The Giants of Russian Literature: The Greatest Russian Novels, Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим Горький

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СКАЧАТЬ to," he explained on seeing that she had failed to grasp his meaning.

      "Yes—those curtains. They were given me by Nikolai Petrovitch himself, and have been hung a long while."

      "But it is a long time, remember, since last I paid you a visit. The room looks indeed comfortable, does it not?"

      "Yes, thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness," whispered Thenichka.

      "And you find things better here than in the wing?" continued Paul Petrovitch politely—also, without the least shadow of a smile.

      "I do."

      "And who is lodged in the wing in your place?"

      "The laundry women."

      "Ah!"

      Paul Petrovitch relapsed into silence, while Thenichka thought to herself: "I suppose he will go presently." So far from doing so, however, he remained where he was, and she had to continue standing in front of him with her fingers nervelessly locking and unlocking themselves.

      "Why have you had the little one taken away?" at length he inquired. "I love children. Pray show him to me."

      Thenichka reddened with confusion and pleasure; and that though Paul Petrovitch was accustomed to make her nervous, so seldom did he address her.

"Duniasha!" she cried (Duniasha she addressed, as she did every one in the house, in the second person plural1). "Bring Mitia here, and be quick about it! But first put on his clothes." With that she moved towards the door.

      "Never mind, never mind," said Paul Petrovitch.

      "But I shall soon be back." And she disappeared.

      Left alone, Paul looked about him with keen attention. The small, low room in which he was waiting was clean and comfortable, and redolent of balm, camomile, and furniture polish. Against the walls stood straight-backed, lyre-shaped chairs which the late General had purchased during the period of the Polish campaign; in one corner stood a bedstead under a muslin coverlet, with, flanking it, a large, iron-clamped, convex-lidded chest; in the opposite corner burnt a lamp before a massive, smoke-blackened ikon of Saint Nikolai the Miracle Worker—the Saint's halo suspended by a red riband, and a tiny china egg resting on his breast; on the window-sills were ranged some carefully sealed jars of last year's jam, which filtered the light to green, and of which the parchment covers were inscribed, in Thenichka's large handwriting, "Gooseberry"—a jam of which Nikolai Petrovitch was particularly fond; from the ceiling hung, by a long cord, a cage containing a short-tailed siskin which kept up such a perpetual twittering and hopping that its cage rocked to and fro as it sang, and stray hemp seeds came pattering lightly to the floor; on the wall space above a small chest of drawers hung a few poorly executed photographs of Nikolai Petrovitch in various attitudes (the work of a travelling photographer); alongside these photographs hung a very unsuccessful one of Thenichka herself, since it revealed nothing but an eyeless face peering painfully from a dark frame; and, lastly, above the portrait of Thenichka hung a picture of Ermolov in a big cloak and a portentous frown—the latter directed principally towards a distant mountain range of the Caucasus, while over the forehead of the portrait dangled a silken pincushion in the shape of a shoe.

      For five minutes or so there came from the adjoining room a sound as of rustling and whispering. From the chest of drawers Paul Petrovitch took up a greasy, dog's-eared volume of Masalsky's The Strielitsi, and turned over a few of its pages. Suddenly the door opened, and Thenichka entered with Mitia, whom she had now vested in a red robe and beaded collar, while his little head had been brushed, and also his face washed. Though he was breathing stertorously, and wriggling his whole body about, and twitching his tiny arms after the manner of all healthy children, the dainty robe had had its effect, and his face was puckered with delight. Also, Thenichka had tidied her own hair, and rearranged her bodice—well enough though she would have done as she was. For, in all the world, is there a more entrancing spectacle than that of a young, handsome mother with, in her arms, a healthy child?

      "What a little beauty!" Paul Petrovitch exclaimed indulgently as he tickled Mitia's double chin with the tip of his forefinger. The baby fixed its eyes upon the siskin, and smiled.

      "This is Uncle," said Thenichka as she bent over the boy and gave him a gentle shake. For fumigating purposes Duniasha deposited upon the window-sill a lighted candle, and, beneath it, a two-kopeck piece.

      "How old is he?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

      "Six months. On the eleventh of this month he will be seven."

      "No, eight, will he not, Theodosia Nikolaievna?" timidly corrected Duniasha.

      "No, seven."

      Here the infant crowed, fixed his eyes upon the chest in the corner, and suddenly closed his five tiny fingers upon his mother's mouth and nose.

      "The little rascal!" she said, without, however, freeing her features from his grasp.

      "He is very like my brother," commented Paul Petrovitch.

      "Whom else should he be like?" she thought.

      "Yes," he continued, half to himself. "Undoubtedly I see the likeness." He gazed pensively, almost mournfully, at the young mother.

      "This is Uncle," again she said to the child: but this time she said it under her breath.

      "Oh, here you are, Paul!" cried Nikolai Petrovitch from behind them.

      Paul Petrovitch faced about and knit his brows. But so joyously, and with such a grateful expression, was his brother regarding the trio that Paul could only respond with a smile.

      "He is a fine little fellow, this baby of yours," the elder brother observed. Then, glancing at his watch, he added: "I came here merely to arrange about the purchase of some tea." With which he assumed an air of indifference, and left the room.

      "He came here of his own accord, did he?" was Nikolai Petrovitch's first inquiry.

      "Yes, of his own accord," the girl replied. "He just knocked at the door and entered."

      "And what of Arkasha? Has he too been to see you?"

      "No, Nikolai Petrovitch. By the way, might I return to the rooms in the wing of the house?"

      "Why do you want to?"

      "Because they suit me better than these."

      "I think not," said Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing his forehead with an air of indecision. "Before there was a reason for your being there, but that reason no longer exists."

      "Good morning, little rascal!" was his next remark as, with a sudden access of animation, he approached and kissed the baby's cheek. Then, bending a little, he pressed his lips to Thenichka's hand—a hand, against the red of Mitia's robe, as white as milk.

      "Why have you done that, Nikolai Petrovitch?" she murmured with downcast eyes. Yet when she raised them, their expression, as she glanced from under her brows and smiled her caressing, but slightly vacant, smile, was charming indeed!

      Of the circumstances of Nikolai Petrovitch's first meeting with Thenichka the following may be related. Three years ago it had fallen to his lot to spend a night at an inn in a remote country town; and, while doing so, СКАЧАТЬ