Terenti gave an "Ah!" of astonishment, then moved nervously up and
down, pulling at his shirt and looking at Petrusha behind the bar.
"Uncle, go to him!--go quick!"
"There, what are you waiting for," said Petrusha, decidedly. "Go along.
God have mercy on his soul! He was a sturdy old man. I'll go with you
to see him. Ilya, you stay here. If anything is wanted, fetch me, d'you
hear? Jakov, look after the bar, I shan't be a minute."
Petrusha left the bar room without undue haste, putting his feet down
noisily. The two boys heard him speak again to the hunchback behind the
door:
"Get on--get on--you lout!"
Ilya was seized with a great fear, from all he had seen and heard,
but it did not prevent him from seeing quite exactly all that went on
around him.
"Did you see how he died?" asked Jakov, who had taken his place behind
the bar.
Ilya looked at him and answered with another question: "Why have they
gone there?"
"To look at him--you called them."
Ilya was silent. Then he closed his eyes and said,
"It was awful. How he pushed them away!"
"Who?" asked Jakov, stretching his head forward with curiosity.
"The Devil," answered Ilya, after a short thoughtful pause.
"Did you see him?"
"What do you say?"
"Did you see the Devil, I say?" cried Jakov, devoured with curiosity,
going quickly up to Ilya. But Ilya shut his eyes again and said nothing.
"Are you very frightened?" questioned Jakov further, and plucked Ilya
by the sleeve.
"Wait," said Ilya, becoming mysterious all of a sudden, "I'll go after
them for a minute, eh? But don't tell your father, will you?"
"I won't say a word. But come back soon."
Spurred by suspicion, Ilya hurried from the bar and in a moment was
down again in the cellar. He stole, carefully, noiselessly as a mouse
to the chink in the partition and looked through again. The old man was
still alive, he could hear the rattle in his throat. But Ilya could not
see him; the dying man's body lay on the floor at the feet of two dark
figures, that in the darkness seemed grown into one enormous mis-shaped
creature. Then Ilya saw how his uncle knelt beside the bed, and held
the pillow which he was hurriedly sewing up. He heard the threads drawn
through the stuff quite clearly; Petrusha stood behind Terenti and bent
over him. He threw back his hair and whispered angrily:
"Get on--get on! you abortion! I always told you--keep needle and
thread ready! But no! you haven't even a needle threaded. Oh you! Silly
fool! You've made a nice mess of it--there--that'll do. God have mercy
on his soul! It'll do. What's that? Pull yourself together, coward!"
The low whispering of Petrusha, the gurgling sighs of the dying man,
the sound of the needle, and the monotonous rush of the water that ran
into the hole in front of the window, all combined into a dull noise
beneath which Ilya felt his senses wavering. He left the wall, where he
had listened, and crept out of the cellar. A great black patch whirled
before his eyes like a wheel, making him sick and giddy. He had to
cling to the railing as he climbed the stairs to the bar room, and felt
his limbs drag heavily. When at last he reached the tap-room door, he
stood still and began to weep. Jakov hurried to him and spoke cheerily
to him. Then he felt a slap on the back and heard Perfishka's voice,
"Hullo! What's up? Speak up man! Is he dead? Ah!"
And pushing Ilya aside, he ran down the steps again so fast that they
shook beneath his feet. But at the bottom he stood on the last step and
cried out loudly and complainingly:
"Ah! these sharpers!"
Then Ilya heard his uncle and Petrusha come up the stairs; he did not
want to cry before them, but he could not hold back the tears.
"Jakov," called Petrusha, "run down to the police station; say the old
rag-picker has gone to his God--make haste!"
"Oh you," cried Perfishka, who had come up again with them, "So you've
been there already, eh?"
Terenti passed by his nephew and could not look him in the face; but
Petrusha laid his hand on Ilya's shoulder and said:
"Crying, lad? Cry away! that's right, it shows you have a grateful
heart, and understood what the old fellow did for you. He was very,
very good to you."
After a while he took Ilya by the hand and led him aside saying:
"But you needn't stand right in the doorway, all the same."
Ilya wiped away the tears with his shirt sleeve and let his glance
stray over the bystanders. Petrusha had gone behind the bar again and
was throwing back his curls. In front of him stood Perfishka, looking
at him with a mocking grin. His face had an expression as though he had
just lost his last five-kopeck piece at pitch and toss.
"Well, what's the matter, Perfishka?" asked Petrusha as he drew the
drink.
"Matter? Oh! Aren't you going to give me a fee?" he answered suddenly.
"How d'you mean? For what?" asked the potman, indifferently.
"Oh you scoundrel!" cried the cobbler crossly, and stamped on the
ground. "My mouth's wide open, but the roast pigeon is not for me.
Well, well, that's done, anyhow. Here's luck, Peter Sakinytsch."
"What's the matter? What are you jawing about?" asked Petrusha and
smiled as unconcernedly as he could.
"I only mean--I'm speaking quite simply----"
"Ah! you want a drink, that's it, eh?"
"Ha! Ha!" the cobbler's gay laugh sounded loudly.
Ilya tossed his head as though to shake off something and went outside.
That night he lay down to sleep very late, and not in his corner of the
cellar but in the tap room under the table where his uncle washed the
glasses. The hunchback made a bed there for his nephew, then began to
wash down the tables. A lamp burned on the bar, lighting up the bulging
teapots and the bottles in the cupboards against the wall. In the room
it was dark. The black night came close up to the window; a fine rain
pattered on the panes and the wind rustled softly.
Like a great hedgehog, Terenti crept about between the tables, sighing
frequently. Whenever he came near the lamp his figure threw a great
black shadow on the floor. It seemed to Ilya that the soul of old
Jeremy glided behind his uncle and whispered in his ear:
"Ksh--Kshsh."
The boy was frightened and shivered. The damp atmosphere of the bar
oppressed him. It was Saturday. The floor was newly washed, and smelt
mouldy. Ilya wanted to beg his uncle to lie down beside him as soon as
possible, yet a painful, perverse feeling held him back from speaking.
In his mind he saw the bent figure of old Jeremy with his white beard,
and his friendly words rang in his ears all the time.
"Mind my son--God knows the measure of all things--mark that!"
"Oh, come and lie down!" Ilya burst out at last.
The hunchback started and looked up terrified.
Then he said, softly, fearfully:
"What? Who is there?"
"It is I. Come and lie down, I say."
"Soon--soon--soon," cried the hunchback quickly, and began to twist
about the tables like a top. Ilya perceived that his uncle was afraid
of him and thought in the stillness with a feeling of pleasure:
"Right--that's right."
The rain drummed on the window panes and from all round came dull
sounds. The lamp flame flickered up. Ilya covered his head with his
uncle's fur jacket and lay there holding his breath. Suddenly something
moved near him. A paroxysm of terror seized him; trembling, he put his
head out and saw Terenti kneeling on the ground, his head bent, so that
his chin touched his breast. And Ilya heard him praying in a whisper:
"O Lord, our Father in Heaven, O Lord----!"
The whisper reminded him of the death rattle of the old man. The
darkness in the room began to move, the floor seemed to go round and
round, and the wind howled in the chimney: "Hu--u--u----!"
"Stop that praying!" called Ilya's clear voice.
"What? What is it?" said the hunchback half aloud. "Go to sleep, for
Christ's sake."
"Stop praying," repeated the boy, commandingly.
"Yes--yes. I'll stop."
The dampness and the darkness in the room weighed more and more heavily
on Ilya, his breathing was oppressed and his soul was filled with fear
and sorrow for the dead old man, and with a deep ill-will against his
uncle. At last he sat up and groaned aloud.
"What is the matter? What is it?" called out his uncle frightened, and
put an arm round him. But Ilya pushed him back, and spoke in a voice
choked with tears, but ringing with bitter pain and horror.
"O God! If only I could go away and hide from it all. O God!"
He could not speak for tears. His breathing was laboured in the heavy
air of the tap room, and, sobbing, he hid his face on the floor.