IV

The porter continued to cry, and at the same time to leap awkwardly

down the steep path, the sleeves of his blouse trembling in the wind

and the body of it blown out like a sail.

"O-ho-ho! Wait, you three!"

"There's no finishing with these people," growled Lodishkin angrily.

"It's Artoshka they're after again."

"Grandfather, what d'you say? Let's pitch into him!" proposed Sergey

bravely.

"You be quiet! Don't be rash! But what sort of people can they be? God

forgive us...."

"I say, this is what you've got to do...," began the panting porter

from afar. "You'll sell that dog. Eh, what? There's no peace with the

little master. Roars like a calf: 'Give me, give me the dog....' The

mistress has sent. 'Buy it,' says she, 'however much you have to pay.'"

"Now that's pretty stupid on your mistress's part," cried Lodishkin

angrily, for he felt considerably more sure of himself here on the

shore than he did in somebody else's garden. "And I should like to ask

how can she be my mistress? She's your mistress, perhaps, but to me

further off than a third cousin, and I can spit at her if I want to.

And now, please, for the love of God ... I pray you ... be so good as

to go away ... and leave us alone."

But the porter paid no attention. He sat down on the pebbles beside

the old man, and, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck with his

fingers, addressed him thus:

"Now, don't you grasp, fool?..."

"I hear it from a fool," interrupted the old man.

"Now, come ... that's not the point.... Just put it to yourself. What's

the dog to you? Choose another puppy; all your expense is a stick, and

there you have your dog again. Isn't that sense? Don't I speak the

truth? Eh?"

Grandfather meditatively fastened the strap which served him as a

belt. To the obstinate questions of the porter he replied with studied

indifference.

"Talk on, say all you've got to say, and then I'll answer you at once."

"Then, brother, think of the number," cried the porter hotly. "Two

hundred, perhaps three hundred roubles in a lump! Well, they generally

give me something for my work ... but just you think of it. Three whole

hundred! Why, you know, you could open a grocer's shop with that...."

Whilst saying this the porter plucked from his pocket a piece of

sausage, and threw it to the poodle. Arto caught it in the air,

swallowed it at a gulp, and ingratiatingly wagged his tail.

"Finished?" asked Lodishkin sweetly.

"Doesn't take long to say what I had to say. Give the dog, and the

money will be in your hands."

"So-o," drawled grandfather mockingly. "That means the sale of the dog,

I suppose?"

"What else? Just an ordinary sale. You see, our little master is so

crazy. That's what's the matter. Whatever he wants, he turns the whole

house upside down. 'Give,' says he, and it has to be given. That's how

it is without his father. When his father's here ... holy Saints!...

we all walk on our heads. The father is an engineer; perhaps you've

heard of Mr. Obolyaninof? He builds railway lines all over Russia.

A millionaire! They've only one boy, and they spoil him. 'I want a

live pony,' says he--here's a pony for you. 'I want a boat,' says

he--here's a real boat. There is nothing that they refuse him...."

"And the moon?"

"That is, in what sense?" asked the porter.

"I say, has he never asked for the moon from the sky?"

"The moon. What nonsense is that?" said the porter, turning red. "But

come now, we're agreed, aren't we, dear man?"

By this time grandfather had succeeded in putting on his old

green-seamed jacket, and he drew himself up as straight as his bent

back would permit.

"I'll ask you one thing, young man," said he, not without dignity.

"If you had a brother, or, let us say, a friend, that had grown up

with you from childhood--Now stop, friend, don't throw sausage to the

dog ... better eat it yourself.... You can't bribe the dog with that,

brother--I say, if you had a friend, the best and truest friend that

it's possible to have ... one who from childhood ... well, then, for

example, for how much would you sell him?"

"I'd find a price even for him!..."

"Oh, you'd find a price. Then go and tell your master who builds the

railroads," cried grandfather in a loud voice--"Go and tell him that

not everything that ordinarily is for sale is also to be bought. Yes!

And you'd better not stroke the dog. That's to no purpose. Here, Arto,

dog, I'll give it you. Come on, Sergey."

"Oh, you old fool!" cried the porter at last.

"Fool; yes, I was one from birth, but you, bit of rabble, Judas,

soul-seller!" shouted Lodishkin. "When you see your lady-general, give

her our kind respects, our deepest respects. Sergey, roll up the

mattress. Ai, ai, my back, how it aches! Come on."

"So-o, that's what it means," drawled the porter significantly.

"Yes. That's what it is. Take it!" answered the old man exasperatingly.

The troupe then wandered off along the shore, following on the same

road. Once, looking back accidentally, Sergey noticed that the porter

was following them; his face seemed cogitative and gloomy, his cap

was over his eyes, and he scratched with five fingers his shaggy

carrotty-haired neck.

V

A certain spot between Miskhor and Aloopka had long since been put down

by Lodishkin as a splendid place for having lunch, and it was to this

that they journeyed now. Not far from a bridge over a rushing mountain

torrent there wandered from the cliff side a cold chattering stream

of limpid water. This was in the shade of crooked oak trees and thick

hazel bushes. The stream had made itself a shallow basin in the earth,

and from this overflowed, in tiny snake-like streamlets, glittering in

the grass like living silver. Every morning and evening one might see

here pious Turks making their ablutions and saying their prayers.

"Our sins are heavy and our provisions are meagre," said grandfather,

sitting in the shade of a hazel bush. "Now, Serozha, come along. Lord,

give Thy blessing!"

He pulled out from a sack some bread, some tomatoes, a lump of

Bessarabian cheese, and a bottle of olive oil. He brought out a little

bag of salt, an old rag tied round with string. Before eating, the old

man crossed himself many times and whispered something. Then he broke

the crust of bread into three unequal parts: the largest he gave to

Sergey (he is growing--he must eat), the next largest he gave to the

poodle, and the smallest he took for himself.

"In the name of the Father and the Son. The eyes of all wait upon Thee,

O Lord," whispered he, making a salad of the tomatoes. "Eat, Serozha!"

They ate slowly, not hurrying, in silence, as people eat who work.

All that was audible was the working of three pairs of jaws. Arto,

stretched on his stomach, ate his little bit at one side, gnawing the

crust of bread, which he held between his front paws. Grandfather and

Sergey alternately dipped their tomatoes in the salt, and made their

lips and hands red with the juice. When they had finished they drank

water from the stream, filling a little tin can and putting it to their

mouths. It was fine water, and so cold that the mug went cloudy on the

outside from the moisture condensing on it. The mid-day heat and the

long road had tired the performers, for they had been up with the sun.

Grandfather's eyes closed involuntarily. Sergey yawned and stretched

himself.

"Well now, little brother, what if we were to lie down and sleep for a

minute or so?" asked grandfather. "One last drink of water. Ukh! Fine!"

cried he, taking his lips from the can and breathing heavily, the

bright drops of water running from his beard and whiskers. "If I were

Tsar I'd drink that water every day ... from morning to night. Here,

Arto! Well, God has fed us and nobody has seen us, or if anybody has

seen us he hasn't taken offence.... Okh--okh--okhonush--kee--ee!"

The old man and the boy lay down side by side in the grass, making

pillows for their heads of their jackets. The dark leaves of the rugged

many-branching oaks murmured above them; occasionally through the shade

gleamed patches of bright blue sky; the little streams running from

stone to stone chattered monotonously and stealthily as if they were

putting someone to sleep by sorcery. Grandfather turned from side to

side, muttered something to Sergey, but to Sergey his voice seemed far

away in a soft and sleepy distance, and the words were strange, as

those spoken in a fairy tale.

"First of all--I buy you a costume, rose and gold ... slippers also of

rose-coloured satin ... in Kief or Kharkof, or, perhaps, let us say

in the town of Odessa--there, brother, there are circuses, if you

like!... Endless lanterns ... all electricity.... People, perhaps five

thousand, perhaps more ... how should I know. We should have to make

up a name for you--an Italian name, of course. What can one do with

a name like Esteepheyef, or let us say, Lodishkin? Quite absurd! No

imagination in them whatever. So we'd let you go on the placards as

Antonio, or perhaps, also quite good, Enrico or Alphonse...."

The boy heard no more. A sweet and gentle slumber settled down upon him

and took possession of his body. And grandfather fell asleep, losing

suddenly the thread of his favourite after-dinner thoughts, his dream

of Sergey's magnificent acrobatic future. Once, however, in his dream

it appeared to him that Arto was growling at somebody. For a moment

through his dreamy brain there passed the half-conscious and alarming

remembrance of the porter in the rose-coloured blouse, but overcome

with sleep, tiredness and heat, he could not get up, but only idly,

with closed eyes, cried out to the dog:

"Arto ... where're you going? I'll g-give it you, gipsy!"

But at once he forgot what he was talking about, and his mind fell back

into the heaviness of sleep and vague dreams.

At last the voice of Sergey woke him up, for the boy was running to

and fro just beyond the stream, shouting loudly and whistling, calling

anxiously for the dog.

"Here, Arto! Come back! Pheu, pheu! Come back, Arto!"

"What are you howling about, Sergey?" cried Lodishkin in a tone of

displeasure, trying to bring the circulation back to a sleeping arm.

"We've lost the dog whilst we slept. That's what we've done," answered

the boy in a harsh, scolding note. "The dog's lost."

He whistled again sharply, and cried:

"Arto-o-o!"

"Ah, you're just making up nonsense! He'll return," said grandfather.

But all the same, he also got up and began to call the dog in an angry,

sleepy, old man's falsetto:

"Arto! Here, dog!"

The old man hurriedly and tremblingly ran across the bridge and began

to go upward along the highway, calling the dog as he went. In front of

him lay the bright, white stripe of the road, level and clear for half

a mile, but on it not a figure, not a shadow.

"Arto! Ar-tosh-enka!" wailed the old man in a piteous voice, but

suddenly he stopped calling him, bent down on the roadside and sat on

his heels.

"Yes, that's what it is," said the old man in a failing voice. "Sergey!

Serozha! Come here, my boy!"

"Now what do you want?" cried the boy rudely. "What have you found now?

Found yesterday lying by the roadside, eh?"

"Serozha ... what is it?... What do you make of it? Do you see what it

is?" asked the old man, scarcely above a whisper. He looked at the boy

in a piteous and distracted way, and his arms hung helplessly at his

sides.

In the dust of the road lay a comparatively large half-eaten lump of

sausage, and about it in all directions were printed a dog's paw-marks.

"He's drawn it off, the scoundrel, lured it away," whispered

grandfather in a frightened shiver, still sitting on his heels. "It's

he; no one else, it's quite clear. Don't you remember how he threw the

sausage to Arto down by the sea?"

"Yes, it's quite clear," repeated Sergey sulkily.

Grandfather's wide-open eyes filled with tears, quickly overflowing

down his cheeks. He hid them with his hands.

"Now, what can we do Serozhenka? Eh, boy? What can we do now?" asked

the old man, rocking to and fro and weeping helplessly.

"Wha-at to do, wha-at to do!" teased Sergey. "Get up, grandfather

Lodishkin; let's be going!"

"Yes, let us go!" repeated the old man sadly and humbly, raising

himself from the ground. "We'd better be going, I suppose, Serozhenka."

Losing patience, Sergey began to scold the old man as if he were a

little boy.

"That's enough drivelling, old man, stupid! Who ever heard of people

taking away other folks' dogs in this way? It's not the law. What-ye

blinking your eyes at me for? Is what I say untrue? Let us go simply

and say, 'Give us back the dog!' and if they won't give it, then to the

courts with it, and there's an end of it."

"To the courts ... yes ... of course.... That's correct, to the courts,

of course...," repeated Lodishkin, with a senseless bitter smile. But

his eyes looked hither and thither in confusion. "To the courts ... yes

... only you know, Serozhenka ... it wouldn't work ... we'd never get

to the courts...."

"How not work? The law is the same for everybody. What have they got to

say for themselves?" interrupted the boy impatiently.

"Now, Serozha, don't do that ... don't be angry with me. They won't

give us back the dog." At this point grandfather lowered his voice in

a mysterious way. "I fear, on account of the passport. Didn't you hear

what the gentleman said up there? 'Have you a passport?' he says. Well,

and there, you see, I,"--here grandfather made a wry and seemingly

frightened face, and whispered barely audibly--"I'm living with

somebody else's passport, Serozha."

"How somebody else's?"

"Somebody else's. There's no more about it. I lost my own at Taganrog.

Perhaps somebody stole it. For two years after that I wandered about,

hid myself, gave bribes, wrote petitions ... at last I saw there was

no getting out of it. I had to live like a hare--afraid of everything.

But once in Odessa, in a night house, a Greek remarked to me the

following:--'What you say,' says he, 'is nonsense. Put twenty-five

roubles on the table, and I'll give you a passport that'll last you

till doomsday.' I worried my brain about that. 'I'll lose my head for

this,' I thought. However, 'Give it me,' said I. And from that time, my

dear boy, I've been going about the world with another man's passport."

"Ah, grandfather, grandfather!" sighed Sergey, with tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry about the dog. It's a very fine dog, you know...."

"Serozhenka, my darling," cried the old man trembling. "If only I had

a real passport. Do you think it would matter to me even if they were

generals? I'd take them by the throat!... How's this? One minute, if

you please! What right have you to steal other people's dogs? What law

is there for that? But now there's a stopper on us, Serozha. If I go to

the police station the first thing will be, 'Show us your passport! Are

you a citizen of Samara, by name Martin Lodishkin?' I, your Excellency,

dear me--I, little brother, am not Lodishkin at all, and not a citizen,

but a peasant. Ivan Dudkin is my name. And who that Lodishkin might be,

God alone knows! How can I tell? Perhaps a thief or an escaped convict.

Perhaps even a murderer. No, Serozha, we shouldn't effect anything that

way. Nothing at all...."

Grandfather choked, and tears trickled once more over his sunburnt

wrinkles. Sergey, who had listened to the old man in silence, his brows

tightly knit, his face pale with agitation, suddenly stood up and

cried: "Come on, grandfather. To the devil with the passport! I suppose

we don't intend to spend the night here on the high road?"

"Ah, my dear, my darling," said the old man, trembling. "'Twas a clever

dog ... that Artoshenka of ours. We shan't find such another...."

"All right, all right. Get up!" cried Sergey imperiously. "Now let me

knock the dust off you. I feel quite worn out, grandfather."

They worked no more that day. Despite his youthful years, Sergey well

understood the fateful meaning of the dreadful word "passport." So he

sought no longer to get Arto back, either through the courts or in any

other decisive way. And as he walked along the road with grandfather

towards the inn, where they should sleep, his face took on a new,

obstinate, concentrated expression, as if he had just thought out

something extraordinarily serious and great.

Without actually expressing their intention, the two wanderers made a

considerable detour in order to pass once more by Friendship Villa, and

they stopped for a little while outside the gates, in the vague hope

of catching a glimpse of Arto, or of hearing his bark from afar. But

the iron gates of the magnificent villa were bolted and locked, and

an important, undisturbed and solemn stillness reigned over the shady

garden under the sad and mighty cypresses.

"Peo-ple!" cried the old man in a quavering voice, putting into that

one word all the burning grief that filled his heart.

"Ah, that's enough. Come on!" cried the boy roughly, pulling his

companion by the sleeve.

"Serozhenka! Don't you think there's a chance that Artoshenka might run

away from them?" sighed the old man. "Eh! What do you think, dear?"

But the boy did not answer the old man. He went ahead in firm large

strides, his eyes obstinately fixed on the road, his brows obstinately

frowning.