There the moonbeams lived quietly; the flame of the lamp burning before the icon quivered; the knives gleamed like icicles on the walls; on the floor the black frying-pans looked like faces without eyes.
The old woman would clamber down cautiously from the stove, as if she were stepping into the water from a river-bank, and, slithering along with her bare feet, went into the corner, where over the wash-stand hung a ewer that reminded me of a severed head. There was also a pitcher of water standing there.
Choking and panting, she drank the water, and then looked out of the window through the pale-blue pattern of hoar-frost on the panes.
“Have mercy on me, O God! have mercy on me!” she prayed in a whisper.
Then putting out the candle, she fell on her knees, and whispered in an aggrieved tone:
“Who loves me, Lord? To whom am I necessary?’
Climbing back on the stove, and opening the little door of the chimney, she tried to feel if the flue-plate lay straight, soiling her hands with soot, and fell asleep at that precise moment, just as if she had been struck by an invisible hand.
When I felt resentful toward her I used to think what a pity it was that she had not married grandfather.
She would have led him a life!
She often made me very miserable, but there were days when her puffy face became sad, her eyes were suffused with tears, and she said very touchingly:
“Do you think that I have an easy time?
I brought children into the world, reared them, set them on their feet, and for what”?
To live with them and be their general servant. Do you think that is sweet to me”?
My son has brought a strange woman and new blood into the family. Is it nice for me?
Well?”
“No, it is not,” I said frankly.
“Aha! there you are, you seel” And she began to talk shamelessly about her daughter-in-law.
“Once I went with her to the bath and saw her.
Do you think she has anything to flatter herself about?
Can she be called beautiful?”
She always spoke objectionably about the relations of husband and wife. At first her speeches aroused my disgust, but I soon accustomed myself to listen to them with attention and with great interest, feeling that there was something painfully true about them.
“Woman is strength; she deceived God Himself. That is so,” she hissed, striking her hand on the table.
“Through Eve are we all condemned to hell. What do you think of that?”
On the subject of woman’s power she could talk endlessly, and it always seemed as if she were trying to frighten some one in these conversations.
I particularly remembered that
“Eve deceived God.”
Overlooking our yard was the wing of a large building, and of the eight flats comprised in it, four were occupied by officers, and the fifth by the regimental chaplain.
The yard was always full of officers’ servants and orderlies, after whom ran laundresses, house — maids, and cooks. Dramas and romances were being carried on in all the kitchens, accompanied by tears, quarrels, and fights.
The soldiers quarreled among themselves and with the landlord’s workmen; they used to beat the women.
The yard was a seething pot of what is called vice, immorality, the wild, untamable appetites of healthy lads.
This life, which brought out all the cruel sensuality, the thoughtless tyranny, the obscene boastful — ness of the conqueror, was criticized in every detail by my employers at dinner, tea, and supper.
The old woman knew all the stories of the yard, and told them with gusto, rejoicing in the misfortunes of others.
The younger woman listened to these tales in silence, smiling with her swollen lips.
Victor used to burst out laughing, but the master would frown and say:
“That will do, Mamasha!”
“Good Lord! I mustn’t speak now, I suppose!” the story-teller complained; but Victor encouraged her.
“Go on, Mother! What is there to hinder you?
We are all your own people, after all.” I could never understand why one should talk shamelessly before one’s own people.
The elder son bore himself toward his mother with contemptuous pity, and avoided being alone with her, for if that happened, she would surely overwhelm him with complaints against his wife, and would never fail to ask him for money.
He would hastily press into her hand a ruble or so or several pieces of small silver.
“It is not right, Mother; take the money. I do not grudge it to you, but it is unjust.”
“But I want it for beggars, for candles when I go to church.”
“Now, where will you find beggars there?
You will end by spoiling Victor.”
“You don’t love your brother. It is a great sin on your part.”
He would go out, waving her away.
Victor’s manner to his mother was coarse and derisive.
He was very greedy, and he was always hun — gry.
On Sundays his mother used to bake custards, and she always hid a few of them in a vessel under the couch on which I slept. When Victor left the dinner-table he would get them out and grumble:
“Couldn’t you have saved a few more, you old fool?”