After the book of the Knight and the dragon came other wonderful works
of the same kind--"Guak, or Invincible Loyalty," then "The History of
the Brave Prince Franzil of Venice and the Young Queen Renzivena," and
all impressions of reality in Ilya's mind gave way before the knights
and ladies. The comrades in turn stole twenty kopeck pieces out of the
bar till, and so had no lack of books. They became acquainted with
the adventurous journeys of "Jashka Sinentensky," they delighted in
"Japantsha the Tartar Robber-chief," and more and more they deserted
the harsh pitiless realities of life for a realm where man at all
times could tear asunder the bonds of Fate and make a prize of
happiness. They lived long in the thrall of these fairy tales. Ilya
retained the memory of only one event of his daily life during this
time. One day Perfishka was summoned to the police station. He went
in fear and trembling, but came joyfully back, and with him, Pashka
Gratshev, whom he held fast by the hand lest he should run away again.
Pashka's eyes looked as quick and bright as ever, but he had become
terribly thin and yellow, and his face had no longer its former froward
expression. The cobbler brought him into the bar, and began to relate,
his left eye twitching rapidly.
"Behold, my friends, here we have Mr. Pavlusha Gratshev back again as
large as life--just back from the town of Pensa conveyed by favour of
the police. Ah! what people there are in the world! No staying happily
at home for them! When they're hardly able to stand upright they're off
into the wide world to seek their fortune."
Pashka stood by, one hand in the pocket of his tattered trousers, while
he strove to detach the other from the cobbler's hold, looking at him
sideways, darkly.
Some one advised Perfishka to give him a good sound thrashing, but the
cobbler answered seriously, letting the boy go:
"What for? let him wander a bit, perhaps he'll find his happiness."
"He'll get jolly hungry, anyway," threw in Terenti, then added in a
friendly tone, giving Pashka a bit of bread.
"Here, eat it, Pashka."
Pashka took the bread quietly and went towards the tap-room door.
"Whew!" the cobbler whistled after him, "going off again? Good-bye
then, my friend."
Ilya, who had witnessed this scene from the door of his room, called
Pashka back.
The lad stayed a moment before answering, then went up to Ilya and
asked, looking suspiciously round the little room:
"What do you want?"
"Only to say how d'ye do."
"All right, good day to you."
"Sit down a minute."
"Why?"
"Oh, we'll have a chat."
The short sulky questions, and the hoarse, harsh voice made a painful
impression on Ilya. He wanted to ask Pashka where he had been all the
summer and what he had seen. But Pashka, who had found a chair and
begun to gnaw his bread, started questioning on his own account.
"Finished school?"
"Early next year I'm done."
"Well, I've done my learning too!"
"Why--how?" said Ilya, incredulously.
"I've been pretty quick, eh?"
"Where did you learn?"
"In prison, with the prisoners."
Ilya approached him and asked, looking respectfully into the thin face,
"How long were you in? Was it bad?"
"Oh, not so bad--four months I had of it in several prisons and
different towns. I got to know some fine people there, my boy, ladies
too--real swells! Spoke different languages and knew everything. I
always swept out their cells. Very nice people they were, if they were
in gaol."
"Were they thieves?"
"No, regular villains," answered Pashka, proudly.
Ilya blinked and his respect for Pashka increased still more.
"Russians?"
"A couple of Jews too--fine fellows! I tell you, my lad, they knew
their way about. Stripped everyone that they got a hand on--properly.
Got caught in the end, and now going to Siberia!"
"But how did you learn things there?"
"Oh! I just said 'teach me to read,' and they did."
"Have you learnt to write too?"
"Writing I'm not so good at, but I'll read as much as you like. I've
read lots of books already."
Ilya became excited now the conversation turned on books.
"I read with Jakov, too," he said, "and such books!"
Both began to name all the books they had read, in rivalry. Pashka had
to admit with a sigh:
"I see, you've read the most, you lucky devil, and your books are nicer
too. I've read mostly poetry. They had a lot of books there, but nearly
all verses."
Jakov came in at this point, he raised his eyebrows and laughed:
"Now then sheep, what are you laughing at?" Pashka greeted him.
"Hullo! Where have you been?"
"Where you'll never be able to go."
"Just think," put in Ilya, "he's been reading books, too!"
"Really?" said Jakov, and came nearer in a more friendly way.
The three boys sat close together, in lively desultory conversation.
"I've seen such things, I couldn't even tell you!" cried Pashka, proud
and excited. "Once I went two days without eating--not a bite! I've
spent a night in the forest, alone."
"Was it bad?" asked Ilya.
"You go and try it, then you'll know. And once the dogs nearly killed
me. That was in Kazan, where they put up a monument to a man, just
because he made verses. A great, big man he was--his legs, I tell you,
as thick as that, and his fist as big as your head, Jakov. I'll make
you some poetry, boys--I know how, a bit."
He suddenly sat straight up, drew his legs in, and, looking steadily at
one point, he said, quickly, with a serious, important air:----
"Men, well fed and richly dressed
Pass through the streets all day,
But if I beg a bit of bread
They answer--go away!"
He stopped, looked at the other two, and hung his head down. For a
minute they all stared in an embarrassed silence, then Ilya asked,
hesitatingly:----
"Is that poetry?"
"Can't you hear?" replied Pashka, crossly. "It rhymes--day, away--so of
course it's poetry."
"Of course," chimed in Jakov, quickly. "You're always finding fault,
Ilya."
"I've made more poetry than that!" Pashka turned to Jakov and went on
again:----
"The earth is wet and the clouds are grey,
The autumn draws nearer, day by day,
And I--have no house for the winter's cold
And my clothes are tattered and worn and old."
"Ah!" said Jakov, and looked at Pashka with round eyes.
"That was regular poetry," admitted Ilya.
A fleeting blush passed over Pashka's face and he screwed up his eyes
as if the smoke had got into the room.
"I shall make a long poem," he boasted. "It's not so very difficult.
You go out and look about you--stream, dream, tree, free--the rhymes
come up by themselves."
"And what will you do now?" asked Ilya.
Pashka let his glance wander round; there was a pause, then he said,
slowly and vaguely, "oh, something or other," then added decidedly, "If
I don't like it, I'll run away again."
For the time being, however, he lived with the cobbler, and every
evening the children gathered there. It was quieter and more cosy in
the cellar than in Terenti's room. Perfishka was seldom at home. He had
sold for drink all that could be sold, and now worked by the day in
various workshops, and if there was no work to be got, he sat in the
bar-room. He went about half-clothed and barefoot, and his beloved old
harmonica was always under his arm. It had come to be almost a part of
his body, it had absorbed a portion of his cheerful disposition. The
two were very much alike, out at elbows and worn, but full of jolly
songs and tunes. In all the workshops of the town, Perfishka was known
as a tireless singer of gay rollicking rhymes and dance tunes. Wherever
he appeared he was a welcome guest, and all liked him because he could
lighten the heavy weary load of existence, with his drolleries tales
and anecdotes.
Whenever he earned a couple of kopecks, he gave his daughter the half.
His only care now was for her. For the rest, Masha was mistress of her
own fate. She had grown tall, her black hair fell below her shoulders,
her big dark eyes looked out on the world seriously, and she played
the hostess in the underground room most excellently. She collected
shavings from the places where new building was in progress, and tried
to cook the soup with them, and up to midday went about with her skirts
tucked up, quite black, and wet, and busy. But once her meal was
prepared, then she cleaned up the room, washed, put on a clean dress,
and settled herself at the table before the window to mend her clothes.
While she cobbled away with her needle at the rags, she would sing a
gay song, and in her liveliness and activity, she was like a titmouse
in a cage.
Matiza would often pay her a visit, and bring her rolls of bread, tea,
and sugar, and once even gave her a blue dress. Masha received the
visit quite like a grown-up person, a proper housewife. She would put
the little samovar on the table and serve Matiza with tea, and while
they enjoyed the hot stimulating drink, they would chat of the events
of the day and Perfishka's conduct. Matiza used to get quite carried
away with anger over the cobbler, while Masha, in her clear little
voice, would not dispute, out of politeness to her guest, but still
would speak of Perfishka without a trace of resentment. In everything
that she said of her father, a resolute forbearance was always present.
"Quite true," she would say, in an old-fashioned way, "it is not
reasonable for a man to drink so. But he loves gaiety, and only drinks
to cheer himself up. While mother was alive, he did not drink much."
"Serve him right, if his liver dries up," grumbled Matiza, in her deep
bass, contracting her eyebrows fiercely. "Does the soaker forget he has
a child sitting at home? Disgusting brute! He'll die like a dog!"
"He knows that I'm grown up, and can look after myself," answered Masha.
"My God! my God!" Matiza would say, with a big sigh, "the things that
go on in this world of God's! What'll happen to the girl? I had a
little girl just like you. She stayed at home there, in the town of
Chorol, and it is so far to Chorol that if I wanted to go, I couldn't
find the way. That's the way with people, they live on the earth, and
forget the home where they were born."
Masha liked to hear the deep voice and see the big face and the brown
eyes, like those of a cow. And, even if Matiza constantly smelt of
brandy, none the less Masha would sit on her lap, nestle against her
big, swelling bosom, and kiss the full lips of the well-formed mouth.
Matiza used to come in the morning, and in the evening the children
gathered in Masha's room. They sometimes played card games of various
sorts, but more often sat over a book. Masha listened always with great
interest while they read aloud, and would give a little scream at any
peculiarly terrifying places.
Jakov was more careful of the child than ever. He brought her from the
house bread and meat, tea and sugar, and oil in beer bottles. Sometimes
even he gave her any money that was left from the purchases of books.
It had become an established thing for him to do all this, and he
managed it all so quietly that no one noticed. Masha, for her part,
took his labours as a matter of course, and made little to do over
them.
"Jakov," she would say, "I've no more coals."
"All right." And presently he would either bring some coal or give her
a two-kopeck bit and say, "You'll have to buy some--I couldn't steal
any."
He brought Masha a slate and began to teach her in the evenings. They
got on slowly, but at the end of two months Masha could read all the
letters, and write them on the slate.
Ilya had become accustomed to these relations between the two, and
everyone in the house seemed also to overlook them. Many a time Ilya,
commissioned by his friend, would himself steal something from the
kitchen or the counter and get it secretly down to the cellar. He
liked the slender brown girl, who was an orphan, like himself, but he
liked her specially because she knew how to face the world alone, and
conducted all her affairs like a full-grown woman. He loved to see her
laugh, and would always try to amuse her, and if he did not succeed, he
grew cross and teased her.
"Dirty blackbird!" he would cry, scornfully.