When Yevsey completed the school course, the blacksmith said to him:
"What shall we do with you now? There's nothing for you here. You must
go to the city. I have to get bellows there, and I'll take you along,
Orphan."
"Will you yourself take me?"
"Yes. Are you sorry to leave the village?"
"No, but I am sorry on account of you."
The blacksmith put a piece of iron in the furnace and adjusting the
coals with the tongs, said thoughtfully:
"There's no reason to be sorry on account of me. I am grown up. I am the
muzhik I ought to be, like every other muzhik."
"You're better than everybody else," Yevsey said in a low voice.
It seemed that Uncle Piotr did not hear the last remark, for he did not
answer, but removed the glowing iron from the fire, screwed up his eyes,
and began to hammer, scattering the red sparks all about him. Then he
suddenly stopped, slowly dropped the hand in which he held the hammer,
and said smiling:
"I ought to give you some advice--how to live and all such things."
Yevsey waited to hear the advice. The blacksmith, however, apparently
forgetful of his nephew, put the iron back into the fire, wiped the
tears from his cheeks, and looked into the furnace. A muzhik entered,
bringing a cracked tire. Yevsey went out to go to the ravine, where he
crouched in the bushes until sunset, waiting for his uncle to be alone;
which did not happen.
The day of his departure from the village was effaced from the boy's
memory. He recalled only that when he rode out into the fields, it was
dark and the air strangely oppressive. The wagon jolted horribly, and on
both sides rose black motionless trees. The further they advanced the
wider the space became and the brighter the atmosphere. The uncle was
sullen the whole way, and reluctantly gave brief and unintelligible
answers to Yevsey's questions.
They rode an entire day, stopping over night in a little village. Yevsey
heard the fine and protracted playing of an accordion, a woman weeping,
and occasionally an angry voice crying out: "Shut up!" and swearing
abusively.
The travelers continued on their way the same night. Two dogs
accompanied them, running around the wagon and whining. As they left the
village a bittern boomed sullenly and plaintively in the forest to the
left of the road.
"God grant good luck!" mumbled the blacksmith.
Yevsey fell asleep, and awoke when his uncle lightly tapped him on his
legs with the butt end of the whip.
"Look, Orphan."
To the sleepy eyes of the boy the city appeared like a huge field of
buckwheat. Thick and varicolored, it stretched endlessly, with the
golden church steeples standing out like yellow pimpinellas, and the
dark bands of the streets looking like fences between the patches.
"Oh, how large!" said Yevsey. After another look, he asked his uncle
cautiously, "Will you come to see me?"
"Certainly, whenever I come to the city. You will begin to make money,
and I will ask you to give me some. 'Orphan,' I'll say, 'give your uncle
about three rubles.'"
"I'll give you all my money."
"You mustn't give me all. You should give only as much as you won't be
sorry to part with. To give less is shameful; to give more is unfair."
The city grew quickly and became more and more varied in coloring. It
glittered green, red, and golden, reflecting the rays of the sun from
the glass of the countless windows and from the gold of the church
steeples. It seemed to make promises, kindling in the heart a confused
curiosity, a dim expectation of something unusual. Kneeling in the wagon
with his hand on his uncle's shoulder, Yevsey looked before him while
the smith said:
"You live this way--do whatever is assigned to you, hold yourself aloof,
beware of the bold men. One bold man out of ten succeeds, and nine go to
pieces."
He spoke with indecision, as if he himself doubted whether he was saying
what he ought to say, and he searched his thoughts for something else
more important. Yevsey listened attentively and gravely, expecting to
hear a special warning against the terrors and dangers of the new life.
But the blacksmith drew a deep breath, and after a pause continued more
firmly and with more assurance, "Once they came near giving me a lashing
with switches in the district court. I was betrothed then. I had to get
married. Nevertheless they wanted to whip me. It's all the same to them.
They don't care about other people's affairs. I lodged a complaint with
the governor, and for three and a half months they kept me in prison,
not to speak of the blows. I got the worst beatings. I even spat blood.
It's from that time that tears are always in my eyes. One policeman, a
short reddish fellow, always went for my head."
"Uncle," said Yevsey quietly, "don't speak of it."
"What else shall I speak to you about?" cried Uncle Piotr with a smile.
"There is nothing else."
Yevsey's head drooped sadly.
One detached house after another seemed to step toward them, dirty and
wrapped in heavy odors, with chimneys sticking from their red and green
roofs, like warts. Bluish-grey smoke rose from them lazily. Some
chimneys, monstrously tall and dirty, jutted straight up from the
ground, and emitted thick black clouds of smoke. The ground was
compactly trodden, and seemed to be steeped in black grease. Everywhere
heavy alarming sounds penetrated the smoky atmosphere. Something
growled, hummed and whistled; iron clanged angrily, and some huge
creature breathed hoarsely and brokenly.
"When will we get to the place?" asked Yevsey.
Looking carefully in front of him the uncle said:
"This isn't the city yet. These are factories in the suburb."
Finally they pulled into a broad street lined with old squat frame
houses painted various colors, which had a peaceful, homelike
appearance. Especially fine were the clean cheerful houses with gardens,
which seemed to be tied about with green aprons.
"We'll soon be there," said the blacksmith, turning the horse into a
narrow side street. "Don't be afraid, Orphan."
He drew up at the open gate of a large house, jumped down, and walked
into the yard. The house was old and bent. The joists protruded from
under the small dim windows. In the large dirty yard there were a number
of carriages, and four muzhiks talking loudly stood about a white horse
tapping it with their hands. One of them, a round, bald-headed fellow
with a large yellow beard and a rosy face, waved his hands wildly on
seeing Piotr, and cried:
"Oh!"
They went to a narrow, dark room, where they sat down and drank tea.
Uncle Piotr spoke about the village. The bald fellow laughed and shouted
so that the dishes rattled on the table. It was close in the room and
smelled of hot bread. Yevsey wanted to sleep, and he kept looking into
the corner where behind dirty curtains he could see a wide bed with
several pillows. Large black flies buzzed about, knocking against his
forehead, crawling over his face, and tickling his perspiring skin; but
he restrained himself from driving them away.
"We'll find a place for you!" the bald man shouted to him, nodding his
head gaily. "In a minute! Natalya, did you call for Matveyevich?"
A full woman with dark lashes, a small mouth, and a high bust, answered
calmly and clearly:
"How many times have you asked me already?"
She held her head straight and proudly, and when she moved her hands the
rose-colored chintz of her new jacket rustled sumptuously. Her whole
being recalled some good dream or fairy tale.
"Piotr, my friend, look at Natalya. What a Natalya! Droppings from the
honey-comb!" shouted the bald man deafeningly.
Uncle Piotr laughed quietly, as if fearing to look at the woman, who
pushed a hot rye cake filled with curds toward Yevsey, and said:
"Eat, eat a lot. In the city people must eat a good deal."
A jar of preserves stood on the table, honey in a saucer, toasted
cracknels sprinkled with anise-seed, sausage, cucumber, and vodka. All
this filled the air with a strong odor. Yevsey grew faint from the
oppressive sensation of over-abundance, though he did not dare to
decline, and submissively chewed everything set before him.
"Eat!" cried the bald man, then continued his talk with Uncle Piotr. "I
tell you, it's luck. It's only a week since the horse crushed the little
boy. He went to the tavern for boiling water, when suddenly--"
Another man now made his entrance unnoticed by the others. He, too, was
bald, but small and thin, with dark eyeglasses on a large nose, and a
long tuft of grey hair on his chin.
"What is it, people?" he asked in a low, indistinct voice.
The master jumped up from his chair, uttered a cry, and laughed aloud.
Yevsey was suddenly seized with alarm.
The man addressed Piotr and his hosts as "People," by which he separated
himself from them. He sat down at some distance from the table, then
moved to one side away from the blacksmith, and looked around moving his
thin dry neck slowly. On his head, a little above his forehead, over his
right eye, was a large bump. His little pointed ears clung closely to
his skull, as if to hide themselves in the short fringe of his grey
hair. He produced the impression of a quiet, grey, seedy, person. Yevsey
unsuccessfully tried to get a surreptitious peep at his eyes under the
glasses. His failure disquieted him.
The host cried:
"Do you understand, Orphan?"
"This is a trump," remarked the man with the bump. He sat supporting his
thin dark hands on his sharp knees, and spoke little. Occasionally
Yevsey heard the men utter some peculiar words.
At last the newcomer said:
"And so it is settled."
Uncle Piotr moved heavily in his chair.
"Now, Orphan, you have a place. This is your master." He turned to the
master. "I want to tell you, sir, that the boy can read and write, and
is not at all a stupid fellow. I am not saying this because I can't find
a place for him, but because it is the truth. The boy is even very
curious--"
"I have no need for curiosity," said the master shaking his head.
"He's a quiet sort. They call him Old Man in the village--that's the
kind he is."
"We shall see," said the man with the bump on his forehead. He adjusted
his glasses, scrutinized Yevsey's face closely, and added, "My name is
Matvey Matveyevich."
Turning away, he took up a glass of tea, which he drank noiselessly.
Then he rose and with a silent nod walked out.
Yevsey and his uncle now went to the yard, where they seated themselves
in the shade near the stable. The blacksmith spoke to Yevsey cautiously,
as if groping with his words for something unintelligible to him.
"You'll surely have it good with him. He's a quiet little old man. He
has run his course and left all sorts of sins behind him. Now he lives
in order to eat a little bite, and he grumbles and purrs like a satiated
Tom-cat."
"But isn't he a sorcerer?" asked the boy.
"Why? I should think there are no sorcerers in the cities." After
reflecting a few moments, the blacksmith went on. "Anyway it's all the
same to you. A sorcerer is a man, too. But remember this, a city is a
dangerous place. This is how it spoils people: the wife of a man goes
away on a pilgrimage, and he immediately puts in her place some
housemaid or other, and indulges himself. But the old man can't show you
such an example. That's why I say you'll have it good with him. You will
live with him as behind a bush, sitting and looking."
"And when he dies?" Yevsey inquired warily.
"That probably won't be soon. Smear your head with oil to keep your hair
from sticking out."
About noon the uncle made Yevsey bid farewell to their hosts, and taking
him firmly by the hand led him to the city. They walked for a long time.
It was sultry. Often they asked the passersby how to get to the Circle.
Yevsey regarded everything with his owl-like eyes, pressing close up to
his uncle. The doors of shops slammed, pulleys squeaked, carriages
rattled, wagons rumbled heavily, traders shouted, and feet scraped and
tramped. All these sounds jumbled together were tangled up in the
stifling dusty atmosphere. The people walked quickly, and hurried across
the streets under the horses' noses as if afraid of being too late for
something. The bustle tired the boy's eyes. Now and then he closed them,
whereupon he would stumble and say to his uncle:
"Come, faster!"
Yevsey wanted to get to some place in a corner where it was not so
stirring, not so noisy and hot. Finally they reached a little open place
hemmed in by a narrow circle of old houses, which seemed to support one
another solidly and firmly. In the center of the Circle was a fountain
about which moist shadows hovered on the soil. It was more tranquil
here, and the noise was subdued.
"Look," said Yevsey, "there are only houses and no ground around them at
all."
The blacksmith answered with a sigh:
"It's pretty crowded. Read the signs. Where is Raspopov's shop?"
They walked to the center of the Circle, and stopped at the fountain.
There were many signs, which covered every house like the motley patches
of a beggar's coat. When Yevsey saw the name his uncle had mentioned, a
chill shiver ran through his body, and he examined it carefully without
saying anything. It was small and eaten by rust, and was placed on the
door of a dark basement. On either side the door there was an area
between the pavement and the house, which was fenced in by a low iron
railing. The house, a dirty yellow with peeling plaster, was narrow with
four stories and three windows to each floor. It looked blind as a mole,
crafty, and uncozy.
"Well," asked the smith, "can't you see the sign?"
"There it is," said the boy, indicating the place with a nod of his
head.
"Let's cross ourselves and go."
They descended to the door at the bottom of five stone steps. The
blacksmith raised his cap from his head, and looked cautiously into the
shop.
"Come in," said a clear voice.
The master, wearing a black silk cap without a visor, was sitting at a
table by the window drinking tea.
"Take a chair, peasant, and have some tea. Boy, fetch a glass from the
shelf."
The master pointed to the other end of the shop. Yevsey looked in the
same direction, but saw no boy there. The master turned toward him.
"Well, what's the matter? Aren't you the boy?"
"He's not used to it yet," said Uncle Piotr quietly.
The old man again waved his hand.
"The second shelf on the right. A master must be understood when he says
only half. That's the rule."
The blacksmith sighed. Yevsey groped for the glass in the dim light, and
stumbled over a pile of books on the floor in his haste to hand it to
the master.
"Put it on the table. And the saucer?"
"Oh, you!" exclaimed Uncle Piotr. "What's the matter with you? Get the
saucer."
"It will take a long time to teach him," said the old man with an
imposing look at the blacksmith. "Now, boy, go around the shop, and fix
the place where everything stands in your memory."
Yevsey felt as if something commanding had entered his body, which
impelled him powerfully to move as it pleased. He shrank together, drew
his head in his shoulders, and straining his eyes began to look around
the shop, all the time listening to the words of his master. It was
cool, dusky, and quiet. The noise of the city entered reluctantly, like
the muffled swashing of a stream. Narrow and long as a grave the shop
was closely lined with shelves holding books in compact rows. Large
piles of books cluttered the floor, and barricaded the rear wall, rising
almost to the ceiling. Besides the books Yevsey found only a ladder, an
umbrella, galoshes, and a white pot whose handle was broken off. There
was a great deal of dust, which probably accounted for the heavy odor.
"I'm a quiet man. I am all alone, and if he suits me, maybe I will make
him perfectly happy."
"Of course it lies with you," said Uncle Piotr.
"I am fifty-seven years old. I lived an honest and straightforward life,
and I will not excuse dishonesty. If I notice any such thing I'll hand
him over to the court. Nowadays they sentence minors, too. They have
founded a prison to frighten them called the Junior Colony of
Criminals--for little thieves, you know."
His colorless, drawling words enveloped Yevsey tightly, evoking a
timorous desire to soothe the old man and please him.
"Now, good-bye. The boy must get at the work."
Uncle Piotr rose and sighed.
"Well, Orphan, so you live here now. Obey your master. He won't want to
do you any harm. Why should he? He is going to buy you city clothes. Now
don't be downcast, will you?"
"No," said Yevsey.
"You ought to say 'No, sir,'" corrected the master.
"No, sir," repeated Yevsey.
"Well, good-bye," said the blacksmith putting his hand on the boy's
shoulder, and giving his nephew a little shake he walked out as if
suddenly grown alarmed.
Yevsey shivered, oppressed by a chill sorrow. He went to the door, and
fixed his round eyes questioningly on the yellow face of the master. The
old man twirling the grey tuft on his chin looked down upon the boy.
Yevsey thought he could discern large dim black eyes behind the glasses.
As the two stood thus for a few minutes apparently expecting something
from each other, the boy's breast began to beat with a vague terror; but
the old man merely took a book from a shelf, and pointed to the cover.
"What number is this?"
"1873," replied Yevsey lowering his head.
"That's it."
The master touched Yevsey's chin with his dry finger.
"Look at me."
The boy straightened his neck and quickly mumbled closing his eyes:
"Little uncle, I shall always obey you. I don't need beatings." His eyes
grew dim, his heart sank within him.
"Come here."
The old man seated himself resting his hands on his knees. He removed
his cap and wiped his bald spot with his handkerchief. His spectacles
slid to the end of his nose, and he looked over them at Yevsey. Now he
seemed to have two pairs of eyes. The real eyes were small, immobile,
and dark grey with red lids. Without the glasses the master's face
looked thinner, more wrinkled, and less stern. In fact it wore an
injured and downcast expression, and there was nothing in the least
formidable in his eyes. The bump over his forehead got larger.
"Have you been beaten often?"
"Yes, sir, often."
"Who beat you?"
"The boys."
"Oh!"
The master drew his glasses close to his eyes and mumbled his lips.
"The boys are scrappers here, too," he said. "Don't have anything to do
with them, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Be on your guard against them. They are impudent rascals and thieves. I
want you to know I am not going to teach you anything bad. Don't be
afraid of me. I am a good man. You ought to get to love me. You will
love me. You'll have it very good with me, you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I will."
The master's face assumed its former expression. He rose, and taking
Yevsey by the hand led him to the further end of the shop.
"Here's work for you. You see these books? On every book the date is
marked. There are twelve books to each year. Arrange them in order. How
are you going to do it?"
Yevsey thought a while, and answered timidly:
"I don't know."
"Well, I am not going to tell you. You can read and you ought to be able
to find out by yourself. Go, get to work."
The old man's dry even voice seemed to lash Yevsey, driving away the
melancholy feeling of separation from his uncle and replacing it with
the anxious desire to begin to work quickly. Restraining his tears the
boy rapidly and quietly untied the packages. Each time a book dropped to
the floor with a thud he started and looked around. The master was
sitting at the table writing with a pen that scratched slightly. As the
people hastened past the door, their feet flashed and their shadows
jerked across the shop. Tears rolled from Yevsey's eyes one after the
other. In fear lest they be detected he hurriedly wiped them from his
face with dusty hands, and full of a vague dread went tensely at his
work of sorting the books.
At first it was difficult for him, but in a few minutes he was already
immersed in that familiar state of thoughtlessness and emptiness which
took such powerful hold of him when, after beatings and insults, he sat
himself down alone in some corner. His eye caught the date and the name
of the month, his hand mechanically arranged the books in a row, while
he sat on the floor swinging his body regularly. He became more and
more deeply plunged in the tranquil state of half-conscious negation
of reality. As always at such times the dim hope glowed in him of
something different, unlike what he saw around him. Sometimes the
all-comprehending, capacious phrase uttered by Yashka dimly glimmered in
his memory:
"It will pass away."
The thought pressed his heart warmly and softly with a promise of
something unusual. The boy's hands involuntarily began to move more
quickly, and he ceased to notice the lapse of time.
"You see, you knew how to do it," said the master.
Yevsey, who had not heard the old man approach him, started from his
reverie. Glancing at his work, he asked:
"Is it all right?"
"Absolutely. Do you want tea?"
"No."
"You ought to say, 'No, thank you.' Well, keep on with your work."
He walked away. Yevsey looking after him saw a man carrying a cane enter
the door. He had neither a beard nor mustache, and wore a round hat
shoved back on the nape of his neck. He seated himself at the table, at
the same time putting upon it some small black and white objects. When
Yevsey again started to work, he every once in a while heard abrupt
sounds from his master and the newcomer.
"Castle."
"King."
"Soon."
The confused noise of the street penetrated the shop wearily, with
strange words quacking in it, like frogs in a marsh.
"What are they doing?" thought the boy, and sighed. He experienced a
soft sensation, that from all directions something unusual was coming
upon him, but not what he timidly awaited. The dust settled upon his
face, tickled his nose and eyes, and set his teeth on edge. He recalled
his uncle's words:
"You will live with him as behind a bush."
It grew dark.
"King and checkmate!" cried the guest in a thick voice. The master
clucking his tongue called out:
"Boy, close up the shop!"
The old man lived in two small rooms in the fourth story of the same
house. In the first room, which had one window, stood a large chest and
a wardrobe.
"This is where you will sleep."
The two windows in the second room gave upon the street, with a view
over an endless vista of uneven roofs and rosy sky. In the corner, in
front of the ikons, flickered a little light in a blue glass lamp. In
another corner stood a bed covered with a red blanket. On the walls hung
gaudy portraits of the Czar and various generals. The room was close and
smelt like a church, but it was clean.
Yevsey remained at the door looking at his elderly master, who said:
"Mark the arrangement of everything here. I want it always to be the
same as it is now."
Against the wall stood a broad black sofa, a round table, and about the
table chairs also black. This corner had a mournful, sinister aspect.
A tall, white-faced woman with eyes like a sheep's entered the room, and
asked in a low singing voice:
"Shall I serve supper?"
"Bring it in, Rayisa Petrovna."
"A new boy?"
"Yes, new. His name is Yevsey."
The woman walked out.
"Close the door," ordered the old man. Yevsey obeyed, and he continued
in a lower voice. "She is the landlady. I rent the rooms from her with
dinner and supper. You understand?"
"I understand."
"But you have one master--me. You understand?"
"Yes."
"That is to say, you must listen only to me. Open the door, and go into
the kitchen and wash yourself."
The master's voice echoed drily in the boy's bosom, causing his alarmed
heart to palpitate. The old man, it seemed to Yevsey, was hiding
something dangerous behind his words, something of which he himself was
afraid.
While washing in the kitchen he surreptitiously tried to look at the
mistress of the apartment. The woman was preparing the supper
noiselessly but briskly. As she arranged plates, knives, and bread on an
ample tray her large round face seemed kind. Her smoothly combed dark
hair; her unwinking eyes with thin lashes, and her broad nose made the
boy think, "She looks to be a gentle person."
Noticing that she, in her turn, was looking at him, the thin red lips of
her small mouth tightly compressed, he grew confused, and spilt some
water on the floor.
"Wipe it," she said without anger. "There's a cloth under the chair."
When he returned, the old man looked at him and asked:
"What did she tell you?"
But Yevsey had no time to answer before the woman brought in the tray.
"Well, I'll go," she said after setting it on the table.
"Very well," replied the master.
She raised her hand to smooth the hair over her temples--her fingers
were long--and left.
The old man and the boy sat down to their supper. The master ate slowly,
noisily munching his food and at times sighing wearily. When they began
to eat the finely chopped roast meat, he said:
"You see what good food? I always have only good food."
After supper he told Yevsey to carry the dishes into the kitchen, and
showed him how to light the lamp.
"Now, go to sleep. You will find a piece of padding in the wardrobe and
a pillow and a blanket. They belong to you. To-morrow I'll buy you new
clothes, good clothes. Go, now."
When he was half asleep the master came in to Yevsey.
"Are you comfortable?"
Though the chest made a hard bed, Yevsey answered:
"Yes."
"If it is too hot, open the window."
The boy at once opened the window, which looked out upon the roof of the
next house. He counted the chimneys. There were four, all alike. He
looked at the stars with the dim gaze of a timid animal in a cage. But
the stars said nothing to his heart. He flung himself on the chest
again, drew the blanket over his head, and closed his eyes tightly. He
began to feel stifled, thrust his head out, and without opening his eyes
listened. In his master's room something rustled monotonously, then
Yevsey heard a dry, distinct voice:
"Behold, God is mine helper; the Lord is with them that uphold--"
* * * * *
Yevsey realized that the old man was reciting the Psalter; and listening
attentively to the familiar words of King David, which, however, he did
not comprehend, the boy fell asleep.