The samovar stood upon the round table in the dining-room and quietly
hummed its garrulous song. The hanging-lamp diffused its light upon the
white tablecloth and upon the dark walls, filling the room with dream
and mystery.
Volodya’s mother seemed wistful as she leant her handsome, pale face
forward over the table. Volodya was leaning on his arm, and was
stirring the small spoon in his glass. It was good to watch the tea’s
sweet eddies and to see the little bubbles rise to the surface. The
little silver spoon quietly tinkled.
The boiling water, sputtering, ran from the tap into his mother’s cup.
A light shadow was cast by the little spoon upon the saucer and the
tablecloth, and it lost itself in the glass of tea. Volodya watched it
intently: the shadows thrown by the tiny little eddies and bubbles
recalled something to him—precisely what, Volodya could not say. He
held up and he turned the little spoon, and he ran his fingers over
it—but nothing came of it.
“All the same,” he stubbornly insisted to himself, “it’s not with
fingers alone that shadows can be made. They are possible with
anything. But the thing is to adjust oneself to one’s material.”
And Volodya began to examine the shadows of the samovar, of the chairs,
of his mother’s head, as well as the shadows cast on the table by the
dishes; and he tried to catch a resemblance in all these shadows to
something. His mother was speaking—Volodya was not listening properly.
“How is Lesha Sitnikov getting on at school?” asked his mother.
Volodya was studying then the shadow of the milk-jug. He gave a start,
and answered hastily: “It’s a tom-cat.”
“Volodya, you must be asleep,” said his astonished mother. “What
tom-cat?”
Volodya grew red.
“I don’t know what’s got into my head,” he said. “I’m sorry, mother, I
wasn’t listening.”