fist down on a pile of papers. "I am a member of the Privy Council, 'Your Excellency' to you, not 'my dear sir'! Be good enough to remember where you are and sta-a-and to attention! I summoned you here to present you with an alternative," he continued, pronouncing the word "alternative" with evident relish, "to present you with an alternative: either publicly recant your baleful errors in the presence of the School Inspector and the students at one of the next lessons, and explain the demoralizing effects of Count Tolstoi's teachings on Russian society, or hand in your resignation. Should you refuse to do so, you will be discharged under Article 3 with no explanation and with all the unfortunate consequences as far as you are concerned. I will not tolerate anti-government propaganda in my district. I will mercilessly and unhesitatingly suppress every instance of it." "Allow me, Your Excellency!" Vasily Petrovich said in a trembling voice. "Lev Tolstoi, our famous man of letters, is the pride and glory of all Russia. I don't understand. What have politics got to do with it?" "First of all, Count Tolstoi is an apostate, excommunicated from the Orthodox Church by the Holy Synod. He is a man who dared to encroach upon the most sacred principles of the Russian Empire and its fundamental laws. If you cannot grasp this, then government service is not the place for you!" "I regard that as an insult," Vasily Petrovich said with great difficulty, as he felt his jaw begin to tremble. "Get out!" roared the official, rising. Vasily Petrovich left the office with his knees shaking, a shaking that he could not control either on the marble staircase, where in two white niches there were two gypsum busts of the tsar and tsarina in la pearl tiara, or in the cloak-room, where a massive attendant threw his coat to him over the barrier, or even later, in the cab, a luxury the Bachei family indulged in only on very special occasions. And so here he was, lying on the bed-clothes with his feet tucked up under him, deeply insulted, powerless, humiliated, and overwhelmed by the misfortune that had befallen not only him personally but, as he now realized, his whole family as well. To be discharged under Article 3 with no grounds stated meant more than the black list and social ostracism, it signified in all probability an administrative exile, i.e., utter ruin, poverty, and the end of the family. There was only one way out-a public recantation. By nature Vasily Petrovich was neither hero nor martyr. He was an ordinary kind-hearted, intelligent man, a decent, honest intellectual, the kind known as an "idealist," and a "pure soul." His university tradition would not allow him to retreat. In his opinion a "bargain with one's conscience" was the epitome of moral degradation. And, nevertheless, he wavered. The pit they had dug for him so ruthlessly would not bear thinking about. He realized that there was no way out, although he tried to think of one. Vasily Petrovich was so disheartened that he even decided to petition the Emperor and sent for ten kopeks' worth of the best "ministerial" stationery from the shop round the corner. He still adhered to his belief that the tsar-the Lord's Anointed-was just and upright. Perhaps he would actually have written to the tsar, had it not been for the fact that at this juncture Auntie took a hand in the matter. She told the cook on no account to go for any "ministerial" stationery, and addressing herself to Vasily Petrovich said: "My God, you're the perfect innocent! Don't you understand that they are one and the same bunch?" Vasily Petrovich blinked confusedly and kept repeating: "But what's to be done, Tatyana Ivanovna? Tell me, just what can I do?" Auntie, however, had no advice to offer. She retreated to her little room next to the kitchen, sat down at her dressing-table, and pressed a crumpled lace handkerchief to her red nose. REQUIEM It was Christmas Eve, the twenty-fourth of December, a day that had a special meaning for the Bachei family. It was the day of Mother's patron saint. Every year on that day they visited the cemetery to offer up a mass for the dead. They set out today too. There was a blizzard blowing and the blinding whiteness hurt their eyes. The snow-drifts at the cemetery blended with the white of the sky. Fine, powdery snow crystals rose over the black iron railings and crosses. The wind whistled through old metal wreaths with porcelain flowers. Petya stood knee-deep in the fresh snow. He had taken off his cap, but still had on a hood. He was praying diligently, trying to visualize his dead mother, but could recall only minor details: a hat with a feather in it, a veil, the hem of a wide silk dress with a fringe on it. Two kind eyes were smiling at him through the dotted veil tied under her chin. That was all Petya could remember. There was a faint trace of a long past grief that time had healed, the fear of his own death, and the gold letters of Mother's name on the white marble slab from which the sexton had carelessly brushed the snow just before they had arrived. Next to it was Grandma's grave, and there was a vacant place between the two graves where, as Vasily Petrovich was wont to say, he would one day be laid at rest between his mother and his wife, the two women he had loved so faithfully and steadfastly. Petya crossed himself and bowed at the proper moments, he kept thinking about his mother, and, at the same time, observed the priest, the psalm-reader, Father, Pavlik, and Auntie. Pavlik was fidgeting all the time, the turned-up hood irritated his ears and he kept tugging at it. Auntie was weeping into her muff quietly. Father stood with eyes fixed on the tombstone, his folded hands held humbly before him and his greying head with the long seminarist's hair bent low. Petya knew Father was thinking about Mother. But he had no idea of the terrible conflict raging within him. Especially now did Vasily Petrovich miss her, her love, and her moral support. He thought of the day when he, an eager young man, had read to her his essay on Pushkin, of how they had both discussed it long and heatedly, of the glorious morning, when he had put on his new uniform and was standing in the hall, ready to set out to read his essay, and she had handed him his freshly-pressed handkerchief, still warm from the hot iron, kissed him fondly, and crossed him with her thin fingers; and afterwards, when he had returned home in triumph, they had had a hearty dinner and little Petya, whom they were training to be an independent young man, had smeared his porridge all over his fat cheeks and kept repeating, "Daddy! Eat!" his black eyes sparkling. How long ago, and yet, how close it all seemed! Now Vasily Petrovich had to decide his fate alone. For the first time in his life he understood clearly something that he either could not or refused to understand before: that it was impossible in Russia to be an honest and independent person if one held a government job. One had to be a docile tsarist official, with no views of one's own, and obey the orders of other officials-one's superiors-unquestioningly, no matter how unjust or even criminal they might be. But worst of all, as far as Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was the fact that the one responsible for this state of affairs was none other than the Russian autocrat himself, the Anointed of the Lord, in whose sanctity and infallibility Vasily Petrovich had trusted so deeply and implicitly. Now that this trust had been shaken, Vasily Petrovich turned whole-heartedly to religion. He offered up prayers for his dead wife, and implored divine help and guidance. But his prayers no longer brought him consolation. He crossed himself, bowed low, and yet somehow or other he seemed to see the priest and psalm-reader, who were rushing through the service, in a new and different light. Their words and actions no longer created the religious atmosphere of former years, but, instead, seemed crude, unnatural, as if Vasily Petrovich himself was not praying, but only observing two shamans performing some rite. That which formerly had moved him deeply was now bereft of all its poetry. The priest, in a mourning chasuble of brocade with a silver cross embroidered on the back, his short arms wrapped in the dark sleeves of a protruding tunic, was chanting the beautiful words of the requiem as he deftly swung the censer to and fro, making the hot coals glow like rubies. Purple smoke poured from it, turned grey quickly and melted in the wind, leaving the air heavy with incense. The psalm-reader had an enormous moustache and his winter overcoat was exactly like Vasily Petrovich's, even to the frayed velvet collar. His bulging eyes were reverently half closed, and his voice rose and fell as he quickly echoed the priest's singing. Both priest and psalm-reader made a pretence of not hurrying, although Vasily Petrovich could see they were rushing the service, as they had to officiate at other graves where they were eagerly awaited and whence impatient relatives were already signalling them. Their relief was evident when they finally reached the last part and put all their energy behind the words "the tears at the grave turn to singing," etc., after which the Bachei family kissed the cold silver cross, and while the psalm-reader was hurriedly wrapping it up in the stole, Vasily Petrovich shook the priest's hand and awkwardly pressed two silver rubles into his palm. The priest said, "I thank you!" and added, "I hear that you're having trouble with the Education Department. Have faith in the Lord, perhaps there is a way out. Good-bye for the present. Dreadful weather, isn't it? A regular blizzard." Vasily Petrovich had caught a faint trace of insult in those words. Petya saw his face turn red. Suddenly there flashed into Vasily Petrovich's mind the Education Department official bawling at him and his own humiliating fear, and once again the feeling of pride, which until then he had tried so hard to subordinate to Christian humility, welled up in him. At that moment he decided that not for anything in the world would he surrender, and if necessary he would suffer all the consequences for the sake of Truth. However, once they had returned home from the cemetery and he had calmed down a little, his former doubts returned: had he the right to jeopardize his family? Meanwhile, the school holidays pursued their usual course, the only difference being that this time they were not as jolly or as carefree as in previous years. Tedious and tiresome as usual was the waiting for nightfall on Christmas Eve; appetizing smells drifted in from the kitchen while they awaited the appearance of the first star in the window-the signal to light the lamps and sit down to dinner and Christmas pudding. They had the usual Christmas party next day, and carol-singers came in carrying a star hung with tinsel and a round paper icon in the centre. Blue diamonds of moonlight glittered festively and mysteriously on the frosted window-panes, and on New Year's Eve there was apple pie with a new silver coin hidden in it for good luck. The regimental bands played as usual in the clear, frosty noonday for the Twelfth-Day parade on Cathedral Square. The holidays were coming to an end. Some kind of decision had to be made. Vasily Petrovich became despondent, and his depression affected the boys. Auntie alone tried to keep up the holiday spirit. She put on a new silk dress, and all her favourite rings were brought out to adorn her slender fingers; she smelled of "Coeur de Jeannette" perfume, and she would sit at the piano, open a large folio, and play Madame Vyaltseva's repertoire of waltzes, polkas, and gipsy serenades. On Twelfth-Day Eve she decided to have the traditional fortune-telling. They poured cold water into a basin and dropped melted paraffin into it, as they had no wax, and then interpreted the various shapes it froze into; in the kitchen they burned balls of crumpled paper and then told the meaning of the shadows cast by them on the freshly whitewashed wall. But there was something strained in all this. THE RESIGNATION Late at night-the last night of the school holidays-Petya, who was drowsing off to sleep, again heard Father and Auntie talking heatedly in the dining-room. "You cannot and you must not do such a thing!" Auntie was saying in an excited voice. "What then?" Father asked, and there was a sharp click as he cracked his knuckles. "What shall I do? How shall we live? Have I the right to do this? What a tragedy that Zhenya is no longer with us!" "Believe me, if Zhenya were here now, she would never let you grovel before these officials!" Petya soon fell asleep and did not hear any more, but an astonishing thing happened the next morning: for the first time in his life Vasily Petrovich did not put on his frock-coat and did not go to his classes. Instead, the cook was sent to the shop for "ministerial" stationery, and Vasily Petrovich wrote out his resignation in his clear flowing hand, unadorned by flourishes or curlicues. His resignation was accepted coldly. However, there was no further unpleasantness-apparently, it was not in the interests of the Education Department to have the story spread round. And so, Vasily Petrovich found himself out of a job, the most terrible thing that could hap- pen to a family man with no other means of support except his salary. Vasily Petrovich had put aside a little money a long time ago; he had dreamed of going abroad with his wife, and then, after her death, with his 'boys. Now that dream evaporated. This money, together with what he would get from the mutual aid society, would see the family through the next year, if they lived frugally. But it was still a mystery how they were to exist after that, especially as another question arose: how were Petya and Pavlik to continue at the gymnasium? As the sons of a teacher they had been exempt from tuition fees; now, however, he would have to pay out of their meagre budget a sum that was beyond his means. But worst of all, where Vasily Petrovich was concerned, was his enforced idleness, for he had been used to work all his life. He did not know what to do with himself and hung around the house for days on end in his old jacket, forgetting to go to the barber's, looking older every day, and making frequent visits to the cemetery where he spent long hours at his wife's grave. Pavlik, still too young to be touched by the terrible thing that had befallen them, continued his former carefree existence. But Petya understood everything. The thought that he would have to leave school, remove the cockade from his cap and wear his uniform with hooks instead of shiny metal buttons, as was the case with boys who had been expelled or had not matriculated, made him blush with shame. Things were aggravated by an ominous change in the attitude of the teachers and some of his class-mates. In short, the New Year could not have begun worse. Petya was most unhappy and was amazed to see that Auntie, far from being upset or down-hearted, gave the impression of everything being fine. There was a look of determination in her eye which implied that she was going to save the family at all costs. Her plan was as follows: she would serve tasty, nourishing, and inexpensive home-cooked meals to working intellectuals, which, to her mind, would yield enough to keep the family in food. In order to add to the income Auntie decided to move into the dining-room, move the cook into the kitchen, and let the two rooms, thus vacated, with board. Father winced painfully at the mere thought of his home being turned into an "eating-house," but as there was no other way out, he gave in and said: "Do whatever you think best." That was Auntie's green light. "To let" notices that could be read clearly from the street were pasted on the windows of the two rooms. On the gate-post they nailed a little board that said: "Dinners served." It had been done artistically in oils by Petya and depicted a steaming tureen with the inscription mentioning single working intellectuals. Auntie believed that this would impart a social, political, and even an opposition note to their commercial undertaking. She began to buy new kitchen utensils and put in a stock of the best and freshest foods; she had a new calico dress and snow-white apron made for Dunyasha and spent most of her time studying the Molokhovets Cookery Book, that bible of every well-to-do home. She copied the most useful recipes into a special notebook and made up tasty and nourishing menus. Never before had the Bachei family eaten so well-or, rather, feasted so. After a month's time they had all put on weight, including Vasily Petrovich, a fact that seemed strangely at variance with his status of a man persecuted by the government. All would have gone well, perhaps even brilliantly, had it not been for the lack of customers. One might have thought that all the professional people had agreed never to dine again. True, the first few days brought some customers. Two well-dressed bearded gentlemen with sunken cheeks and a fanatical glitter in their eyes called, discovered that there were no vegetarian dishes on the menu, and stamped out without bothering to say good-bye. Then a saucy orderly in a peakless cap, serving in the Modlinsky Regiment, came in at the back door and asked for two portions of cabbage-soup for his officer. Auntie explained that there was no cabbage-soup on the menu, but that there was soupe printaniere. That, said the soldier, was quite all right with him, provided there was plenty of bread to go with it, as his gentleman had lost all his money at cards and was sitting in his quarters with a bad cold and nothing hot in his stomach for nearly two days. Auntie gave him two portions of soupe printaniere and plenty of bread on credit, and the orderly doubled down the stairs on his short, thick legs in worn-down boots, leaving the heavy odour of an infantry barracks in the kitchen. Two days later he appeared again; this time he carried off two portions of bouillon and meat patties, also on credit, and promised to pay as soon as his gentleman won back his money; apparently, his gentleman never did, because the soldier disappeared for good. No one else came to dine. As far as letting the two rooms was concerned, things were not much better. The very day they put the little cards in the window a newly-wed couple made inquiries: he was a young army surgeon, and everything he had on was new and resplendent; she was a plump, dimpled blonde with a beauty-mark over her Cupid's-bow lips, wearing a squirrel-lined cloak and pert bonnet, and carrying a tiny muff on a cord. They seemed to be the personification of happiness. Their new, twenty-four carat gold wedding-rings shone so dazzlingly, they were surrounded by such a fragrant aroma of scented soap, cold cream, brilliantine, hair tonic, and Brokar perfume, the mixture of which seemed to Petya the very essence of newly-weddedness, that the Bachei flat with its old wallpaper and poorly-waxed floors suddenly appeared to be small, shabby, and dark. While the young couple was looking over the rooms, the husband never once let go of his wife's arm, as if he were afraid she'd run off somewhere; the wife, in turn, pressed close to him as she looked round in horror and exclaimed in a loud singsong voice: "Dahling, it's a barm! It's a real bahn! It smells like a kitchen! No, no, it's not at all what we're looking for!" They left hurriedly. The army surgeon's silver spurs tinkled delicately, and the young wife raised her skirts squeamishly and stepped gingerly as if afraid to soil her tiny new shoes. It was only after the downstairs door had banged behind them that Petya realized the strange foreign word "bahn" was just plain "barn," and he felt so hurt he could have cried. Auntie's ears were still burning long after they had gone. No one else came to see the rooms. And so Auntie's plans failed. The spectre of poverty again rose up before the Bachei family. Despair banished all hopes. Who knows what the outcome would have been, if salvation had not come one fine day-out of the blue, as it always does. AN OLD FRIEND It was really a glorious day, one of those March days when the snow has melted, the earth is black, a watery blueness breaks through the clouds over the bare branches of the orchards, a fresh breeze sweeps the first dust along the dry pavements, and the incessant tolling of the Lenten bells booms over the city like a great bass string. The bakeries sold pastry "skylarks" with charred raisin eyes, and swarms of rooks circled over Cathedral Square, over the huge corner house, over Libman's Cafe, and over the double-headed eagle above Gayevsky's, the chemist's, their spring din and clamour drowning out the sounds of the city. It was a day Petya would long remember. It was the day he became a tutor and, for the first time in his life, was to be paid for a Latin lesson he gave to another boy. This other boy was Gavrik. A few days before, on his way home from school, Petya was walking along slowly, lost in unhappy thoughts and visualizing the day in the near future when he would be expelled from the gymnasium for arrears of fees. Suddenly, someone crashed into him from behind and punched his satchel so hard that his pencil-box shook and clattered. Petya stumbled and nearly fell; he turned, ready to charge his unseen enemy, and saw Gavrik, his feet planted apart and a grin on his face. "Hi, Petya! Where've you been all this time?" "It's you, you tramp! You're a fine chap, hitting one of your own!" "Go on! I socked the satchel, not you." "What if I had fallen?" "I'd have caught you." "How are things?" "Not too bad. Earning a living." Gavrik lived in Near Mills and Petya rarely saw him nowadays, but their childhood friendship was as strong as ever. Whenever they would meet and ask each other the usual "How are things?" Petya would shrug his shoulders and answer, "Still at school," while Gavrik would furrow his small round forehead and say, "Earning la living." Each time they met, Petya would hear the latest story, which inevitably ended the same way: either the current employer had gone bankrupt or he had cheated Gavrik out of his pay. Such was the case with the owner of the bathing beach between Sredny Fontan and Arcadia who had employed Gavrik for the season to unlock the bathing-boxes, take charge of hiring the striped bathing-suits, and keep an eye on the bathers' clothes. The beach owner disappeared at the end of the season without paying him a kopek, all he had had in the end were his tips. It was the same with the Greek who had hired a gang of dockers and who had brazenly cheated the men out of more than half their wages. It was the same again when he had worked as bill-poster, and on many of the other jobs which he had taken in the hope of being at least a little help to Terenty's family and at the same time earning a bit for himself. It was much more fun, although just as unprofitable in the long run, to work in the "Bioscope Realite" cinema on Richelieu Street, near the Alexandrovsky police-station In those days the cinema, that famous invention of the Lumiere brothers, was no longer a novelty, but, none the less, the magic of "moving pictures" continued to amaze the world. Cinemas mushroomed up all over the city, -and they became known as "illusions." An "illusion" signified a multi-coloured electric-light bill-board, sometimes even with moving letters, and the bravura thunder of the pianola, a mechanical piano whose keys were pressed down and raced back and forth automatically, instilling in the audience a greater feeling of awe towards the inventions of the 20th century. Usually there were slot-machines in the foyer, and if you put five kopeks in the slot a bar of chocolate would slip out mysteriously, or brightly-coloured sugar eggs would roll out from under a bronze hen. Sometimes there would be a wax figure on exhibition in a glass case. As yet there were no specially built theatres for the "illusions," and the general practice was to rent a flat and use the largest room for the screen. Madame Valiadis, widow of a Greek, an enterprising and highly imaginative woman, owned the "Bioscope Realite." She decided to wipe out all her rivals at once. To this end she first engaged Mr. Zingertal, a famous singer of topical ditties, to appear before each showing, and second, she decided to revolutionize the silent film by introducing sound effects. Crowds thronged to the "Bioscope Realite." Mr. Zingertal, the popular favourite, duly appeared before each performance in front of a small screen in the former dining-room decorated with old flowered paper, a room as long and narrow as a pencil-box. Zingertal, a tall, thin Jew, wore a rather long frock-coat, yellowed pique vest, striped trousers, white spats and a black top hat which pressed down on his protruding ears. With a Mephistophelian smile on his long, clean-shaven, lined and hollow-cheeked face, he sang the popular tunes of the day, accompanying himself on a tiny violin, tunes such as "The Odessa girl is the girl for me," "The soldier boys are marching," and, finally, his hit song "Zingertal, my robin, play me on your violin." Then Madame Valiadis came on, wearing an ostrich hat and opera gloves minus the fingers to show off her rings; she sat at the battered old piano and, as the lights dimmed, began pounding out the accompaniment. The lamp of the projector hissed, the film buzzed and rattled on, and tiny, cramped red or blue captions, which seemed to have been typed on a typewriter, appeared on the screen. Then, in quick succession, carne the shorts: a panorama of a cloudy Swiss lake that moved along jerkily and with great effort, followed by a Pathe news-reel with a train thundering into a station and a parade of helmeted, goose-stepping foreign soldiers who flashed by so quickly that they seemed to be running-all this was seen as if through a veil of rain or snow. Then Bleriot's monoplane emerged from the clouds for an instant-his famous Channel flight from Calais to Dover. Then came the comedy, and this was Madame Valiadis' greatest moment. Behind the flickering veil of raindrops a little monkey-like man called Knucklehead, learning to ride a bicycle, kept bumping into things and knocking them over; the audience not only saw all this, they heard it as well. The crash and tinkle of falling glass accompanied the shattering of street lamps on the screen. Pails banged and clattered as house-painters in blouses tumbled off ladders and landed on the pavement. Dozens of dinner-sets were smashed to bits as they slid and dropped from the display window of a china shop. A cat mewed hysterically when the bicycle wheels rolled over its tail. The enraged crowd shook their fists and chased the fleeing Knucklehead. Police whistles screamed. Dogs barked. A fire-engine tore past. Bursts of laughter shook the darkened "illusion" room. And all the while, unseen by the audience, Gavrik sweated, earning his fifty kopeks a day. It was he who waited for his cue to smash the crockery, blow a whistle, bark, mew, ring a bell, shout "Catch him! Hold him!", stamp his feet to give the effect of a running mob, and dump on the floor a crate of broken glass, drowning out the unmerciful pounding on the battered keys that was Ma dame Valiadis' contribution on the other side of the screen. Petya helped Gavrik on several occasions. The two of them would raise such a rumpus behind the screen that crowds would gather in the street. The popularity of the electric theatre grew tremendously. But the avaricious widow was far from satisfied. Aware that the public liked politics, she ordered Zingertal to freshen up his repertoire with something political, and then raised the price of admission. Zingertal shrugged his shoulders, smiled his Mephistophelian smile and said, "As you wish"; next day he appeared with a new number entitled "Neckties, neckties" instead of the old "The soldier boys are marching." Pressing the tiny violin to his shoulder with his blue horse-like chin, he flourished his bow, winked slyly at the audience, and, hinting at Stolypin, began: Our Premier, Mr. X, Hangs ties on people's necks, A habit which we dreadfully deplore.... Zingertal was thrown out of the city within twenty-four hours; Madame Valiadis, forced to piay enormous bribes to the police and to close her "illusion," was ruined, while Gavrik was paid only a quarter of what he had earned. GAVRIK'S DREAM Now Gavrik was standing next to 'Petya in a greasy blue cotton smock over a tattered coat with a worn-out Astrakhan collar and cap to match, like those warn by middle-aged bookbinders, type-setters and waiters. ' Petya realized immediately that his friend had changed jobs again and was earning his daily bread at some other trade. Gavrik was going on fifteen. His voice had changed to a youthful bass. He had not grown very much, but his shoulders were broader and stronger, and there were fewer freckles on his nose. His features had become more definite and his clear eyes were firm. And yet, there was still much of the child about him-such as his deliberate rolling sailor's gait, his habit of wrinkling his round forehead when puzzled by something- and his amazing accuracy in spitting through tightly-clenched teeth. "Well, where are you working now?" Petya asked, his eyes taking in Gavrik's strange outfit. "In the Odessa Leaflet print-shop." "Tell me another!" "It's the truth!" "What do you do there?"' "I deliver the ad proofs to the clients." "Proofs?" Petya said doubtfully. "Sure, proofs. Why?" "Oh, nothing." "Maybe you've never seen proof-sheets? Here, I'll show you some. See?" With these words Gavrik put his hand into the breast pocket of his smock and pulled out a couple of packets of wet paper reeking of kerosene. "Let me see!" Petya cried, grabbing a packet. "Keep your paws off," Gavrik said good-naturedly, not at all in anger or from a desire to offend Petya, but out of sheer habit. "Come here, I'll show them to you." The boys walked over to an iron post near the gates, and Gavrik unrolled a damp paper covered all over with newspaper advertisements as black and as greasy as shoe polish. Most of them were illustrated, and Petya immediately recognized them from the pages of the Odessa Leaflet, which the Bachei family took in. Here were the Fleetfoot Shoes and the Guide Galoshes, waterproofs with peaked hoods sold by Lurie Bros., Faberge diamonds in open jewel cases, with black lines radiating from them, bottles of Shustov's rowan-berry brandy, theatre lyres, furriers' tigers, harness-makers' steeds, the black cats of fortune-tellers and palmists, skates, carriages, toys, suits, fur coats, pianos and balalaikas, biscuits and elaborate cream cakes, Lloyd's ocean liners, and railway locomotives. And, finally, there were the impressive-looking, long, uninterrupted columns of joint-stock company reports and bank balances, showing their investments and fantastic dividends. Gavrik's small, strong, ink-stained hands held the damp newspaper sheet, that magic, miniature record of the wealth of a big industrial and trading centre, so far beyond the reach of Gavrik and the thousands of other ordinary working people like him. "There you are!" Gavrik said, and when he noticed that Petya seemed to be reflecting on the nature of man's wealth, an exercise in which he himself had often indulged when reading the ads or the signs and posters, he sighed and added, "Proofs!" Then he gazed ruefully at his canvas shoes that were a size too big and not the thing for the season. "How are things?" "Not bad," Petya mumbled, lowering his eyes. "Tell me another," Gavrik said. "On my honour!" "Then why did you take to serving dinners at home?" Petya blushed crimson. "It's true, isn't it?" Gavrik insisted. "What if it is?" Petya said. "It means you're hard up for money." "We are not." "Yes, you are. You can't even make ends meet." "What do you mean?" "Come off it, Petya. You can't fool me. I know your old man was booted out of his job and you haven't a kopek." That was the first time Petya heard the truth about the family's finances put so simply and crudely. "How do you know?" he asked weakly. "Who doesn't? It's the talk of the town. But don't worry, Petya, they won't put him in the jug for it." "Who ... won't be put in the jug?" "Why, your old man." "What are you talking about? What do you mean by the jug?" Gavrik knew that Petya was naive but this was too much for him and he burst out laughing. "What a fellow! He doesn't even know what the 'jug' means! It means being locked up in jail." "Where?" "In jail!" Gavrik bellowed. "Do you know how people are jailed?" Petya looked into Gavrik's serious eyes and for the first time he felt really frightened. "Take it easy, they won't put your dad in jail," Gavrik said hurriedly. "They hardly ever jail people for Lev Tolstoi now. Take it from me." He bent close to Petya and added in a whisper, "They're picking up people right and left now for illegal books. For the Workers' Paper and The Social-Democrat too. But Lev Tolstoi doesn't interest them any more." Petya looked at Gavrik with uncomprehending eyes. "Oh, what's the use of talking to you," Gavrik said disgustedly. He had been ready to tell his friend the latest news: for instance, that his brother Terenty had just returned from exile after all those years and was now working in the railway-yard, that some of the committee members had returned with him, that it was "business as usual" again as far as their activities were concerned, and that it had not been his own idea to get a job in the print-shop-he had been "spoken for" by these same committee members for a very definite purpose. Gavrik was about to explain just exactly what the purpose was, but he saw from Petya's expression that his friend had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about, land so he decided to keep mum for the time being. "How's the dinners-at-home business going?" he asked, changing the subject. "Are there any cranks who want them?" Petya shook his head sadly. "I see," Gavrik said. "Then it's a flop?" "Yes." "What are you going to do?" "Somebody might rent the rooms." "You mean you're letting rooms too? Things must be bad!" Gavrik whistled sympathetically. "Don't worry, we'll manage. I can give lessons," Petya said stoically. He had long since made up his mind to become a tutor and coach backward pupils, but did not quite know how to go about it. As a rule only university students or senior form boys gave lessons, but there was always room for the exception. The main thing was to be lucky and find a pupil to coach. "How can you give lessons when you probably -don't know a darn thing yourself?" Gavrik said in his usual crude, straightforward way and sniggered good-naturedly. Petya was hurt. There had 'been a time when he had really fooled about instead of swotting, but now he was putting everything he had into his lessons. "I'm only kidding," Gavrik said. Suddenly he had a bright idea and quickly asked, "Look, can you teach Latin too?" "What a question, of course I can!" "That's the stuff!" Gavrik exclaimed. "How much would you charge to coach someone for the third form Latin exams?" "What do you mean: 'how much'?" "How much money?" "I don't know," Petya mumbled in confusion. "Some tutors charge a ruble a lesson." "That's far too much. Let's settle for half a ruble." "What's it all about?" Petya asked. "Never mind." Gavrik stood silently for a few minutes, looking down at his moving fingers, as if making calculations. "Go on, tell me!" Petya insisted. "It's nothing very special," Gavrik answered. "Let's go this way." And, taking Petya by the arm, he led him down the street, peering into his face sideways. Gavrik never liked to talk about himself or disclose his plans to people. Experience had taught him to be secretive. That was why, even though he had made up his mind to let Petya in on the dream of his life, he could not bring himself to talk about it, and so they both walked on in silence. "You see," he began, "but first your word of honour that you won't tell a soul." "Honour bright!" Petya exclaimed and involuntarily, from force of habit, crossed himself, looking the while at the cupolas of St. Panteleimon Church that shone blue beyond Kulikovo Field. Gavrik opened his eyes wide and whispered: "Here's my idea: I want to pass the gymnasium exams for the first, three forms without attending classes. Two chaps are helping me with the other subjects, but I'm sort of stuck with Latin." This was so unexpected that Petya stopped dead in his tracks. "What?" "You heard me." "But why should you study?" Petya blurted out in surprise. "Why do you study?" Gavrik said with a hard and pugnacious glitter in his eye. "It's all right for you, but not for me-is that it? For all you know, it may be more necessary for me than for you." He might have told Petya that since Terenty had returned from exile he had been talking a lot about the lack of educated people among the workers, about the fact that new struggles lay ahead. Probably after consulting some of the committee members, he had told Gavrik in no uncertain terms that whether he liked it or not, he would have to pass the gymnasium exams: he could first take the third form exams, then the sixth form exams, and then the final school-leaving exams. But Gavrik told Petya nothing of all this. "Well, are you willing to have a go?" he asked instead. "My offer's half a ruble a lesson." Petya felt embarrassed and, at the same time, flattered, and he blushed a delicate pink with pleasure. "Oh, I'm willing," he said, and coughed, "only not for money." "What do you mean? Do you think I'm a beggar? I'm working. Half a ruble a lesson, four lessons a month. That makes two silver pieces. I can afford it." "Nothing doing. I won't take money for the lessons." "Why won't you take it? Don't be a fool! Money doesn't lie around in the street. Especially now, when you're so hard up for it. At least you'll be able to give Auntie something for food." That had a great effect on Petya. He suddenly pictured himself handing Auntie some money one fine day and saying nonchalantly, "Oh, it slipped my mind completely, Auntie. Here, I've earned a bit by giving lessons, please take it. It'll come in useful." "All right," Petya answered. "I'll take you on. But remember: if you start fooling around, it'll be good-bye. I'm not used to taking money for nothing." "I don't find it in the woodshed either," Gavrik said glumly. The friends parted till Sunday, which was the lap