My Childhood (21 page)

I wonder! If you had your way every one would be forgiven. . . . Ugh!
You!"

And bending over her he seized her by the shoulders and shook her, and said, speaking in a rapid whisper:

"But, by God, you needn't worry yourself. You will find no forgiveness in me. Here we are--almost in our graves--overtaken by punishment in our last days . . . there is neither rest nor happiness for us . . . nor will there be. . . . And what is more . . . mark my words! ... we shall be beggars before we 're done--beggars!"

Grandmother took his hand, and sitting beside him laughed gently as she said:

"Oh, you poor thing! So you are afraid of being a beggar. Well, and suppose we do become beggars? All you will have to do is to stay at home while I go out begging. . . . They 'll give to me, never fear! . . . We shall have plenty; so you can throw that trouble aside."

He suddenly burst out laughing, moving his head about just like a goat; and seizing grandmother round the neck, pressed her to him, looking small and crumpled beside her.

"Oh, you fool!" he cried. "You blessed fool! . . . You are all that I've got now! . . . You don't worry about anything because you don't understand. But you must look back a little . . . and remember how you and I worked for them . . . how I sinned for their sakes . . . yet, in spite of all that, now--"

Here I could contain myself no longer; my tears would not be restrained, and I jumped down off the stove and flew to them, sobbing with joy because they were talking to each other in this wonderfully friendly fashion, and because I was sorry for them, and because mother had come, and because they took me to them, tears and all, and embraced me, and hugged me, and wept over me; but grandfather whispered to me:

"So you are here, you little demon! Well, your mother 's come back, and I suppose you will always be with her now. The poor old devil of a grandfather can go, eh? And grandmother, who has spoiled you so . . . she can go to ... eh? Ugh--
you!
. . ."

He put us away from him and stood up as he said in a loud, angry tone:

"They are all leaving us--all turning away from us. . . . Well, call her in. What are you waiting for? Make haste!"

Grandmother went out of the kitchen, and he went and stood in the corner, with bowed head.

"All-merciful God!" he began. "Well . . . Thou seest how it is with us!" And he beat his breast with his fist.

I did not like it when he did this; in fact the way he spoke to God always disgusted me, because he seemed to be vaunting himself before his Maker.

When mother came in her red dress lighted up the kitchen, and as she sat down by the table, with grandfather and grandmother one on each side of her, her wide sleeves fell against their shoulders. She related something to them quietly and gravely, to which they listened in silence, and without attempting to interrupt her, just as if they were children and she were their mother.

Worn out by excitement, I fell fast asleep on the couch.

In the evening the old people went to vespers, dressed in their best. Grandmother gave a merry wink in the direction of grandfather, who was resplendent in the uniform he wore as head of the Guild, with a racoon pelisse over it, and his stomach sticking out importantly; and as she winked she observed to mother:

"Just look at father! Isn't he grand. ... As spruce as a little goat." And mother laughed gaily.

When I was left alone with her in her room, she sat on the couch, with her feet curled under her, and pointing to the place beside her, she said:

"Come and sit here. Now, tell me--how do you like living here? Not much, eh?"

How did I like it?

"I don't know."

"Grandfather beats you, does he
^?
"

"Not so much now."

"Oh? . . . Well, now, you tell me all about it . . . tell me whatever you like . . . well?"

As I did not want to speak about grandfather, I told her about the kind man who used to live in that room, whom no one liked, and who was turned out by grandfather. I could see that she did not like this story as she said:

"Well, and what else?"

I told her about the three boys, and how the Colonel had driven me out of his yard; and her hold upon me tightened as she listened.

"What nonsense!" she exclaimed with flashing eyes, and was silent a minute, gazing on the floor.

"Why was grandfather angry with you?" I asked.

"Because I have done wrong, according to him."

"In not bringing that baby here--?"

She started violently, frowning, and biting her lips; then she burst into a laugh and pressed me more closely to her, as she said:

"Oh, you little monster! Now, you are to hold your tongue about that, do you hear? Never speak about it--forget you ever heard it, in fact."

And she spoke to me quietly and sternly for some time; but I did not understand what she said, and presently she stood up and began to pace the room, strumming on her chin with her fingers, and alternately raising and depressing her thick eyebrows.

A guttering tallow candle was burning on the table, and was reflected in the blank face of the mirror; murky shadows crept along the floor; a lamp burned before the icon in the corner; and the ice-clad windows were silvered by moonlight. Mother looked about her as if she were seeking something on the bare walls or on the ceiling.

"What time do you go to bed?"

"Let me stay a little longer."

''Besides, you have had some sleep to-day," she reminded herself.

"Do you want to go away?" I asked her.

"Where to?" she exclaimed, in a surprised tone; and raising my head she gazed for such a long time at my face that tears came into my eyes.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked.

"My neck aches."

My heart was aching too, for I had suddenly realized that she would not remain in our house, but would go away again.

"You are getting like your father," she observed, kicking a mat aside. "Has grandmother told you anything about him?"

"Yes."

"She loved Maxim very much--very much indeed; and he loved her--"

"I know."

Mother looked at the candle and frowned; then she extinguished it, saying: "That's better!"

Yes, it made the atmosphere fresher and clearer, and the dark, murky shadows disappeared; bright blue patches of light lay on the floor, and golden crystals shone on the window-panes.

"But where have you lived all this time
^?
"

She mentioned several towns, as if she were trying to remember something which she had forgotten long ago; and all the time she moved noiselessly round the room, like a hawk.

"Where did you get that dress?"

"I made it myself. I make all my own clothes."

I liked to think that she was different from others, but I was sorry that she so rarely spoke; in fact, unless I asked questions, she did not open her mouth.

Presently she came and sat beside me again on the couch; and there we stayed without speaking, pressing close to each other, until the old people returned, smelling of wax and incense, with a solemn quietness and gentleness in their manner.

We supped as on holidays, ceremoniously, exchanging very few words, and uttering those as if we were afraid of waking an extremely light sleeper.

Almost at once my mother energetically undertook the task of giving me Russian lessons. She bought some books, from one of which--"Kindred Words"--I acquired the art of reading Russian characters in a few days; but then my mother must set me to learn poetry by heart--to our mutual vexation.

The verses ran:

"Bolshaia doroga, priamaia doroga 
 Prostora ne malo beresh twi ou Boga 
 Tebia ne rovniali topor ee lopata 
 Miagka twi kopitou ee pwiliu bogata." 

But I read "prostovo" for "prostora," and "roubili" for "rovniali," and "kopita" for "kopitou."

"Now, think a moment," said mother. "How could it be 'prostovo,' you little wretch? . . . 'Pro-- sto--ra'; now do you understand?"

I did understand, but all the same I read "prostovo," to my own astonishment as much as hers.

She said angrily that I was senseless and obstinate. This made bitter hearing, for I was honestly trying to remember the cursed verses, and I could repeat them in my own mind without a mistake, but directly I tried to say them aloud they went wrong. I loathed the elusive lines, and began to mix the verses up on purpose, putting all the words which sounded alike together anyhow. I was delighted when, under the spell I placed upon them, the verses emerged absolutely meaningless.

But this amusement did not go for long unpunished. One day, after a very successful lesson, when mother asked me if I had learned my poetry, I gabbled almost involuntarily:

"Doroga, dvouroga, tvorog, nedoroga, 
 Kopwita, popwito, korwito--" 

I recollected myself too late. Mother rose to her feet, and resting her hands on the table, asked in very distinct tones:

"What is that you are saying?"

"I don't know," I replied dully.

"Oh, you know well enough!"

"It was just something--"

"Something what?"

"Something funny."

"Go into the corner."

"Why?"

"Go into the corner," she repeated quietly, but her aspect was threatening.

"Which corner?"

Without replying, she gazed so fixedly at my face that I began to feel quite flustered, for I did not understand what she wanted me to do. In one corner, under the icon, stood a small table on which was a vase containing scented dried grass and some flowers; in another stood a covered trunk. The bed occupied the third, and there was no fourth, because the door came close up to the wall.

"I don't know what you mean," I said, despairing of being able to understand her.

She relaxed slightly, and wiped her forehead and her cheeks in silence; then she asked:

"Didn't grandfather put you in the corner?"

"When?"

"Never mind when! Has he ever done so?" she cried, striking the table twice with her hand.

"No--at least I don't remember it."

She sighed. "Phew! Come here!"

I went to her, saying: "Why are you so angry with me?"

"Because you made a muddle of that poetry on purpose."

I explained as well as I was able that I could remember it word for word with my eyes shut, but that if I tried to say it the words seemed to change.

"Are you sure you are not making that up?"

I answered that I was quite sure; but on second thoughts I was not so sure, and I suddenly repeated the verses quite correctly, to my own utter astonishment and confusion. I stood before my mother burning with shame; my face seemed to be swelling, my tingling ears to be filled with blood, and unpleasant noises surged through my head. I saw her face through my tears, dark with vexation, as she bit her lips and frowned.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked in a voice which did not seem to belong to her. "So you did make it up?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean to!"

"You are very difficult," she said, letting her head droop. "Run away!"

She began to insist on my learning still more poetry, but my memory seemed to grow less capable every day of retaining the smooth, flowing lines, while my insane desire to alter or mutilate the verses grew stronger and more malevolent in proportion. I even substituted different words, by which I somewhat surprised myself, for a whole series of words which had nothing to do with the subject would appear and get mixed up with the correct words out of the book. Very often a whole line of the verse would seem to be obliterated, and no matter how conscientiously I tried, I could not get it back into my mind's eye. That pathetic poem of Prince Biazemskov (I think it was his) caused me a great deal of trouble:

At eventide and early morn

The old man, widow and orphan

For Christ's sake ask for help from man.

But the last line:

At windows beg, with air forlorn.

I always rendered correctly. Mother, unable to make anything of me, recounted my exploits to grandfather, who said in an ominous tone:

"It is all put on! He has a splendid memory. He learned the prayers by heart with me. . . . He is making believe, that's all. His memory is good enough. . . . Teaching him is like engraving on a piece of stone . . . that will show you how good it is! . . . You should give him a hiding."

Grandmother took me to task too.

"You can remember stories and songs . . . and aren't songs poetry?"

All this was true and I felt very guilty, but all the same I no sooner set myself to learn verses than from somewhere or other different words crept in like cockroaches, and formed themselves into lines.

"We too have beggars at our door, 
 Old men and orphans very poor. 
 They come and whine and ask for food, 
 Which they will sell, though it is good. 
 To Petrovna to feed her cows 
 And then on vodka will carouse." 

At night, when I lay in bed beside grandmother, I used to repeat to her, till I was weary, all that I had learned out of books, and all that I had composed myself. Sometimes she giggled, but more often she gave me a lecture.

"There now! You see what you can do. But it is not right to make fun of beggars, God bless them! Christ lived in poverty, and so did all the saints."

I murmured:

"Paupers I hate, 
 Grandfather too. 
 It's sad to relate, 
 Pardon me, God! 
 Grandfather beats me 
 Whenever he can." 

"What are you talking about? I wish your tongue may drop out!" cried grandmother angrily. "If grandfather could hear what you are saying--"

"He can hear if he likes."

"You are very wrong to be so saucy; it only makes your mother angry, and she has troubles enough without you," said grandmother gravely and kindly.

"What is the matter with her?"

"Never mind! You would n't understand."

"I know! It is because grandfather--"

"Hold your tongue, I tell you!"

My lot was a hard one, for I was desperately trying to find a kindred spirit, but as I was anxious that no one should know of this, I took refuge in being saucy and disagreeable. The lessons with my mother became gradually more distasteful and more difficult to me. I easily mastered arithmetic, but I had not the patience to learn to write, and as for grammar, it was quite unintelligible to me.