all the little things needed for his trade should be easy to see, were
spread out various small pincers, gimlets, screwdrivers, tiny hammers,
watchkeys, files, and other delicate instruments. Under a glass case
lay watches and clocks taken to pieces. There were some open boxes
filled with cog-wheels, and some watch-glasses, in which lay some wee
screws. Among these was a very pretty one, of blue, finely-tempered
steel, but so tiny that he could not be seen properly without a
magnifying-glass. He looked round the workroom quite frightened at all
his new surroundings. Until now he had lain in a dark, closed box and
hardly had ever seen the light; now the watchmaker, Karl Ivánovich,
had taken him out of the box and laid him in a watch-glass, evidently
intending to use him. And now the little blue mite peered round,
wondering and frightened.
Indeed, what wonder! Round the walls, in shallow cupboards with glass
doors, in flat cases with sloping glass lids, on the large table, on
the benches--everywhere, hung or lay or stood watches and clocks of all
kinds and sizes, and most of them were moving and ticking like live
things. The cheap clocks with tin or china faces, decorated with rather
clumsily-painted roses, wagged their pendulums hastily backwards and
forwards, as though hurrying to work or to business. The huge clocks in
wooden and glass cases, on the contrary, swung their pendulums with a
hardly perceptible motion, as though they feared to compromise their
dignity by any haste. All sorts of wonderful things were on the table.
There was a clock in the shape of a great fallen tree-trunk, across
which a log was thrown, with boys sitting on the ends of it, swinging
in time to the ticking of the clock. Another represented a gray hare
squatting on his haunches, holding the dial between his forefeet and
moving his ears in time as the clock ticked. But our tiny Screw was
most impressed by a large clock, standing at one corner of the shop in
a huge glass case. The clock itself represented an Indian temple with
a dome, all carved in black wood. Inside the temple was the dial, also
black, with gold letters; the hands were gold snakes. Under the dial,
a little in front, sat a gray-haired magician in a long robe and high
cap, holding in his right hand a silver hammer. The old man, with
his grave expression of face, was so well carved that he looked quite
alive. But the most wonderful thing of all was that he never stopped
slowly turning his eyes from side to side, keeping time with the
solemn, hardly audible ticking of the clock; he seemed as if watching
to see that all was in order in his kingdom of time. At his right hand
stood a shining silver bell on a tall and slender pedestal; and at his
left a black cat was sitting on a cushion; it had real fur, and its
green eyes glittered as if alive.
Our little Screw gazed intently at the magician in his Indian temple,
at his cat and bell--he gazed upon them with involuntary reverence and
awe--and finally decided that the enigmatic old man must be the ruler
of time, and that all the clocks in the place must be in his service.
He was still meditating upon this, when suddenly the black clock
began to hiss, the magician raised his left hand with the forefinger
extended, as if commanding attention, and began slowly striking the
silver bell with his hammer. He struck it ten times, and every time the
cat opened its mouth and mewed at each stroke of the hammer.
The moment the magician had finished, an indescribable confusion arose
in the shop: in three clocks, which represented houses, windows opened;
from each window a cuckoo jumped out and called 'cuckoo' ten times. The
other clocks, with the tin, china, and copper dials, all began striking
in emulation of each other. Some struck rapidly and with a thin sound,
others slowly and heavily; the first jarred on the ear with their harsh
notes, while the others had a mellow ring; but all struck at once, as
though trying to catch one another up. The brass alarum, which stood on
the table, rattled long and mercilessly, as if it were determined to
silence all the others with its deafening noise; then, when the other
clocks had finished striking, it too struck ten. After that all the
clocks continued busily ticking, just as if nothing had happened.
All this ringing, banging, and noise made our Screw quite dizzy; the
poor little fellow lay in his watch-glass trembling all over. But
when he recovered from his agitation, he was overwhelmed with silent
ecstasy. He understood for what purpose clocks exist. He knew that
they show to man the divisions of time, thus helping him in both his
intellectual work and his ordinary life. Two men, however far apart
from one another, can, if only they have good watches, come at the
same moment to a particular spot, or do whatever they may have agreed
upon--even the height of mountains is determined by means of watches.
The little Screw understood all this, and his wee frame thrilled all
over with enthusiasm. 'How useful they all are!' he thought. This set
him involuntarily thinking of himself, and he grew sad--sad even to
tears. How tiny he was! how insignificant and pitiable compared with
all these clocks! If you were to hang up even the worst of them in a
house where there was before no clock at all, there would at once be in
that house more order, more reason and utility. But he! wherever you
were to put him, it would make no difference.
Our Screw was very unhappy; he tried so long to be of use to some
one, and he felt that he was fit for nothing! Once more he looked
attentively round the bench. There were a great number of little
axles, wires, pendulums, pinions, and springs. He did not understand
for what they could be used, but he saw one thing--that every one of
these little objects was _larger_ than himself. 'Oh dear!' he thought,
'even if all these little things are useless in themselves, still,
something useful can be made out of them. But what can be made of such
a non-entity as I am--I, who cannot even be seen with the naked eye?
Nothing, absolutely nothing!...' And all the tiny person of the Screw
quivered with grief.
At that moment there ran into the workshop a little boy and girl, the
children of Karl Ivánovich. Their father had gone to fetch his pipe;
his assistant, Yegór,[5] had also left the shop, and the children had
a chance to enjoy a peep at the wonders of the workshop, into which
Karl Ivánovich generally would not let them come. The boy ran up to his
father's bench and began quickly examining the things lying upon it.
[5] _Yegór_ means George in Russian.
'Look, look at the little Screw!' he said to his sister in a loud
whisper, turning to take the blue steel Screw from the watch-glass.
'Don't touch! Don't touch; you'll drop it!' whispered the little girl,
half frightened, but also looking inquisitively at our Screw.
'What next! Drop it!' repeated the boy, mimicking her. 'We're not all
such butter-fingers as you!' and in a fit of obstinacy he picked up the
Screw. But the Screw was so small that the boy could scarcely hold him
with the tips of his fingers.
'Indeed, you'll drop it!... Papa will be cross!...' continued the
little girl in the utmost anxiety.
Suddenly they heard the creaking of Karl Ivánovich's boots in the next
room, and he blew his nose as loud as if it were a trumpet. The boy
started, and dropped the Screw from his fingers on to the floor.
'Aha! aha! There, you see! I told you so!' whispered the girl again.
'Hush!' answered her brother, also in a whisper, stooping down to
look for the Screw. But it was too late; Karl Ivánovich came into the
workshop, and in his presence the boy was afraid to show what he had
done.
Our Screw, meanwhile, lay on the floor, and did not grieve over what
had happened.
'It is all the same,' he thought,--'to be crushed under somebody's
foot, or to go through a whole life such a feeble and useless creature
as I am!'
Just at that moment Karl Ivánovich came into the workshop, puffing
at his pipe. He was a thorough German, with a flat, red face, and an
embroidered cap with a tassel. Although he had lived in Russia for
about thirty years, and owed his good fortune to Russian people, yet
he had not learnt Russian properly, and thought even that it was a
merit not to know it. He was of the opinion that the Russians were mere
cattle; and when he contrived to gain 50 per cent in selling some watch
to a Russian, this was in his eyes one proof more how right he was to
think contemptuously of the nation. He therefore always spoke German
in his domestic life.
'_Kinder, fort! fort!_' said Karl Ivánovich sternly. But observing at
once from the frightened faces of the children that something must be
amiss, he frowned still more severely, and going up to the bench, began
inspecting it closely.
'What mischief have you been up to here, eh?' asked the watchmaker.
The children hung their heads in silence.
Karl Ivánovich once more carefully examined his bench, and suddenly his
attention was caught by the watch-glass in which he had laid the wee
blue steel Screw.
'Where's the Screw? Who has taken the Screw?' shouted Karl Ivánovich at
the top of his voice.
The little girl got frightened for her brother and began to cry
bitterly; the boy remained silent.
'Well, are you going to speak or not?' cried the watchmaker, still
louder.
'It's on the floor,' whispered the girl.
'That was you dropped it, I'll be bound!' said the watchmaker, shaking
his finger before his little son's face. The boy still held his tongue,
and only hung his head lower and lower.
'_Oh, welch ein wilder Bube!_' cried Karl Ivánovich in a fury. 'Do you
understand what you've done? It was the only screw of that kind that I
had left, and the new order has got delayed on the journey here. How am
I to mend the chronometer from the telegraph station now, eh?'
'Papa, it was _so_ tiny,' said the little girl through her tears; she
wanted to say something in her brother's defence and did not know what
plea to put forward.
'_Oh, du dummes Ding!_' cried the angry watchmaker. 'Do you suppose
because the Screw is small it's of no consequence? Why, can't you
see the value of it is just that it's so small; nothing else will
go into the hole. Without it I can't screw the pieces together in
the chronometer, and how long do you think it will go without being
screwed? Can't you understand that, you little goose?'
Ah! with what joy our little Screw listened to this speech as he lay
on the floor beside the bench. He was not ill-natured, and felt very
sorry for the children when Karl Ivánovich scolded them so; but how
could the little creature help rejoicing when his dearest wish was thus
suddenly fulfilled? He had been grieving because he was so small, had
been ashamed of his weakness, and had believed himself utterly useless.
He had so longed to be useful--even as useful as any lump of metal that
has not been made into anything; but he had thought himself incapable
even of that.... And now it appeared that he, small as he was, could
be as useful as a first-rate chronometer! Yes, for without him, the
tiny Screw, the chronometer itself would not keep time properly.
The Screw was wild with joy; he positively choked with delight!
Soon, however, his rapture was changed into terrible anxiety. Karl
Ivánovich made the children look for the lost Screw, called his
assistant to look too, and finally, straddling his short legs apart,
and leaning his red hands on his knees, stooped down himself with a
magnifying-glass at his eye, and began carefully inspecting the floor.
But all their searching was in vain: the whole four of them looked,
crawled over the floor, felt about with their hands quite close to the
Screw, and could not find him.
'Oh dear!' thought the poor little fellow, 'what if they don't find me
after all? That would be terrible!'
It would indeed be terrible; after passing through such bitter
moments, to be at the very point of reaching the utmost possible
happiness, and then after all to miss it and be crushed under a dirty
boot! He would have cried out, 'Here I am! here!' but did not know how
to do that in human speech.
In his extremity the little Screw looked up at the mighty magician who
ruled over all the clocks. As before, the magician was gravely turning
his eyes from side to side, watching over his kingdom.
'Oh great, good magician! king of time! benefactor of men! surely thou
wilt not let me perish here for no cause, when I too might be of use?
Help me, oh help me, to be found!' entreated our wee friend.
The magician glanced benevolently down on the poor little Screw, and
instantly raising his left hand to command attention, began striking on
his bell with the hammer he held in his right; the cat at once began
to mew.
A ray of sunshine fell through the window straight upon the magician.
When he raised and dropped his hammer, the ray flashed on its smooth
surface and was reflected from it right on to the Screw. The Screw
glittered like a spark of fire, and Karl Ivánovich's little girl cried
out joyfully, 'I've found it!'
Karl Ivánovich instantly picked up his recovered treasure with a
pair of small pincers and laid him again in the watch-glass. Then he
sat down at his bench and set to work at the telegraph chronometer.
Presently came the turn of our Screw; the watchmaker picked him up
again with the pincers, placed him in a hole in one part of the
chronometer, and screwed him tight with a delicate little screwdriver.
On finishing his work Karl Ivánovich wound up the watch, held it to
his ear and listened. It was ticking away merrily, and our Screw sat
firmly in his place and held the pieces together as a conscientious
screw should. Then the watchmaker hung up the chronometer in a glass
case to be tested.
One morning, about a fortnight afterwards, the outer door of Karl
Ivánovich's shop opened, and the director of the telegraph station came
in.
'Good morning, Karl Ivánovich,' he said; 'what about my watch?'
'It's ready--quite ready.'
'And goes well?'
'Goes perfectly. There was just one screw wanting, and I've put it in.
That was the whole matter.'
The telegraph director opened the inner lid of the watch and looked
at our Screw; then he shut the lid again and put the chronometer into
his waistcoat pocket. It ticked bravely, and the little blue steel
Screw sat in his hole, saying to himself joyfully: 'And I, too, am of
use!'
[Illustration]
THE DREAM
There once lived a little boy called Basil. He had a good mamma,
who worked hard to educate her child. They lived alone: they had no
relatives, no servants. His mamma tried never to leave Basil alone in
the evening; when she had some work to carry to her employer she always
tried to do it in the daytime.
A friend once presented Basil's mamma with a ticket for the theatre.
This took place in her absence. When she returned home Basil met her
with great joy. 'Mamma dearest, _Petr Petróvich_ (Mr. Peter) has
been here and left a ticket for you. You shall go to hear the opera
to-night. You like the opera, don't you?'
'But, my dear boy, what shall I do with the ticket? I cannot go.'
'And why, mamma?'
'Why, I can't leave you all alone at home; if we had two tickets we
could both go; but without you I can't go.'
'No, no, you must go, mamma,' insisted Basil.
'No, my darling, I can't leave you,' said his mother, sighing; 'you
would be afraid, and something might happen to you.'
'You might ask Mrs. _Lookina_ to stay with me.'
Mrs. Lookina was their neighbour, living on the same landing in the
same large house.
'It is hard to be under an obligation to any one, my dear; the last
time when I had to take home some hurried work I asked Mrs. Lookina to
stay some time with you. I cannot do so too often; she has work of her
own.'
'Then I shall stay alone, and will not be afraid,' answered Basil; 'and
if anything happens, I shall call Mrs. Lookina; and if nothing happens,
I shall not call her.'
Basil's mother saw very well that the boy wished her to go to the
theatre. She was much pleased; she kissed him tenderly, but did not say
what she intended to do. But by the glance she cast at the ticket, the
way she put it aside, the sigh which followed, Basil understood all
very well; his mamma would very much like to go to the opera, and it
was hard for her to deprive herself of so rare a pleasure, which she
could now have for nothing; but yet she could not decide to go. Basil
was so disappointed that tears were ready to fall.
'Oh mamma! you often said that we must help one another, and not find
it difficult. You made a collar for Mrs. Lookina.... And if you do not
go to the theatre I shall cry,' he added, quite unexpectedly beginning
to weep.
'Don't, dearest, don't cry,' said his mother, taking her boy on her lap
and kissing him; but the child wept, repeating continually:
'Poor mamma, you never can go to the theatre--you would so much like to
go; I know it.'
'Well, well, I will go; only don't cry.'
Then his mamma went to Mrs. Lookina and asked her to give Basil some
tea, put him to bed, and stay with him until her return. When she was
dressed she kissed her boy and set off.
Soon it was tea-time. Mrs. Lookina never before had had to give Basil
his tea, and did not know that he took very weak tea. She poured him
out some strong tea, and as the boy liked it very much, he took more of
it than usual. Basil well remembered what his mamma said, and did not
wish to tire Mrs. Lookina, so he told her he would undress himself and
go to bed, and she might lock the door from the outside and go home.
'I shall not be afraid,' concluded he; 'and if anything happens, I
shall knock like this.'
'But why, my boy? I can stay with you,' answered the neighbour.
'No, no, you have some work at home,' said Basil, and wrapping himself
up in his quilt with decision, he closed his eyes and said: 'There, I
am asleep already.'
'Very well, my boy,' said Mrs. Lookina, smiling; 'but you must promise
me to knock as soon as you need anything.'
'Yes, yes; I shall knock this way,' and kneeling up on his bed, Basil
showed how he would knock.
Mrs. Lookina left him. Basil heard her leaving their lodging, taking
the candle with her; heard her locking the door. And now Basil was
alone. All was quiet around. He opened his eyes; all was dark. Basil
felt uneasy, to tell the truth, but he tried not to think about it; he
again closed his eyes, and turned his back to the wall. A long time he
lay thus, and the strong tea he had taken kept him awake. He began to
rock himself slightly in his bed and sing--
'Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep.'
Basil repeated these words several times, and all at once it seemed
to him as if the room were not as dark as before. He opened his
eyes wide, and was lost in astonishment. The room was full of pale
light--something like moonlight--and not far from his bed Basil noticed
a queer little being. It was a tiny little old man, not more than six
inches high. He wore a short jacket made of red corn-poppy petals;
his trousers were of the same material; his arms and legs were very
thin, like poppy stems, and he wore green stockings; his shoes and
gloves were composed of green poppy leaves. But the Old Man's head was
the most interesting part of his little person. It was a little round
head, perfectly bald and brown, just like the dried fruit of a poppy.
On his head there was a crown such as you see in the poppy. His face
was brown also; it was calm and kind. He smiled fondly as he looked on
Basil. Above the Little Man's head trembled a bluish flame, from which
spread an agreeable light about the room. This flame did not touch the
Old Man's head, but it followed him. When the Little Man stooped, the
flame stooped also; when he rose, it rose with him.
[Illustration: "_Not far from his bed Basil noticed a queer little
being._"]
'You called me?' asked he of Basil. His voice was so agreeable, and
sounded so like that of an old acquaintance.
'I--I--don't know,' stammered the child.
'But you could not fall asleep, and you kept repeating--
'"Sleep, sleep, come to me.
Sleep, sleep, take me now.
Sleep, lull me into sleep."'
'Yes, Mr. Old Man, I have been repeating all this, but I did not mean
to disturb you; it is hard to be under an obligation to any one. I am
not afraid to be alone, Mr. Old Man.'
'Oh!' said the Old Man, smiling, 'where did you learn such words; of
all things, as _to be under an obligation_? He! he! he!'
'No, no, Mr. Old Man; you see, I told Mrs. Lookina to go home. Why
should I disturb you? You have your own business.'
'Ho! ho! ho!' laughed the Old Man. 'What a sensible young man you are!
But don't trouble yourself about this. My duty consists in being where
people want to sleep, so you only help me to do what I ought to do. You
want to sleep, don't you?'
'Yes, Mr. Old Man.'
'And so I will put you to sleep if you like, soundly.' Then the Little
Old Man began to blink with evident enjoyment, and to yawn slowly and
loudly. Somebody immediately yawned in answer, and Basil, who had also
a great desire to yawn, looked around. He saw to his great astonishment
that at the foot of his bed sat a new old man. It was he who had yawned
in answer to the first Old Man.
This Old Man much resembled the other, only he was a little smaller.
His jacket and trousers were made of lilac poppy petals instead of red
ones, and he had no light on his head.
'Listen, Basil,' said the little lilac-coloured creature, and with a
gentle voice, like a mother telling fairy tales to her child, he began
to speak:
'A gnat was born on the moors. It stood on its thin little legs, it
spread its wings, and thought to itself: "It is time to fly after some
booty! If I meet a man or a bull, I will eat him up."
'The gnat flew away, spread its little legs in the wind, and vanished.
Hardly anybody would notice it--so small, and thin, and weak it was.
Nevertheless, as it flew, it blew its own trumpets--
'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
'Whether the gnat flew for a long or a short time no one knows. Anyhow
it came to a reddish mound. This was a heap of bricks. Some time ago a
hut stood here, but the hut had been burnt down; its brick stove had
fallen to pieces, and now stood in view--a heap of fragments. The gnat
looked at the mound and thought: "This is a fine portion; it will just
suit my appetite." It flew with all its might, settled on a brick, then
flew on to another, and tried to drive its proboscis into it. The gnat
held the brick fast, and fought with its proboscis the best it could;
but it found it hard. Brick was brick, you know; it was not soft stuff.
The gnat raced from place to place. It tried the brick in every way,
but without avail.
'"No," thought the gnat, "this does not please me; it is not worth
while troubling about." It moved on again, and flew away. It flew on
and blew its own trumpets--
'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
'Presently the gnat came across something large and high, surmounted
by a sharp-pointed deep-green dunce's cap. It was a fir-tree with resin
oozing out.
'The gnat thought: "This is more in my line; this will suit my
appetite; I will begin at this yellow spot."
'It flew towards the resin, and, settling down, drove its proboscis
into it. Oh, wonder! It was bitter and sticky. The gnat after a great
effort dragged its proboscis out, and then tried to free its legs. It
tugged and tugged, and managed to free five, but could not succeed with
the sixth.
'The gnat got angry. "Let go," he called to the fir-tree; "I know a
trick worth two of that." But the fir-tree held the leg tight. The gnat
got still angrier; dashed about until its leg came off, and then flew
away with only five legs; the sixth had remained in the resin. It flew
on, and again blew its own trumpets--
'"Fi-fo-fum!
Here I come!
I will slay
Man and beast!
I will feast
All the day!"
'A tale is quicker told than actions can be done.