coat with golden buttons decorated with anchors, and a sailor hat with a red pompon, French style), the girl who remained on deck turned out to be singularly capricious, and a cry-baby. She quarrelled endlessly with her father, a tall, extremely phlegmatic gentleman with side-whiskers, who wore a flowing cape. He was the very image of Lord Glenarvan from Captain Grant's Children. Father and daughter were carrying on the following conversation: "I'm thirsty, Daddy." "Never mind, you'll get over it," Lord Glenarvan replied phlegmatically, without taking his eyes from his binoculars. The girl stamped her foot. "I'm thirsty," she repeated, raising her voice. "Never mind, you'll get over it," her father replied, calmer than ever. The girl chanted with stubborn fury, "Daddy, I'm thirsty. Daddy, I'm thirsty. Daddy, I'm thirsty." Bubbles frothed on her angry lips. In a nagging drawl that would have tried the patience of an angel, she continued, "Da-aad-dy, I'm thir-ir-ir-sty. I'm thir-ir-ir-sty." To which Lord Glenarvan leisurely replied, with even greater indifference and without raising his voice, "Never mind, you'll get over it." This strange duel between the two obstinate creatures had been going on practically all the way since Akkerman. Naturally, striking up an acquaintance with her was quite out of the question. Then Petya found a fascinating occupation: he followed in the footsteps of one of the passengers. Everywhere the passenger went, Petya went too. That was really interesting, especially since Petya had long noticed something strange about the passenger's behaviour. Other passengers, perhaps, had not noticed one astonishing circumstance, but Petya had, and he was greatly struck by it. This man did not have a ticket, and the mate was very well aware of it. But for some reason he had said nothing to the strange passenger. More, he had given him permission-not in so many words, of course-to go wherever he wished, even into the first-class cabins. Petya clearly saw what had passed when the mate approached the strange passenger with his wire cash-box. "Your ticket?" The passenger whispered something in the mate's ear. The mate nodded. "Right you are." After that, no one disturbed the strange passenger. He walked about the whole ship, looking into every corner: into the cabins, the engine-room, the refreshment bar, the lavatory, the hold. Now who could he be? A landowner? No. Landowners did not dress that way and did not act that way. A Bessarabian landowner always wore a heavy linen dust coat and a white travelling cap, and the visor of the cap was covered with finger marks. Next, he would have a drooping corn-coloured moustache, and a small wicker basket with a padlock on it. In the basket there were always a box of smoked mackerel, some tomatoes and some Brinza cheese, and two or three quarts of new white wine in a green bottle. Landowners travelled second class, for economy's sake; they kept together, never came out of their cabins, and were always either eating or playing cards. Petya had not seen the strange passenger in their company. He wore a summer cap, true enough, but he had neither a dust coat nor a wicker basket. No, decidedly, he was not a landowner. Then perhaps he was a postal official, or a schoolmaster? Hardly. Although under his jacket he did wear a pongee shirt with a turned-down collar, and instead of a tie a cord with little pompons, his curled-up moustache which was as black as boot-polish and his smooth-shaven chin obviously did not fit in with that. And as for the smoked pince-nez-uncommonly large ones they were-on the coarse fleshy nose with hairy nostrils, they did not fit any category of passenger whatsoever. Besides, there were those pinstripe trousers and those sandals over thick white socks. Yes, something was definitely fishy here. Petya shoved his hands in his pockets (which, by the way, was strictly forbidden) and strolled along with a most independent air, following the strange passenger all over the ship. At first the passenger stood for a while in the narrow passage-way between the engine-room and the galley. The galley gave off the sour, smoky reek of an eating-house, and from the open ventilators of the engine-room there came a hot wind smelling of superheated steam, iron, boiling water and oil. The engine-room skylight was raised, and Petya could look down into it-which he did with delight. He knew the engine from A to Z, yet he went into raptures each time he saw it. He could stand there watching it for hours. As everybody knew, the engine was outdated and good for nothing and so on, but it was incredibly powerful and astonishing all the same. The steel connecting rods covered with thick green grease slid back and forth with amazing ease, considering they weighed a ton. The pistons pumped furiously. The cast-iron cranks twirled. The brass discs of the cams rubbed quickly and nervously against one another, exerting a mysterious influence on the painstaking work of the modest but important slide valves. And over all this swirling chaos reigned an immensely huge flywheel. At first glance it seemed to be turning slowly, but when one took a closer look one saw that it was going at a tremendous speed and was raising a steady hot wind. It was nerve-racking to watch the mechanic as he walked about among those inexorably moving joints and bent over to apply the long nozzle of his oil can to them. But the most amazing thing in the whole engine-room was the ship's one and only electric lamp. It hung in a wire muzzle, under a tin plate. (And what a far cry it was from the blindingly bright electric lamps of today!) Inside its blackened glass there was a dimly glowing red-hot little loop of wire which quivered at every vibration of the ship. But it seemed a miracle. It was associated with the magic word "Edison", which in the boy's mind had long since lost meaning as a surname and had taken on mysterious meaning as a phenomenon of Nature, like "magnetism", or "electricity". After that the strange man walked unhurriedly round the lower decks. Petya had the impression he was making a secret but very attentive study of the passengers who were sitting on their bundles and baskets at the mast, near the rails, and beside the cargo. He was ready to bet (betting, by the way, was also strictly forbidden) that the man was secretly searching for someone. The stranger stepped unceremoniously over sleeping Moldavians. He squeezed his way through groups of Jews who were eating olives. He cautiously raised the edges of a tarpaulin stretched over some crates of tomatoes. Asleep on the bare boards of the deck lay a man with his cap over his cheek and his head nestling in one of the rope fenders which are lowered over the side to soften the ship's impact against the wharf. His arms were spread out and his legs were drawn up, just as a child sleeps. Petya gave a casual glance at the man's legs and then stood petrified: the trousers had pulled up, and he saw the well-remembered navy boots with the rust-coloured tops. There could be no doubt about it. They were the very same boots he had seen under the seat in the coach that morning. And even if that was a mere coincidence, there was something else that most certainly was not. On the sleeping man's hand, in the very same place-the fleshy triangle beneath the thumb and forefinger-Petya clearly saw a small blue anchor. He almost cried out in surprise. He controlled himself because he noticed that the sleeping man had attracted the attention of the moustached passenger too. Moustaches walked past the sleeper several times, trying to peer under the cap covering his face. But he did not succeed. Then he walked by once again and stepped on the sleeping man's hand, as if by accident. "Sorry!" The other gave a start. He sat up and looked round in fright with sleepy, uncomprehending eyes. "Eh? What's up? Where to?" he muttered disjointedly as he rubbed the coral imprint of the rope on his cheek. It was he, the very same sailor! Petya hid behind the hatchway and watched with bated breath to see what would happen next. But nothing special happened. After excusing himself again, Moustaches went on his way, and the sailor turned over on his other side. He did not go back to sleep, however, but kept looking round in alarm and-so it seemed to Petya-impatient annoyance. What should he do? Run to Father? Or tell the whole story to the mate? No, no! Petya clearly remembered Father's behaviour in the coach. Evidently the whole business was something about which he should neither speak to anybody nor ask any questions, but simply hold his tongue and make believe he knew nothing. At this point he decided to hunt up Moustaches and see what he was doing. He found him on the first-class deck, which was practically deserted. He was leaning against a life-boat with a canvas tightly roped over it. Under the deck-house the invisible wheel was pounding away at water almost black and covered with a coarse lace of foam. It was making the kind of noise you heard at a watermill. The ship's shadow, now a rather long one, slid quickly over the bright waves, which turned a darker and darker blue the farther away they were. At the stern waved the white, blue and red merchant navy flag, shot through by the sun. Behind her the ship left a broad wake; it widened and melted and stretched far into the distance, like a well-swept sleigh road at Shrovetide. On the left ran the high clay shore of Novorossia. As for Moustaches, he was furtively examining something he held in his hand. Petya stole up to him from behind, stood on tiptoe, and saw it. It was a small, passport-size photograph of a sailor in full uniform; his cap was tilted at a swaggerish angle, and on its band was the inscription: KNYAZ POTEMKIN TAVRICHESKY That was the very same sailor, the one with the anchor on his hand. And here Petya suddenly realised, in a flash of insight, what was strange about Moustaches' appearance: like the man with the anchor, Moustaches was in disguise. 8 "MAN OVERBOARD!" A fair wind was blowing. To help the engine along and to make up for the time lost during loading, the captain ordered a sail to be set. Not a single holiday celebration, not a single present, could have thrown Petya into such raptures as did that trifle. On second thought, a fine trifle! An engine and a sail at one and the same time on one and the same ship! A packet-boat and frigate combined! I dare say that you, comrades, would also be delighted if you suddenly had the good fortune to make a sea voyage on a real steamer that was under sail into the bargain. Even in those days sails were set only on the oldest steamers, and on the rarest occasions at that. Nowadays it is never done at all. So you can easily imagine how Petya felt about it. Naturally, Moustaches and the runaway flew out of his mind at once. He stood in the bow, gazing in a trance at the barefoot deck-hand who was pulling, rather lazily, a neatly folded sail out of the hatchway. Petya knew perfectly well that this was a jib. All the same he went up to the mate, who, because there were no other seamen, was helping to set the sail. "I say there, tell me please, is that a jib?" "It is." The mate's tone was decidedly gruff, but Petya was not the least offended. He knew very well that a real sea dog was bound to be somewhat gruff. Otherwise what kind of sea-faring man was he? Petya looked at the passengers with a restrained superior smile and again addressed the mate, casually, as man to man: "Now tell me, please, what other kinds of sails are there? How about the mainsail and foresail?" "Get out of the way," the mate said, with the expression of a man whose tooth has suddenly begun to ache. "Run along to your Mama in the cabin." "My Mama's dead," Petya told the rude fellow with sad pride. "We're travelling with Father." To that the mate made no reply, and the conversation ended. Finally the jib was set. The little ship ploughed on faster than ever. Odessa was now tangibly near. The white spit of the Sukhoi Liman came into sight ahead. The shallow water of this estuary was such a dense and dark blue that it gave off a reddish glow. Then the slate roofs of Lustdorf, the German quarter, and the tall rough-hewn church with the weather-vane on its spire appeared. And after that came the villas, orchards, vegetable gardens, bathing beaches, towers, lighthouses. First there was the famous Kovalevsky tower, a tower with a legend. A rich man by the name of Kovalevsky decided to build, at his own risk, a water-supply system for the city. It would have brought him vast profit. For every drink of water they took, people would have to pay Mr. Kovalevsky as much as he wanted. You see, the only source of good drinking water near Odessa was on Mr.Kovalevsky's land. But the water lay very deep, and to get it a tremendous water tower had to be built. That was a big job for • a single man to handle. But since Mr. Kovalevsky did not want to share his future profits with anyone, he began to build the tower on his own. The work turned out to cost much more than he had thought it would. His relatives pleaded with him to give up his mad idea, but he had already put so much money into it that he would not back out. He went on with the work. When the tower was three-quarters built he ran out of money. But by mortgaging all his houses and his lands, he managed to finish the tower. It was a huge thing, and it looked like a chessboard castle enlarged thousands of times. On Sundays whole families used to come from Odessa to look at the wonder. But the tower alone was not enough, of course. Machines had to be ordered from abroad; holes had to be drilled, mains had to be laid. Mr. Kovalevsky grew desperate. He ran to the merchants and bankers of Odessa for a loan. He offered a fabulous rate of interest. He promised them dividends such as they had never dreamed of. He begged, he went down on his knees, he wept. But the rich merchants and bankers would not forgive him for having refused to take them in as partners from the beginning. They were deaf to his pleas. Not a kopek did he get from anybody. He was completely ruined, broken, crushed. The water-main became an obsession with him. All day long he used to pace, like a madman, round and round the tower which had swallowed his whole fortune, racking his brains for a way to raise money. Little by little he went out of his mind. One fine day he climbed to the very top of the accursed tower and jumped down. That had happened about fifty years earlier, but the tower, blackened with age, still stood overlooking the sea not far from the rich commercial city, as a grim warning and a ghastly monument to insatiable human greed. Then the new white lighthouse appeared, and after it the old one, now no longer in service. Lit up by the pink sun setting into the golden chain of suburban acacias, they looked so distinct, so near- and, above all, so familiar-as they towered over the bluffs, that Petya was ready to blow into the jib as hard as he could, if only that would make the ship arrive sooner. From here on he knew every inch of the coast. Bolshoi Fontan, Sredny Fontan, Maly Fontan, the high, steep shore overgrown with scratch weed, wild rose, lilac, and hawthorn. The big rocks standing in the water in the shadow of the bluffs, rocks green with slime halfway up their sides, and on them the swimmers and the anglers with their bamboo poles. And here was Arcadia, the restaurant on piles, with its band-stand-from a distance so small, no bigger than a prompter's box-its brightly-coloured sunshades, and the table-cloths across which the cool wind was scurrying. Each new detail which met the boy's eyes was fresher and more interesting than the one before. They had not been forgotten. No! They could be forgotten no more than he could forget his own name! They had somehow merely slipped from his memory for a time. Now they were suddenly rushing back, the way a boy rushes home after having gone out without permission. They came racing back, more and more of them all the time, one overtaking the other. They seemed to be shouting to him, in eager rivalry: "Greetings, Petya! So you're back at last! How we've missed you! Come now, don't you recognise us? Take a good look: this is me, your favourite summer resort, Marazli. How you loved to walk over my splendidly clipped emerald lawns, strictly forbidden though that was! How you loved to examine my marble statues, over which big snails with four little horns-'lavriks-pavliks', you called them-used to crawl, leaving behind a slimy trail! Look how I've grown during the summer! Look how thick my chestnut trees have become! What gorgeous dahlias and peonies are in bloom in my flower-beds! What magnificent August butterflies you'll see alighting in the dark shadows of my garden walks!" "And here am I, Otrada! Surely you haven't forgotten my bathing beach, my shooting gallery, my skittle-alley! Look at me: while you were gone we put up a wonderful merry-go-round, with boats and horses. And a stone's throw away lives your old friend Gavrik. He's counting the hours until your return. So hurry, hurry!"' "I'm here too, Petya! How do you do? Don't you recognise Langeron? Look at all the flat-bottomed fishing boats pulled up on my beach, and at all the fishing nets drying on crossed oars! Wasn't it here, in my sand, that last year you found two kopeks and then drank four whole glasses-it was so much you actually had to force it down -of sour kvass, and it tickled your nose and nipped your tongue? Don't you recognise the kvass stand? Why, here it is at the edge of the bluff, as large as life, amidst the weeds that have grown so high during the summer! You don't even need binoculars to see it!" "And here am I! I'm here too! Hello, Petya! Ah, if you only knew what's been going on here in Odessa while you were away! Hello! Hello!" As they approached the city the wind grew quieter and warmer. Now the sun had disappeared altogether. Only the top of the mast and the tiny red peak of the weather-vane still glowed in the absolutely clear pink sky. The jib was taken in. The pounding of the ship's engine raised a loud echo among the bluffs and crags of the shore. Up the mast crept the pale-yellow top lantern. In thought Petya was already ashore, in Odessa. Had anybody told him that only a short while before, that very morning, in fact, he had almost cried when bidding farewell to the farm, he never would have believed it. The farm? Which farm? He had already forgotten it. It had ceased to exist for him-until the next summer. Quick, quick! To the cabin, to hurry Daddy and to put their things together! Petya spun about, ready to run. But then he froze in horror. The sailor with the anchor on his hand was sitting on the steps of the bow-ladder, and Moustaches was walking directly towards him, hands in pockets, without his pince-nez, his sandals squeaking. He came up to the sailor, leaned over him, and said, in a voice neither loud nor soft, "Zhukov?" "What about Zhukov?" the sailor said in a low, strained voice. He turned visibly pale and stood up. "Sit down. Be quiet. Sit down, I tell you." The sailor continued to stand. A faint smile trembled on his ashen lips. Moustaches frowned. "From the Potemkin? How do you do, my dear chap. You might at least have changed your boots. And us waiting for you all this long time. Well, what have you to say for yourself, Rodion Zhukov? The game's up, eh?" With these words Moustaches gripped the sailor by the sleeve. The sailor's face contorted. "Hands off!" he cried in a terrible voice. He shifted his weight and slammed his fist into Moustaches' chest with all his might. "Keep your hands off a sick man!" The sleeve ripped. "Stop!" But it was too late. The sailor had torn himself free and was running down the deck, weaving in and out among the baskets, crates, and passengers. Moustaches ran after him. An onlooker might have thought these two grown men were playing tag. They dived, one after the other, into the passage-way next to the engine-room and then bobbed up on the other side. They ran up the ladder, their soles drumming and sliding on the slippery brass steps. "Stop! Grab him!" cried Moustaches, wheezing heavily. The sailor now carried a batten which he had torn loose somewhere on the way. "Grab him! Grab him!" The passengers, frightened and curious, gathered in a cluster on the deck. There was a piercing blast from a policeman's whistle. The sailor cleared a high hatchway in one leap. He dodged Moustaches, who had run round the hatchway, jumped back over it, and then hopped on a bench. From the bench he sprang to the rail, grasped the ensign staff, and struck Moustaches across the face with the batten as hard as he could. Then he jumped into the sea. Spray showered up over the stern. "Oh!" The passengers, every single one of them, reeled back as if a gust of wind had caught them. Moustaches ran back and forth in front of the rail. "Catch him! He'll get away!" he cried hoarsely, holding his hands to his face. "Catch him! He'll get away!" The mate ran up the ladder three steps at a time with a life-belt. "Man overboard!" The passengers reeled forward towards the rail, as if now a gust of wind had caught them from behind. Petya squeezed through to the rail. Amid the whipped egg-white of the foam, the sailor's head bobbed up and down with the waves like a float. He was already a good way off, and he was swimming. Not towards the ship, but away from it, working his arms and legs as fast as he could. After every three or four strokes he turned back a tense, angry face. The mate saw that the man who was overboard had not the slightest desire to be "saved". On the contrary, he was plainly trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his saviours. Besides, he was an excellent swimmer and the shore was relatively near. And so, everything was in order. There was no cause for worry. In vain did Moustaches tug at the mate's sleeve, make fierce eyes, and demand that the ship be stopped and a boat lowered. "He's a political criminal. You'll answer for this!" The mate shrugged his shoulders phlegmatically. "It's none of my business. I have no orders. Speak to the captain." The captain merely waved his hand. "We're late as it is. It's out of the question, my good man. Why should we? We'll be mooring in half an hour and then you can go and catch your political chappie. This steamship line is a private company. It doesn't go in for politics, and we have no instructions on that score." Swearing under his breath, Moustaches, his face battered, headed for the place where the gangway would be set, forcing his way through the crowd of third-class passengers preparing to disembark. He roughly pushed aside the frightened people; he stepped on their feet and kicked their baskets, and finally reached the rail so as to get off first, the moment the ship moored. By now the sailor's head could barely be seen in the waves amid the markers swaying above the fishing nets. 9 ODESSA BY NIGHT The shore darkened quickly; it turned a light blue, then a deep blue, then purple. On land, evening had already come. At sea it was still light. The glossy swell reflected a clear sky. But here, too, evening was making itself felt. The signal lanterns on the paddle-boxes had been lit without the boy's noticing it, and their bulging glass sides, in the daytime so dark and thick one could never guess their colour, now gleamed green and red; they did not throw any light as yet, but they definitely glowed. All at once the dark-blue city, with its cupola-shaped theatre roof and the colonnade of the Vorontsov Palace, loomed in front of them, shutting out half the horizon. The watery stars of the wharf lamps were palely reflected in the light-coloured, absolutely motionless lake of the harbour. It was into the harbour that the Turgenev now turned, closely skirting the thick tower of the lighthouse-really not a very big one at all-which had a bell and a ladder. Down in the engine-room the captain's bell ting-a-linged for the last time. "Slow!" The narrow little steamer slid quickly and noiselessly past the three-storey bows of the ocean-going ships of the Dobrovolny Merchant Line standing in a row inside the breakwater. Petya had to crane his neck in order to study their monstrous anchors. Those were ships! "Stop!" Without slowing down, carried along by her momentum, the Turgenev cut obliquely across the harbour, in complete silence; she bore down on the wharf as if she would crash into it any minute. Two long creases stretched back from her sharp bow, making stripes like a mackerel's in the water. Along the sides the water gurgled softly. Heat poured from the advancing city as from an oven. All of a sudden Petya saw a funnel and two masts sticking out of the mirror-like surface. They floated by as close to the ship's side as could be-black, frightful, dead. The passengers crowding at the rail gave a gasp. "They scuttled her," someone said in a low voice. "Who?" the boy wanted to ask, horror-struck. But just then he saw an even more gruesome sight: the charred iron skeleton of a ship leaning against a charred wharf. "They burned her," the same voice said, more softly than before. Now the wharf was upon them. "Astern!" The paddle-wheels began to clatter again, revolving in the opposite direction. Little whirlpools scurried across the water. The wharf drifted away and somehow shifted about, and then, very slowly, it approached again, but from the other side. Over the heads of the passengers shot a coiled rope, unwinding as it flew. Petya felt a slight jolt; it had been softened by the rope fender. The gangway was shoved up from the wharf. The first to run down it was Moustaches. He immediately disappeared in the crowd. Our travellers waited their turn, and before long they were slowly walking down the gangway to the wharf. Petya was surprised to see a policeman and several civilians standing at the foot of the gangway. They were looking closely, very closely, at everyone coming down. They looked at Father, who thrust forward a quivering beard and mechanically buttoned his coat. He tightened his grip on Pavlik's hand, and his face took on exactly the same unpleasant expression as it had in the coach that morning when he was talking to the soldier. They took a cab. Pavlik was put on the folding seat in front, while Petya sat next to Father on the main seat, quite like a grown-up. As they drove out they saw a sentry with a rifle and with cartridge-pouches at his belt standing by the gate. That was something altogether new. "Why is a sentry standing there, Daddy?" Petya asked in a whisper. "For God's sake!" Father said irritably, with a jerk of his neck. "All you do is ask questions. How should I know? If he's standing there it means he's standing there. And you're to sit quiet." Petya saw that no questions were to be asked, and also that there was no call to take offence at Father's irritability. But when, at the railway crossing, he saw the trestle bridge burned to the ground, the mounds of charred sleepers, the twisted rails hanging in the air, and the wheels of overturned railway carriages-when he saw that scene of frozen chaos he cried out breathlessly, "Oh, what's that? Look! I say there, cabby, what's that?" "Set fire to it, they did," the cab-driver said mysteriously, shaking his head in the firm beaver-cloth hat, but whether in condemnation or approval was not clear. They drove past the famous Odessa Stairway. Up at the top of its triangle, in the space between the silhouettes of the two semi-circular symmetrical palaces, the small figure of the Due de Richelieu stood outlined against the light evening sky, his arm stretched out in antique mode towards the sea. The three-armed street lamps along the boulevard gleamed. From the terrace of an open-air restaurant came the strains of music. The first pale star trembled in the sky over the chestnut trees and the gravel of the boulevard. Somewhere up above, Petya knew, beyond the Nikolayev Boulevard, lay the bright, noisy, luring, unapproachable, intangible place which was referred to in the Batchei family circle with contemptuous respect as "the Centre". In the Centre lived "the rich", those special beings who travelled first class, who could go to the theatre every day, who for some strange reason had their dinner at seven o'clock in the evening, who kept a chef instead of a cook and a bonne instead of a nursemaid, and often even "kept their own horses"-something indeed beyond human imagination. The Batcheis, of course, did not live in "the Centre". The droshky rumbled over the cobblestones of Karantinnaya Street and then, turning right, drove up the hill to the city proper. Petya was unaccustomed to the city after his summer's absence. He was deafened by the clang of horseshoes, which drew sparks from the cobbles, by the clatter of wheels, by the jangle of the horse-trams, by the squeaking of shoes and the firm tapping of walking sticks on the dark-blue slabs of the pavement. The crisp sadness of autumn's tints had long ago gilded the farm, the harvested fields, the wide-open steppe. But here, in the city, summer still reigned, rich and luxuriant. The languid heat of evening hung in the breathless air of the acacia-lined streets. Through the open doors of grocers' shops Petya could see the little yellow tongues of oil lamps throwing their light on jars of coloured sugar-plums. Right on the pavement, under the acacias, lay mountains of water-melons-glossy greenish-black Tumans with waxy bald spots, and long bright Monasteries with striped sides. Every now and then there appeared the gleaming vision of a corner fruit shop. In the dazzling glare of the new incandescent lamps, a Persian could be seen fanning magnificent Crimean fruit with rustling plumes of tissue-paper. There were large purple plums covered with a turquoise bloom, and those very expensive luscious brown Beurre Alexander pears. They drove past mansions, and, through the ironwork fences entwined with wild vines, Petya could see, in the light pouring from the windows, beds of luxurious dahlias, begonias and nasturtiums, with plump moths fluttering above them. From the railway station came the whistle of steam-engines. Then they passed the familiar chemist's shop. Behind the large plate-glass window with its gilded glass letters gleamed two crystal pears, one full of a bright violet liquid and the other a green liquid. Petya was convinced they were poison. It was from this chemist's the horrible oxygen pillows had been brought to Mummy when she was dying. What a frightful snoring sound they had made near Mummy's medicine-blackened lips! Pavlik was fast asleep. Father took him in his arms. Pavlik's head swayed and bobbed up and down. His heavy little bare legs kept slipping off Father's lap. But his fingers tightly gripped the bag with the treasured moneybox. In that state he was handed over into the arms of Dunya, the cook, who was waiting in the street for her masters when the cab finally pulled up at the gate with the triangular little lantern in which the house number glowed dimly. "Welcome home! Welcome home!" Petya, still feeling the roll of the deck under his feet, ran into the entrance-way. What a huge, deserted staircase! Bright and echoing. How many lamps! At every landing a paraffin lamp in a cast-iron fixture, and over each lamp a little hood swaying lazily in a circle of light. Brightly polished brass plates on the doors. Coconut fibre doormats. A pram. Petya had completely forgotten these things, and they now appeared before his wondering eyes in all their original novelty. He would have to get used to them again. From somewhere above there came the sharp resounding click of a key, followed by the slamming of a door and then by quick voices. Each exclamation rang out like a pistol shot. The gay bravura notes of a grand piano came, muffled, through a wall. With compelling chords, music was reminding the boy of its existence. And then-goodness me! Who was that? A forgotten but frightfully familiar lady in a dark-blue silk dress with a lace collar and lace cuffs came running out through the door. Her eyes were red from tears, excited, happy; her lips were stretched in laughter. Her chin trembled, but whether from laughing or crying Petya couldn't quite be sure. "Pavlik!" She tore him from the cook's arms. "Good gracious! How heavy you've become!" Pavlik opened eyes turned absolutely black from sleep and remarked, in surprise, but with profound indifference, "Ah, Auntie?" Then he fell asleep again. Why, of course, this was Auntie Tatyana! Dear, precious Auntie Tatyana, whom he knew so well but who had simply slipped out of his memory. How could he have failed to recognise her? "Petya? How huge you are!" "Do you know what happened to us, Auntie?" Petya began at once. "Auntie, you don't know anything about it! But Auntie, only listen to what happened to us. Why, Auntie, you're not listening! Auntie, you're not listening!" "Very well, very well. Wait a minute. Go inside first. Where's Vasili Petrovich?" "Here I am." Father was coming up the stairs. "Well, here we are. How do you do, Tatyana Ivanovna." "Welcome home, welcome home! Come in. Were you seasick?" "Not a bit. We had an excellent trip. Have you any small change? The driver can't change a three-ruble note." "I'll take care of that. Don't worry about it. Petya, don't trip me up. You'll tell me later. Dunya, be a dear and run down and pay the cabby. You'll find some money on my dressing-table." The hall into which Petya walked seemed spacious and dim and so strange that at first he failed to recognise even the tall swarthy boy in the straw hat who had suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, inside the walnut frame of the forgotten but familiar pier-glass lit up by the forgotten but familiar lamp. But Petya, of all people, should have recognised him instantly, for that boy was himself. 10 AT HOME On the farm there had been a little room with whitewashed walls and three camp-beds covered with light cotton counterpanes. An iron washstand. A pine table. A chair. A candle in a glass shade. Green latticed shutters. Floorboards bare of paint from constant scrubbing. How nice and cool it had been, after eating his fill of clotted milk and grey whole-meal bread, to fall asleep in that sad, empty room to the soothing noise of the sea! Here everything was different. Here there was a big flat with papered walls and rooms crowded with furniture in loose-covers. The wallpaper was old, and in each room it had a different design; the furniture was different in each room too. The bouquets and lozenges on the wallpaper made the rooms seem smaller. The furniture here was called "suites", and it muffled the sound of footsteps and voices. Here, lamps were carried from room to room. In the parlour stood rubber plants with stiff, waxy leaves. Their new shoots stuck out like sharp little daggers sheathed in saffian covers. When the lamps were moved their light passed from one mirror to another. The vase on top of the piano shook every time a droshky drove down the street. The clatter of the wheels connected the house with the city. Petya wanted to finish his tea as quickly as possible. He was dying to run out into the courtyard, for at least a minute, to see the boys and learn the news. But it was already very late-after nine. All the boys were probably asleep long ago. He was anxious to tell Auntie Tatyana, or at least Dunya, about the runaway sailor. But they were busy; they were making the beds, fluffing pillows, taking heavy, slippery sheets out of the chest of drawers, carrying lamps from room to room. Petya followed Auntie Tatyana about. "Why won't you listen to me, Auntie?" he pleaded, stepping on her train. "Please listen." "You can see I'm busy." "But Auntie, it won't take long." "You'll tell me tomorrow." "Oh, Auntie, don't be so mean! Please let me tell you. Please, Auntie." "Don't get in my way, Petya. Go and tell it to Dunya." Petya shambled off glumly to the kitchen, where green onions grew in a wooden box on the windowsill. Dunya was hastily pressing a pillow-case on an ironing-board covered with a strip of coarse woollen cloth from an army greatcoat. Thick steam rose from the iron. "Dunya, listen to what happened to us," Petya began in a plaintive voice, gazing at the taut glossy skin on Dunya's bare forearm. "Don't stand so near, Master Petya. God knows I don't want to burn you with this hot iron." "But all you have to do is listen." "Go and tell it to your aunt." "Auntie doesn't want to listen. I'll tell you instead. Du-unya, please." "Tell it to the Master." "Oh, how stupid you are! Father knows all about it." "Tomorrow, Master Petya, tomorrow." "But I want to tell you today." "Please get away from my elbow. Aren't there enough rooms in the house for you? Why do you have to poke your nose into the kitchen?" "I'll only tell you about it, Dunya dear, and then I'll go right away. Word of honour. By the true and holy Cross." "What a trial you are! Everything was so quiet until you came back!" Dunya planked the iron down on the stove, caught up the ironed pillow-case and ran into the next room so impetuously that a breeze passed through the kitchen. Petya sadly rubbed his eyes with his fists. Suddenly he was taken with such a fit of yawning that he barely managed to drag himself to his bed, where, powerless to unglue his eyes, he pulled off his sailor blouse like a blind man. The instant his hot cheek touched the pillow he dropped off into a sleep so sound that he did not feel Father's beard when he came, as was his custom, to kiss him goodnight. Pavlik, however, caused a good deal of bother. He had fallen into such a deep sleep in the cab that Father and Auntie Tatyana had quite a job undressing him. But the moment they put the child to bed he opened eyes that were absolutely fresh and looked round in astonishment. "Have we got there yet?" Auntie Tatyana kissed him tenderly on his hot crimson cheek. "Yes, my pet. Sleep." But Pavlik, it appeared, had had a good sleep, and now he was in a mood for talking. "Is that you, Auntie?" "Yes, my chick. Go to sleep." Pavli