THREE MEN (continued 3)

Ilya and Jakov took their tea in the evenings with Masha as a regular custom. The three children sat at table, and drank long and deeply, chattering of everything that interested them. Ilya related all that he had seen in the town, and Jakov, who read all day long, told of his books, the scenes in the tap room, complained of his father and many times poured out a screed, quite confused and unintelligible to the other two. Masha sat all day in her underground room, worked and sang, listened to the conversation of the lads, speaking herself seldom and laughing when she felt inclined. To them all the tea tasted admirable, and the samovar covered with a thick layer of rust grinned at them in a friendly cunning way with its funny old face. Almost every day, just when the children had arranged things to their liking, it would begin to murmur and hum, pretending anger, and it would appear that there was no water in it, Masha must take it out and fill it, and this performance had to be repeated several times every evening. When the moon rode in the heavens, her light would share the festival, falling through the windows into the little room in great, glimmering streaks. This little cave, shut in with a low, heavy ceiling, and half-rotten walls, almost always lacked air and light, water and bread, and sugar and many things, but life went all the more merrily, and every night many generous feelings and many naïve youthful thoughts were born there.

From time to time Perfishka joined the company. Generally he sat on a kind of bench in a dark corner near the sturdy stove, half buried in the ground, or else he climbed on to the stove itself, and his head hung down into the room, so that if he spoke or laughed his little white teeth glimmered in the darkness. His daughter passed him a big mug of tea and a piece of sugar and bread, he would take them, laughing and say: "Many thanks Maria Perfilyevna, I am overwhelmed with your kindness." Many a time he would say with a sigh of envy, "You have a fine life, children—confound you! first rate, just like men and women," and then laughing and sighing he would go on:

"Life gets better and better—it's jollier every year; at your age I got nothing but the strap. It was always on my back, and I howled for pleasure as loud as I could. When it stopped, my back began to hurt and grumble and sulk, because it missed its old friend; but it didn't have to wait long for it—it was a most sympathetic strap. That was all the company I had in my young days. You'll soon be growing up now, and will want to look back at things—the talks, and all the different things that have happened and all this jolly life, and I'm grown big and old—thirty-six—and have nothing I want to remember. Not a spark; nothing has remained in my memory, as if I'd been deaf and blind all my young days, I only remember how my teeth chattered for hunger and cold, and the blue patches on my face; how my bones and my ears and my hair stayed healthy I can't understand. They didn't quite hit me with the stove, but on the stove, bless you, they thrashed me to their hearts' content. That was an education for you; they twisted me about like a bit of thread; but flog me as they liked, and hack me to pieces, and suck my blood as they liked, the Russian in me clung to his life! tough fellows these Russians! Pound them to bits, and they'll come up smiling! See me! they ground me to powder and cut me to ribbons, and here I live happily like the cuckoo in the wood, flutter from one alehouse to another, and am at peace with all the world. God loves me, you know; if he saw me, He'd just say: 'Oh! it's you,' He'd say, and let me go on."

The youngsters listened and laughed. Ilya laughed with the others, though Perfishka's sing-song voice awakened in him a thought which always came back and back obstinately and occupied him greatly. One day he tried to get clear about it and asked the cobbler with an incredulous laugh: "And is there really nothing in all the world that you want, Perfishka?"

"Oh! I don't say that. A mouthful of brandy, for instance, I'm always wanting."

"No, tell me the truth! There must be something in the world that you want," persisted Ilya.

"Want to know the truth, do you? Well then, I should like a new harmonica, a right-down good harmonica, say twenty-five roubles. Ha! ha! then I'd play to you!"

He stopped and laughed comfortably. Suddenly a thought pricked him, he became serious and said to Ilya, gravely:

"N—no, brother! I don't want a new one! In the first place, it's dear and I should pawn it for drink, for sure, and secondly, suppose it turned out worse than the one I have, what then? She's a real beauty, the one I've got. Beyond all money. My soul's gone into her, she understands me so well, just my finger on the keys and away she sings! She's a rare treasure—perhaps there's not another like her in the world. A harmonica, she's like a wife. Once I had a wife too, an angel—not a woman, and if I wanted to marry again—how could I? I'd never find another like my dear. Whether you like it or not, you get measuring the new one by the old, and if she isn't enough, it's bad, for me and for her. That's the way of things. Ah! brother, a thing isn't good when it's good, but when it pleases you."

Ilya could readily agree with Perfishka's praise of his instrument. No one who heard it but wondered at its ringing, tender tone. But he could not reconcile himself with the thought that the cobbler had no desire in the world. Clear and sharp, the question met him—can a man live his whole life in dirt, go about in rags, drink brandy, play the harmonica and never long for anything different, better? He had no wish to regard the contented Perfishka as half silly. He observed him constantly with the greatest interest, and was convinced that the cobbler at heart was better than all the other people in the house, tippler and good for nothing though he were.

Sometimes the young people ventured to approach those great and far-reaching questions, which open fathomless abysses before mankind, and draw down by force into their mysterious depths man's eagerly inquiring spirit and his heart. It was always Jakov who began on these questions. He had acquired an odd habit of leaning against everything as though his legs felt insecure. If he were sitting, he either held on to the nearest fixed object with his hands or supported his shoulder against it. If he were walking along the street with his quick, irregular strides, he would grasp the stone posts by the way as though he were counting them, or try the fences with his hand as though to test their stability. At tea in Masha's room, he sat generally at the window, his back against the wall and his long fingers holding fast to the chair or the edge of the table. Holding his big head sideways, with its fine, smooth, tow-coloured hair, he would look at the speaker and the blue eyes in his pale face were either wide open or half closed. He loved, as of old, to relate his dreams, and could never re-tell the story of a book he had been reading without adding something singular and incomprehensible. Ilya reproached him for this habit, but Jakov was undisturbed and said simply:

"It's better as I tell it. One mustn't alter the Holy Scriptures, but any other books, one can do as one likes about. They're written by men and I'm a man too. I can improve them if I want to. But tell me something different. When you're asleep, where is your soul?"

"How should I know?" answered Ilya, who disliked questions that roused a painful disquiet in him.

"I believe they just fly away," Jakov explained.

"Of course they fly away," Masha confirmed him in a tone of conviction.

"How do you know that?" asked Ilya sternly.

"Oh! I just think so."

"Yes, that's it, they fly away," said Jakov thoughtfully, smiling, "They must rest some time, that's how the dreams come."

Ilya did not know how to answer this observation, and said nothing in spite of a keen wish to reply. For a time all were silent. It became darker in the dim cave of a cellar; the lamp smouldered, a strong-smelling vapour came from the charcoal under the samovar. From far away a dull mysterious noise rolled down to them; it came from the bar room in wild riot and confusion above their heads, and again Jakov's voice was heard:

"See, men make a row, and work, all that sort of thing. They call that living, and then all at once—bang! and the man's dead. What does that mean? What do you think, Ilya?"

"It doesn't mean anything, they're old and they've got to die."

"That won't do, young people die, and children—healthy people die too."

"If they die, they're not healthy."

"What do men live for, anyway?"

"That's a clever question!" cried Ilya, mockingly, since he felt able to reply to this. "They live, just to live; they work and try to be happy. Every one wants to live well, and tries to get on; they all look out for chances to get rich and live comfortably."

"Yes, poor people. But rich people, they've got everything to start with, they've nothing to look out for."

"Ain't you clever! Rich. If there weren't any rich, whom would the poor work for?"

Jakov thought a little and then asked:

"You think then that every one lives just to work?"

"Yes, certainly, that is—not quite all. Some work and the rest just live. They worked before, saved money, and now they just enjoy their life."

"And what do people live for, anyhow?"

"Oh! get out with you! Because they want to. Perhaps you don't want to?" cried Ilya out of all patience. He could not have said exactly why he was annoyed, whether that Jakov raised these questions at all, or whether that he asked so stupidly. He felt definite doubts arise in him under the interrogations, and he could find no clear answer.

"Why do you live yourself? tell me that, then, why?" he shouted at Jakov.

"I don't know," answered Jakov resignedly. "I'd just as soon die. It must be beastly; still I'd like to know what it's like."

Then suddenly he began in a tone of friendly reproach:

"There's no reason to get cross. Just think; men live to work, and work comes because of men; it's just like turning a wheel, always in the same place, and you can't see why it goes round. But where does God come in? He's the axle of it all. He said to Adam and Eve, 'Be fruitful and multiply and people the earth,' but why?"

He bent over towards Ilya, and whispered mysteriously with an expression of fear in his blue eyes:

"Do you know, I believe the good God told them why; but then some one came and stole the explanation, stole it and hid it away, and that was Satan; who else could it be? and that's why no man knows why he is alive."

Ilya listened to the disconnected sentences, felt them possess his soul and was silent. But Jakov continued faster and more softly, fear quivered on his pale face, and his speech became more confused:

"What does God want of you? Do you know? Aha!" It sounded like a cry of triumph out of the flood of his trembling words. Then again they poured out of his mouth tumultuously in disconnected whispers. Masha gazed astounded, open-mouthed at her friend and protector. Ilya wrinkled his brows. He was pained that he could not follow Jakov's words. He considered himself the cleverer, but Jakov constantly reduced him to wonder by his wonderful memory and the fluency with which he spoke on all kinds of difficult questions. If he became weary of listening silently, and too straitly caught by the heavy cloud that Jakov's words begot in him, then he used to interrupt the speaker angrily:

"Oh! shut up for any sake! What are you babbling of? You've read too much, that's the truth—do you understand yourself what you say?"

"But that's just what I'm saying, that I don't understand at all," answered Jakov, wounded and obstinate.

"Then say straight out I don't understand anything, instead of chattering like a maniac, while I've got to listen to you!"

"No, wait a minute," Jakov went on. "Everything is beyond our understanding. Take the lamp, for instance—I see there is fire in it, but where does the fire come from? One minute it's there and the next it's gone. You strike a match, it burns—then the fire must be in it all the time—or does it fly about in the air, invisible?"

Ilya let himself be attracted by this new question. His face lost its contemptuous expression, and looking at the lamp, he said:

"If it were in the air, then it would always be warm. But the match burns just the same in the frost, so it can't be in the air."

"But then, where is it?" and Jakov looked expectantly at his friend.

"It's in the match," Masha's voice struck in. But the two friends, absorbed in the weighty argument, let Masha's remark pass unperceived. She was quite used to the treatment and did not resent it.

"Where is it?" cried Jakov again excitedly.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know! I only know you'd better not put your hand in it, and that it is warm when you're near it. That's enough for me."

"Oh! how clever!" cried Jakov with lively displeasure. "I don't want to know. I can say that, any fool can. No, explain to me, where does the fire come from? Bread I can understand, the corn gives the grain, and from the grain comes the flour, and the dough from the flour, and there's the bread. But what is man born for?"

Ilya looked with astonishment and envy at the big head of his friend. Sometimes when Jakov's questions drove him into a corner, he sprang up and uttered harsh, insulting words, more often he drew back to the stove, leant his broad, sturdy figure against it, and said, shaking his curly head and accentuating his words:

"You make my head go round with your topsy-turvy talk. What sort of a life do you live? To stand behind a counter—that's not so very difficult. You want to see the whole of life stand before you like a statue; you ought to wander about the town from morning to night, day after day like I do and earn your own bread, then you wouldn't worry your head over such silly things, you'd think all the time how to manage things so as to get on. Your head's so big that all this trash spreads about in it. Clever thoughts are small, they don't drive your head silly."

Jakov sat silent, bent over his chair, gripping the table. From time to time his lips moved soundlessly, and his eyes blinked. But when Ilya had finished and sat down again, Jakov began to philosophise anew:

"They say there's a book—a science—called 'Black Magic.' Everything is explained in it, how and why and wherefore. I'd like to find that book and read it, wouldn't you? It must be very horrible."

During the conversation, Masha had sat down on her bed and looked with her dark eyes first at one and then at the other. Then she began to yawn, swayed wearily, and finally stretched herself out on her couch.

"Now then, time for bed," said Ilya.

"Wait, I'll just say good-night to Masha and put out the lamp."

Then seeing Ilya stretch out a hand to open the door, he cried pettishly:

"Oh do wait. I'm frightened in the dark alone."

"What a fellow you are!" said Ilya contemptuously. "Sixteen, and like a little child. I'm not afraid of anything, if the devil came in my way, I wouldn't budge an inch. But you——"

He made a scornful gesture. Jakov looked once like an anxious nurse at Masha, and turned the lamp down. The flame flickered and went out and the darkness of night invaded the room silently from all sides, or on the nights when the moon stood high in the heavens, her gentle silver light streamed through the window on to the floor.

X.

One day on a holiday, Ilya Lunev returned home, pale, with clenched teeth, and threw himself fully dressed on his bed. Wrath lay on his heart like a cold immovable lump, an aching pain in his neck kept him from moving his head, and he felt as though his whole body suffered from the bitter wrong he had undergone.

That morning a policeman had permitted him, at the price of a piece of soap and a dozen hooks, to take his stand in front of the circus, where a performance was to be given, and Ilya had placed himself conveniently close to the entrance. Then the assistant district superintendent came by, struck him on the neck, overthrew the stand that supported his box, and scattered his wares over the ground. Some things were lost, others fell in the dirt and were spoiled. Ilya picked up what he could and said: "That is not fair, sir."

"Wha—at?" said the other, stroking his red moustache.

"You've no right to strike me."

"Oh! is that it? Migunov, take him off to the station," said the assistant quietly.

And the same policeman who had given Ilya leave to stand there, took him to the station, where he was detained till the evening.

Before this Ilya had had slight conflicts with the police, but this was the first time he had been detained, and his soul was filled with shame and hate. He lay on his bed with his arms locked, and hugged the torturing sensation of pain that weighed on his heart. Behind the wall that separated his room from the bar came a confused noise of bustle and the talking of many voices, like the sound of swift turbid brooks, dashing down from the mountains in autumn.

He heard the rattle of the tin plates, the clink of glasses, the loud calling of the customers for brandy or tea or beer, the waiters' answers. "One minute! coming! coming!" and, piercing the noise like a steel string vibrating, a high, throaty voice sang dismally, "I never thought that I should lose thee." Another voice, a deep bass, that blended with the chaos, sang softly and harmoniously, "Oh, youth that passes quickly by." Then both voices united in a clear stream of melancholy notes that mastered the tumult for a second or two:

"No riches were ever my portion. And lonely my pathway through life."

Some one cried aloud, with a voice that sounded as though it came from a larynx of dry cracked wood:

"Do not lie! for it is written, 'Be patient and abide, and I will strengthen thee in the hour of trial.'"

"Liar yourself," struck in another voice sharply and briskly, "for it is also written, 'Since thou art neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.' D'you see? what have you proved?"

Loud laughter followed and then a squeaking voice: "So I gave her one in her silly face, and one on the ear, and one on the teeth, smack! smack! smack!"

"Ha! ha! ha! the devil! and what then?"

The squeaking voice went on, shrilly and rapidly. "She toppled over on to the ground and I hit her again on her pretty mouth—there's one for you, I kissed you once, and now I'll beat you."

"Hullo, you Bible reader!" cried a voice mockingly.

"No. I can't contain myself, I'm so hot-tempered. How can a fellow help it!"

"I love, I accuse, and I punish—have you forgotten? And then again, 'Judge not that ye be not judged,' and the words of King David—have you forgotten?"

Ilya listened to the quarrelling, the song and the laughter for a long time, but all fell alike on his soul and roused no familiar images. Before him in the darkness swam the lean face of the police officer who had so hurt him, with a big hooked nose, greenish, evil, twinkling eyes, and a quivering red moustache. He stared at the face and clenched his teeth harder. But behind the wall the song rose louder as the singers were carried away and let their voices ring out louder and more freely. The warm, melancholy notes found a way to Ilya's heart, and melted the icy lump of rage and bitterness that lay there.

"I wandered on so bravely," sang the high voice, "From mountain land to sea," went on the second, and then joined again:

"Siberia I have traversed To seek the pathway home."

Ilya sighed and began to attend to the sad words of the song. They stood out against the tumult of the tap room like little stars in a cloudy sky. The clouds hurry on and the stars alternately shine out and vanish.

"My tongue was tortured with hunger, My limbs were stiffened with frost."

"Sing away, nightingales!" a voice shouted encouragingly.

"They're singing so beautifully," thought Ilya, "that it catches hold of one's heart, and presently they'll get drunk and fight most likely; man never holds on to the good very long."

"Ah! cruel, cruel fate," lamented the tenor, and the bass, deep and powerful, intoned:

"Thou load of iron weight."

Suddenly, before Ilya's mind flashed the vision of old Jeremy. The old man shook his head and spoke while the tears flowed down his cheeks:

"I have seen—I have seen, but have never perceived the truth."

Ilya thought that Jeremy, who loved God from his heart, had saved money in secret; and Terenti feared God, and had stolen it. And all men alike are thus divided in their souls, in their breasts is a balance and the heart inclines like the indicator of the scales, now to one side, now to the other and weighs the good and the bad.

"Aha—a!" some one roared in the bar room, and at once something fell to the ground with a crash that shook Ilya's bed beneath him.

"Stop! for God's sake."

"Hold him! Ah!"

"Help! Police!"

Every moment the noise grew stronger and more vehement, a confused medley of new sounds was added to it, and roared in a wild whirling howl through the air like a pack of evil, hungry, close-chained hounds. Individual voices were lost in the chaos of uproar. Ilya listened with a certain pleasure; it pleased him to find that occur that he had foreseen. It was an exact confirmation of his opinion of mankind. He rolled over on his bed, put his hands under his head and abandoned himself again to his thoughts:

"My grandfather Antipa must have sinned greatly, if he repented in silence for eight whole years, and every one forgave him, spoke of him with respect, and called him righteous; but they drove his children to ruin. One son they sent to Siberia, the other they hunted out of the village.

"Here one must reckon in a special way." The words of the merchant Strogany returned to Ilya's mind. "If there is one honest man to nine rogues, no one is any the better, and the one goes to the wall—it is the majority that is right."

Ilya laughed involuntarily. Through his heart glided a cold, evil feeling of anger against men, like an adder. Well-known pictures rose before him—big, fat Matiza turned in the mud in the midst of the court and groaned:

"A—ah! my dearest mother—my darling mother—if only you would forgive me."

Perfishka, quite drunk, was standing by, swaying to and fro, and said reproachfully:

"How drunk she is! the pig!"

And Petrusha, healthy and red-cheeked, stood on the steps and laughed contemptuously.

Ilya thought of all these things, and his heart contracted, and became even more sober, more hardened.

The disturbance was over in the bar room. Three voices, those of two women and a man, were attempting to sing a song, but without great success. Some one had brought a harmonica; he played a little, very badly, then stopped. By the wall against Ilya's bed, two people conversed half aloud with frequent heavy sighs. Ilya listened with a strange sense of enmity:

"One lives, and works, and toils all one's life; there isn't any sense in it, and all the others live, and our sort goes hungry; we can't stand fast, brother, for all we straddle our legs."

"It's a fact."

"And one can't see how it's ever going to get better. Honest work's no good; builds no stone houses. How long can a man stand such a jolly life? His bit of strength's gone before he knows, then, that means the end."

"Ah! yes—yes—but what's a man to do?"

"And one isn't strong enough or quick enough, for dishonest work. The frog would like to taste the nut, but he's no teeth."

"O God, our Father."

Ilya sighed involuntarily. Suddenly he recognised Perfishka's voice, ringing clearly through the bustle and noise. The cobbler shouted in his quick, sing-song way:

"Fill your cup! fill it up to the brim. 'Tis your master pays, leave it to him. Let us drink, let us love! Through the world let us rove. And who ever says no, to the devil may go."

Cheerful laughter and applause followed. Then again the low voice near the wall:

"I've worked since I was a youngster. I'm near forty. Never once I've earned enough to eat. Sweat comes every day, but not soup, and at home it's all misery and crying. The children whimper, and the wife grumbles; a fellow can't stand it—you just lose your patience and go out and get properly drunk, and when you're sober, all you see is that the trouble's got worse."

"Yes—yes, it's true."

"One prays, 'Father in Heaven, have mercy. Why dost Thou send this misery?' but it looks as if He didn't hear."

"No, He doesn't seem to hear."

Ilya was weary of this mournful lamentation, and the monotonous assenting voice, which sounded even more melancholy than the other that complained. He turned on his bed, and knocked against the wall loudly. The two voices were silent.

He could no longer endure his couch; a torturing restlessness drove him to get up. He stood up, went out into the courtyard and stood on the steps full of a longing to fly somewhere away—where—he did not know.

It was late; Masha was asleep. It was no use to talk to an odd fellow like Jakov, and besides, he, too, was inside the house, in bed. Ilya never cared to go to Jakov's room, for every time Petrusha saw him there he seemed angered and his brows contracted. A cold autumn wind was blowing; a dense, almost black, darkness filled the court and the sky was invisible. All the sheds and outbuildings looked like great masses of darkness solidified by the wind. Strange sounds came through the damp air—a hurrying, a rustling, a low murmuring, like the lament of men over the misery of life. The wind whipped his breast, smote his face, blew a damp, cold breath down his back, a cold shudder ran through him, but he did not move. "I can't go on so," he thought. "I can't. Get out of all this dirt, and restlessness and confusion, live alone somewhere, clean and quiet."

"Who's there?" said a muffled voice suddenly.

"I—Ilya. Who's speaking?"

"I—Matiza."

"Where are you?"

"Here, on the wood pile."

"Why?"

"Only because——"

Both were silent.

"To-day's the day my mother died," after a moment, said Matiza's voice out of the darkness.

"Is it long ago?" asked Ilya, just to say something.

"Oh! ever so long—fifteen years—more. And your mother, is she alive?"

"No. She's dead too. How old are you then?"

"Close on thirty," said Matiza, after a pause. "I'm old already, my foot hurts so, it's swollen as big as a melon and it hurts. I've rubbed it and rubbed it with all sorts of things, but it's no better."

"Why don't you go to the hospital?"

"Too far. I can't go so far."

"Take a cab."

"No money."

Some one opened the bar room door; a torrent of loud sounds poured into the court. The wind caught them up and strewed them hither and thither in the darkness.

"And you, why are you here?" asked Matiza.

"Oh! I was dull."

"Same as I. Up in my room it's like a coffin."

Ilya heard a deep sigh. Then Matiza said, "Shall we go to my room?"

Ilya looked in the direction of the voice and answered indifferently: "All right."

Matiza went first up the stair to her garret. She set always the right foot on each step and dragged the left slowly after with a low moaning. Ilya followed, unthinking, equally slowly, as though his depression of soul hindered his ascent as much as Matiza's foot delayed her.

Matiza's room was long and narrow, and the ceiling was actually the shape of a coffin lid. Near the door stood a Dutch stove, and along the wall, with its head against the stove a wide bed; opposite the bed a table and two chairs; a third chair stood in front of the window that appeared as a dark spot in the grey wall. Up here the howling and rushing of the wind was heard very distinctly. Ilya sat down in the chair by the window, looked round the walls and asked, pointing to a little eikon in one corner:

"What picture is that?"

"Saint Anna," said Matiza softly and devoutly.

"And what's your own name?"

"Anna, too, didn't you know?"

"No."

"Nobody knows!" said Matiza, and sat down heavily on the bed. Ilya looked at her but felt no desire to speak; Matiza also was silent and so they sat for a space, three minutes or so, dumb, with no indication that they noticed one another. Finally Matiza asked: "Well, what shall we do?"

"I don't know," answered Ilya, undecidedly.

"Well, that's good," said the woman, and laughed scornfully.

"What then?"

"First you can treat me; go and get a jug of beer. No—buy me something to eat. Nothing else, just something to eat."

She faltered, coughed, and then added in a shamefaced way:

"You see, since my leg's been bad, I've earned nothing—because I can't go out; all I had is used up; to-day's the fifth day I've sat at home, so it's no wonder. Yesterday it was a near thing, and to-day I've eaten nothing; it's true, by God, it's true."

For the first time Ilya became conscious that Matiza was a prostitute. He looked close into her big face and saw that her eyes smiled a little, and her lips moved as though they were sucking something invisible. He felt a certain awkwardness before her, and yet a strange interest that he could not explain.

"I'll get you something, and beer too." He got up quickly, hurried downstairs and stood a moment before the kitchen door. Suddenly he felt a disinclination to go back to the garret; but it only flickered like a tiny spark in the melancholy darkness of his soul and at once faded out. He went into the kitchen, bought some scraps of meat from the cook for ten kopecks, a couple of slices of bread, and other odds and ends of eatables. The cook put it all in a dirty sieve. Ilya took it in both hands like a dish, went out into the passage and stood a moment, wondering how to get the beer. Terenti would question him if he fetched it himself from the bar. He called the dish-cleaner from the kitchen and bade him get it. The man ran off, was back in a moment and gave him the bottles without a word, and lifted the latch of the kitchen door.

"Hold on," said Ilya, "it isn't for myself; a friend is paying me a visit, it's for him."

"Eh?"

"I'm treating a friend."

"Oh, well, what's the odds?"

Ilya felt that he had no need to lie and was a little uncomfortable. He went upstairs, slowly, listening attentively lest any one should call to him. But there was no sound, save the roar of the storm, no one called him back and he returned to the woman in the garret, with a distinct, though shy, feeling of pleasure.

Matiza set the sieve on her lap, and with her big fingers picked out the grey fragments of meat without a word, stuffed them into her mouth and began to eat noisily. Her teeth were large and sharp, and before she took a bite she looked at the morsel all round as though to select the most tasty side.

Ilya looked at her insolently and tried to imagine how he would embrace her and kiss her, then again feared to conduct himself awkwardly and be laughed at. He turned hot and cold with the thoughts as they came. The wind swept over the house. It forced a way through the window in the roof, and rattled the door, and every time the door shook, Ilya trembled with anxiety lest any one should enter and surprise him.

"Mayn't I bolt the door?" he said.

Matiza nodded silently. Then she put the sieve on the stove, crossed herself before the picture of Saint Anna, and said devoutly:

"Praise to thee, at least my hunger is satisfied. Ah! how little is enough for the children of men!"

Ilya said nothing. She looked at him, sighed, and went on:

"And who desires much, from him also much shall be desired."

"Who will desire it?"

"Why, God! Don't you know that?"

Again Ilya did not reply. The name of God from her lips roused in him a sudden feeling, vague and not to be expressed in words, that resisted the desire of his mind. Matiza supported herself on the bed with her hands, raised up her big body and propped herself against the wall. Then she said in a careless voice:

"Just now, while I was eating, I was thinking of Perfishka's daughter. I've thought about her for a long time. She lives there, with you and Jakov; it won't be good for her, I'm afraid; you will ruin the girl before her time, and then she'll be started on the road I travel, and my road is a foul, a damnable road, and the women and girls that go along it don't go upright as men should, but crawl like worms."

She was silent for a while, looked at her hands as they lay on her knees, then went on again:

"The girl is growing tall. I've asked all my acquaintances, cooks, and other women, to see if I could get a place for the child. No, they say there's no place; they say, 'sell her, it will be better for her,' they say, 'she'll get money and clothes, and somewhere to live'—it seems as though they're right. Many a rich man whose body is failing and his mind filthy, will buy a young girl, when women won't look at him any more, and will ruin her—the beast. Perhaps she has a good time with him, but it's disgusting, all the same, really, and it's better without that. Better for her to live hungry and in honour, than——"

She began to cough, as though a word had stuck in her throat, and then finished her sentence with evident effort, but in the same indifferent voice:

"Than in shame and hungry all the same, like me, for instance."

The wind whistled along the floor and rattled fiercely at the door. A fine rain drummed on the galvanised iron roof, and outside in the darkness in front of the window a soft whistling sound was heard. "E—e—e!"

The indifferent tone, and Matiza's plump, inexpressive face, made a barrier to the feelings surging up in Ilya, and took from him the courage to express his desire. Matiza pushed him away, he thought, and he grew angry with her.

"O God! O God!" she sighed softly. "Holy Mother."

Ilya jerked his chair backwards and forwards crossly, and said:

"You call yourself impure, and all the time you're saying: 'God—God.' Do you think He cares, that His name's always on your lips?"

Matiza looked at him, then after a pause, shaking her head:

"I don't understand," she said.

"There's nothing to understand," Ilya burst out, getting up from his chair. "You're all alike! first you let your sinfulness drive you—then it's 'O God!' If you want God, then leave your sin!"

"What!" cried Matiza, troubled. "What do you mean? Who should call to God if not sinners? Who else?"

"I don't know who else," cried Ilya, feeling an unconquerable desire to wound this woman and the whole human race, deeply and cruelly. "I only know it doesn't belong to you to speak of Him, not you, at any rate. You take Him as a cover for your sins—I see. I'm not a child now. I can use my eyes. Every one laments, every one complains, but why are they all so worthless? Why do they lie, and rob one another? Why are they so greedy for a scrap of bread? Ha! ha! First the sin is committed, then it's 'O Lord, have mercy!' I see through you, you liars, you devils! you lie to yourselves, and you lie to your God."

Matiza said nothing, but looked at him with her mouth open, and her neck outstretched, and an expression of dull-witted astonishment in her eyes. Ilya strode to the door, drew back the bolt with a jerk and went out slamming the door to behind him. He felt that he had insulted Matiza grossly, and he was glad of it; his heart was lighter and his head clearer. He descended the stairs with a firm step and whistled as he went through his teeth; but his wrath still supplied him with hard, contemptuous words. He felt that all these words glowed in him like flames, and illumined the darkness of his soul, and showed the way which led him apart from mankind. The words fitted not only Matiza, but Terenti, too, and Petrusha, and Strogany, and in short, every one.

"That's it," he thought, as he reached the court again. "Just to stand no nonsense from you rabble!"

The wind chased round the court howling and whistling. Somewhere some one was knocking and the air was full of short detached sounds, like horrible, cold-blooded laughter.

Soon after his visit to Matiza, Ilya began to go after women. The first time it happened in this way. He was going home one evening when a girl spoke to him:

"Won't you come with me?"

He looked at her, then walked along beside her silently. He hung his head as he went, and looked round frequently, fearing all the time to meet an acquaintance. After a few paces side by side, the girl said, warningly: "You must give me a rouble."

"All right," said Ilya, "only hurry."

And till they reached the girl's house they exchanged no further word; that was all.

Acquaintance with women led him at once into great expense, and more and more often Ilya came to the conclusion that his pedlar's trade only wasted his time and strength to no purpose and would never help him to the peaceful life he desired to lead. He meditated long, whether to establish lotteries like the other pedlars, and so cheat the public as they did. But further consideration convinced him that these methods were too small and full of anxiety. He would have either to bribe the police or hide from them, and both courses were distasteful to him. He liked to look all men straight in the face and felt it a constant pleasure to be always cleaner and better dressed than the other pedlars, to drink no brandy and practise no deceptions. Self-controlled and self-respecting, he walked the streets, and his clean-cut face with its high cheek-bones had always a serious, sober expression. When he spoke he drew his dark eyebrows together, but he spoke seldom and always deliberately.

Often he dreamed how splendid it would be if he could find a thousand roubles or more. All thieves' tales roused in him a burning interest. He bought newspapers and read attentively all details of robberies and then looked for days to know if the thieves were discovered or no. If they were caught, Ilya would rage and say to Jakov: "Asses! to let themselves be caught, better let it alone, if they don't understand the business. Fools!" One day he was sitting in his room with Jakov when he said:

"The knaves have a better time in the world than the honest people."

A mysterious expression came into Jakov's face. His eyes blinked and he said in the subdued tone that he always had when he spoke of unusual things:

"The day before yesterday, your uncle had tea in the bar with an old man; he must have been a Bible preacher, and this old man said that in the Bible it was written: 'The tabernacles of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure; into whose hand God bringeth abundantly.'"

"You're inventing," said Ilya, and looked attentively at Jakov.

"They're not my words," answered Jakov, and stretched out his hands as though to catch something in the air. "I don't believe that it is in the Bible; perhaps he made it up, the old fox. I asked him once and twice, and each time he said the words the same as before exactly. And there's something in the words sounds right; we must have a look and see if it really is in the Bible." He bent towards Ilya and went on in a low voice: "Take my father, for instance, how peacefully he lives, and yet he does things fit to rouse the anger of God."

"How?" cried Ilya.

"Now they've elected him town councillor."

Jakov let his head fall on his breast, sighed deeply, and said again:

"Everything that concerns man ought to be as clear as spring water to the conscience, and here——Oh! it disgusts me. I don't know any longer what to think. I don't know how to fit myself for this life. I don't want to. Father's always on at me, 'it's time,' he says, 'to stop your child's play, you must be reasonable at last, and make yourself useful.' But how can I make myself useful. I wait behind the counter often when Terenti isn't there, and though I hate it, I do it anyway. But to start something for myself, I don't know how."

"You must learn," said Ilya decidedly.

"Life is so difficult," said Jakov softly.

"Difficult for you? don't talk nonsense," cried Ilya, and sprang from his bed and went over to his friend, who was sitting at the window. "My life is difficult if you like, but yours, what do you want? When your father's old or dead, you'll take over the business, and be your own master, but I—I fag about the streets all day long and see in the shop windows stockings and vests, and watches, and all sorts of things, and I look at myself and think, I can't buy a watch like that. D'you understand? And I should like to ever so much, but what I want most is for people to respect me. Why am I worse than the rest? I'm better, really! Perhaps I'm a rascal, eh? I know people who think no end of themselves and are just rascals, and they get elected town councillors. They've houses and inns; why do such swindlers have all the luck, and I none? I'll get on, too. I'll get hold of my luck."

Jakov looked at his friend and said quietly, but with emphasis:

"God grant that you never get your luck!"

"What! why?" cried Ilya, and stood still in the middle of the room and looked angrily at Jakov.

"You're too greedy, you'll never get enough." Ilya laughed drily and evilly.

"I'll never get enough? Just tell your father to give me half the money he and my uncle stole from old Jeremy, that'll be enough! Yes—I'm greedy am I?—and your father first."

Jakov got up and went quietly with bowed head to the door. Ilya saw his shoulders twitch and his head bend as though he had received a painful blow in the neck.

"Stop," cried Ilya, confused, and grasped his friend's hand. "Where are you going?"

"Let go, brother," half whispered Jakov, then stood still and looked at Ilya. His face was pale, his lips pressed together and his whole figure bowed as though by a heavy load.

"Oh! don't be angry, stay a minute," said Ilya, penitent, and led Jakov from the door back to his chair. "Don't get cross with me—it's true, anyhow."

"I know."

"You know? Who told you?"

"Everybody says it."

"H'm—yes; but those who say it are rascals too." Jakov looked at him mournfully and sighed.

"I didn't believe it; I thought all the time they said it just out of meanness, out of spite. But then, I began to believe, and if you say it, too—then——"

He made a gesture to express his despair, turned away and stood motionless, his hands grasping the chair, and his head sunk on his breast; Ilya sat on his bed in the same mood and said nothing, for he did not know how to comfort his friend. Behind the wall there was outcry and noise, till the glasses rattled and the voice of a drunken woman sang:

"I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, For slumber will not come to me."

"And this is where one has to live!" said Jakov, half aloud.

"Oh yes!" answered Ilya, in the same tone, "I can easily understand, brother, that you don't like it here. The only consolation is, it's the same everywhere, men are all alike in the long run."

"Do you know that really for a fact; that about my father and Jeremy?" asked Jakov timidly, without looking at his friend.

"I? I saw it myself; do you remember how I ran out? I looked through a chink and saw them sewing up the pillow—the old man was still gasping."

Jakov shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. They sat in silence for a long time, both in the same position, one on the bed, the other on the chair. Then Jakov got up, went to the door, and said to Ilya, "Good-bye."

"Good-bye, brother—take it easy; what can you do after all?"

"I? Nothing, unfortunately," said Jakov, as he opened the door.

Ilya looked after him, then sank heavily on his bed. He was sorry for Jakov, and again hatred welled up in him against his uncle, against Petrusha, against all mankind. He saw that a being as weak as Jakov could not live among them, such a good, quiet, clean-minded fellow. Ilya let his thoughts run freely over men and in his mind different memories rose up showing him mankind as evil, horrible, lying creatures. The times, in truth, were many in which he had seen them so, and it relieved him to let his scorn loose on them; and the blacker they seemed to him, the heavier weighed on him a strange feeling, partly a vague desire, partly a malignant joy at other's suffering, partly a fear at remaining so alone in the midst of this dark wretched existence, that raged round him like a mad whirlpool.

Finally he lost patience at lying alone in the little room, where the noise and reek pressed through the wall, and he got up and went out in the open. Till late that night he roamed the streets, bearing the heavy load of dull torturing thought. He felt as though even behind him in the darkness, some enemy strode and pushed him imperceptibly to all places that were wearisome and melancholy. All that his unseen enemy showed him roused rancour and bitterness in his soul. There is good in the world, good men, and happy events, and cheerfulness; why did he see nothing of this, but come in contact only with what was gloomy and evil? Who guided him constantly to the soiled, the wretched, and the wicked things of life? In the grip of his thoughts he strode through the fields along the stone wall of a cloister outside the town, and looked about him. Heavy and slow the clouds drifted towards him out of a vast dim distance. Here and there above his head the sky glimmered between the dark masses of cloud, and little stars looked shyly down. From time to time the metallic tones of the bell rang through the still night from the tower of the cloister church; it was the only sound in the deathly quiet that enfolded the earth. Even from the dark mass of houses behind Ilya came no sound of noisy bustle, though it was not yet late. It was a cold, frosty night. As he walked Ilya's feet struck the frozen mud. An uneasy sense of isolation and the fear that his brooding evoked, brought him to a standstill. He leaned his back against the stone cloister wall, and thought again who it might be who guided him through life, and full of mischief let loose on him always evil and hateful things. A cold shudder ran through his frame, and almost with a premonition of something awful before him, he started from the wall and hurried back to the town, stumbling more and more often over the frozen mud. His arms pressed close to his sides, he ran forward, and full of fear did not once dare to cast a look behind.

XI.

Two days later Ilya met Pashka Gratschev. It was evening, little flakes of snow danced in the air and glimmered in the light of the lamps. In spite of the cold, Pavel wore nothing thicker than a cotton shirt, without a belt. He walked slowly, his head on his breast, his hands in his pockets, and his back bent as though he were looking for something. When Ilya stopped him and spoke to him, Pashka raised his head, looked into Ilya's face, and said indifferently:

"Oh, it's you!"

"How goes it?" asked Ilya, falling into step.

"It's just possible things might be worse. And you?"

"Oh, rubbing along."

"Not very grandly, it seems."

They walked along together silently, their elbows touching.

"Why didn't you come to see us?" asked Ilya. "I'm always inviting you."

"No opportunity, brother. You know people like us don't get much time."

"You could come if you wanted to."

"Don't be cross. You're always saying I ought to come, and for all that, you've never asked me where I live, much less thought of paying me a visit."

"You're right; it's a fact!" said Ilya, laughing. "But tell me now."

Pavel looked at him, laughed too, and went on more cheerfully:

"I live for myself. I've no friends, can't find any who can put up with me. I've been ill—three months in hospital. Not a soul came to see me all the time."

"What was wrong?"

"Caught cold once, when I was drunk. Typhus it was. When I was better, that was the worst. I lay alone all day and all night. You feel dumb and blind, like a puppy they throw into a pond. Thanks to the doctor, I had some books at least, else I should have been bored to death."

"Were they nice books?" asked Ilya.

"Ye-es, they were jolly good, mostly poems—Lermontov, Nekrassov, Pushkin. Lots of times, reading was like drinking milk. Verses, brother! To read verses is like your sweetheart kissing you. A line sometimes goes through your heart and makes the sparks fly—you feel on fire."

"And I've given up reading books," said Ilya, with a sigh.

"Why?"

"Oh, what's the good of them, after all? You read books, and things seem to go one way, and you look at the real thing, and it's all different."

"You're right there! Shall we turn in anywhere? We might have a bit of a talk. There's somewhere I must go, but there's plenty of time. Perhaps you'll come along?"

Ilya agreed and took Pashka's arm. Pavel looked him in the face, and said, smiling:

"We were never really friends, but I'm always very glad to meet you."

"That's your look-out," said Ilya, jokingly. "Don't be glad on my account."

"Ah, brother," Pavel interrupted him, "it's all very well to joke! I had something very different in my mind when you stopped me. But never mind that."

They entered the first public house they came to, sat down in a corner and ordered some beer. Ilya saw in the lamp-light that Pavel's face was thin and sunken. His eyes had a restless look, and his lips, that so often before were half-open in gay mockery, were now pressed close together.

"Where are you working now?" asked Ilya.

"In a printing works again," said Pavel, gloomily.

"Hard work?"

"Oh, no; more play than work."

Ilya felt a vague pleasure to see Pashka, once so gay and assertive, now sad and careworn. He wanted to find out what had changed his friend, and, filling Pashka's glass, began to question him.

"Well, and how does the poetry get on?"

"I let it alone now. But I made a lot of poems a while ago. I showed them to the doctor, he praised them. He got one of them printed in a paper. I got thirty-nine kopecks for it."

"Oho!" cried Ilya. "That's something like! What sort of verses were they? Let's hear them!"

Ilya's eager curiosity and a couple of glasses of beer brought Gratschev into the right mood. His eyes shone and his yellow cheeks reddened. "What shall I say to you?" he said, rubbing his forehead. "I've forgotten it all; by God, I've forgotten it. Wait, perhaps something'll come back to me. I've always a head full of this sort of stuff, like a swarm of bees inside, humming. Often when I sit down to compose, I'm in a fever, something boils away in my soul and tears come into my eyes."

"I say! How does that happen?" asked Ilya, astonished and suspicious.

"Oh! something burns and blazes in you, and you want to express it cleverly and you can't find words, and then it makes you rage." He sighed, shook his head, and went on:

"Before it comes out, it seems tremendous, and when it's written down, it's nothing."

"Say a verse or two now."

The more closely Ilya observed Pavel, the keener grew his curiosity, and following the curiosity another warm, friendly, and at the same time sorrowful feeling.

"Generally I make funny poems, about my own life," said Gratschev, and laughed constrainedly.

"All right, say a funny poem."

Gratschev looked round, coughed, rubbed his chest, and began to declaim hurriedly, in a dull voice, without looking at his friend:

"It is night, and so sad—but piercing the gloom, The moon throws its beams into my little room. It beckons and laughs in the friendliest way And paints a blue pattern so cheerful and gay, On the dull stone wall, that is damp and so cold, And over the carpet, all tattered and old. I sit there, fast bound by the spell of my thought And sleep never comes, though it's longed for and sought."

Pavel paused, sighed deeply, then went on more slowly, and in a lower voice:

"Grim fate has close gripped me in shuddering pain, It tears at my heart, and it strikes at my brain; It robbed me of all, when it caught at my dear, And leaves me for comfort—this brandy-flask here. See there, where it stands and gleams through the night, And beckons and smiles in the moon's faint light. The brandy shall heal me, my heart shall be well, It shall cloud o'er my brain with the power of its spell. Thoughts vanish in vapour, see, sleep is at hand, Another glass, come! and all trouble is banned. I drink yet again—who sleeps can endure, I build against trouble a stronghold sure."

As Gratschev ended, he looked inquiringly at Ilya, then let his head fall lower and said softly:

"That's the kind of thing generally—you see, it's silly enough."

He drummed on the edge of the table with his fingers, and shifted his chair uneasily to and fro. For a moment, Ilya looked at him with a searching glance and his face expressed incredulous astonishment. The bitter, smooth running lines yet rang in his ears, and it seemed to him hardly credible that this thin beardless lad, with restless eyes, in an old cotton shirt and heavy boots, should have composed this poem.

"Well, brother, I shouldn't call that silly," he said slowly and thoughtfully, while he still looked curiously at Pavel. "On the contrary, it's beautiful, it touched my heart—say it again, will you?"

Pavel raised his head, looked delightedly at his listener, and coming closer, asked in a whisper, "No—really—do you like it?"

"Good Lord, what a queer fellow you are. I shouldn't lie to you."

"Well, I'll believe you, you're honest; you're straight, anyhow."

"Say it again!"

Pavel softly declaimed it in melancholy tones, often stammering and sighing deeply when his voice failed him. When he had finished, Ilya's suspicion was strengthened, that Pavel was not really the author of the verses.

"And the others?" he said to Pavel.

"Ah! do you know," said the other, "I'd rather bring my book to you, for most of my poems are long, and I haven't any time now. I can't remember them properly, the beginnings and ends get muddled up; there's one ends like this: I'm going through the wood at night, and I've lost my way and I'm tired—yes, and then I get frightened, it's so quiet all round. I am alone and now I'm looking for some escape from my misery and I lament:

"My feet are heavy, My heart is weary, No way is clear; O Earth my mother, Guide me and tell me What course to steer. Anxious I nestle, Close to thy bosom; I listen, I peer— And out of the dark depths Comes a soft whisper— 'Hide thy grief here!'"

"Not so bad, eh? That's the way of things. One goes, as it were, through a break in a forest, sees a light all of a sudden, then finds no way that'll lead to it. Listen, Ilya. Will you come with me? Come! I don't want to say good-bye yet." Gratschev got up suddenly, caught Ilya by the sleeve, and looked in his face in a friendly way.

"I'll come," said Ilya. "I'd like some more talk with you. To tell the truth, I hardly know how to believe you made those verses yourself."

"You don't believe? Doesn't matter. You'll see right enough that I did," said Pavel, as they came out into the street.

"If they are your verses, then you're a fine fellow," cried Ilya, in downright bewilderment. "Only stick to it! Show people what life is really like!"

"Right, brother. Once I've learnt properly how, then I'll write. They shall hear it."

"Good! good! Plan it out well! Let 'em know!"

"Often I think, when things are quiet, 'Ah, you people, you're full and warmly clothed, and I——'"

"It's not fair."

"Am I not a man too?"

"We're all equal."

"He who walks in brave attire Also eats and drinks his fill, But he whose only clothes are rags Has an empty stomach still."

"Ah, the hypocrites!"

"Yes, they are hypocrites, all the lot!"

They strode quickly through the streets, and caught up eagerly the passionate scattered words each threw to the other. The more excited they became the closer together they walked. Each felt a deep pure joy that the other thought as he did, and the joy heightened their mood still further. The snow, falling in great flakes, melted on their glowing faces, settled on their clothes, clung to their boots. They marched on through a thick slush that settled noiselessly on the earth.

"I see the state of things quite clearly," cried Pavel, in a tone of conviction.

"One can't go on living like this," Ilya seconded him.

"If you've ever been to the High School, then you're reckoned a gentleman, even if your father was a water-carrier."

"That's it; and how can I help it that I didn't go there, eh?"

"They're to have all the learning, and I—I'm to have nothing!" cried Gratschev, full of wrath. "Just wait a bit!"

"Oh, curse it!" cried Ilya, who that moment stepped into a mud puddle.

"Keep more to the left."

"Where are we going, anyhow—to the hangman?"

"To Sidorisha."

"Where?"

"To Sidorisha. Don't you know her?"

"N—no," said Ilya, after a moment's pause, and took two or three steps onward. "It's a good long way, we're going."

"Oh!" said Pavel quietly, "I must go, I've something to do."

"Oh! don't mind me! of course, I'll come too."

"I'll tell you Ilya, though it's hard to speak of it."

He spat into the road and was silent for a moment or two.

"What is it?" asked Lunev, pricking up his ears.

"You see," began Pavel, hesitatingly, "it's about a girl. Well, you'll see her. She can search a fellow's heart; she was a servant at the doctor's house, who cured me. I got books from him after I was better. I'd go, and then I'd have to sit in the kitchen and wait, and she was there skipping about like a squirrel and laughing; for me, I was like a wood shaving in the fire. Well, we were alone, things went quickly, without many words. Ah! the happiness! as if heaven had come down to us. I flew to her like a feather into the fire; we kissed till our lips smarted. Ah! she was as pretty and dainty as a toy. If I caught her in my arms, she seemed to disappear. She was like a little bird that flew into my heart and sang and sang there."

He stopped, and a strange sound like a sob came from his lips.

"And what then?" asked Ilya, carried away by the story.

"The doctor's wife surprised us, devil take her! She was pretty too, and used to speak quite kindly to me before, but now of course, there was a scene. Vyerka was turned out of doors and I with her, and they blackguarded us both horribly, my word! Vyerka stayed with me. I hadn't any work and we starved and sold everything to the last thread. But Vyerka is a girl of spirit. She went off—was away a fortnight and came back dressed like a swell lady—bracelets, money in her pocket." Pashka ground his teeth and said gloomily: "I thrashed her, I tell you."

"Did she run away?" asked Ilya.

"N—No! If she'd left me I'd have thrown myself in the river. 'Kill me if you like,' she said 'but let me alone! I know I'm a burden to you. No one shall have my soul,' she said."

"And what did you do?"

"Do? I struck her once more, then I cried. What could I do; I can't find food for her."

"Why didn't she find a new place?"

"The devil knows. She said, 'it would be better this way.' If children came, what could we do with them, and so——"

Ilya thought for a little, then said: "A sensible girl."

Pashka went on a step or two in silence. Then he wheeled sharp round, stood in front of Ilya, and said in a dull hissing voice:

"When I think that other men kiss her, then it's like molten lead driving through my limbs."

"Why don't you let her go?"

"Let her go?" cried Pavel in the highest astonishment. Ilya understood afterwards when he saw the girl.

They came to a one-storied house on the outskirts of the town. Its six windows were fast shut with thick shutters so that the house had the look of an old straggling granary. The wet, sloppy snow clung to roof and walls, as though it would conceal or smother the house.

Pashka knocked at the door and said:

"This is where they're looked after. Sidorisha gives her girls board and lodging and takes fifty roubles from each of them for it; she has only four altogether. Of course she keeps wine too, and beer, and sweetmeats, and all that you want, for the rest she lets the girls do what they want to, go out if they like, or stop at home if they like, only pay the fifty every month. They are all jolly girls; they make money as easily as——One of them, Olympiada, never takes less than four roubles."

There was a rustling the other side of the door. A yellow streak of light quivered in the air.

"Who is there?"

"I, Vassa Sidorovna—Gratschev."

"Oh! The door opened and a little dried-up old woman, with a big nose in her shrivelled face, held the candle up to Pavel's face, and said in a friendly way:

"Good evening, Pashka. Vyerunka has been waiting for you for a long time, and is quite cross. Who's that with you?"

"A friend."

"Who is it?" came a pleasant voice out of a long, dark corridor.

"A visitor for Vyera," said the old woman.

"Vyera, here's your sweetheart," cried the same clear voice, ringing through the corridor. At once at the end of the passage a door opened and the dainty figure of a girl, dressed in white, appeared in the bright patch of light, with her thick fair hair streaming round her face.

"How late you are!" she said, in a deep alto voice, pouting. Then she stood on the tips of her toes, put her hands on Pavel's shoulders, and looked at Ilya out of her soft brown eyes.

"This is my friend, Ilya Lunev. I met him, and that's how I'm a bit late."

"Welcome," she said, giving Ilya her hand, so that the wide sleeve of her loose white dress fell back almost up to the shoulder. Ilya pressed her hot, dry little hand respectfully, without a word. He looked at Pavel's sweetheart, with that feeling of joyful surprise with which a man greets a slender fragrant birch-tree in a thick wood full of brambles and marshy thickets. As she stood aside to let him enter, he stepped back, bowed, and said politely:

"Please, after you."

"How polite!" she laughed.

Her laughter was pleasant, gay and clear. Pavel laughed too, and said:

"You've turned his head already, Vyerka. See, how he stands there, like a bear in front of the honey jar."

"Is that true?" asked the girl, mischievously.

"Of course," answered Ilya, laughing. "I'm quite bewildered by your beauty."

"Here, you, listen! You just fall in love with her and I'll kill you," Pavel threatened, jokingly. It pleased him that his lady's beauty should make such an impression on his friend, and his eyes shone with pride as he looked at her. She, too, paraded her charms with a naïve coquetry, convinced of their power. She wore nothing but a bodice with sleeves, over a vest and a shining white petticoat; her healthy, sound, snow-white body showed through the bodice-opening. A childish, self-contented smile twitched at the corners of her red lips; it was as though she took pleasure in herself, like a child with a toy it is not yet tired of. Ilya could not take his eyes off her. He saw how gracefully she moved up and down in the room, and how she wrinkled up her little nose, and laughed and chattered, and looked tenderly at Pavel every now and then; his heart was heavy to think he had no such friend. He sat silently and looked about him. A table covered with a white cloth, stood in the middle of the little, tidy, brightly-lighted room; on the table the samovar bubbled cheerily, and everything round about it was fresh and gay; the cups, the wine-bottle, the plate with bread and sausage—everything had a clean new look; it struck Ilya as unusual, and moved him to envy Pavel, who sat there, quite blissful, and began to rhyme extempore:

"The sight of you, like bright sunshine, Streams over this poor heart of mine. Forgotten all my grief and pain, My heart begins to hope again. To call a beautiful girl one's own Is the greatest joy that can ever be known."

"Pashka, dear, how nice it is!" cried Vyera, delighted.

"Ah! it's hot! Hullo, you there, Ilya, leave off! Can't you look enough? Get one for yourself!"

"But she must be pretty," said Vyera, with a strange emphasis, looking Ilya in the eyes.

"Prettier than you can't be found," sighed Ilya, and laughed.

"Don't talk of things you don't understand," said Vyera, softly.

"He knows his way about," said Pashka. Then, turning to Ilya, went on, wrinkling his brow: "Here, now, everything is so clean and jolly, and then, all of a sudden—one thinks—It cuts one's heart."

"Don't think then!" cried Vyera, and bent over the table. Ilya looked at her, and saw how her ears grew red.

"You must think—" she went on, softly but firmly—"if I have only a day, still it's mine! It isn't easy for me, either, but I don't mix up the joy and the trouble; I keep it, like the song says: 'The sorrow I alone will bear, the joy together we shall share.'"

Pavel listened, but hardened his heart, in his sulky mood. Ilya longed to say something comforting, encouraging, and, after a pause, began:

"What's to be done when the knots won't be loosened? If I had lots of money, a thousand or ten thousand roubles, I'd give it to you, and say: 'There, take it, take it because of your love,' for I see it and feel it; for you it's a real true heart affair, and that is always pure to the conscience, and all the rest you can spit at."

A warm feeling flamed up and thrilled through him. He stood up when he saw the girl lift her head and look at him gratefully, while Pavel smiled, as though he waited for him to say more.

"It's the first time in my life I've seen such a beautiful thing," Ilya went on. "It's the first time I have seen how people can love one another; and, Pavel, it's the first time I've really got to know you—I've looked into your soul. I sit here and say frankly, I envy you; I'm sad and merry at the same time. God grant that all may be well with you! And—and as for the rest, let me say something. Suppose—I dislike Chuvashai and Mordvij, they're dirty and blear-eyed. But I bathe in the same river and drink the same water as they do. Am I to avoid the river because they are objectionable? Why should I? God cleanses it again."

"That's it, Ilya! You're a good fellow," cried Pavel, excitedly.

"But do you drink out of the river?" said Vyera, softly.

"I must find it first," laughed Ilya. "Pour me out a glass of tea to go on with, Vyera!"

"You're a nice boy!" cried the girl.

"Many thanks," said Ilya, seriously, bowed to her, and sat down again.

His words and the whole scene acted on Pavel like wine. His animated face reddened, his eyes shone with excitement, he sprang from his chair and paced the room joyously. "Ah, devil take it!" he cried, "the world's a jolly place, if men are as simple as children. It was a good thing I did when I brought you along, Ilya! Drink, brother! Fill up, Vyerunka!"

"Now there's no holding him," said the girl, and smiled at him tenderly. Then, turning to Ilya, "he's always like that, either as gay and shining as a rainbow, or dull, and grey, and cross."

"That's not good," said Lunev decidedly. Then all three began to chatter gaily and cheerfully, breaking into careless laughter every now and then.

There was a knock at the door, and a voice asked: "Vyera, may I come in?"

"Come in! come in! Ilya Jakovlevitsch, this is my friend, Lipa."

Ilya rose from his chair, and turned towards the door. A tall, stately woman stood before him, and looked in his face with calm blue eyes. From her dress came a sweet perfume, her cheeks were fresh and red, and her head was adorned with a crown-like mass of hair that made her look even taller.

"I was sitting alone in my room, so bored, and then, all at once I heard you talking and laughing, and so—well, I came here. You don't mind I hope? There's a gentleman without a lady. I will entertain him—shall I?"

With a graceful gesture, she placed her chair near Ilya's, seated herself, and asked: "You're rather bored with them, aren't you? They kiss and hug one another, and you're envious, eh?"

"I'm not bored with them," said Ilya, confused by feeling her so near.

"That's a pity," she said quietly, then turned from Ilya and went over to Vyera.

"Just think, I went to Mass yesterday at the nunnery, and I saw such a pretty nun in the choir, such a dear. I couldn't take my eyes off her, and thought why on earth did she go into the nunnery. I felt quite sorry."

"Why? I shouldn't pity her," said Vyera.

"Oh! Who's going to believe that!"

Ilya breathed in the costly perfume that floated round this woman, he looked sidelong at her and listened to her voice. She spoke with extraordinary calm and self-possession, there was something drowsy in her voice and it seemed as though a powerful, delightful scent streamed from her words also.

"D'you know, Vyera, I'm still considering if I shall go to Poluektov or not."

"I can't advise you."

"Perhaps I will. He's old and rich, and those are two important points. But he's miserly. I want five thousand roubles in my name in the bank, and a hundred and fifty roubles a month, and he only offers three thousand and a hundred."

"Don't talk of it now, Lipotshka!"

"All right, as you like," said Lipa, quietly, and turned again to Ilya. "Now, young man, let us talk a little. I like you, you've a nice face and serious eyes. What will you say to that?"

"I? I shan't say anything," said he, laughing carelessly, but feeling clearly how this woman ensnared him with her magic.

"Nothing? oh! you're bored;—what are you?"

"Pedlar."

"R—really? I thought you were a clerk in a bank, or in some shop. You look very good form."

"I like cleanliness," said Ilya. He felt oppressively hot, and his head was in a whirl with the perfume.

"You like cleanliness?—that's very nice. Are you a good hand at guessing?"

"I don't understand."

"Can't you guess that you're in the way here, eh;" and she looked right through him with her blue eyes.

"Oh! of course. I'll go," said Ilya confused.

"Wait a minute! Vyera, may I take this youngster away?"

"Of course, if he wants to go," answered Vyera, laughing.

"But where?" asked Ilya, in great excitement.

"Oh! go along you silly fellow!" cried Pashka.

Ilya stood there dazed and laughed vaguely, but the beautiful lady took his hand and led him out, saying in her quiet way: "You're not tamed yet, and I'm capricious and obstinate. If I made up my mind to put out the sun, I'd climb on the roof and blow at it till I'd used my last breath. Now you know what I'm like."

Ilya went with her hand in hand, hardly hearing her words and not understanding at all: he only felt she was so warm, and soft and fragrant.

XII.

His intimacy with Olympiada, so unexpectedly begun from a woman's whim, rendered Ilya at first quite arrogant. A proud self-confident feeling awakened in him, healing the little wounds that life had dealt his heart.

The thought that a lovely well-dressed lady gave him her precious kisses out of pure affection and demanded nothing in return, raised him more and more in his own eyes, and he felt as though he were floating in a broad stream, borne along by a peaceful flood that caressed his body tenderly and waked strength and courage in his limbs.

"My dear lad," said Olympiada to him, as she played with his hair or passed her finger over the dark down that covered his upper lip. "You're nicer every day, you've such a bold, confident heart, and I can see you're sure to get what you want. I like that. I'm made that way, too. If I were younger, I'd marry you and together we'd have a splendid time."

Ilya treated her with great respect. She seemed so sensible, and he liked her for the way she respected herself in spite of her vicious life. She never drank and used no foul words like the other women that he knew. Her body was as supple and strong as her full deep voice, and as tense as her character. Even her frugality, her love of order and cleanliness, and the readiness with which she could speak on any subject and ward off anything that irritated her pride, delighted him. Sometimes though, if he visited her and found her lying with dishevelled hair and pale, languid face, a bitter feeling of disgust would arise, and then as he looked gloomily into her wearied eyes he could bring no greeting from his lips. She must have understood his feeling readily, for she would wrap the coverlet round her and say:

"Off with you!—go and see Vyera—tell the old woman to bring me some snow-water!"

He would go to the clean little room and Vyera would laugh guiltily at the sight of his gloomy, displeased face. One day she asked him:

"Well, Ilya Jakovlevitsch, how are you getting on? How do you like it here?"

"Ah, Vyerotchka, sin can't stick to you; if you only smile it melts away like snow."

"I'm so sorry for you, both of you, poor fellows."

Ilya liked Vyera very much. He treated her as a little child, was very disturbed if she quarrelled with Pashka, and made the peace between them every time. He liked to sit in her room and watch her comb her golden hair, or sew at something, singing softly. Often he surprised in her eyes a gnawing pain, and sometimes her face twitched with a hopeless weary smile. At such a time he felt even more drawn to her, the misery of this little girl touched him more keenly and he would comfort her as well as he could. But she said:

"No, no, Ilya, we can't go on like this, it's quite impossible; think—I—I must live on in this filth, but Pavel, what place is there for him near me?"

"But he chooses it," said Ilya.

"Chooses?" came like an echo from her lips.

Olympiada interrupted the conversation, entering noiselessly in a wide blue cloak, like a cold moonbeam.

"Come to tea, my lad, and you come in too, presently, Vyerotchka."

Fresh and rosy from the cold water, clean, neat and calm, she took Ilya to her room without many words, and he followed, marvelling that this could be the same Olympiada he had seen before, faded and soiled by lustful hands.

While they drank their tea, she said to him: "It's a pity you're only a peasant lad and have learned so little, that'll make it harder for you in life, but anyhow you must drop your present business and try something else. Wait, I'll look out for a place for you—you must be looked after. As soon as I've fixed things up with Poluektov, I'll manage it."

"Is he going to give you the five thousand?"

"Of course," she answered with conviction.

"Well, if I ever meet him near you, I'll pull his head off," cried Ilya jealously.

"Why? he doesn't get in your way."

"He does, most decidedly, get in my way."

"But he's old and horrid," said Olympiada, laughing.

"Laugh away! I'll never believe that it's anything but a great sin to caress such a dirty beast."

"Wait a little, at least, till I get hold of his money."

The merchant did everything for her that she desired. Soon Ilya was sitting in her new house, seeing the thick carpets and the heavy plush-covered furniture, and listening to his lady's business-like remarks. He found in her no special pleasure in her altered surroundings, she was as calm and self-contained as ever. It was as though only the clothes were changed, nothing else.

"I am now twenty-seven,—when I am thirty, I shall have ten thousand roubles. Then I'll throw over the old man and be free; learn from me, my lad, how to deal with life."

Ilya learnt from her obstinate perseverance to attain a predetermined goal, but often the thought tortured him, that he shared her caresses with another, and a painful sense of degradation and weakness. At such times the vision would rise again of his shop, with the clean room, where he might entertain his lady. He didn't believe that he loved Olympiada, but she seemed quite necessary to him, as a sensible good comrade.

In this way, two months—three months passed away. One day, when he returned home, he betook himself to Perfishka's cellar, and saw with amazement Perfishka at the table with a bottle of brandy, and opposite him, Jakov sat, leaning heavily on the table, his head swaying, and said unsteadily:

"Splendid! If God sees everything and knows everything, then He sees me too. Every one has forsaken me, brother. I'm all alone. My father hates me, he's a scoundrel! He's a robber and a cheat, isn't he, Perfishka?"

"Right, Jakov. It's a pity, but it's true."

"Well, then, how am I to live? What am I to believe in?" asked Jakov, stammering and shaking his dishevelled hair. "I can't believe in my father. Ilya goes his own way. Masha is a child. Where is there a man? Perfishka, I tell you, there's not a man left in the world."

Ilya stood in the doorway, and heard his friend's drunken speech. His heart sank painfully. He saw Jakov's head loll, drooping and weak, on his thin neck, saw Perfishka's thin, yellow face lighted up with a pleased smile, and he would not believe that this could really be Jakov, the quiet, modest Jakov.

"What are you doing here?" he said reproachfully as he entered.

Jakov started, looked with startled eyes into Ilya's face, and said, with a despairing smile: "Ah, Ilya—is that all! I thought—my father——"

"What's all this about, tell me," Ilya interrupted.

"You let him alone, Ilya," cried Perfishka, and rose swaying from his chair. "He can please himself. Thank God that he still likes brandy."

"Ilya," cried Jakov convulsively, "my father thrashed me."

"That's so. I was a witness," explained Perfishka, and smote his breast with his fist. "I saw everything. I can take my oath! He knocked his teeth out, and made his nose bleed."

In fact, Jakov's face was swollen and his upper lip covered with blood. He stood in front of his comrade, and said, smiling mournfully:

"How dare he beat me? I'm nineteen, and I'd done nothing wrong."

"Why did he beat you, then?"

Jakov's lips twitched as though he was about to speak, but he said nothing. His bruised face quivered. He sank heavily on a chair, took his head in his hands, and began to sob aloud, so that his whole body shook. Perfishka, who had supported him as he sank down, poured out a glass of brandy, and said: "Let him cry. It's good when a man can. Mashutka, too, was in a state, quite bathed in tears. 'I'll scratch his eyes out,' she screamed right on, till I took her to Matiza."

"But what happened?"

"I can tell you exactly. It was quite a crazy business. Terenti, that uncle of yours, he began the thing. All at once he said to Petrusha, 'Let me go to Kiev,' he said, 'to the holy men!' Petrusha was delighted; that hump of Terenti's has worried his eyes, and to tell the truth, he's jolly glad to see Terenti's back; it's not nice to have some one about who knows a secret of yours—he! he! 'All right,' he says. 'Go along, and put in a little word for me too with the holy men.' And then Jakov starts in all of a sudden: 'Let me go too,' he says."

Perfishka began to roll his eyes, made a fierce grimace, and cried in a hoarse voice, imitating Petrusha:

"'Wha—a—at do you want to do?'"

"'I want to go with uncle to the holy men.'

"'What do you mean?'

"Jakov says, 'I could pray for you too.' Then Petrusha begins to roar, 'I'll teach you to pray!' Jakov sticks to his point. 'Let me go. God is pleased with the prayers of sons for their fathers' sins.' My word, how Petrusha hit him in the mouth, and again and again."

"I can't live with him," cried Jakov. "I'll go away. I'll hang myself. Why did he beat me—why? All I said came from my heart."

Ilya's heart sank at this outcry, and with a despairing shrug of his shoulders, he left the cellar. He was glad to hear that his uncle was going on a pilgrimage. Once Terenti was gone, he would finally leave this house, take a little room somewhere for himself, and be his own master. As he entered his room, Terenti appeared, following him. His eyes shone, his face wore an expression of joy. He approached Ilya and said: "Well, I'm going. O Lord, how glad I am! To step out of a cave, a cellar, into God's world. Surely He will not despise my prayer, since He lets me get away from this place."

"Do you know what's happened to Jakov?" said Ilya, drily.

"What?"

"He's got drunk."

"What do you say? That is wrong of him! Silly boy! And just now he was begging his father to let him go with me."

"Were you there when his father beat him?"

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"Why, can't you understand? That's why he's got drunk."

"Because of that? It's not possible!"

Ilya saw clearly that Jakov's fate was a matter of indifference to his uncle, and that strengthened his feeling of enmity against the hunchback. He had never seen Terenti so overjoyed, and the sight of this happiness, coming right after Jakov's misery, moved him strangely. He sat down at the window and said:

"Go on into the bar."

"Petrusha is there. I want to talk to you."

"Oh! what about?"

The hunchback came up to him and said mysteriously:

"I'm getting away. You're staying behind and that means—well——"

"Hurry up," said Ilya.

"Yes—yes, I want to; it isn't easy to say," said Terenti, in a subdued way, while his eyes blinked.

"Do you want to talk about me? eh?"

"Yes—yes—about you, too, but presently. I've saved some money."

Ilya looked at him and laughed maliciously.

"What d'you mean? Why d'you laugh?" cried his uncle, frightened.

"Oh, nothing. Well, then, you've saved some money, have you?"

Ilya emphasised "saved."

"Yes, that's it," said Terenti, avoiding his look. "I shall give two hundred roubles to the monastery."

"O!"

"And a hundred to you."

"A hundred?" asked Ilya, suddenly, and at once he knew that in his soul for a long time the hope had lived that his uncle would give him not a hundred roubles, but a much bigger sum. He was angered against himself that his heart could entertain so hateful, calculating, an expectation, and against his uncle that the sum was so small. He got up, straightened himself, and said, full of scorn and insolence:

"I'll have none of your stolen money, d'you understand."

The hunchback recoiled in fear and sank on his bed, pale and wretched, his hair bristled, his mouth stood open, and he gazed at Ilya silently with stupid terror in his eyes.

"Well, why do you look like that? I don't want your money."

"Christ!" Terenti groaned hoarsely. "Why not, my dear, why not? Ilusha, you've been like a son to me." Then presently he went on in a whisper. "It was just—for you—for fear of what should happen to you, that I took the sin on my soul; take the money, take it, else the Lord won't forgive me."

"So," cried Ilya, mockingly, "you'll go to your God with an account book! Oh! you! did I ask you to steal old Jeremy's money; think what a good man he was you robbed!"

"Ilusha, you didn't ask to be born, either," said the uncle, and stretched out his hand to Ilya with an odd gesture. "No, take the money, quietly, for Christ's sake, to save my soul; if I come back, then you'll get it all, and meantime take this, my dear boy. God will not forgive my sins, if you don't take the money!"

He was actually begging, his lips quivered, and in his eyes was an expression of fear. Ilya looked at him and could not determine if his uncle really distressed him or no.

"Well, all right, I'll take it," he said at last, and went straight out of the room. He was sorry that he had yielded finally, he felt degraded. What was a hundred roubles to him after all? What big thing could he undertake with that? If his uncle had given him a thousand roubles now instead of a hundred, then he would have been enabled to change his dull uneasy life into a better, that should glide along in peaceful solitude far from mankind.

How would it be to ask his uncle, just how much he had obtained from the rag-picker's hoard? But this thought was too repugnant to him. Ever since Ilya had made Olympiada's acquaintance the house of Filimonov appeared to him dirtier and stuffier than ever. The dirt and the close atmosphere roused in him a physical nausea, as though cold, slimy hands were laid on his body. To-day this feeling was more painful than usual, he could find no spot in the house to suit him, and, without any definite motive, he climbed the stairs to Matiza's garret. As he went, he felt as though this house would somehow, at some time or other, deal him an unexpected terrible injury.

Busy with such thoughts he entered Matiza's room and saw her sitting on a chair beside her bed. She cast a glance at him, warned him with a finger, and whispered in a deep bass voice, like a far-off storm-wind:

"Sh! She's asleep."

Masha lay on the bed, huddled in a heap.

"What kind of a thing d'you call this?" Matiza whispered, and rolled her big eyes angrily. "Thrash children to ribbons, do they, the cursed villains! to lay hands on children! curse them! the scoundrels!"

Ilya stood by the stove and listened, while he gazed at the delicate form of the cobbler's daughter, wrapped in a grey shawl.

"What's to become of the poor things?" rang in his head.

"D'you know that the blackguard struck Masha, too?" went on Matiza. "Tore her hair, the cursed scoundrel, the old bar loafer! Beat his son, and the girl, and he's going to turn them both out of doors, d'you know that? Where are they to go, poor orphans? How——"

"Perhaps I can find her a place," said Ilya, thoughtfully, remembering that Olympiada needed a housemaid.

"You!" whispered Matiza, reproachfully. "You come in always now as if you were a fine gentleman. You get on and grow for yourself like a young oak-tree, give no shadow and no acorns. You might have done something for her long ago. Aren't you sorry for the child?"

"Wait a bit and don't jaw!" said Ilya, crossly. It was an excuse for him to visit Olympiada at once, and he asked: "How old's Mashutka?"

"Fifteen! Why? What's her age got to do with it? She looks barely twelve, she's so slender and delicate. Heaven knows, she's just a child still. She's fit for nothing, nothing! What is to become of her? It would be better if she never waked again till the last day."

A vague cloud of ideas filled Ilya's head when he left the garret. An hour later he was standing before the door of Olympiada's house, waiting to be admitted. He waited a long time in the cold, till at last from behind the door a thin, peevish voice asked: "Who is there?"

"I——" answered Lunev, not very clear who was speaking. Olympiada's servant, a plump, pock-marked person, had a loud harsh voice, and always opened the door without question.

"Whom do you want?" asked the voice again.

"Is Olympiada Danilovna at home?"

The door opened suddenly, and a strong light fell on Ilya's face. The lad fell back a step, half shut his eyes, and looked perplexedly at the door, as though what he saw appeared an illusion. Before him, lamp in hand, stood a little old man, in a wide heavy dressing-gown, the colour of raspberries. His head was all but entirely bald, only a thin crown of grey hair ran from one ear to the other, and on his chin a short thin grey beard quivered uneasily. He looked at Ilya's face, and his keen, piercing eyes blinked evilly, and his upper lip, with its scanty hairs, twitched up and down. The lamp shook and trembled in his thin, swarthy hand.

"Who are you, then? Well, come in. Who are you?"

Ilya understood. He felt the blood mount to his head and an untoward feeling of disgust and wrath filled his heart. This was the rival who shared with him the favours of the stately, beautiful lady!

"I am—a pedlar," he said, in a dull voice, as he crossed the threshhold.

The old man winked at him with his left eye, and smiled. His eyes were red with inflammation, without eyelashes, and instead of teeth, a couple of yellow, pointed pegs showed in his mouth.

"Oh, ho! A pedlar, eh? What sort of a pedlar?" asked the old man, with a cunning smile, and held the lamp up to illumine Ilya's face.

"I deal in all sorts of little things—scent and ribbons, and so on," said Ilya, and hung his head. A giddiness seized him and red spots danced before his eyes.

"Oh, oh! Ribbons and scent. Yes, yes! Ribbons and laces to deck pretty faces. But what do you want here, my young pedlar? Eh?"