The golden sun peeped through the blue gaps between the clouds, and with one glance at the earth transfigured everything thereon.
Brisk, determined movement went on all around me: the swift current of the rivers lightly bore innumerable planks of wood; on these planks bearded peasants stood firmly, wielding long poles and shouting to one another, or to approaching steamers.
A little steamer was pulling an empty barge against the stream. The river dragged at it, and_ shook it. It turned its nose round like a pike and panted, firmly setting its wheels against the water, which was rushing furiously to meet it.
On a barge with their legs hanging over the side sat four peasants, shoulder to shoulder. One of them wore a red shirt, and sang a song the words of which I could not hear, but I knew it.
I felt that here on the living river I knew all, was in touch with all, and could understand all; and the town which lay flooded behind me was an evil dream, an imagination of my master’s, as difficult to understand as he was himself.
When I had satiated myself by gazing at all there was to see, I returned home, feeling that I was a grown man, capable of any kind of work.
On the way I looked from the hill of the Kreml on to the Volga in the distance. From the hill, the earth appeared enormous, and promised all that one could possibly desire.
I had books at home. In the flat which Queen Margot had occupied there now lived a large family, — five young ladies, each one more beautiful than the others, and two schoolboys — and these people used to give me books.
I read Turgenieff with avidity, amazed to find how intelligible, simple, and pellucid as autumn he was; how pure were his characters, and how — good everything was about which he succinctly dis coursed.
I read Pomyalovski’s “Bourse” and was again amazed; it was so strangely like the life in the icon-painting workshop. I was so well acquainted with that desperate tedium which precipitated one into cruel pranks.
I enjoyed reading Russian books. I always felt that there was something about them familiar and melancholy, as if there were hidden in their pages the frozen sound of the Lenten bell, which pealed forth softly as soon as one opened a book.
“Dead Souls” I read reluctantly;
“Letters from the House of the Dead,” also.
“Dead Souls,”
“Dead Houses,”
“Three Deaths,”
“Living Relics”— these books with titles so much alike arrested my attention against my will, and aroused a lethargic repugnance for all such books.
“Signs of the Times,”
“Step by Step,” “WOiat to Do,” and
“Chronicles of the Village of Smourin,” I did not care for, nor any other books of the same kind.
But I was delighted with Dickens and Walter Scott. I read these authors with the greatest enjoyment, the same books over and over again.
The works of Walter Scott reminded me of a high mass on a great feast day in rich churches — somewhat long and tedious, but always solemn. Dickens still remains to me as the author to whom I respectfully bow; he was a man who had a wonderful apprehension of that most difficult of arts — love of human nature.
In the evenings a large company of people used to gather on the roof: the brothers K. and their sisters, grown up; the snub-nosed schoolboy, Vyacheslav Semashko; and sometimes Miss Ptitzin, the daughter of an important official, appeared there, too.
They talked of books and poetry. This was something which appealed to me, and which I could understand; I had read more than all of them together.
But sometimes they talked about the high school, and com plained about the teachers. When I listened to these recitals, I felt that I had more liberty than my friends, and was amazed at their patience. And yet I envied them; they had opportunities of learning!
My comrades were older than I, but I felt that I was the elder. I was keener-witted, more experienced than they. This worried me somewhat; I wanted to feel more in touch with them.
I used to get home late in the evening, dusty and dirty, steeped in impressions very different from theirs — in the main very monotonous.
They talked a lot about young ladies, and of being in love with this one and that one, and they used to try their hands at writing poetry. They frequently solicited my help in this matter. I willingly applied myself to versification, and it was easy for me to find the rhymes, but for some reason or other my verses always took a humorous turn, and I never could help associating Miss Ptitzin, to whom the poetry was generally dedicated, with fruits and vegetables.
Semashko said to me:
“Do you call that poetry?
It is as much like poetry as hobnails would be.”
Not wishing to be behind them in anything, I also fell in love with Miss Ptitzin.
I do not remember how I declared my feelings, but I know that the affair ended badly. On the stagnant green water of the Zvyezdin Pond floated a plank, and I proposed to give the young lady a ride on it.
She agreed. I brought the log to the bank; it held me alone quite well.
But when the gorgeously dressed young lady, all ribbons and lace, graciously stepped on the other end, and I proudly pushed off with a stick, the accursed log rolled away from under us and my young lady went head over heels into the water.
I threw myself in knightly fashion after her, and swiftly brought her to shore. Fright and the green mire of the pond had quite destroyed her beauty I Shaking her wet fist at me threateningly, she cried:
“You threw me in the water on purpose!”
And refusing to believe in the sincerity of my protestations, from that time she treated me as an enemy.
On the whole, I did not find living in the town very interesting. My old mistress was as hostile as she had ever been; the young one regarded me with contempt; Victorushka more freckled than ever, snorted at every one, and was everlastingly aggrieved about something.
My master had many plans to draw. He could not get through all the work with his brother, and so he engaged my stepfather as assistant.
One day I came home from the market-place early, about five o’clock, and going into the dining-room, saw the man whose existence I had forgotten, at the table beside the master.
He held his hand out to me.
“How do you do?”
I drew back at the unexpectedness of it. The fire of the past had been suddenly rekindled, and burned my heart.
My stepfather looked at me with a smile on his terribly emaciated face; his dark eyes were larger than ever. He looked altogether worn out and depressed.
I placed my hand in his thin, hot fingers.
“Well, so we ‘ve met again,” he said, coughing.
I left them, feeling as weak as if I had been beaten.
Our manner to each other was cautious and restrained; he called me by my first name and my pa — tronymic, and spoke to me as an equal.
“When you go to the shops, please buy me a quarter of a pound of Lapherm’s tobacco, a hundred pack — ets of Vitcorson’s, and a pound of boiled sausage.”