CHAPTER II
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.