard the voices in the dining-room, but did
not pay any attention to them; his mind was full of the incident that had
taken place during the writing lesson earlier" in the day. The
"obstruction," which at first sight seemed such a daring and funny prank,
now appeared in another light altogether. Pavlik could not banish the
horrible scene from his eyes.
There at the blackboard stood the teacher, old Skeleton. He was in the
last stages of consumption and was ghastly thin. His blue frock-coat hung
loosely about his shoulders. It was too long and old, and very worn, but
there were new gold buttons on it. His starched dickey bulged casually on
his sunken chest and a skinny neck protruded from the wide greasy collar.
Skeleton stood stock-still for a moment or two, challenging the class with
his dark eyes. Then he turned swiftly to the blackboard, picked up a piece
of chalk with his thin, transparent fingers, and began tracing out the
letters.
In the ominous quiet they could hear the scratching of the chalk on the
slate: a light, delicate touch when he outlined a feathery curlicue and a
loud screech as he drew an amazingly straight line at a slant. Skeleton
would crouch and then suddenly straighten again, just like a puppet. He'd
cock his head to one side, utterly oblivious to his surroundings, and either
sing out "stro-o-ke" in a high thin voice, or "line" in a deep rasping one.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line."
Suddenly a voice from the last row, still higher and as fine as a hair,
mimicked, "Stro-o-ke." Skeleton's back twitched, as if he had been stabbed,
but he pretended he hadn't heard. He continued writing, but the chalk was
already crumbling in his emaciated fingers, and his large shoulder-blades
jerked painfully beneath the threadbare frock-coat.
"Stroke, line. Stroke, line," he sang out and his neck and large ears
became crimson.
"Stro-o-oke! Str-rr-oke! Stro-o-oke!" mimicked someone in the last row.
All of a sudden Skeleton spun round, strode rapidly down the aisle and
grabbed the first boy at hand. He yanked him up from his desk, dragged him
to the door, and threw him out of the class-room. Then he banged the door so
hard that the panes rattled and dry putty fell all over the parquet floor.
Skeleton walked back to the blackboard with heavy steps. He was
wheezing loudly as he picked up the chalk and was about to continue the
lesson. Just then he heard the hum of steady, barely audible booing.
Startled, he froze into immobility. His knees trembled visibly. His cuffs
and baggy blue trousers trembled too. His black sunken eyes glared at the
boys with undisguised hatred. But he had no way of finding out the culprits.
They were all sitting with their mouths tightly shut, looking quite
indifferent, and yet they were all booing steadily, monotonously, and
imperceptibly. The whole class was booing, but no one could be accused of
it. Then a tortured scream of pain and rage broke from his lips. He was
jerking like a puppet as he hurled the chalk at the blackboard. It broke
into bits. Skeleton stamped his foot. His eyes became bloodshot. His thin
hair was plastered to his damp forehead. His neck twitched convulsively and
he tore open his collar. He rushed over to his desk, hurled the chair aside,
flung the class register against the wall, and began pounding the desk with
his fists. He no longer heard his own voice as he shouted, "Ruffians!
Ruffians!" The inkpot bounced up and down, and the purple liquid stained his
loosened dickey, his bony hands and damp forehead. The scene ended when
Skeleton, suddenly becoming limp, sat down on the window-sill, rested his
head against the frame and was seized with a terrible coughing spell. His
deeply sunken temples, almost black eye-sockets, and bared yellow teeth made
his face look like the skull of a skeleton. Were it not for the sweat
streaming down his forehead, one could have easily taken him for a corpse.
That was the picture Pavlik could not banish from his mind. The boy
felt terribly oppressed; however, his mental state in no way interfered with
the job in hand. He bestowed special care on transferring the picture, for
he did not want to make a hole in the wet paper and spoil the bouquet and
light-blue ribbons that looked so bright in the light of the lamp.
Petya, meanwhile, was absent-mindedly leafing through a thick notebook.
There were emblems scratched out on the black oilskin cover-an anchor, a
heart pierced with an arrow and several mysterious initials. He was
listening to Father and Auntie arguing in the dining-room. Some words were
repeated more often than others; they were: "freedom of thought," "popular
government," "constitution," and, finally, that burning word-"revolution."
"Mark my words, it will all end in another revolution," Auntie said.
"You're an anarchist!" Father shouted shrilly.
"I'm a Russian patriot!"
"Russian patriots have faith in their tsar and their government!"
"Have you faith in them?"
"Yes, I have!"
Then Petya heard Tolstoi mentioned once more.
"Then why did this tsar and this government in whom you have such faith
excommunicate Tolstoi and ban his books?"
"To err is human. They look on Tolstoi as a politician, almost a
revolutionary, but Tolstoi is simply the world's greatest writer and the
pride of Russia. He is above all your parties and revolutions. I'll prove
that in my speech."
"Do you think the authorities will allow you to say that?"
"I don't need permission to say in public that Lev Tolstoi is a great
Russian writer."
"That's what you think."
"I don't think it-I am absolutely sure!"
"You're an idealist. You don't know the kind of country you're living
in. I beg you not to do that! They'll destroy you. Take my advice."
Petya woke up in the middle of the night and saw Vasily Petrovich
sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Petya was used to seeing his father
correct exercise-books at night. This time, however, Father was doing
something else. The stacks of exercise-books were lying untouched, and he
was writing something rapidly in his fine hand. Little fat volumes of an old
edition of Tolstoi's works were scattered about the desk.
"Daddy, what are you writing?" "Go to sleep, sonny," Vasily Petrovich
said. He walked over to the bed, kissed Petya, and made the sign of the
cross over him.
The boy turned his pillow, laid his head on the cool side and fell
asleep again.
Before he dozed off he heard the rapid scratching of a pen, the faint
clinking of the little icon at the head of his bed, saw his father's dark
head next to the green lamp-shade, the warm grow of the candle flame in the
corner beneath the big icon, and the dry palm branch that cast a mysterious
shadow on the wallpaper, as always bringing to mind the branch of Palestine,
the poor sons of Solim, and the wonderful soothing music of Lermontov's
poem:
Peace and silence all around,
On the earth and in the sky....
Next morning, while Vasily Petrovich was busy washing, combing his
hair, and fastening a black tie to a starched collar, Petya had a chance to
see what his father had been writing during the night.
An ancient home-made exercise-book sewn together with coarse thread lay
on the desk. Petya recognized it immediately. Its usual place was in
Father's dresser, next to the other family relics: the yellowed wedding
candles, a spray of orange blossom, his dead mother's white kid gloves and
little bead bag, her tiny mother-of-pearl opera-glasses, some dried leaves
of a wild pear tree that grew on Lermontov's grave, and a collection of odds
and ends which, in Petya's view, were just junk, but to Vasily Petrovich
very precious.
Petya had leafed through the exercise-book once before. Half of it was
taken up with la speech Vasily Petrovich had written on the hundredth
anniversary of Pushkin's birth; there had not been anything in the other
half. The boy now saw that a new speech filled up this yellowed half of the
book. It was written in the same fine hand, and its subject was Tolstoi's
death. This is how it began:
"A great Russian writer is dead. Our literary sun has set."
Vasily Petrovich put on a pair of new cuffs and his best hollow-gold
cufflinks, carefully folded the exercise-book in two and put it in his
side-pocket. Petya watched his father drink a quick glass of tea and then
proceed to the hall where he put on his heavy coat with the frayed velvet
collar. The boy noticed that his fingers were trembling and his pince-nez
was shaking on his nose. For some reason, Petya suddenly felt terribly sorry
for his father. He went over to him and brushed against his coat-sleeve, as
he used to do when he was a very small boy.
"Never mind, we'll show them yet!" Father said and patted his son's
back.
"I still advise you against it," Auntie said solemnly as she looked
into the hall.
"You're wrong," Vasily Petrovich replied in a soft tremulous voice. He
put on his wide-brimmed black hat and went out quickly.
"God grant that I am wrong!" Auntie sighed. "Come on, boys, stop
wasting time or you'll be late for school," she added and went over to help
Pavlik, her favourite, buckle on his satchel, as he had not yet mastered the
fairly simple procedure.
The day slipped by, a short and, at the same time, an interminably long
and dreary November day, full of a vague feeling of expectation, furtive
rumour, and endless repetition of the same agonizing words: "Chertkov,"
"Sofya Andreyevna," "Astapovo," "Ozolin."
It was the day of Tolstoi's funeral.
Petya had spent all his life on the southern sea coast, in the
Novorossiisk steppe region, and had never seen a forest. But now he had a
very clear mental picture of Yasnaya Polyana, of woods fringing an overgrown
ravine. In his mind's eye Petya saw the black trunks of the ancient,
leafless lindens, and the plain pine coffin containing the withered,
decrepit body of Lev Tolstoi being lowered into the grave without priest or
choir boys attending. And overhead the boy could see the ominous clouds and
flocks of crows, exactly like those that circled over the church steeple and
the bleak Kulikovo Field in the rainy twilight.
As usual, Father returned from his classes when the lamp had been lit
in the dining-room. He was excited, happy and deeply moved. When Auntie, not
without anxiety, asked him whether he had delivered his speech and what the
reaction had been, Vasily Petrovich could not restrain the proud smile that
flashed radiantly beneath his pince-nez.
"You could have heard a pin drop," he said, taking his handkerchief out
of his back-pocket and wiping his damp beard. "I never expected the young
bounders to respond so eagerly and seriously. And that goes for the young
ladies too. I repeated it for the seventh form of the Maryinsky School."
"Were you actually given permission to do so?" "I didn't ask anyone's
permission. Why should I? I hold that the literature teacher is fully
entitled to discuss with his class the personality of any famous Russian
writer, especially when the writer in question happens to be Tolstoi. What
is more, I believe that it is my duty to do so." "You're so reckless."
Later in the evening some young people, strangers to the family,
dropped in: two students in very old, faded caps, and a young woman who also
seemed to be a student. One of the youths sported a crooked pince-nez on a
black ribbon, wore top-boots, smoked a cigarette and emitted the smoke
through his nostrils; the young woman had on a short jacket and kept
pressing her little chapped hands to her bosom. For some reason or other
they were reluctant to come into the rooms, and remained in the hall talking
with Vasily Petrovich for a long time. The deep, rumbling bass seemed to
belong to the student with the pince-nez, and the pleading, lisping voice of
the young woman kept repeating the same phrase over and over again at
regular intervals:
"We feel certain that as a progressive and noble-minded person and
public figure, you won't refuse the student body this humble request."
The third visitor kept wiping his wet shoes shyly on the door mat and
blowing his nose discreetly.
It turned out that news of Vasily Petrovich's talk had somehow reached
the Higher Courses for Women and the Medical School of the Imperial
University in Odessa, and the student delegation had come to express their
solidarity and also to request him to repeat his lecture to a
Social-Democratic student circle. Vasily Petrovich, while flattered, was
unpleasantly surprised. He thanked the young people but categorically
refused to address the Social-Democratic circle. He told them that he had
never belonged to any party and had no intention of ever joining one, and
added that he would regard any attempt to turn Tolstoi's death into
something political as a mark of disrespect towards the great writer, as
Tolstoi's abhorrence of all political parties and his negative attitude to
politics generally were common knowledge.
"If that's the case, then please excuse us," the young lady said dryly.
"We are greatly disappointed in you. Comrades, let's go."
The young people departed with dignity, leaving behind the odour of
cheap tobacco and wet footprints on the doorstep.
"What an astonishing thing!" Vasily Petrovich said as he strode up and
down the dining-room, wiping his pince-nez on the lining of his house
jacket. "It's really astonishing how people always find an excuse to talk
politics!"
"I warned you," Auntie said. "And I'm afraid the consequences will be
serious."
Auntie's premonition turned out to be correct, although the results
were not as immediate as she had expected. At least a month went by before
the trouble began. Actually, the approaching events cast a few shadows
before them. However, they seemed so vague that the Bachei family paid
little attention to them.
"Daddy, what's a 'red'?" Pavlik asked unexpectedly, as was his wont, at
dinner one day, his shining, naive eyes fixed on Father.
"Really, now!" Vasily Petrovich said. He was in excellent spirits.
"It's a somewhat strange question. I'd say that red means . . . well-not
blue, yellow, nor brown, h'm, and so on."
"I know that. But I'm talking about people, are there red people?"
"Oh, so that's what you mean! Of course there are. Take the North
American Indians, for example. The so-called redskins."
"They haven't got to that yet in their preparatory class," Petya said
haughtily. "They're still infants."
Pavlik ignored the insult. He kept his eyes on Father and asked:
"Daddy, does that mean you're an Indian?"
"Basically, no." Father laughed so loudly and boisterously that the
pince-nez fell off his nose and all but landed in his soup.
"Then why did Fedya Pshenichnikov say you were a red?"
"Oho! That's interesting. Who is this Fedya Pshenichnikov?"
"He's in my form. His father is senior clerk in the Governor's office
in Odessa."
"Well! If that's the case, then perhaps your Fedya knows best. However,
I think you can see for yourself that I'm not red, the only time I ever get
red is during severe frost."
"I don't like this," Auntie commented.
Not long afterwards a certain Krylevich, the bookkeeper of the mutual
aid society at the boy's school where Vasily Petrovich taught, -dropped in
one evening to see him about some savings-bank matters. When they had
disposed of the matter, Krylevich, whom Vasily Petrovich had always found to
be an unpleasant person, remained for tea. He stayed for an hour and a half,
was incredibly boring, and kept turning the conversation to Tolstoi,
praising Vasily Petrovich for his courage, and begging him for his notes,
saying he wanted to read them at home. Father refused, and his refusal upset
Krylevich. Standing in front of the mirror in the hall, putting on his flat,
greasy cap with the cockade of the Ministry of Education, he said with a
sugary smile:
"I'm sorry you don't want to give me the pleasure, really sorry. Your
modesty is worse than pride."
His visit left a nasty after-taste.
There were other minor happenings of the same order; for instance, some
of their acquaintances would greet Vasily Petrovich in the street with
exaggerated politeness, while others, on the' contrary, were unusually curt
and made no attempt to conceal their disapproval.
Then, just before Christmas, the storm broke.
`
Pavlik, who had just been "let out" for the holidays, was walking up
and down in front of the house in his overlong winter topcoat, meant to last
several seasons, and his new galoshes which made such a pleasant crunching
sound and left such first-rate dotted prints with an oval trade mark in the
middle on the fresh December snow. His report-card for the second quarter
was in his satchel. His marks were excellent, there were no unpleasant
reprimands and he even had "excellent" for attention, diligence, and
behaviour, which, to tell the truth, was overdoing it a bit. But, thanks to
his innocent chocolate-brown crystal-clear eyes, Pavlik had the happy knack
of always landing on his feet.
The boy's mood harmonized with the holiday season, and only one tiny
little worm of anxiety wriggled down in the deep recesses of his soul. The
trouble was that today, after the last lesson, the preparatory class,
throwing caution to the winds, had organized another "obstruction." This
time they took revenge on the doorman who had refused to let them out before
the bell rang. The boys got together and tossed somebody's galosh into the
cast-iron stove that stood next 'to the cloak-room, with the result that a
column of acrid smoke rose up, and the doorman had to flood the stove with
water. At that moment the bell rang, and the preparatory class scattered in
a body. Now Pavlik was worried that the inspector might get to know about
their prank, and that would lead to serious complications. This was the sole
blot in his feeling of pure joy at the thought of the holidays ahead.
Suddenly Pavlik saw what he feared most. A messenger was coming down
the street and heading straight for him; he wore a cap with a blue band land
his coat was trimmed with a lambskin collar from which Pavlik could see the
blue stand-up collar of his tunic. He was carrying a large cardboard-bound
register under his arm. The messenger walked up leisurely to the gate,
looked at the triangular lamp with the house number underneath it, and
stopped. Pavlik's heart sank.
"Where do the Bacheis live?" the messenger asked.
Pavlik realized that his end had come. There could be no doubt that
this was an official note to his father concerning the behaviour of Pavel
Bachei, preparatory-class pupil-in other words, the most dreadful fate that
could befall a schoolboy.
"What is it? Do they want Father?" Pavlik asked with a sickly smile. He
did not recognize his own voice and blushed a deep crimson as he added, "You
can give it to me, I'll deliver it and you won't have to climb the stairs!"
"I must have his signature," the messenger said sternly, curling his
big moustache.
"Second floor, number four," Pavlik whispered and felt hot, choked,
nauseous, and scared to death.
It never dawned on the boy that the messenger was a stranger. And in
any case, this being his first year at school, he could not possibly know
all the personnel.
The moment the front door closed after the messenger the light went out
for Pavlik. The world with all its beauty and freshness no longer existed
for him. It had vanished on the instant. The crimson winter sun was setting
beyond the blue-tinted snow-covered Kulikovo Field and the station; the
bells of the frozen cab horse around the corner tinkled as musically as
ever; the pots of hot cranberry jelly, set out on the balconies to cool,
were steaming as usual, the coat of delicate pale-blue snow on the balcony
railings and the steam curling over the pots seemed as cranberry-red as the
cooling jelly itself; the street, full of the holiday spirit, was as gay and
as lively as ever.
Pavlik no longer noticed any of this. At first he made up his mind that
he would never go home again-he would roam the streets until he died of
hunger or froze to death. Then, after he 'had walked around the
side-streets, he took a sacred vow to change his whole way of life and
never, never take part in any "obstructions" again; moreover, he would be a
model pupil, the best-behaved boy not only in Odessa, but in all Russia, and
thus earn Father's and Auntie's forgiveness. Then he began to feel sorry for
himself, for his ruined life, and even started to cry, smearing the tears
all over his face. In the end pangs of hunger drove him, home and, utterly
exhausted with suffering, he appeared on the threshold after the lamps had
been lit. Pavlik was ready to confess and repent when he suddenly noticed
that the whole family was in a state of great excitement. The excitement,
apparently, had nothing at all to do with the person of Pavlik, as no one
paid the slightest attention to him when he came in.
The dining-room table had not been cleared. Father was striding from
room to room, his shoes squeaking loudly and 'his coat-tails flying. There
were red spots on his face.
"I told you. I warned you," Auntie kept repeating, as she swung back
and forth on the swivel stool in front of the piano with its wax-spotted
silver candlesticks.
Petya was breathing on the window-pane and etching with his finger the
words, "Dear sir, Dear sir."
It turned out that the messenger had been from the office of the
Education Department and had nothing to do with the gymnasium at all. He had
delivered a message to Councillor Bachei, requesting him to appear the
following day "to explain the circumstances which prompted him to deliver an
unauthorized speech to his students on the occasion of Count Tolstoi's
death."
When Vasily Petrovich returned from the Education Department next day,
he sat down in the rocker in his frock-coat and folded his arms behind his
head. The moment Petya saw his pale forehead and trembling jaw, he knew
something terrible had happened.
Father was reclining on the wicker back of the chair and rocking
nervously, shoving off with the toe of his squeaking shoe.
"Vasily Petrovich, for God's sake, tell me what happened," Auntie said
finally, her kind eyes wide with fright.
"Please, leave me alone!" Father said with an effort, and his jaw
twitched more violently.
His pince-nez had slid down, and Petya saw two tiny pink dents on the
bridge of his nose which gave his face the appearance of helpless suffering.
The boy recalled that he had had this same look when Mother had died and lay
in a white coffin covered with hyacinths; then, too, Father had rocked back
and forth nervously, arms folded behind his head, his eyes filled with
tears. Petya walked over to Father, put his arms around his shoulders, which
bore faint traces of dandruff, and hugged him.
"Daddy, don't!" he said gently.
Father shook the boy's arms off, jumped up, and gesticulated so
violently that his starched cuffs popped out with a snap.
"In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ-leave me alone!" he shouted in an
agonized voice and fled into the room that was both his study and bedroom
and the boys' room as well.
He divested himself of jacket and shoes, lay down and turned his face
to the wall.
At the sight of Father lying huddled up, of his white socks and the
blue steel buckle on the crumpled back of his waistcoat, Petya broke down
and began to cry, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
What actually had taken place at the Education Department? To begin
with, Vasily Petrovich had spent a long and uncomfortable time sitting alone
in the cold, officially sumptuous waiting-room on a gilded blue velvet chair
of the kind usually seen in museums or theatre lobbies. Then a dandified
official in the uniform of the Ministry of Education appeared, his figure
reflected in the parquet floor, and informed Vasily Petrovich that His
Excellency would see him.
His Excellency was sitting behind an enormous writing-desk. He was
hunchbacked and, like most hunchbacks, was very short, so that nothing could
be seen of him above the massive malachite desk set with two bronze
malachite candelabra, except a proud, malicious head, iron grey land
closely-cropped, propped up by a high starched collar and white tie. He was
wearing his formal civil service dress-coat with decorations.
"Why did you take the liberty of appearing here without your uniform?"
His Excellency demanded, without offering the caller a seat or getting up
himself.
Vasily Petrovich was taken aback, but when he tried to picture his old
uniform with the rows of holes where Petya had once yanked the buttons off
together with the cloth, he smiled good-naturedly, to his own surprise, and
even waved his hands somewhat humorously.
"I would request you not to act the clown. Don't wave your arms about:
you are in an office, not on the stage."
"My dear sir!" Vasily Petrovich said as the blood rushed to his face.
"Silence!" barked the official in the best departmental manner, as he
crashed his fist down on a pile of papers. "I am a member of the Privy
Council, 'Your Excellency' to you, not 'my dear sir'! Be good enough to
remember where you are and sta-a-and to attention! I summoned you here to
present you with an alternative," he continued, pronouncing the word
"alternative" with evident relish, "to present you with an alternative:
either publicly recant your baleful errors in the presence of the School
Inspector and the students at one of the next lessons, and explain the
demoralizing effects of Count Tolstoi's teachings on Russian society, or
hand in your resignation. Should you refuse to do so, you will be discharged
under Article 3 with no explanation and with all the unfortunate
consequences as far as you are concerned. I will not tolerate
anti-government propaganda in my district. I will mercilessly and
unhesitatingly suppress every instance of it."
"Allow me, Your Excellency!" Vasily Petrovich said in a trembling
voice. "Lev Tolstoi, our famous man of letters, is the pride and glory of
all Russia. I don't understand. What have politics got to do with it?"
"First of all, Count Tolstoi is an apostate, excommunicated from the
Orthodox Church by the Holy Synod. He is a man who dared to encroach upon
the most sacred principles of the Russian Empire and its fundamental laws.
If you cannot grasp this, then government service is not the place for you!"
"I regard that as an insult," Vasily Petrovich said with great
difficulty, as he felt his jaw begin to tremble.
"Get out!" roared the official, rising.
Vasily Petrovich left the office with his knees shaking, a shaking that
he could not control either on the marble staircase, where in two white
niches there were two gypsum busts of the tsar and tsarina in la pearl
tiara, or in the cloak-room, where a massive attendant threw his coat to him
over the barrier, or even later, in the cab, a luxury the Bachei family
indulged in only on very special occasions.
And so here he was, lying on the bed-clothes with his feet tucked up
under him, deeply insulted, powerless, humiliated, and overwhelmed by the
misfortune that had befallen not only him personally but, as he now
realized, his whole family as well. To be discharged under Article 3 with no
grounds stated meant more than the black list and social ostracism, it
signified in all probability an administrative exile, i.e., utter ruin,
poverty, and the end of the family. There was only one way out-a public
recantation.
By nature Vasily Petrovich was neither hero nor martyr. He was an
ordinary kind-hearted, intelligent man, a decent, honest intellectual, the
kind known as an "idealist," and a "pure soul." His university tradition
would not allow him to retreat. In his opinion a "bargain with one's
conscience" was the epitome of moral degradation. And, nevertheless, he
wavered. The pit they had dug for him so ruthlessly would not bear thinking
about. He realized that there was no way out, although he tried to think of
one.
Vasily Petrovich was so disheartened that he even decided to petition
the Emperor and sent for ten kopeks' worth of the best "ministerial"
stationery from the shop round the corner. He still adhered to his belief
that the tsar-the Lord's Anointed-was just and upright.
Perhaps he would actually have written to the tsar, had it not been for
the fact that at this juncture Auntie took a hand in the matter. She told
the cook on no account to go for any "ministerial" stationery, and
addressing herself to Vasily Petrovich said:
"My God, you're the perfect innocent! Don't you understand that they
are one and the same bunch?"
Vasily Petrovich blinked confusedly and kept repeating:
"But what's to be done, Tatyana Ivanovna? Tell me, just what can I do?"
Auntie, however, had no advice to offer. She retreated to her little
room next to the kitchen, sat down at her dressing-table, and pressed a
crumpled lace handkerchief to her red nose.
It was Christmas Eve, the twenty-fourth of December, a day that had a
special meaning for the Bachei family. It was the day of Mother's patron
saint. Every year on that day they visited the cemetery to offer up a mass
for the dead. They set out today too. There was a blizzard blowing and the
blinding whiteness hurt their eyes. The snow-drifts at the cemetery blended
with the white of the sky. Fine, powdery snow crystals rose over the black
iron railings and crosses. The wind whistled through old metal wreaths with
porcelain flowers. Petya stood knee-deep in the fresh snow. He had taken off
his cap, but still had on a hood. He was praying diligently, trying to
visualize his dead mother, but could recall only minor details: a hat with a
feather in it, a veil, the hem of a wide silk dress with a fringe on it. Two