ort bursts
of  escaping steam, a chain rattled,  and  steel  rods moved in their  oiled
grooves  along the sides, slightly turning the rudder.  That  meant that the
ship had yawed and the helmsman was bringing her back.
     There was something strange about the fact that the ship sailing on its
course should suddenly  yaw. What  mysterious  forces of nature could affect
its simple mechanical movement? The wind? Currents? The motion of the Earth?
Petya did not know the answer, but the realization that these unknown forces
existed and were constantly at work all around him, and that it was possible
to overcome them,  instilled in Petya a great respect for the helmsman and a
still greater respect for the compass at which he glanced from time to time.
     For the first time in his life Petya really grasped the full meaning of
this wonderful,  simple  instrument,  invented  by  man's genius  to  battle
against the dark  forces of nature. A brass bowl on a cast-iron stand  stood
alongside  the wheel, and a brightly illumined dial set on a thin pin seemed
to be  floating freely inside  it under  a glass cover. The disk, or compass
card,  was divided into  points,  degrees, and  fractions  of  degrees.  The
navigator had laid a copper ruler to point out their course,  and the moment
the  ship  veered ever  so slightly  the  markings on the  disk moved out of
place:  then the helmsman, by turning the wheel, would bring them into place
again.
     The copper ruler was now pointing  towards Naples.  Although everything
around them was as black as  the bottom of la coal-pit, the ship raced ahead
unerringly,  at  full  speed,   making  up  for  the  time  lost  at   their
ports-of-call.
     Suddenly Petya noticed a strange light away on the  horizon. It did not
look  like a lighthouse  or like  the glow  of an  approaching ship. It  was
almost red and very uneven. It shone  for a while  and went out; two minutes
later  it would flare up again,  shine and go out again; and so it continued
at regular  intervals-a  rhythmic  appearing and  disappearing, but  growing
bigger all the  time. It was as if someone had  put a smouldering matchstick
in his mouth, and the breathing- made the little ember glow brightly.
     By now the waves and the edges of a dark night  cloud were brushed with
light, and a blast of heat seemed to come from the direction of the glow.
     "What can it be?" Petya exclaimed in a frightened voice.
     "Stromboli," a familiar voice answered. This was the first mate who had
just  come up on the  spar-deck. "Il  famoso vulcano Stromboli"  he repeated
solemnly and handed Petya his large sea binoculars, the dark lenses of which
reflected the red glow of Stromboli.
     They were  passing the volcano  now and Petya looked at  it through the
binoculars. Just then  a flame shot up,  as if  coming from  the  pipe  of a
samovar. The fire illuminated the edge of the crater, and Petya even thought
he heard an underwater rumbling and felt a wave of volcanic heat, but it was
only his fancy.
     Before  long Stromboli had  slipped  behind; however, its  fiery breath
could be seen through the pitch darkness, casting a grim light on  the waves
and clouds.
     Petya  was  in  ecstasy:  he  had  just  seen  with  his  own   eyes  a
fire-spouting  mountain, a real, genuine volcano! It  wasn't every schoolboy
who could  boast  of having seen one.  Schoolboy-why,  probably not  even  a
single  teacher  had ever  been  so near  to a  real volcano!  Not even  the
geography  teacher. Not  even the head  of the school. Maybe the head of the
Education Department  had seen  one, but certainly not the school inspector.
What would Auntie say when she found out he had seen a volcano! And what  la
fuss their friends would make! This time not  even  Gavrik would wrinkle  up
his  nose  disdainfully,  spit through his  teeth  and  say,  "Now  tell  me
another." Too bad  there were no witnesses except the helmsman and the first
mate. Perhaps though  it was  even better that  Daddy and  Pavlik  had slept
through it all.  This  time  Petya would  be cock of the walk of  the Bachei
family.
     Petya  waited  until the volcano had disappeared  completely  and  then
rushed below anticipating his triumph and Pavlik's humiliation when he would
burst into the cabin and say, "I've just seen a volcano-you've slept through
the whole thing!"
     But the triumph was not to be: all the  other passengers had  long been
lining the rails, and Pavlik,  who  had been awakened by his  waiter friend,
was standing at the stern, his chin pressed against the rail, trying to look
interested while Vasily Petrovich  lectured in popular vein  on  the volcano
they had just observed.
     Thereupon  Petya went below  to the  cabin  to  be the first  to inform
Auntie of the great event. He rummaged in his  rucksack and found the nicest
of all  the  Constantinople postcards with a picture of the Galata Tower  on
it, and wrote: "Dear  Auntie! You'll never guess  what happened! Of  course,
you won't believe me, but I've just seen a  real, active volcano with my own
eyes!"
     Petya paused, made a bargain with his conscience, and resolutely added:
"It was erupting!"
     By this time  Petya  was really  convinced that  the  volcano had  been
erupting.  When  he  had  snatched  up  his  pencil,  he was  bursting  with
impressions  and was  ready  to fill up  every inch of space on the postcard
with a magnificent description of a volcano erupting in the open sea. But no
sooner  had he  written the first  majestic  sentences  than his inspiration
petered out.
     To tell the truth, Pliny the Younger had already described  an erupting
volcano and  Petya, having  read the description  in his geography textbook,
did not feel like competing with one  of Rome's  finest  writers, especially
since  Pliny  had described something that he had witnessed,  whereas  Petya
would have to describe what he had not seen.
     And so after the words "It was erupting!" he added: "Your loving nephew
Petya," and hid the postcard in the rucksack, hoping to post it at the first
opportunity.
     Thus,  if Petya's description of the erupting volcano  lacked something
of  Pliny's accuracy, its truly classical  laconism  left the great writer's
effort very much in the shade.



        NAPLES AND THE NEAPOLITANS


     A number of rocky islands  were sighted during  the day. Bathed  in the
silver light of the  noonday sun, they seemed like some ethereal silhouettes
of  varying  shades  of deep blue: the  nearer  ones a darker hue, the  more
distant-lighter.  The  Palermo  was  steaming   full  speed  ahead.  It  had
disembarked the last of the  steerage passengers, its freight decks had been
swabbed  and scrubbed white, the  copper coamings  and  ladders were shining
brightly, the  lifeboats  and  lifebuoys had  had a fresh coat of paint, the
Italian flag was fluttering in the  breeze; the Palermo again became a spick
and span ocean liner.
     "There's  Capri,  and Ischia, and Procida," Vasily Petrovich called out
the  names  of  the islands  they were passing as they  entered the  Bay  of
Naples.
     "Vesuvius!" Pavlik shouted at the top of his lungs. True enough, it was
Vesuvius. The grey-blue silhouette of the twin peaks, with  sulphurous smoke
pouring out  of one of  them,  was outlined  sharply  in the bright haze. It
melted before their eyes, vanished into thin air, and revealed a panorama of
the city and hundreds of ships at anchor in the harbour.
     A flock of gulls attacked the Palermo. The graceful white birds floated
on outspread wings, snatching at  shreds of greens thrown out of the kitchen
porthole. To  tell the  truth, Petya  was already  bored  with the ship.  At
first, when  everything had been new and mysterious, it had fascinated  him;
now, however, at the end of the long  voyage, it no longer  interested  him.
But when he set foot on the paved yard of the Naples custom-house,  he, like
the Prisoner of Chillon, suddenly regretted his prison.
     He felt, after all, that he did  not want  to part  with the ship, with
its wonderful places, strange smells, and the  long, narrow, unpainted beech
deck planks caulked with tar and scrubbed clean with sand.
     During the customs  inspection  Petya  was  terrified lest  the Italian
inspector  find  the letter in  his  rucksack. However, the more than meagre
baggage of the Bachei family was completely ignored by the customs officers.
     The official did not even glance at the unique concoction of the Odessa
harness-and-luggage industry as he passed  by. All he did was jab his  thumb
in it, and the agent following him  drew a circle in chalk  on each of their
bags. The Bacheis were now free to pick up their things and go.
     There was something humiliating in this official  disdain, for they did
examine  the other passengers' baggage.  These  were  mainly  the  expensive
trunks and suitcases of the first-class passengers,  covered with  gay hotel
labels. The  officials  minutely examined the exquisite clothing, pulled out
Syrian  shawls,  crystal humidors  of  Turkish tobacco,  and  round  jars of
Russian caviar, and respectfully demanded duty.
     Vasily Petrovich  and  the  boys  hoisted their Alpine  bags  with some
effort and hauled the bursting  sack  out  on to  the scorching square. They
were immediately  surrounded by a crowd of screeching hotel agents. Each had
a  gold-braided  cap with the name of his hotel  on the peak. Petya had once
witnessed a similar scene at the  Odessa  railway station, whither  they had
gone to meet Grandma. It had amused  him to see a swarm of vociferous agents
dragging at the coat-tails of a protesting gentleman clutching his umbrella.
     But the  Odessa agents were no match for their  Neapolitan  colleagues.
The Neapolitans were three times  more numerous and four times as audacious.
They  shrieked as they attacked Vasily Petrovich: "Grand-Hotel! Continental!
Livorno! Vesuvio! Hotel di Roma! Hotel di  Firenze! Hotel di  Venezia!" They
brandished wads of brightly illustrated prospectuses and promised fabulously
low rates, unheard-of comforts, suites facing Vesuvius, family table d'hote,
breakfasts thrown in, and excursions to Pompeii.
     Vasily  Petrovich  waved  frantically to  a  group  of porters  in blue
blouses  with  badges on  their chests  who were  sitting on the flagstones,
utterly indifferent to the massacre of defenceless tourists by hotel agents.
Vasily  Petrovich  tried to break  through to the  cabmen. He was successful
too, but they were as impassive as the porters: they sat on their high boxes
with meters, smoking long, foul-smelling cigars, and not one of them offered
Vasily Petrovich a helping hand.
     On the contrary, when  he had finally managed to gain the lower step of
one of the cabs, the cabman  glared at him, snatched off his  well-worn felt
hat, shook it menacingly at Vasily Petrovich and screamed, "No, signor, no!"
so that Vasily Petrovich was forced to retreat.
     There  was  something sinister  about  the strange indifference  of the
cabmen and porters. Vasily Petrovich did not know what to make of  it. Later
on  they  found out that they  had arrived in Naples the  day the  coachmen,
porters,  and  tramway  workers  had  struck work  in  protest  against  the
government's preparations for war with Turkey.
     But this did  not  help the Bacheis  very much,  for the hotel  agents,
apparently satisfied that Italy should conquer  Tripoli, were not on strike.
Despite his deep dislike of the police, Vasily Petrovich  was about ready to
appeal  to two carabineers  for help. They  were as alike as peas in a  pod:
both wore three-cornered  hats and black  trousers with red stripes down the
sides, both had the  same type of moustache  and both  had big noses. But at
that moment things took a different turn.
     A small, fat, shrewd hotel agent  had the bright idea that the way to a
father's heart lay through his love for his son. He hoisted a kicking Pavlik
on to one shoulder, the plaid rucksack  on to the other, and made off down a
side-street. Vasily Petrovich and Petya dashed after him, but it took them a
good forty minutes  of fast sprinting  to catch  up  with  him at  the Hotel
Esplanade.
     When he had finally deposited Pavlik and the rucksack in the lobby, the
agent hung his cap up on a peg over the desk and was immediately transformed
from agent  into owner  of  the  establishment.  It turned out  that he also
personified four  others: waiter, chef, lift-boy  and porter-in other words,
he was the entire personnel of the hotel, not counting the chamber-maid  and
cashier- posts held by his wife.
     The Hotel Esplanade was located between a second-hand clothing shop and
an eating-house in an alley so narrow that no two carriages could  ever pass
each other  there. This,  however,  was a  minor  detail, for the  alley was
actually a large stairway of  wide  and worn stone slabs.  Garments of every
hue were drying on the clotheslines strung between  the tall, narrow houses,
and  although  Naples  was  resplendent in the radiant colours  of June, the
alley was dark and damp; even a green  gas-lamp  shone in the  window of the
eating-house.
     Hotel  Esplanade  boasted  but four  rooms,  all  of  them  facing  the
glassed-in gallery of the courtyard  which was very much like the courtyards
in  the  older  parts  of Odessa-the only  difference  being that  here  the
flowering oleanders and azaleas grew not out of green tubs, but straight out
of the  ground, and the garbage heap was full of oyster shells, red crayfish
shells, and squeezed-out lemons,  in addition to green vegetable parings and
fish entrails.  When Vasily Petrovich  saw the two forbidding canopied beds,
the chipped iron wash-basin adorned with views of the Bay of Naples, and the
wallpaper which  told  only too well of bedbugs, he grabbed up his rucksack,
ready to  run from  the den, but his  tired legs failed him. He sank  into a
wobbly chair, took out  his Italian phrase-book,  and  began bargaining. The
proprietor  insisted  on ten  lire a day, Vasily Petrovich offered one. They
finally settled for three, which was only one lira more than  it should have
cost.  They  were  now free to  begin the sightseeing. But Vasily  Petrovich
suddenly felt  too  tired to get up from his chair. Now only  did he realize
how  exhausting the  long sea voyage  had  been, although  it had seemed  so
pleasant and comfortable. With  an effort he reached  the  bed and lay there
all in, wiping the glasses of his pince-nez with his handkerchief.
     "I think," he said, addressing the boys with an apologetic smile, "I'll
have a nap. You should  have forty  winks too. Take off your sandals and lie
down for a bit."
     Pavlik, who  could hardly  keep his eyes  open,  began  taking off  his
sandals. Petya, however,  was dying to see the city. He wanted  to  send off
his  correspondence: the letter Gavrik had given him and the postcard he had
written  to  Auntie,  describing  the  "eruption" of  Stromboli. Father  was
opposed  to the idea, but Petya  said with such assurance that he  wasn't  a
baby and looked so deeply pious  as he faced the crucifix,  crossed himself,
and  promised he'd  be  back the  minute he bought  the  stamp, that  Vasily
Petrovich finally agreed and gave him a silver lira for the stamps. Pavlik's
eyes turned green at  the sight of it. "What about me?" he said, buckling on
his sandals.
     "You should go to sleep," Petya answered coldly.
     "I'm not asking you, I'm asking- Daddy."
     "God forbid!" Father was aghast at the mere thought.
     "I like  that," Pavlik said, his  face all screwed  up, just in case he
might have to start crying at a moment's notice.
     "What do you mean-I like that?" Father asked sternly.
     "Petka can go and I've got to stay in?"
     "First of  all, don't say, 'I like  that.' It's about time you  learned
how to behave, and secondly, say, 'Petya, 'riot ' Petka.' "
     "All right," Pavlik agreed readily. "But if Petya can go, why can't I?"
     "Because Petya's older than you are."
     Pavlik hated that argument. No matter how much he grew, or  how hard he
tried, he was always smaller than Petya.
     "It's not my fault that Petya's older," he whined. "He goes everywhere,
but I can't go anywhere!"
     "I have a special reason  for going. I have my correspondence to attend
to, while  you just want  to come along to make mischief," Petya said in his
haughtiest voice.
     "Maybe I have correspondence too? Daddy, please, let me go!"
     "It's out  of  the  question!"  Father  said resolutely,  and  Pavlik's
spirits rose.
     As a rule, after saying, "It's out of the question," Father would pause
arid add, "but if  you give me your word that you'll behave..." or something
to that effect.  And so  to speed things up,  Pavlik shammed a fit of tears,
stealing looks at Father out of the corner of his eye. He knew his daddy.
     "However," Vasily  Petrovich said, unable to  stand the tears, "if  you
promise to-"
     "Oh, I swear by the Holy Cross!" Pavlik said quickly -and blundered.
     Father frowned.
     "How many times have I told you never  to  swear! An oath  degrades the
person who takes it. When you promise  something, it is enough to  give your
word. Any  decent  person's  word can only  be  sacred.  So',  one's word is
enough."
     "I give you my word," Pavlik said triumphantly, buckling a sandal, and,
in his haste, made another blunder.
     "What do you give me your word about?"
     "That I'll behave."
     "That's the main thing. And don't move an inch from Petya."
     "I won't."
     "You won't what?"
     "I won't move an inch from Petya," Pavlik said.
     "Very well then."
     "And  tell him  to listen to me," Petya added,  "otherwise I won't take
him, because he'll surely get lost and I'll be responsible for him."
     "I won't get lost," Pavlik said.
     "Yes, you will! You always get lost!"
     "Who got lost last time, in Odessa, when we nearly got left behind, and
when Auntie was so worried she nearly went crazy?"
     "Fibber!"
     "I'm not fibbing."
     "Now then, children, no quarrelling!"
     "It's not me, it's Petka."
     "In that case, you'll both stay in."
     "No, Daddy!" Pavlik pleaded. "I give you my word I'll behave."
     "And do what you're told?" Petya asked.
     "Yes," Pavlik answered.
     "Without fail?"
     "Yes." Pavlik sounded slightly annoyed.
     "Don't forget, now!" Petya said pompously and severely.
     "All right, run along,"  Father mumbled sleepily as he curled up on the
bed under the ridiculous canopy. "And for heaven's sake don't  get lost," he
added in a barely audible whisper.
     He was snoring before Petya and Pavlik got to the bottom of the stairs.
     Of course, they got lost.
     Once out  in the street, Petya  took  Pavlik  by the  hand. Pavlik  was
furious, but could not -say a thing, since he had memorized Father's saying,
"If you've given your word, keep it."
     The first thing was  to buy a stamp. This was not as simple a matter as
in Russia, where lots of shops sold  postage stamps. Shops  were not lacking
here, but  none of them sold stamps. In fact, the shopkeepers could not even
understand what it was that Petya wanted, although he glibly rattled off the
Italian he had learned on the ship.
     "Prego, signor,"  Petya .said  bravely, but there was a frightened look
in  his eyes, "prego, signor... una, una  ..." However, he could not explain
what the "una" he wanted was, because he did not  know  the word for "stamp"
in Italian.
     He  would then pull out  the envelope, spit on  his  finger, and give a
wonderful performance of sticking an imaginary stamp on an envelope.  "Don't
you see, una stamp.  Una stamp." At which point the shopkeeper would gesture
dramatically  in the  true  Neapolitan  manner  and  hold  forth volubly  in
language  that  left Petya  bewildered.  This scene was repeated  about  ten
times,  until, finally,  after  they  had  gone  up  and down  three or four
streets, the  owner of a wine-vault  that was  bedecked inside and out  with
clusters of mandolin-shaped  raffia-covered bottles  took them to the corner
and pointed far off into the distance. He accompanied  the gesture by a long
theatrical monologue; the  only two words Petya  was able  to  make out were
posta centrals, that is, the central post-office.
     The boys  set  out  in the  direction indicated.  Petya  would  stop  a
passer-by occasionally and, bestowing a severe look on Pavlik, would ask:
     "Prego, signor, la posta centrale?"
     Some of the passers-by understood him, some did not, but all were eager
to help the two young foreigners who wanted to buy stamps.
     The Neapolitans  proved to  be  splendid  people-kind and warm-hearted,
though somewhat  fussy. They  were  not  a bit like  the Neapolitans of  the
pictures: handsome men  in short  trousers and wide crimson  sashes with red
kerchiefs on  their  curly  heads and  ravishingly  beautiful women  in lace
mantillas.
     They were very  ordinary-looking people; the men wore black jackets and
faded hats, the women, black blouses and no hats. All the men  had one thing
in common: no shirt collars-just a stud  at the neck in front of their  open
shirts; the women wore coral ornaments.
     They took the greatest interest in Petya and Pavlik,  they forgot about
their own affairs, and a large, noisy crowd gathered to take the boys to the
post-office.  The  gathering  stopped  at  every corner  and  had  a  heated
discussion as to which street to take next.
     They  threw torrents of words at each other as they dragged the boys in
different  directions  and if the boys had not been holding on to each other
so persistently, they most certainly would have been dragged apart. More and
more people  joined the crowd. Ragged, olive-skinned street urchins,  lively
as little devils, ran before  the crowd as if they were accompanying a band.
An old  organ-grinder  with  a  long,  foul-smelling  cigar stuck under  his
yellow-white moustache trailed along at the end of the procession.
     They were now walking down the middle of  the street. People peered out
of  windows, curious to know what it was  all about;  when  they  found out,
they, too,  would  gesticulate  wildly,  pointing out  the  shortest way.  A
kind-hearted signorina  wiped Pavlik's  hot  neck  with her handkerchief and
called him bambino.
     Stray dogs, every bit  as  nasty as those  in Constantinople,  attached
themselves to the  throng. The whole business was developing  into a  street
scandal.
     Petya was becoming nervous. The only thing that kept him going  was the
knowledge  that he, as the elder brother, was responsible  to his father for
Pavlik's  safety.  He rattled off his Italian,  mixing  it with French words
from Margot's French textbook and Russian exclamations.
     "Si, signorino, si, signorino," the Neapolitans said soothingly, seeing
how excited he was.
     At the same time, Petya was taking in all he could of  the famous city.
At first they passed through narrow, dark alleys, with iron gas-lamps on the
walls  of  the houses. Then  they suddenly  came  out upon a dazzling  white
square  with a fountain and an  ancient  church, through  the open doors  of
which came the solemn sounds of an organ.
     Once they caught  a fleeting glimpse of the  unbelievably blue sea, the
beach, and a  row of stately, hairy date-palms in the distance. They crossed
a busy shopping centre. Then they skirted a bleak monastery wall with a huge
statue of a saint in a niche. They went up and down steep  street stairways,
past tall, narrow houses where  some of the windows with green shutters were
real,  the others  painted on for the sake of symmetry, but so expertly done
that one could hardly tell the difference.



        ALEXEI MAXIMOVICH


     They  reached a  street which  was blocked  completely by a long row of
empty  tram-cars. Striking  conductors  and drivers,  carrying their leather
bags and brass keys, were walking  up and down, exchanging  a few words with
the passers-by.
     The moment the crowd accompanying the boys saw the tram-cars, they lost
all interest in the young foreigners. Attention was now focussed entirely on
the  strikers, especially  as the first rows  of demonstrators, carrying red
and black flags,  portraits  and slogans, appeared  at the  far  end  of the
street.
     The people  rushed towards them, leaving the boys to their own devices.
Pavlik grasped Petya's hand and watched the demonstrators approach.
     Grim-looking bearded men in wide-brimmed hats carried a black flag with
a white inscription, and portraits of other bearded  men, among whom Pavlik,
much to his surprise, recognized Lev Tolstoi.
     Behind the bearded men came others with shaven chins and in small caps.
They carried a red flag and the portraits of two more bearded men whom Petya
had never seen before. These were Marx and Engels.
     The  people  in  the  demonstration  were  workers,  porters,  stokers,
sailors, and shop assistants. They wanted to keep  in slow step, but  it was
no good,  the more they  tried, the  more they quickened their pace to their
natural Italian tempo.
     They waved their hats and walking-sticks and shouted out slogans:
     "Long  live socialism!  Workers of  the  world,  unite!  Down  with war
expenditures! Down with the government of war! We want peace!"
     Passers-by  joined  the  demonstration.  Many  of  them  were  wheeling
bicycles. Street vendors  pushed  their handcarts. The old organ-grinder had
joined them, too. Everything was bathed  in the rosy glow of sunset, lending
a theatrical  setting to the scene, but  still Petya was greatly alarmed. He
squeezed Pavlik's hand, and his alarm was transmitted to Pavlik.
     "Petka," he shouted, "this is a revolution!"
     "No, it's a demonstration," Petya said. "Who cares-let's run!"
     But they were now caught up in the crowd and had no idea how to get out
or which way to run.
     Just then  they  heard  loud voices behind  them,  speaking Russian.  A
number  of  people, including a boy Petya's age in  a  jacket, were elbowing
their way through the crowd, closer to the marchers.  The boy  in the jacket
had a high forehead and a duck-like nose with drops of perspiration  on  it;
he was  pushing and shoving with  all his might.  A thin  man with  a yellow
moustache above  a shaven chin, wearing a cream-coloured summer coat and cap
all awry, apparently the boy's  father, had a  firm grip on his shoulder and
kept repeating in a hollow bass voice:
     "Take  it easy, Max, take it easy!" He stretched his long, sinewy  neck
over the heads of the crowd and looked sharply ahead; although urging Max to
take it easy, he himself, apparently,  was unable  to follow this advice. At
times he would turn around and shout to someone behind, accenting his o's in
a Nizhny-Novgorod fashion.
     "Come    closer,    gentlemen!    Come    closer.   Last   year   these
anarchist-syndicalists were lying on the tracks blocking the  way with their
bodies, but  look  at them  today. There's  a  world of  difference in their
tactics!"
     "Yes, you're  right!" a man in a pince-nez  and panama  replied rolling
his r's and swallowing the endings of the words. "This  proves my point that
although Russia has  become the centre of  revolution since 1905, still, the
consolidation of the European proletariat is progressing rapidly. I beg your
pardon," he said  to Petya in passing,  as the  sleeve of  his ample  jacket
brushed against the boy's head.
     He  was followed by  another Russian in a cheap, ill-fitting suit and a
new felt  hat  on his round,  firmly-set head. The  new-comer had  a  bamboo
walking-stick on his arm and forged ahead, cutting his way through the crowd
with his bulging chest; he saw only the demonstrators who seemed to draw his
whole  being irrepressibly. His knitted  eyebrows,  twitching face  muscles,
parted lips, and small angry eyes-all seemed strangely familiar to Petya.
     The arm with the bamboo cane thrust Petya aside, and the boy had a good
look at  the short fingers, the thick, square-cut nails, the white knuckles,
and an anchor tattooed on the bulging muscle between thumb and forefinger.
     Petya had no time to wonder why the little faded  blue anchor seemed so
familiar or who these Russians were  and what they were doing here,  because
the crowd swayed and surged first to the right, then to the left, and  Petya
caught a glimpse of the three-cornered hats  and narrow  red stripes on  the
trousers of  the  carabineers at the far end of the street. He saw the black
plumes of the bersaglieri's hats as they passed on the double, rifles at the
ready.
     A harsh,  menacing bugle  blast pierced the  air.  For a split second a
hush descended on the crowd. It was broken by the sound of shattering glass,
and then  everything  spun around  in a howling, screaming, wailing, running
mass.
     Several shots rang out.
     Petya  and Pavlik  were  swept away  by the stampede; they  held  hands
tightly, trying to keep together. Petya forgot that they were abroad  and at
any minute he  expected to see Cossacks gallop out of a side-street, lashing
out left and right with their whips. He thought he was running down Odessa's
Malaya Arnautskaya,  an impression heightened by  the fact that  here,  too,
they were treading on scattered chestnuts.
     Someone knocked Pavlik over.  He fell and skinned  his  knee, but Petya
pulled him to his  feet  and  dragged him on. Pavlik  was so scared  that he
forgot to cry, he kept repeating:
     "Run! Hurry, let's run!"
     Finally,  they were swept  into  a  narrow courtyard  paved  with  worn
flagstones and cluttered with dustbins. There were lovely iron grates on the
ground-floor windows. The boys ran under a dirty marble archway, where  each
step rang and resounded like a pistol shot, and found themselves out  in the
street,  opposite  a  small  park on  a  steep  slope.  Several people  were
scrambling up the dark,  weathered  stones that covered the  slope. This was
all that was left of the  crowd  that had swept them into the courtyard. The
boys began to climb  the slope too, but it was  much steeper and higher than
it had seemed. A marble lion's head jutted  out of the wall, and a stream of
water spurted from  an iron pipe in  the lion's  mouth into a marble  basin.
Petya  edged Pavlik towards the basin and  tried to  push him up. But Pavlik
could not get a grip.
     "Come  on, climb up!"  Petya  shouted. "You clumsy  ox!" Just then more
people ran out of the marble gateway. These were the Russians-the boy in the
short jacket and the three men Petya had seen in the crowd.
     The boy was tugging his father along by the sleeve, but the father kept
stopping and turning back. His fists  were clenched and his cap had slid  to
the back  of his  head; a shock of yellow hair  showed from under the tilted
peak; his moustache bristled and his blue eyes burned with an angry fire.
     "Do you  want to be killed? Come on," the boy was saying, as he hung on
to him tightly, "take it easy!"
     "Alexei Maximovich, you're much too reckless! You have no right to take
such a risk!" the man in the pince-nez said, rubbing his bruised shoulder.
     "I'll  be damned if  I don't go back and give  that long-nosed idiot in
the striped  trousers one in  the face!" Alexei Maximovich  muttered in  his
deep voice. "I'll teach him to respect women!" A fit of coughing reduced him
to silence.
     The boy  in the  short jacket  was  holding on grimly to  his  father's
sleeve. The man with the anchor on his  hand  also seemed ready to dash back
into the fray and restrained himself with difficulty.
     "Come on, climb, Pavlik!" Petya shouted  desperately. At the  sound  of
his voice the Russians turned to him.
     "Look, Russians!" the boy said.
     "What are you doing here?" the man in the pince-nez said sternly.
     The man with the anchor on his hand scaled the wall as nimbly as a cat,
extended  his  bamboo cane, and helped the others up, one  by one, including
Petya and a tear-stained Pavlik.
     It  was so calm and  peaceful there, it was difficult to imagine that a
few moments before,  somewhere  nearby, soldiers and  carabineers  had  been
breaking up  the demonstration, broken glass had  jangled  on  the pavement,
people had fallen, and the revolvers had barked in the streets.
     Alexei Maximovich looked at Petya and Pavlik quizzically.
     "Well, young gentlemen of the Russian Empire, and what may you be doing
here?"
     Feeling  that they were  now among fellow-countrymen, the boys' spirits
rose.  They kept interrupting  each other  in their  haste  to  relate their
adventures, but  all the  while  Petya had the feeling that somehow the men-
Alexei Maximovich and the one with the anchor on his hand-were familiar.  No
matter how he strained his memory he could not place  Alexei Maximovich, but
he  soon remembered and recognized the other,  although he  could  not quite
believe it at first.
     "Well, well,  you travellers, things aren't so bad," Alexei  Maximovich
said. "One skinned knee for the two of you. It could have been much worse."
     With these words he gathered Pavlik  under  his arm  ' and  carried him
over to the fountain. He washed his knee thoroughly, bandaged it swiftly and
tightly with a handkerchief, set the boy down, and  told him to walk up  and
down.
     "Fine! You can return to the ranks now. First  rinse your face and paws
in  the basin,  though, or you'll  really frighten your father. By the  way,
what's your name?"
     "Pavlik."
     "And your brother's?"
     "Petya."
     "Excellent. Max, come over here. I  have a job for  you. Take these two
Apostles-Peter and Paul-to the post-office, help them buy a stamp,  drop the
letter in the letter-box, tell them how to get back to their hotel, and come
back as fast as you can, otherwise we'll miss the boat. Arrivederci, signori
Apostles,  bon voyage!" he said, shaking  hands with  Petya and Pavlik.  His
large graceful hand was saffron-yellow from the sun.
     "Merci," the  well-brought-up  Pavlik answered, awkwardly  scraping his
bandaged leg.
     "Come on," the boy said, shepherding the two  of them. "The post-office
is only about five minutes' walk from here."
     "You probably don't remember me, but I recognized you," Petya wanted to
say as he went up to the man with the anchor on his hand; however, something
held  him back.  He said nothing and  looked -straight into the man's  eyes.
"Maybe  he'll  recognize  me  too,"  he  thought  anxiously.  But  the  man,
evidently, did not recognize him, though he noticed his blouse, fingered the
material, and said:
     "Where was it made?"
     "In the tailor's shop of the Naval Battalion," Petya answered.
     "I can see that right away. Regulation stuff!"
     It seemed to Petya that there was no mirth in his chuckle.
     "Come on, fellows, let's go!" the boy said.  "We've  got to get back to
Capri."
     The post-office really  was  a stone's throw  away;  however,  the boys
managed to talk a few things over on the way.
     "What's your name?" Petya asked.
     "Max."
     "But Max and Moritz,  seeing  that, climbed the  roof to  get the hat,"
Petya recited from a well-known  illustrated  children's book  of the day by
Wilhelm Busch.
     "Trying to  be funny?"  Max said  menacingly. He was apparently sick of
being teased about his name, and he dug Petya lightly in the ribs.
     Of  course, in other circumstances, Petya  would  never have let such a
thing pass, but this time he decided not to make a fuss about it.
     "Who's your father?" he asked, changing the subject.
     "You mean you don't know my father?" Max appeared to be surprised.
     "Why should I know him?" Petya asked.
     "Well,  because everyone seems to know him," Max mumbled in  confusion.
He had a bad habit of mumbling, and he always spoke as if he were sucking on
a sweet.
     "Who is he, then?"
     "A dyer," Max answered.
     "You're fibbing!" Petya said.
     "Honestly, he's a dyer," Max insisted,  sucking on the imaginary sweet.
"Don't you believe me? Ask anyone. He's a dyer and his name is Peshkov."
     "Quit fibbing! Dyers aren't like that."
     "There are all kinds of dyers."
     "If he's a dyer, what is he doing here, in Italy?"
     "He lives here."
     "Why doesn't he live in Russia?"
     "Curiosity killed the cat."
     There  was  something  in the  way he said  the  familiar  phrase  that
reminded Petya of Gavrik, Near Mills, Terenty,  and Sinichkin-of  everything
associated in  his  mind with the  word  "revolution." Now  it had  suddenly
reared up before him here, in Naples, in the immobile tram-cars, the running
crowd,  the sound of shattering  glass, the shots,  the sinister  blue-black
plumes on the bersaglieri's hats, the flags, the portraits, and, finally, at
the sight of the man with the anchor on his hand, for he  had recognized the
sailor from the Potetnkin.
     Petya wanted to  ask Max  how Rodion Zhukov  happened  to be in Naples,
about the man in the pince-nez, and what they were all  doing in  Italy, but
at that moment they stopped outside the post-office.
     "Let's have the correspondence," Max said.
     "What for?" Petya asked suspiciously.
     "Come on, hand it over! I haven't time to argue. Where is it going?"
     "The postcard's for my aunt in Odessa, the letter's going to Paris."
     "To Paris?"
     "Yes."
     "Then we'll send it express."
     "What's express?"
     "Hayseed!"  Max  said,  making sucking noises with his tongue. "Express
means express.  You know, by non-stop express  train. Daddy always sends his
Paris letters by express. Give me the letter."
     Petya hesitated for a moment, then pulled the creased envelope from his
pocket. Max snatched it from him, ran over to the window, and began to speak
a rapid, if lisping, Italian.
     "What  about  the money?" Petya shouted, but instead of  answering, Max
kicked out his foot several times, as much as to say: keep quiet!
     Two minutes later he walked over to Petya and handed him the receipt.
     "What about the money?" Petya repeated.
     "Silly, I send off a dozen letters every day, and 1 have  a whole  heap
of stamps. See?"  He took out a handful  of  stamps from his pocket. "When I
stay  with  Dad  I  always post  his letters for him.  But  how do you  know
Vladimir Ilyich?"
     "Who's Vladimir Ilyich?" Petya asked.
     "Lenin."
     "Who's Lenin?"
     "The man  who  lives in Paris  on Rue Marie  Rose. Ulyanov.  I read the
address on the envelope. The letter's for him, isn't it?"
     "Sure it is!" Petya said. "But I didn't write it."
     "Did  your  father tell you  to  post it?" "No. It  was  given to me in
Odessa. I was asked to post it." And Petya blushed suddenly.  Max nodded his
round head.
     "I know what you mean. Don't look so suspicious.  We often send letters
to Lenin ourselves. That is, my father writes them and I post them off.  And
we always  send them express. Now, tell me where you are  staying."  "At the
Hotel Esplanade."
     Max frowned and that made him look more like his father than ever.
     "I don't think  it's  very far from here.  Go straight down this street
till you come to a fountain, turn left, cross two more streets and you'll be
right in front of your hotel. Arrivederci, I must run now."
     He shook hands with  the two boys hurriedly, crossed the street, turned
the corner, and disappeared behind a painted statue of a Madonna in a niche,
adorned with flowers and lemon branches with tiny green lemons on them.


        VESUVIUS


     Hand it over," Pavlik said as he winced and rubbed his knee.
     "What?"
     "Hand it over!" Pavlik repeated and even stretched out his  hand. "Hand
over half the lira."
     "What are you talking about?"
     ' "About the lira. The one Daddy gave you for the stamp."
     "Oh,  so that's  what you mean! Well, let  me tell you  something." And
Petya put his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers.
     "That's  thieving,"  Pavlik said,  whining  piteously  and throwing out
quick glances.
     "Shut up!" Petya hissed. "All the Italians are watching us."
     "I  don't care! Let them all  see  what a  thief  you are!"  And Pavlik
wailed louder. That was too much for Petya.
     "All right," he said dryly. "If that's the kind of pig you are, you can
have half of it. But we'll have to get it changed first."
     "No, you give me the  lira, and I'll give you fifty centesimos change."
Pavlik rummaged around  under his blouse, felt  something there,  and pulled
out a small silver coin.
     "Where did you  get that?" Petya asked severely in a good imitation  of
Vasily Petrovich's voice.
     "I won it from  the cook on th