I soon found out that all these people knew less than I did; almost all of them had been stuck in the narrow cage of workshop life since their childhood, and were still in it.
Of all the occupants of the workshop, only Jikharev had been in Moscow, of which he spoke suggestively and frowningly:
“Moscow does not believe in tears; there they know which side their bread is buttered.”
None of the rest had been farther than Shuya, or Vladimir. When mention was made of Kazan, they asked me:
“Are there many Russians there?
Are there any churches?”
For them, Perm was in Siberia, and they would not believe that Siberia was beyond the Urals.
“Sandres come from the Urals; and sturgeon — where are they found? Where do they get them? From the Caspian Sea?
That means that the Urals are on the sea!”
Sometimes I thought that they were laughing at me when they declared that England was on the other side of the Atlantic, and that Bonaparte belonged by birth to a noble family of Kalonga.
When I told them stories of what I had seen, they hardly believed me, but they all loved terrible tales intermixed with history. Even the men of mature years evidently preferred imagination to the truth. I could see very well that the more improbable the events, the more fantastic the story, the more attentively they listened to me.
On the whole, reality did not interest them, and they all gazed dreamily into the future, not wishing to see the poverty and hideousness of the present.
This astonished me so much the more, inasmuch as I had felt keenly enough the contradiction existing between life and books. Here before me were living people, and in books there were none like them — no Smouri, stoker Yaakov, fugitive Aleksander Vassiliev, Jikharev. or washerwoman Natalia.
In Davidov’s trunk a torn copy of Golitzinski’s stories was found —
“Ivan Vuijigin,” “The Bulgar,” “A Volume of Baron Brambeuss.” I read all these aloud to them, and they were delighted. Larionovich said:
“Reading prevents quarrels and noise; it is a good thing!”
I began to look about diligently for books, found them, and read almost every evening.
Those were pleasant evenings. It was as quiet as night in the workshop; the glass balls hung over the tables like white cold stars, their rays lighting up shaggy and bald heads. I saw round me at the table, calm, thoughtful faces; now and again an exclamation of praise of the author, or hero was heard.
They were attentive and benign, quite unlike themselves. I liked them very much at those times, and they also behaved well to me. I felt that I was in my right place.
“When we have books it is like spring with us; when the winter frames are taken out and for the first time we can open the windows as we like,” said Sitanov one day.
It was hard to find books. We could not afford to subscribe to a library, but I managed to get them somehow, asking for them wherever I went, as a charity.
One day the second officer of the fire brigade gave me the first volume of “Lermontov,” and it was from this that I felt the power of poety, and its mighty influence over people.
I remember even now how, at the first lines of
“The Demon,” Sitanov looked first at the book and then at my face, laid down his brush on the table, and, embracing his knee with his long arms, rocked to and fro, smiling.
“Not so much noise, brothers,” said Larionovich, and also laying aside his work, he went to Sitanov’s table where I was reading.
The poem stirred me painfully and sweetly; my voice was broken; I could hardly read the lines. Tears poured from my eyes.
But what moved me still more was the dull, cautious movement of the workmen. In the workshop everything seemed to be diverted from its usual course — drawn to me as if I had been a magnet.
When I had finished the first part, almost all of them were standing round the table, closely pressing against one an — other, embracing one another, frowning and laugh — ing.
“Go on reading,” said Jikharev, bending my head over the book.
When I had finished reading, he took the book, looked at the title, put it under his arm, and said:
“We must read this again!
We will read it tomorrow!
I will hide the book away.”
He went away, locked “Lermontov” in his drawer, and returned to his work.
It was quiet in the workshop; the men stole back to their tables. Sitanov went to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass, and stood there as if frozen. Jikharev, again laying down his brush, said in a stern voice:
“Well, such is life; slaves of God — yes — ah!”
He shrugged his shoulders, hid his face, and went on:
“I can draw the devil himself; black and rough, with wings of red flame, with red lead, but the face, hands, and feet — these should be bluish-white, like snow on a moonlight night.”
Until close upon suppertime he revolved about on his stool, restless and unlike himself, drumming with his fingers and talking unintelligibly of the devil, of women and Eve, of paradise, and of the sins of holy men.
“That is all true!” he declared. “If the saints sinned with sinful women, then of course the devil may sin with a pure soul.”
They listened to him in silence; probably, like me, they had no desire to speak.
They worked unwillingly, looking all the time at their watches, and as soon as it struck ten, they put away their work altogether.
Sitanov and Jikharev went out to the yard, and I went with them.
There, gazing at the stars, Sitanov said:
“Like a wandering caravan Thrown into space, it shone.”
“You did not make that up yourself!”
“I can never remember words,” said Jikharev, shivering in the bitter cold. “I can’t remember anything; but he, I see — It is an amazing thing — a man who actually pities the devil!
He has made you sorry for him, hasn’t he?”
“He has,” agreed Sitanov.
“There, that is a real man!” exclaimed Jikharev reminiscently.