-pointed day for the  first
lesson.



        A JAR OF JAM



     Never had Petya prepared his own lessons so painstakingly as he was now
preparing for his lessons with Gavrik, for his first appearance in  the role
of teacher. Proud  and  conscious of his  responsibility, Petya did his very
best  to ensure the success  of his venture. He pestered Father with endless
questions  about  comparative linguistics. He  consulted the  Brockhaus  and
Efron Encyclopaedia and made copious notes.  At  school he worried the Latin
master  for explanations concerning  the  numerous rules  of Latin syntax, a
fact  which amazed the teacher, since -he had  no  great opinion of  Petya's
diligence.  Petya  sharpened  several pencils, got  out pen and ink,  dusted
Father's   desk,   and   arranged   on   it   Pavlik's   globe,   his    own
twenty-five-powered microscope,  and a few thick volumes-all with  a view to
creating a strictly academic atmosphere and instilling in Gavrik a reverence
for science.
     After dinner Vasily Petrovich left for the cemetery. Auntie took Pavlik
to  an  exhibition. Dunyasha  had  the afternoon  off and went to  visit her
relatives.  Petya could not have wished for anything better. He paced up and
down the room with his hands behind his back like a veteran schoolmaster and
rehearsed his introductory speech for the first lesson. It would be wrong to
say that he was nervous, but he felt something akin to  what a  skater feels
as he is about to glide across the rink.
     Gavrik was not long  in  coming.  He  appeared at exactly the appointed
hour. It was significant that he did not come up the back stairs and through
the kitchen, as was  his wont, after whistling from the yard  below;  Gavrik
rang the  front-door bell, said "hullo" quietly, hung up his threadbare coat
in the hall, and smoothed  his  hair  in front of the mirror. His hands were
scrubbed clean,  and before entering  he  carefully  tucked his cotton shirt
with  its  mother-of-pearl buttons  under  his narrow  belt.  He  had a  new
five-kopek notebook with a pink blotter peeping out of it  and a  new pencil
stuck in the middle. Petya led his friend into the study and sat him down at
the desk, between  microscope and globe,  which objects drew a guarded  look
from Gavrik.
     "Well," Petya said sternly and suddenly became embarrassed.
     He stopped, waited manfully for his bashfulness to pass, and then tried
once more:
     "Well....   Latin   is  one  of  the  richest  and  mightiest   of  the
Indo-European  languages. Originally, as  was the case with the  Umbrian and
Oscan  languages,  it  was  one  of  the  group  of  main  dialects  of  the
non-Etruscan  population of Central Italy, the dialect of the inhabitants of
the Latium Plain, whence the Romans came. Is that clear?"
     "No," Gavrik said, shaking his head.
     "What is unclear?"
     "The main  dialects of  the non-Etruscans,"  Gavrik repeated carefully,
giving Petya a pitiful look.
     "Never mind. You'll soon catch on.  It's  just because it's new to you.
Let's  continue. At  a time  when  the languages  of the  other  peoples  of
Italy-say,  the  Etruscans,  Iiapygians,  and  Ligurians, not  counting,  of
course, the Umbrians and Sabellians who were akin to the Latins-remained, so
to  speak, isolated  as local  dialects in  secluded regions,"  Petya made a
circle with his arms  in a highly  professional manner to indicate  that the
other languages of Italy had remained secluded, "thanks to the Romans, Latin
not  only  emerged  as the main language  of  Italy, but developed into  the
literary language as well." Petya raised his finger significantly. "Clear?"
     "No," Gavrik  repeated miserably and  shook his head again.  "You  know
what, Petya? Show me their alphabet instead."
     "I know what comes first better than you do," Petya said dryly.
     "Maybe  we can do the bit about the Etruscans  and the Umbrians  later,
just now I'd like to take a shot at those Latin letters. Huh?"
     "Who's tutor here? You or me?"
     "You."
     "Very well then, pay attention."
     "I'm listening," Gavrik said obediently.
     "Good, let's continue,"  Petya said as  he paced  up and down with  his
arms  behind  his back, enjoying every  moment  of  his  superiority and his
teacher's authority. "Well, er ...  about three  hundred  years later,  this
classical literary Latin lost its supremacy  and was replaced  by a  popular
Latin, and so on, and so forth-anyway, it's not all that important." (Gavrik
nodded  in agreement.) "The main thing,  my  friend, is  that this very same
Latin finally ended up by  having twenty  letters in the alphabet,  and then
three more were added to it."
     "That makes it twenty-three!" Gavrik put in happily.
     "Right. Twenty-three letters in all."
     "What are they?"
     "Don't rush  into  Hell before your  father!"  Petya  intoned the Latin
master's favourite saying-subconsciously he had been  imitating him  all the
time.  "The letters of the  Latin alphabet,  which you will now write  down,
are: A, B, C, D...."
     Gavrik  sat up,  licked the tip  of his  pencil,  and began copying the
Latin letters gracefully.
     "Wait a minute, silly, what are  you doing? Write  a Latin  'B,' not  a
Russian one."
     "What's the Latin one like?"
     "The same as the Russian 'V.' Understand?"
     "I'm not that dumb!"
     "Erase what you've written and correct it."
     Gavrik pulled  a  little piece of an "Elephant" India  rubber carefully
wrapped up in a scrap  of paper from one of the pockets of his wide corduroy
breeches, rubbed the elephant's backside vigorously over the Russian letter,
and wrote the Latin "B" in its place.
     "Tell you what," Petya  said-he was  beginning to feel quite bored with
it all-"you just keep on copying the Latin letters from the book,  land I'll
stretch my legs meanwhile."
     Gavrik copied diligently, and Petya began to stretch his legs, that is,
he began to  walk back and forth  with his hands  clasped behind him  until,
finally, he  came  to  a  stop before  the dining-room  sideboard.  It  is a
well-known fact that all sideboards have a  special magnetism where boys are
concerned,  and  it  rarely  happens  that a boy  passes a sideboard without
peeping  in to  see  what it contains. Petya was  no exception, the  more so
since Auntie had been careless enough to say:
     "... And keep away from the sideboard."
     Petya knew  perfectly  well that she  had  in mind  the  large  jar  of
strawberry  jam  which his grandmother in Yekaterinoslav  had sent  them for
Christmas.  They had not  opened  it  yet, although  it  was  meant  for the
holidays,  and  as  the  holidays  had  already passed,  Petya  felt  a  bit
aggrieved. It was really hard to understand Auntie.
     Usually  so  kind  and  generous,  when  it  came  to  jam  she  became
monstrously,  inexplicably stingy.  One could not  even hint at  jam in  her
presence. A  terrified  look would come into her eyes  and she would  rattle
off:
     "No,  no! By  no means! Don't dare go near it. I'll give it to you when
the time comes."
     But when  that  time  would come,  no one could  say. She herself  said
nothing  and simply threw up  her hands in alarm at the very idea. Actually,
it  was all very stupid, for hadn't the jam been made and sent expressly for
the purpose of being eaten!
     While stretching his legs, Petya  opened the sideboard, got up on  to a
chair and looked on the very top shelf where the heavy jar of Yekaterinoslav
jam stood.  After admiring  it for  a  while  he  closed  the sideboard  and
returned to his pupil.  Gavrik was labouring away and had already got as far
as "N," which he did not  know how to write. Petya  helped him,  praised his
penmanship, and noted casually:
     "By the  way,  Grandma sent us a  six-pound jar  of strawberry  jam for
Christmas."
     "You don't say." '
     "Honestly!"
     "They don't make jars that big."
     "Don't they?" Petya smiled sarcastically
     "No, they don't."
     "A  fat lot you know  about jars!"  Petya mumbled  and stalked into the
dining-room. When he returned, he gingerly placed the heavy jar on the  desk
between globe and microscope. "Well, go on, say it's not a six-pounder."
     "You win."
     Gavrik  drew  his notebook  closer  land copied  out three  more  Latin
letters: "O," identical with the Russian letter, "P," resembling the Russian
"R," and a  rather strange-looking  one called  "Q," which  gave  him not  a
little trouble.
     "Fine!" Petya exclaimed. He hesitated a moment and added, "What do  you
say to trying the jam? Want to?"
     "I don't mind," Gavrik said. "But what'll Auntie say?"
     "We'll just have a spoonful, she won't even notice the difference."
     "Petya went to fetch a  spoon,  then he patiently untied the bow of the
tight cord. He carefully raised the top paper, which had taken the  shape of
a lid and, still more carefully, removed the parchment disk beneath.
     The  disk  had  been soaked in  rum to  keep the jam from spoiling, and
directly underneath lay the glossy, placid surface. With the  utmost caution
Petya and Gavrik helped themselves to a full spoon each.
     The Yekaterinoslav grandmother was a famous  jam-maker,  and strawberry
jam  was her  pride. But  this jam  in particular was of unrivalled quality.
Never  had Petya-to  say nothing  of Gavrik-tasted anything  like it. It was
fragrant,  thick, and, at the same time, ethereal, full of large transparent
berries, tender, choice,  deliciously  sprinkled  all over with  tiny yellow
seeds, and it just melted in their mouths.
     They  licked  their  spoons clean  and made  the happy discovery  that,
actually, the quantity of jam in the jar hadn't gone down a  bit-the surface
was still level with the top. No doubt, some physical law of large and small
quantities  could well be applied to this particular case: the vast capacity
of the jar and the minute capacity of the tea-spoon, but since neither Petya
nor Gavrik as yet  had any idea of  this law, they thought it no less than a
miracle that the jam had remained at its former level.
     "Exactly as it was," Gavrik said.
     "I  told you  she wouldn't notice it."  With these words Petya replaced
the first parchment disk, then the paper lid, rewound the cord tightly, made
exactly the same  kind of bow, returned the jar to the  sideboard and placed
it on the top shelf.
     Meanwhile  Gavrik  had  written  out   two  more  letters:  "R"  and  a
shaky-looking "S."
     "That's  fine!" Petya praised him. "By the  way, I think  we can safely
try another spoonful."
     "Of what?"
     "The jam."
     "But what about Auntie?"
     "Don't  be  silly.  We left  it  exactly the same  as  before.  Another
spoonful each will still leave as much as there was. Right?"
     Gavrik thought about it and agreed. After all, one could not contradict
the obvious.
     Petya brought in the jar, untied the tight bow painstakingly, carefully
removed the paper lid  and parchment disk, and  admired the  glossy  surface
that shone as before at the very top  of the  jar; then the two  friends had
another  spoonful  each, licked the spoons, and  Petya wound the cord around
the neck of the jar and retied the bow.
     This  time the  jam seemed  doubly delicious and  their enjoyment of it
twice as fleeting.
     "You  see, the  level hasn't changed!"  Petya said  triumphantly, as he
lifted the jar that was just as heavy as ever.
     "I wouldn't say that," Gavrik  rejoined. "This time it's  sure  to be a
tiny bit lower. I had a good look at it."
     Petya raised the jar and examined it closely.
     "Nothing of the sort. It's exactly the same, no change."
     "That's what  you think," Gavrik said. "You can't notice it because the
empty  space  is  hidden by the edges of  the paper. Turn back  the edge and
you'll see."
     Petya lifted up the pleated edge of the paper lid and raised the jar to
the  light.  The  jar was almost as full as before.  Almost, but  not quite.
There was a space  a hair's-breadth wide, but it was a space.  This was most
unfortunate,  although it was doubtful  that Auntie would  notice  it. Petya
took the jar into the dining-room and replaced it on the top shelf.
     "Let's  see  what you've  been scribbling,"  he said  with  an affected
gaiety.
     Gavrik scratched his head in silence and sighed.
     "What's the matter? Are you tired?"
     "No.  It's not that.  I rather think that she'll notice it, even though
only a tiny bit is missing."
     "No, she won't."
     "I'll bet she will. And you'll be in a fix when she does."
     Petya flushed.
     "So what! Who  cares! After all,  Grandma  sent it  for all of us,  and
there's no reason why I shouldn't taste it. If a  friend comes to study with
me, surely I can treat him to strawberry jam? Huh! You know what? I'll bring
it in and we'll each  have a saucerful.  I'm sure Auntie won't say anything.
She'll even praise us for being honest and straightforward about it, for not
doing it in a sneaky way."
     "Do you think we ought to?" Gavrik asked timidly.
     "What's to stop us!" Petya exclaimed.
     Suiting the action to the  word he brought in the jar and, certain that
he was doing an honest and honourable deed, measured out two full saucers of
the jam.
     "That's enough!"  he  said firmly, tied up the jar,  and put it back in
the sideboard.
     But it was far  from being enough. It was only now, after they had each
had  a saucerful, that the friends began really to appreciate  the  heavenly
jam.  Overcome with an overwhelming and irrepressible desire for at  least a
little  more,  Petya  brought  the  jar in  again, and  with a  look of grim
determination and without even so much as a glance at Gavrik, served out two
more helpings. Petya never dreamed that a saucer could hold so much. When he
held the jar up to the light, he saw that it was at least a third empty.
     Each ate his portion and licked his spoon clean.
     "Never tasted anything like it!" Gavrik said as he went back to copying
out the  letters  "T," "U,"  "V,"  and "X," experiencing at  the same time a
burning desire to have at least one more spoonful of the delectable stuff.
     "All right," Petya said resolutely, "we'll eat exactly half  of  it and
no more!"
     When there was exactly half the jam left,  Petya  tied the cord for the
Last time and carried the jar back to the sideboard, his mind firmly made up
not to go near it again. He tried not to think about Auntie.
     "Well, have you had enough?" he asked Gavrik with a wan smile.
     "More  than  enough,"  Gavrik answered,  for  the sticky sweetness  was
beginning to give him a sour taste.
     Petya felt slightly  nauseous himself. Bliss was suddenly  turning into
something quite the opposite. They no longer  wanted even to think about the
jam, and yet, strange  as it  may seem,  they could not get it  out of their
minds. It seemed to be taking revenge on them, creating an insane, unnatural
desire for more. It was  no use trying  to resist the craving. Petya, dazed,
returned once  more  to the dining-room,  and  the  boys  began scooping  up
spoonfuls  of the nauseating delicacy, having  lost all  sense  of what they
were doing. This was hatred turned to worship, and worship turned to hatred.
Their mouths  were puckered up from  the  acid-sweet taste of the jam. Their
foreheads  were damp. The jam stuck in their protesting  throats.  But  they
kept on devouring it as if it  were porridge. They were  not even eating it,
they were struggling with it, destroying it  as a mortal enemy. They came to
their senses when only a thin film of jam left on the very bottom of the jar
evaded their spoons.
     At  that  moment Petya realized the full meaning  of the terrible thing
they had done. Like criminals anxious to cover up their tracks, the boys ran
into the kitchen and began feverishly to rinse the sticky jar under the tap,
remembering, however, to take turns drinking the sweetish, cloudy water.
     When they had washed and wiped the jar clean, Petya  put it back on the
shelf  in the sideboard,  as if that would somehow remedy the  situation. He
comforted himself  with  the foolish hope  that  perhaps Auntie had  already
forgotten about Grandma's jam, or  that  when she would see  the clean empty
jar  she would  think they had eaten it long ago. Alas, Petya knew very well
that at best his hopes were foolish.
     The boys tried  not to look at  each other  as  they walked back to the
writing-desk and resumed the lesson.
     "Where  were we?"  Petya  said  weakly, for he  could  hardly keep from
vomiting.  "We  have  twenty   of  the  twenty-three   letters.   Later  on,
historically, two more letters were added."
     "Which makes twenty-five," Gavrik said, choking down his sugary saliva.
     "Quite right. Copy them out."
     Just  then Vasily Petrovich came  in. He  was in that sad but  peaceful
mood that always came over him after a visit to  the cemetery. He glanced at
the studious  boys,  and  noticing the strange  expression of  ill-concealed
disgust on their faces, he said:
     "I see  you are working  on the Sabbath,  my dear sirs.  Having  a hard
time?  Never mind!  The root of learning may be  bitter, but  its fruits are
sweet."
     With these words he tiptoed over to the icons, took from his pocket the
small bottle  of wood-oil he  had  bought in  the church shop  and carefully
filled the icon-lamp, a task he performed every Sunday.
     Soon Auntie returned  and was followed  by  Dunyasha. Pavlik was  still
downstairs.  They  heard the  samovar singing  in the  kitchen. The delicate
tinkle of the china tea-set drifted in from the dining-room.
     "I'd  better  be  going,"  Gavrik said,  putting  his  things  together
quickly. "I'll  finish  the other  letters at  home. So long.  See  you next
Sunday!" With a solemn look on  his face he ambled  through the dining-room,
past the sideboard and into the hall.
     "Where are you going?" Auntie asked. "Won't you stay to tea?"
     "Thanks,  Tatyana  Ivanovna, they're  waiting for  me  at  home. I've a
couple of chores to do yet."
     "You're sure you won't stay? We've got nice strawberry jam. H'm?"
     "Oh no,  no!"  Gavrik exclaimed  in alarm.  In the hall he whispered to
Petya, "I owe you 50 kopeks," and dashed down the stairs  to escape from the
scene of the crime.
     "You're not looking well," Auntie  said  as she turned  to  Petya. "You
look as if  you had tainted sausage. Maybe you're going to be ill. Let's see
your tongue."
     Petya  hung  his  head  dejectedly and  stuck out  a marvellously  pink
tongue.
     "Aha! I  know what it is!" Auntie  cried.  "It's  all  because  of that
Latin.  You see, my dear, how difficult it  is to  be  a tutor!  Never mind,
we'll open Grandma's  jam in honour of your  first lesson and you'll be your
old self again in no time."
     With these  words Auntie walked over to the sideboard, while Petya  lay
down on his bed with a groan and stuck his  head under the pillow  so as not
to hear or see anything.
     However, at the  very moment  that Auntie was gazing in astonishment at
the clean empty jar and trying to puzzle out why it was there and how it had
got into the sideboard, Pavlik rushed into the  hall, yelling at  the top of
his lungs:
     "Faig, Faig! Listen! Faig has driven up to our house in his carriage!"


        MR. FAIG


     They all rushed to the windows, including Petya,  who had  tossed aside
his pillow. True enough, Faig's carriage was at the front gate.
     Mr. Faig was one of the best-known citizens in town.
     He was as popular as Governor Tolmachov, as Maryiashek, the town idiot,
as Mayor  Pelican who  achieved  fame  by  stealing a  chandelier  from  the
theatre, as Ratur-Ruter,  the  editor-publisher,  who  was often thrashed in
public for  his  slanderous articles, as  Kochubei, the owner of the largest
ice-cream parlour, the source of wholesale food-poisoning every summer, and,
finally, as brave old General Radetsky, the hero of Plevna.
     Faig, a  Jew who had turned  Christian, was a  man of great wealth, the
owner and head  of an accredited commercial  school.  His school was a haven
for those young men of means  who had  been  expelled for denseness and  bad
behaviour from other  schools in Odessa and elsewhere in the Russian Empire.
By paying  the  appropriate fee  one could  always graduate  and  receive  a
school-leaving certificate at Faig's school.  Faig was a philanthropist  and
patron  of  the Arts. He enjoyed making donations and did so with a  splash,
including an announcement in the papers.
     He donated suites of furniture and cows to lotteries, contributed large
sums towards  improving the cathedral and  buying a new bell, he established
the Faig Prize  to be awarded annually at  the yacht  races,  and paid fifty
rubles for a glass of champagne at charity bazaars. In short, this Faig, who
had become  a  legend, was  the horn of plenty  that poured charity upon the
poor.
     However, the main source of his popularity lay in the fact that he rode
around town in his own carriage.
     This was  no antediluvian contraption of  the type that usually  bumped
along  as  part  of  the funeral cortege. Neither was it a wedding carriage,
upholstered in white satin with crystal headlights and folding step. Nor was
it a bishop's  carriage,  that screeching  conveyance which,  in addition to
carrying  the  bishop, was also used for transporting to  private homes  the
Icon of the  Holy Virgin of Kasperovka associated with Kutuzov  and the fall
of  Ochakov. Faig's carriage was  a coupe de  luxe on  English springs, with
high box and a coachman dressed  according to the height of English fashion.
The doors sported  a fictitious coat-of-arms, and, as  a finishing  touch. a
liveried footman stood on the footboard, which reduced the street loafers to
a state approaching religious ecstasy.
     A pair of bob-tailed horses  with  patent-leather blinkers  whisked the
carriage along at la brisk trot. Faig  was inside.  He was wearing a top hat
and a  Palmerston coat, his side whiskers were dyed black, and a  Havana was
planted between his teeth. His feet were wrapped in a Scotch plaid.
     While the  Bachei family was watching Faig's carriage from  the windows
and wondering whom he might have  come to  see, the door-bell rang. Dunyasha
opened the  door and nearly swooned. The  liveried  footman stood before her
with his three-cornered purled hat pressed to his breast.
     "Mr. Faig presents  his  respects  to  the Bachei family,"  the footman
said, "and asks to be received."
     The  Bachei  family,  who  had  rushed  into  the   hall,  stood  there
dumbfounded. Auntie  was the only one who  had kept a  level head. She  gave
Vasily  Petrovich  a meaning look, turned to the footman, and with a  polite
smile and in an offhand manner said, "Please ask him up."
     The footman bowed  and went downstairs, sweeping  the stairway with the
long tails of his livery coat.
     No  sooner had Vasily Petrovich fastened his collar,  adjusted his tie,
and got his arms through  the sleeves of his good frock-coat, than  Mr. Faig
entered. He carried his top  hat, his gloves  tossed into it, stiffly in one
hand and in the other, which sparkled with the diamonds, he held a  cigar. A
democratic smile  lit up his face between the black side whiskers. He spread
the aroma of Havana cigar smoke mixed with the scent of Atkinson's  perfume.
A  battery of badges, medals,  and  fraternity-pins followed the cut of  his
frock-coat.   Tiny   pearls   glowed  gently  in  the  buttonholes   of  his
magnificently starched white shirt-front.
     This man, the  personification of success and wealth, had suddenly paid
them a call! Faig put his top hat on  the hall table and extended his  plump
hand to Father in  the  grand  manner. That was  all  Petya saw, for  Auntie
manoeuvred  him and  Pavlik  into the kitchen and kept them there  until Mr.
Faig departed.
     Judging by the  fact that  Faig's loud and merry laughter  and Father's
chuckle were heard several times,  the  visit was  a friendly one.  But what
could be the reason for it? The explanation was forthcoming when Faig, after
being helped into  the carriage by the  footman and  having the Scotch plaid
tucked round his legs, waved his white hand with the cigar and drove off. He
had come to Vasily Petrovich with the offer of a teaching appointment in his
establishment.
     It had all been  so unexpected and so much like a miracle, that  Vasily
Petrovich turned to the  icon and crossed himself. Teaching in Faig's school
was  much  more remunerative than  in the gymnasium,  because  Faig paid his
teachers almost double the salary paid by  the government. Vasily  Petrovich
was captivated by  Faig's matter-of-fact way, his  cordiality and democratic
manners which contrasted so pleasantly and unexpectedly with his  appearance
and his way of life.
     In  conversation   with  Vasily   Petrovich,  Faig  displayed  a   keen
understanding of contemporary affairs. He was biting and yet restrained when
criticizing the  Ministry of Education for  its inability to  appreciate its
best teachers; he fiercely  resented  the government's attempts to turn  the
schools into military barracks and openly declared that  the  time had  come
for society to take the  matter of public  education  into its own hands and
banish servile officials  and petty tyrants such as the head  of  the Odessa
District Education Department,  who had revived the worst traditions  of the
Arakcheyev times. He declared that their  attitude towards Vasily Petrovich,
in addition to lacking any  justification, had been  disgusting, and that he
hoped to right  the wrong and restore justice, as he  considered the  matter
his  sacred duty  to  Russian  society and  science.  He hoped  that  in his
establishment Vasily Petrovich would find full scope for" his abilities as a
brilliant teacher  and for  his love of  the great Russian  literature. As a
believer  in European methods of  education he  was sure that he and  Vasily
Petrovich would understand one  another.  As for the formalities, he did not
doubt  for a  minute  that he  would get  the consent  of  the  Minister  of
Education  to have  Vasily Petrovich officially accredited, since  a  public
gymnasium was one thing, and a  private school something else again. Nor did
Faig  conceal the  fact  that one of  the reasons which had  prompted him to
engage Vasily Petrovich was  that by so doing he would raise the standard of
the school in the eyes of the liberal circles of Odessa society; another was
that it would be a challenge to  the government,  since, according  to Faig,
Vasily Petrovich's famous speech on the  occasion of Tolstoi's death had won
him a definite political reputation.
     All this was strange and  flattering  to Vasily  Petrovich, although he
winced at the mention of his political reputation. And when Faig added, "You
shall  be  our  standard-bearer,"  Vasily   Petrovich  even  felt  a  little
frightened. However, Faig's proposition was accepted, and life in the Bachei
family underwent a miraculous change.
     Faig had paid Vasily Petrovich for six months  in advance. The  sum was
larger than the family  had ever dreamed of.  Now, whenever Vasily Petrovich
ventured forth, the neighbours watched him enviously from their windows  and
said:
     "Look, there goes Bachei, the one Faig has taken on."
     Once again Vasily Petrovich began  to think in terms  of a trip abroad.
And at long last, after weighing up his  resources and consulting Auntie for
the twentieth time, he decided: we're going!


     THE SAILOR'S OUTFIT


     Spring, which came early, was warm and glorious. Easter passed and left
pleasant memories.  Soon  it  was  examination  time, a  time  Petya  always
associated  with  the  brief  May  thunderstorms,  fiery  flashes of  purple
lightning, the lilac in bloom in the school garden, the dry air of the empty
class-rooms  with the  desks moved close  together and the  clouds of  chalk
dust, pierced by the warm rays of the afternoon sun that  remained suspended
in the air after the last exam.
     They began preparing for the trip during examination time. Switzerland,
a country that had always had a special place in Vasily  Petrovich's  heart,
was their main objective. However, it was decided that they should first  go
to Naples by sea, and then cross Italy by rail. This indirect route would be
slightly more expensive, but it would give them the  chance to visit Turkey,
Greece, the islands of the Aegean Sea and Sicily, they would  be able to see
all  the  sights   of  Naples,  Rome,  Florence,  and  Venice;  then,  funds
permitting, they might even pay a brief visit to Paris. Vasily Petrovich had
mapped  out  the itinerary many  years  before, when  Mother had still  been
alive.  The  two-of  them  had spent many  an evening leafing through travel
guides and writing down the travel expenses. They had noted the price of the
tickets,  hotel  and  boarding-house  rates, and  even admission  prices  to
museums and tips were included in their careful calculations.
     Despite all this  Vasily Petrovich feared to overtax the budget, and so
he studied the rail and steamer ticket prices once more.
     There were many arguments  about what to  take and how to pack.  Auntie
suggested that they  should  buy two very  ordinary  suitcases  and put very
ordinary clothes in them. However, it  turned  out that Vasily Petrovich was
of another mind completely. He  thought they  should have a special  satchel
and Alpine  rucksacks with  special  straps  that would  not  interfere with
climbing.
     Auntie shrugged and laughed,  but Petya and Pavlik  insisted  that only
the special  Alpine  rucksacks  be  ordered,  and  so  she gave  in.  Vasily
Petrovich went  to the shop with his own draft of the special travelling-bag
and the special rucksacks. A few  days later the Bachei household was richer
by   two   rucksacks   and  a   rather  strange-looking  creation   of   the
luggage-and-harness industry. It was of  tartan and bore a vague resemblance
to a huge accordion, covered all over with a multitude of patch-pockets.
     These new and still  empty  travelling-bags and the exciting  smell  of
leather  and  dyed  material  brought  visions  of  far distances  into  the
household. Then they discovered  that the boys could not go  abroad in their
school uniforms, they would have to wear "civvies."
     That was no problem as  far as Pavlik was concerned. He still  had last
year's "pre-school"  clothes: a pair of short trousers and  a  middy-blouse.
Petya's outfit presented a problem. It would have  been ridiculous to deck a
fourteen-year-old boy out in a grown man's suit with a coat, waistcoat and a
tie. But a little boy's outfit with short  trousers was no good either. They
had to find a happy medium. Petya was  already in a frenzy of impatience and
the outfit he wanted was undoubtedly influenced by  the illustrations in the
works  of Jules Verne and Mayne Reid. In his opinion it had to  be something
like 'a naval cadet's uniform, consisting of his  long school trousers and a
navy-blue blouse, not the  kind that  little boys wear, but the real  thing,
made of heavy flannel.
     It  was  no  easy  matter  to have  such a blouse made.  No  children's
outfitter and  no  tailor seemed to  understand what  was expected  of them.
Petya, who had already  pictured  himself  as a  naval cadet, was desperate.
Gavrik came to his  rescue. He suggested a  naval outfitter's shop where  he
knew someone. He seemed to have friends everywhere!
     The shop  was located in  the  so-called Sabansky  Barracks, an ancient
white-columned structure.
     The enclosed yard, vast and spacious, and the ominous appearance of the
disused fortress, the pyramids of old cannon-balls,  anchors, parallel bars,
and the  mast  with  its  multi-coloured  signal  flags, thrilled  Petya. An
orderly in a sailor's cap sat on a bench beneath a bell.
     "Don't worry," Gavrik said, seeing that Petya had stopped in confusion.
"The fellows  here are  good chaps." They climbed  up  the worn  steps of an
ancient stairway and found themselves in a  dark corridor. It was as cold as
a  crypt, and the change was especially noticeable later the noonday heat of
the May sunshine.
     Gavrik  confidently led his friend through the darkness to a  door, and
the  boys entered  a deep-vaulted room. The walls were twelve feet thick, so
that the two little windows barely let in any light, although they 'directly
faced the sea  opposite  Quarantine Bay  and  the white lighthouse with  its
circling  sea-gulls that stood  out so clearly against the choppy blue-green
water.
     A sailor wearing the  red shoulder-straps of the coastguard service sat
at a large sewing-machine, working the iron treadle with his bare feet as he
hemmed a woollen signal flag. A heap of signal flags lay in a corner.
     The sailor stopped sewing when  he saw Gavrik. A  smile broke over  his
pock-marked face, but then he noticed the strange boy standing behind Gavrik
and raised his bushy eyebrows inquiringly.
     "It's all right. This is the  fellow  who's teaching  me Latin," Gavrik
said, and Petya realized that the sailor knew all about his friend.
     "What's new?" the sailor asked.
     "Nothing special," Gavrik  answered.  "I've  come about something  else
this  time. I was wondering  whether  you  could make a regulation  sailor's
blouse for this fellow."
     "I haven't got the right material."
     "He's got it. Petya, show him the cloth."
     Petya  handed over  the  package. The  sailor unrolled the  soft, fine,
strong navy-blue wool.
     "That's the real stuff!" Gavrik said with a touch of pride.
     "How much did you pay for it?" the sailor asked.
     Petya  told him the price and he  felt sure the  meaning look that  the
sailor gave Gavrik was disapproving.
     "Don't go thinking things," Gavrik said. "His old man's just a teacher.
They're not well off. They're even hard up for money at times. It so happens
that he needs a regulation blouse."
     Gavrik amazed Petya  as he explained  why he needed the  blouse. He had
all the details  of the projected  journey at  his fingertips. Petya  caught
several significant glances passing between Gavrik and the sailor.
     Perhaps he would not have paid any attention to this,  were it  not for
the  fact that something similar had taken place when he was giving Gavrik a
Latin  lesson in Near Mills. Motya had been present during the  lesson,  and
since Motya regarded  Petya as  some  kind  of superior being, an object  of
devoted  and secret  worship,  he  began  to  boast  for  her  benefit.  His
imagination ran away with him as he described the forthcoming  journey. When
he  got as far as the splendours of  Switzerland Terenty  exchanged  glances
with Gavrik and then  with  his guest, Sinichkin, a thin, consumptive worker
wearing top boots and a black cotton shirt beneath a threadbare jacket.
     When Terenty looked sat him,  Sinichkin shook  his  head and  muttered,
"No, he's no longer there," or something to that effect. Suddenly, he looked
Petya straight in the eye and asked him solemnly:
     "Will you be going to France, too? Will you visit Paris?"
     And  when  Petya  answered  that  if their  money  held  out they would
certainly  go there,  Sinichkin looked at  Terenty significantly again,  but
they did not ask Petya any more questions.
     Petya felt  that his forthcoming trip abroad had  evoked in  Gavrik and
his friends in Near Mills some kind of special interest, but he  was  in the
dark as to the reason why.
     The sailor  and Gavrik had  exchanged  the  same sort of  glances  too.
Perhaps,  Petya  thought, people always behaved like that in the presence of
someone about to  go abroad. Petya had not yet set  foot outside his  native
city,  but he already felt  that  new  experiences  awaited him around every
corner. He would  suddenly find himself in a  side-street he  had never trod
before  and would stop to look at a tiled house or a garden with the curious
eyes of a tourist.
     How  many times, for example, had  he passed the Sabansky Barracks  and
never dreamed that behind its gates was an unknown world-a sleepy,  deserted
yard with  anchors and cannon-balls, a naval outfitter's shop where a sailor
sewed  woollen  signal flags,  ancient windows in deep niches from which the
sea  seemed  altogether  different and unfamiliar,  luring  one  to  explore
far-off lands.
     The sailor examined the cloth and praised it. He would make the blouse,
but  his charge would be five rubles. Gavrik shoved Petya aside, looked hard
at the  sailor, shook his head reproachfully, and said that one ruble  would
be far too  much. They bargained a long time, and finally the sailor said he
would do the job for  two rubles, and only  because  Petya was "one  of us."
What this meant Petya did not understand.
     The sailor  then wiped the lid of  a large  sea  chest with his sleeve,
said, "Sit down,  boys," and went to fetch a copper kettle of boiling water.
They drank tea  from  tin mugs, sucking lumps of sugar  and eating tasty rye
bread that the sailor  cut  off in large  slices,  pressing  the loaf to his
brawny chest.
     Gavrik and  the  sailor  kept up  a  grave conversation  over tea, and,
judging by what was said, Petya concluded that the sailor-Gavrik called  him
"Uncle Fedya"-knew Terenty's family well and was actually a distant relative
on  his mother's  side.  The  conversation was mostly about family and money
matters. However, from  certain hints and veiled  expressions, Petya divined
that there was another bond between Terenty and Uncle Fedya. Petya could not
quite get the hang of it, but  he vaguely  felt a long-forgotten echo of the
terrible and troubled air of 1905.
     At last Uncle  Fedya pulled out a decrepit  oilcloth tape-measure  with
the numbers all worn off,  measured Petya, and  promised to  have the blouse
ready  in three days.  He  was as good as his  word.  In addition, he made a
sailor's  cap for the boy with the left-over cloth, and  attached an old St.
George ribbon with long ends to it. The cap was free of charge.
     Petya had a look at himself in the crooked little  mirror  that hung on
the wall next  to a coloured  print of Taras Shevchenko  and could not  hold
back the happy, radiant smile that spread across his face all the way to his
ears.


        DEPARTURE


     Unexpected  complications  set in when  they  applied to the  chief  of
police  for  travel  passports.  Vasily  Petrovich  had  to  submit  written
statements testifying to his loyalty to the state. This was  not  as easy as
it  seemed.  He  filled out  the application  forms, and four  days later an
officer from the Alexandrovsky police-station  knocked at the door  with two
witnesses in order to proceed with the inquiry. The mere mention of the word
"inquiry" irritated Vasily Petrovich. And when the inquisitor plumped into a
chair in the  dining-room  where he spread his greasy folders and put down a
spill-proof ink-well on the clean table-cloth, and in an official tone asked
all kinds of stupid  questions about sex, age, religious  affiliation, rank,
title, etc., Vasily Petrovich felt like throwing him out; but he  controlled
himself and  endured the grilling. He signed  his name to the inquiry paper,
next to  the illegible  scrawl  of janitor Akimov, one of the witnesses, and
the flourishing signature of the other witness, an insipid, pimply young man
in a technical-school cap with two crossed hammers over the peak.
     Soon  afterwards  a  policeman  came with  a  notice  requesting Vasily
Petrovich  to  appear  before  the  chief of  police. Vasily Petrovich  duly
appeared  and  had a  talk with the chief  in his office.  They  discussed a
variety of subjects, mostly political, and Vasily Petrovich explained why he
had  left  his  job with the  Ministry of Education.  They parted on amiable
terms.
     But that was  not  all. Vasily Petrovich  had  to  submit a mountain of
documents:  his   service  record,   birth  certificate,  his  wife's  death
certificate, etc., etc. This  took much time  and energy  and caused endless
frustration. All the copies  had to be  letter-perfect before they  could be
notarised. Petya tagged along with his father on this dreary roundabout.
     How unbearable  were  those typing bureaus where sour  and arrogant old
maids  in squeaking corsets  would get  up from behind their  Underwoods and
Remingtons,  haughtily  survey  Vasily  Petrovich and  rudely  announce that
nothing  could  be done  before another  week! How tired  they  were  of the
stifling, deserted summer streets, criss-crossed by  the latticed sh