oth  were  asleep.
Petya even thought  he could hear deep breathing. The moon shone so brightly
on  the whitewashed walls that they  looked blue, patterned by  the  swaying
shadows of acacias, while the wormwood in which Petya sat gleamed silver.
     Several  times Petya had to change  his position, seeking shadows  that
would hide  him from  the moonlight, and  finally  made so much noise that a
deep sigh sounded from inside and an irritated voice  said, "I'm sure I hear
someone walking round the house all the time."
     Then another voice, soft and sleepy,  replied,  "Go to sleep, Mum, it's
just cats."
     Petya  waited trembling until all was  quiet,  then  he took  from  his
pocket the  note, tied  round  a stone,  and tossed it  in through  the open
window.
     Covered  with cold  sweat he slunk  back. When he at  last  came to his
canvas  bed  and  started silently  undressing, he  heard  Pavlik's  ominous
whisper from under the blanket.
     "Aha! Think  I  don't  know  what  you've been  doing?  Throwing  in  a
note-huh! Thank your stars you didn't get your ears pulled!"
     "You little swine," hissed Petya.
     "You're another," mumbled Pavlik sleepily.


        THE RENDEZVOUS


     It is hard to think how Petya would have got through the  following day
if the watering of the orchard had not started again.
     Petya stood zealously turning the cistern handle to pull up the bucket,
then letting the water out into the tank from which it  was carried all over
the garden. He had himself volunteered for this tiring, monotonous job which
would leave his mind free to think of the rendezvous.
     The unoiled axle of  the  latticed iron  drum  squealed mournfully. The
chain  rattled crisply as it  wound  and  unwound.  The heavy bucket crawled
slowly  up, the  falling  drops  sounding  metallically  hard in the echoing
darkness of the cistern, then it raced  down again, dragging the  wet  chain
after it,  so that the  drum whirled wildly round and one had to  skip aside
pretty quickly to avoid a sharp blow from the handle.
     His arms and back ached, his shirt was soaking, sweat ran down his face
and  dripped from  his chin, but Petya went on working, refusing to rest. He
was  in a state of  bliss which at one moment nearly turned to  despair when
the day darkened, clouds  came rolling up  and a few drops fell, promising a
downpour in the evening that would put any meeting on the steppe out of  the
question.
     However, the rain passed over, the clouds dispersed and towards evening
a cool breeze sprang up-a most fortunate  circumstance, since it allowed him
to put on his cape.
     When Petya, after making a wide detour for  caution's sake, came to the
little path by the cottage, the setting sun was blazing over  the steppe and
his shadow was so long that it looked as though he were on stilts.
     The monastery  bells  were ringing for  vespers. From the distance came
the  melancholy song  of  reapers. The white  wall of the cottage was tinted
pink by the sun and  the  windows were a blinding gold. Petya's  hands  were
like  ice,  and  his  mouth  felt  cold,  as  though  he  had  been  sucking
peppermints.
     Without  any real reason for it, Petya had told  himself that she would
most certainly come. But although he would not for  the  world have admitted
it, a secret doubt lurked at the bottom of his heart.
     He  Lay  prone on the grass, his  chin resting on his fists, staring at
the  cottage as though by sheer force of will he could compel  her now, this
very moment, to  come out on the steppe. Actually, this already was not love
but insistent pride, not passion but obstinacy; it was an aimless turbulence
of spirit, the wish  to bring his ideal down from heaven to earth and assure
himself that Marina was  not a  scrap better  than other girls-for instance,
Motya- probably worse.
     And  yet  his  imagination  still enthroned  her as the  only  one, the
unattainable one,  despite the sty and that chin like the  toe of a shoe-and
perhaps even because of that.
     Suddenly, between waves of despair and hope, he saw the familiar figure
pass the cottage, up to the  waist in wormwood; he  could hardly believe his
eyes,  so great was  his happiness.  Marina came  to him quickly, almost too
quickly, shading her eyes with her hand from the sun that beat straight into
her face.  She was in a  short summer coat with the  collar raised,  and her
hair was done  a  new  way; the same black  bow was  there,  but a  sprig of
jasmine had been added.
     "Good  evening," she  said,  holding out  her hand to Petya.  "I had an
awful  job getting away. You've no idea what  Mum's like. You'll see, she'll
call me back at once. Come along quick."
     She smiled and walked  along the path leading into the steppe, followed
by Petya, who was knocked right off his balance and even disappointed by her
confident ease, and especially by her frankly mischievous smile.
     Whatever he had expected, it had been something very different-shyness,
embarrassment, silent  reproach,  even severity-but most certainly not this.
One might think she had only been  waiting for the chance to run out to meet
a boy! She did not even ask why he  wanted her  to come. And that jasmine in
her hair! Petya could see now that  she was  small only in size, in age  she
must be  fifteen; and  she had  probably had plenty  of  experience  in love
affairs-perhaps she had even been kissed.
     In general, it was as though she had suddenly turned into her own elder
sister.
     "Aren't you hot in that cape?" she asked, glancing round.
     "Aren't you hot in your coat?" Petya retorted dully.
     Evidently she  did  not understand irony,  for  she answered,  "It's  a
summer coat, your cape's a heavy woollen one."
     "A  Swiss  cape,  specially  for the  mountains!" remarked  Petya,  not
without a boastful note.
     "Yes, I see that," answered Marina.
     When they  were a good distance from the  house, they left the path and
strolled  slowly side by side among the suslik holes and wild flowers, which
threw  down long  shadows. For a time  they said nothing,  listening  to the
rustle of the grass and flowers under their feet.
     The sun sank behind a distant barrow. A cool breeze rose.

     "Are you fond of the steppe?" asked Marina.
     "I love the mountains," Petya answered sombrely.
     He had  not  the faintest idea  how he ought to proceed now. He had got
what he wanted, this  was a  real 'rendezvous, it was even more-a long  walk
out  on  the  steppe  at  sunset.  But  all  the  same he  was  awkward  and
embarrassed. In some way  she had got  the upper hand over  him in the first
moment. And well he knew it.
     "I love the steppe," said Marina, "though I like mountains too."
     "No, the mountains are finer," said Petya stubbornly.
     He  had  never in his life found it so difficult to talk to a girl. How
much easier  it had been with Motya,  for  instance.  Of course, Motya loved
him, while this one-you couldn't  guess. ... But the worst  of  all was that
she did not display the faintest desire to know why he had asked her to meet
him. What was that-pretence or indifference?
     With  every  moment  that  passed  he  loved  her  more,  he  was  most
desperately in love. And not at all as he had been  before, he was no longer
in love with a far-away dream, but with an enchantingly close reality.
     As they strolled  along she would now  and  then  give  a  little laugh
without any visible reason, and  that teasing laughter seemed  very familiar
to Petya, although he could not for the life  of him remember where and when
he had heard it.
     "Just wait, my dear," thought Petya, admiring Marina's pretty head with
the  black ribbon and the sprig of jasmine. "Just wait,  we'll see what song
you'll sing in a little while."
     "Just  imagine," he said  with a crooked, sarcastic smile, "once upon a
time I was most tremendously in love with you."
     "You-with me?"  asked Marina  in  surprise and shrugged  her shoulders.
"When could that have been?"
     "A long time ago.  Last year," sighed Petya.  "And you, I suppose,  you
never even guessed?"
     She halted and looked up at him with grave probing eyes.
     "That is quite impossible."
     "But it was so."
     "Where, and when?"
     Petya  looked at her  with  tender reproach  and said very  slowly  and
distinctly, "June. Italy. Naples. The railway station. Can you deny it?"
     In  an  instant  Marina's face changed completely;  she looked serious,
alarmed. Her colour mounted.
     "You're making a mistake," she said curtly,  with a look that seemed to
shut him out  at  once. "We've never been in Italy ... or any other  foreign
country."
     Petya knew this was not true.
     "Yes, you have, you were wearing the same  coat and  the same black bow
in  your hair!" he cried eagerly. "You walked along  the platform  with your
mother. And Maxim Gorky was there. Our train started and I leaned out of the
window and looked at you, and you looked  back at me. Wasn't that so? Didn't
you look at me? Can you deny it?"
     She frowned and shook her head in  silence, but the deep colour did not
leave her face, even her chin was red. She was beginning to be angry.
     "Can you deny it? Can you?" Petya insisted.
     "Nothing of the kind ever happened, you've just dreamed it!"
     "I even know where you were going. Shall I  tell you? Well? To  Paris!"
cried Petya with a kind of bitter triumph.
     She shook her head land the colour began to leave her face.
     "Marie Rose, Longjumeau," said Petya softly, impressively, looking bard
into her eyes and enjoying her discomfiture.
     She turned so pale that Petya was frightened.  Then her face  stiffened
in a look of contempt.
     "You're making it all up,"  she said carelessly and even forced herself
to laugh, a strange laugh that sounded so familiar.
     Suddenly he realized it  was  Vera's mermaid laugh from  The Precipice,
and he himself was the miserable Raisky.
     "Remember once  and for  all that nothing of the  sort  ever happened,"
Marina said. She turned and walked rapidly back towards the house.
     Petya ran after her.
     "Don't follow me," she said without turning.
     "Marina, wait a bit ... but why?" Petya groaned piteously.
     She  turned,  let  her eyes travel  over  him from  head to foot with a
contemptuous look, said, "Babbler!" and ran home.
     Petya had never expected the  long-awaited rendezvous to end in fiasco.
He was completely puzzled  by her anger. All he  knew  was that he  had lost
her, if not for ever, at least  for a very long  time. And when? At the very
moment everything was  perfect, when dusk was creeping over the steppe and a
great moon hung over the distant hills, with a pale light like the glow of a
paper lantern.


     CAESAR'S COMMENTARIES


     For some days after that Marina did not appear  at  all. Petya tossed a
number of notes  in through  the window,  trying on various pretexts to lure
her  to meet  him,  even  promising  to  reveal some tremendously  important
secret, but nothing helped. And he realized he had lost her for ever.
     He was in despair.  And his despair was deepened by the fact that there
was absolutely  nobody to whom he could  confide  his  unsuccessful romance,
pour out in eloquent words his "tormented soul," as Petya mentally described
the painful sting of hurt pride. So Gavrik's appearance was a godsend.
     He  turned up quite suddenly,  as was his  wont of  late. Petya saw him
standing in  the  orchard,  but it  was  a  puzzle how he had got there. Not
through  the  gate, that  was  certain, for  Petya himself had been standing
there  all  the  time,  watching  to  see whether anyone  would  go to fetch
kerosene.
     Gavrik  had  a  worn  textbook tricked under  his  belt and carried  an
exercise  book rolled into  a  tube with  which he kept angrily striking his
knee. In general, his look was sombre.
     "Hullo, come to study a bit?"
     "No, to catch sparrows," Gavrik answered curtly.
     Petya chose a shady spot with a view of the cottage, and they sat  down
among the chamomiles beneath a cherry tree.
     "Well, what have you got there?" asked Petya languidly.
     "I have to learn De hello Gallico."
     "Aha. Now  listen, and  I'll explain it all. The point is that De hello
Gallico  was written by Caesar. He was called  Gaius Julius and he  was  the
Roman emperor who-"
     "I  know all  that.  I have to read it  and translate it, and learn the
first chapter by heart."
     "All right, we can do that," said Petya obligingly. "Open your book and
start translating."
     "I've done the translation," said Gavrik.
     "What do you want, then?"
     "I've  got  to  learn  the  first  chapter.  And  that's far worse than
learning poetry so far as I'm concerned."
     "But it is necessary," Petya said didactically, gradually slipping into
the role of teacher.  "Give me  your book, I'll  read aloud  and  you repeat
everything after me."
     "But don't you know it by heart?" asked Gavrik suspiciously.
     Petya, however, ignored this  indiscreet question; he took the book out
of Gavrik's hand and began reading with great expression:
     "Gallia est omnis divisa in paries tres. Repeat that."
     "Gallia est omnis divisa  in paries ires" Gavrik repeated, his forehead
deeply creased.
     "Good!" said Petya. "Now-"
     But at that moment  he thought  he  saw a  movement by the  cottage. He
craned his neck to see better.
     "No good looking over there," Gavrik said quietly.
     Petya started.
     "How did you guess?" he asked, blushing. They knew one another too well
for pretence.
     "Oh,  don't  play the  bread-and-butter  miss!" snapped Gavrik. "Anyone
might think the Pavlovskayas had dropped down from the skies.  You know very
well it was we who sent them-to keep them out of the  way of the police. You
need a  head  on  your  shoulders, not a  turnip.  They're not just ordinary
people  getting  out  of  the  summer  heat,  they're  in  hiding," he  said
incisively. "And they're working.  And  then you  had to  start off with all
that romantic nonsense! All  right, amuse yourself  with it if you like, but
don't  bother them with your  talk. And that's just what you've  been doing.
'Why, I  know you. Why, I saw you abroad!  Marie Rose, Longjumeau!' Have you
any  idea what. Marie Rose and Longjumeau mean?"  Gavrik  suddenly  realized
that his  voice had risen;  he stopped short and looked about him. There was
nobody near, but he continued  in a lower tone,  "It is from there  that all
the instructions come. And since I've gone so far,  I don't mind telling you
that  if they catch Pavlovskaya, it'll be a serious blow. I'm talking to you
like this because we consider you one of us. Am I right?"
     Gavrik looked hard at Petya through narrowed  eyes, awaiting a straight
answer to a straight question.
     Petya  thought a moment, then  nodded  silently.  It was the first time
Gavrik  had spoken  so  openly,  definitely,  keeping  nothing back, calling
everything by its name.
     "I swear-" Petya began and felt his throat close up with excitement. He
wanted badly  to say something deeply significant,  perhaps  impressive.  "I
swear-" he repeated, and tears welled in his eyes.
     "There you  are, I knew you'd start right off  with something  of  that
sort," said Gavrik. "You needn't bother. Fine words butter no  parsnips, and
we've heard plenty of talkers."
     "I'm not just a talker," Petya said in a huff.
     "I don't  mean  you, though you're not  the silent  type-  Marie  Rose,
Longjumeau. You  drop that  sort of thing. This isn't  a game, it's serious.
And if it comes to the point, we shan't stand on ceremony with you. You know
what underground work is?"
     "Of course I do," said Petya, not without dignity.
     "Oh no, you  don't,"  Gavrik  answered. "In the first  place  it  means
holding your  tongue.  Tell  one  person today,  and he'll spill  everything
tomorrow.  You can never  get back what you've said.  Do you  know what  she
thought?"
     "Who?"
     "Marina. She thought you'd been sent after her. A busy."
     "What's a busy?"
     "You're really slow to catch on.  A busy's a detective. A police agent.
It's  time  you knew things like that. You alarmed the Pavlovskayas so badly
they  were planning to  leave  that  very  night,  to  get somewhere  a safe
distance from your place. A good thing I happened along just then, or they'd
have  been gone. They'd got their things packed,  but I told  them  you were
more or less one of us, and not to worry."
     Petya sat silent, crushed. He had never imagined his romance could have
such serious consequences. In general there was much that had never occurred
to him.
     "She's  certainly a nice  girl. I wouldn't mind  taking a stroll arm in
arm with her at twilight myself. But I've no time," Gavrik sighed.
     Petya stared at him  with something like horror, unable to believe  his
ears. To talk like that about "her"! It was sacrilege. But Gavrik, stretched
out  among the chamomiles, his arms  under his head,  continued  in the same
tone, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world:
     "On  the  other hand, think of  her.  She has no father. He died abroad
last  year of  galloping  consumption. He belonged to our organization, too.
Her mother's a Party worker. She's got a false passport. They always have to
be moving from place to place, hiding, changing their rooms. The  girl's got
to study  somehow, and not fall  behind.  They stay  at  home  all the  time
because they  can only go out when it's absolutely necessary.  And after all
she's young, it's dull for her. So it was natural enough that when you threw
that note in, she was  pleased. Why shouldn't  she go for  a walk with a boy
once in a while? And  by the way, believe it or not, she liked you, too. But
then you went and spoiled everything with your big mouth."
     Petya flinched as from a toothache.
     "Wait a moment," he said, "how do you know all this?"
     Gavrik stared at Petya with unconcealed surprise.
     "Well!  Do you think they  feed  on air? Incidentally, that's not their
name  at  all, but  it  doesn't matter.  I  dash  over  twice  a  week  with
provisions. Well, and sometimes there  are  instructions from the  committee
too."
     Another unpleasant  surprise for Petya. So Gavrik often visited Marina,
he was a friend of the family.
     "So that's it! But why do you  never come  to  us?"  asked  Petya, with
something like jealousy.
     "Because I generally come at night."
     "Cloak and dagger stuff?" Petya asked with a note of irony.
     "What do  you think? Why attract attention? You never can tell who  may
notice,  especially in  times like  these. Don't  you  know what's going on?
There are strikes all  over. The  secret  police  are going crazy,  sniffing
everywhere-no joke about it. It's worse than 1905."
     Again Petya felt the  atmosphere of Near Mills, which had faded away of
late.
     "What about  a smoke, comrade?" Gavrik said, pulling a package of cheap
cigarettes from his pocket.
     Petya  had  never  smoked and he  felt  no  desire  to.  But  the  word
"comrade,"  which Gavrik  pronounced with  a kind  of  special intonation of
stern independence, the very look of the package of Peal Cigarettes made  by
the Laferrne Co., five kopeks for twenty, advertised in the Pravda, made him
pull a stiff cigarette from the package and place it awkwardly in his mouth.
     "Good idea," said Petya, imitating Gavrik's sternness and independence,
and squinting at the end of the cigarette as Gavrik held a match to it.
     They smoked for a few moments, Gavrik  with obvious enjoyment, inhaling
and spitting like a real workman, Petya removing his cigarette  every moment
from  his mouth and for some reason eyeing the cardboard end that emitted  a
white trickle of heavy smoke.
     Nothing  more was said about the Pavlovskayas.  They worked a little on
Caesar,  then Gavrik left, saying in farewell, "Well,  that's that. The main
thing is not to lose your nerve."
     What that applied to, Petya did not know.
     Now  he was filled  with a  turmoil of contradictory emotions-jealousy,
anger  at himself, hope, despair  and,  strangest of all, an ardent, surging
thirst for life.
     He thought of all kinds of ways to remedy his error and draw Marina out
for a meeting. Day in, day out, this filled his mind.


        QUEEN OF THE MARKET


     Just  at this  time  the  early cherries began to  ripen. They  ripened
quickly, almost visibly, and every kind at once -black, red, pink and white.
Although the Bacheis had  been eagerly watching the progress  of  this great
harvest, nevertheless,  the actual realization  of its size came  upon  them
suddenly one fine morning when a black cloud of starlings swooped down  over
the orchard, followed by a grey cloud of sparrows.
     The birds descended on the trees; and  while  Vasily Petrovich,  Petya,
Pavlik, Dunyasha and Gavrila ran about below  frightening off  the marauders
with  umbrellas,  sticks, hats, handkerchiefs  and shouts, Auntie put on her
lace  gloves  and  hat,  and,  sparkling  with  happy excitement,  took  the
horse-tram to town where she intended first to find out the  retail price of
early cherries, and then to sell them wholesale at the market.
     It was evening when she returned, and as she approached the orchard she
heard shots.  It  was Pavlik,  instructed by Gavrila, firing an old shot-gun
which they had found in the attic.
     "Heavens! What  are you  doing?"  she  gasped in horror as she saw  her
gentle little darling pushing a charge into the gun.
     "Frightening  off the  sparrows. Look  out!"  Pavlik shouted and with a
most ferocious expression fired somewhere into the air, after which a little
cloud of feathers drifted down.
     Evidently, the war against the birds was going well.
     "Well, what's the commercial news?" asked Vasily Petrovich, rubbing his
hands. "I hope it's something good."
     "Yes and no," answered Auntie.
     "Now, just how do I take that?" he asked with a cheerful smile.
     At least  a dozen times that day he had gone round the orchard and seen
that the harvest was not  merely good, it was amazingly, fantastically rich.
Whole  poods of very large cherries hung from the branches, gleaming  in the
sun like jewels with all shades of red, from the palest creamy pink, through
coral, to that dark crimson which looks almost black.
     "How do you mean?" he asked again, not quite so cheerfully this time-he
had seen that Auntie looked rather upset.
     "I'll  tell you everything in a  minute, let  me wash up first, and for
goodness' sake, a cup of tea. I'm dying for tea!"
     All this boded nothing good.
     In half an hour Auntie was sitting on the veranda eagerly drinking tea.
     "It was like this. First  of  all I  went to  a  number of fruit shops.
There aren't many cherries yet, and the shops are selling them at fifteen to
twenty kopeks a pound."
     "Well,  well, well-that's splendid!" cried  Vasily Petrovich,  mentally
calculating how much  they would get from each tree, even at a  conservative
estimate of two poods per tree. "If that's the case, we're rich!"
     "Yes,  but  wait  a minute," said  Auntie wearily.  "That's the  retail
price. We  want to sell  wholesale. So I went to  the  wholesale  market and
found the fruit section.  It turned  out that the  wholesale price was  much
lower."
     "Of course, quite natural!"  cried Vasily Petrovich stoutly. "It always
is. What is it?"
     "They offer two rubles forty a pood. Our delivery."
     Vasily  Petrovich touched the steel frame of his pince-nez and his lips
moved as he calculated once more.
     "H'm ... yes... well, of course  that's rather a different sum. But all
the same it's quite good, quite good. We'll be  able to make our payment and
have quite a nice little profit too." And Vasily Petrovich  looked  gaily at
Auntie through his pince-nez.
     "You're very unpractical,"  said Auntie.  "Don't forget the two-forty's
with our delivery." With emphasis she repeated the words, "Our delivery!"
     "Ah yes ... delivery,"  mumbled Vasily Petrovich. "Now,  just what does
that imply?"
     "It  means  we've  got to  bring  the cherries  to them  there, at  the
wholesale market."
     "Well? What's wrong with that? We'll bring  them.  And then-kindly hand
over the money!"
     "Oh,  it's  impossible to  discuss  anything with you!"  cried  Auntie,
exasperated.  "Just stop a  moment and think -how are  we going  to  deliver
them? With what?  We have no  horse, no cart, no  baskets, no bast, no-we've
absolutely  nothing,  and no  means  of getting  them there. Not  to mention
picking  the fruit-that is, if  the  birds leave  any of it. We haven't even
ladders."
     "M'yes," mumbled Vasily Petrovich vaguely, blew his nose and said, "But
it's all very queer. Why  does it have to be our delivery? You ought to have
told them-if you want our cherries, please come and get them."
     "I did."
     "Well?"
     "They refused."
     "H'm.  There  must be some  misunderstanding there. After all,  there's
such a thing as competition. If one refused, perhaps another would agree."
     "I went round  'all of them,  and the impresson  I  got was that  there
isn't any competition  at  all,  it's all one band.  They're amazingly alike
even to-look at. Dark-blue shirts, red faces, sheepskin hats. The  same kind
of robbers  as those Persians who came to try and force down the price.  And
they all  talk  about some  Madame  Storozhenko.  It  looks as  if  all  the
wholesale fruit trade is in this lady's hands."
     "Well, why didn't you go and talk to her, then?"
     "I tried.  But you can't catch  her.  From morning to  night she drives
round orchards buying up the crops."
     "What are we going to do, then?" asked Vasily Petrovich.
     "I don't know," answered Auntie.
     They sat  staring at  each other in perplexity. Vasily Petrovich  wiped
his brown  neck  with a dirty  handkerchief  while Auntie  drummed  with her
fingers on a saucer. And Petya felt disaster again  looming over the family,
but  disaster much more  terrible than that other time when the  orchard was
drying up.
     The cherries ripened  every hour. The red ones blackened, the pink ones
reddened, the cream-coloured ones  turned a warm pink, while the white  ones
deepened  to a  honey  colour that  made the mouth water in anticipation  of
their sweetness. From early morning the war against the birds  went on. They
fastened bright-coloured rags to the branches, they set up scarecrows,  they
ran about under  the trees  clapping their hands  and shouting hoarsely, and
every now and then there was a report from the shotgun.
     It  was even harder work than hoeing  and bringing water. Oh, how Petya
learned  to hate starlings! How different they seemed now from  those poetic
birds whistling  gaily in  a  dozen different keys, making a spring day seem
brighter, paths more shady, and the little white clouds look as though  they
were sweetly sleeping.
     Now the birds were marauders descending in flocks upon the orchard from
all sides.  They pecked  the cherries with their sharp beaks, always finding
the ripest and tearing out a triangular piece of pulp.
     They did not so much  eat cherries as spoil them. When they were driven
off the trees, the whole flock continued flying about above them, describing
circles and swooping curves.
     The  Bacheis tried picking the cherries themselves, standing on chairs,
and discovered how difficult it was for inexperienced hands. They decided to
start off by  selling cherries retail and sent Gavrila  with a big basket to
Bolshoi Fontan.
     Gavrila spent all  day going round the villas and  brought back seventy
kopeks  and a strong smell of vodka, told them thickly  that this was all he
had been given and went off to sleep in the weeds behind the stable.
     Some summer  visitors  from nearby  villas  came to the  orchard to buy
cherries-two pretty girls with lace parasols and a student in a white tunic.
They asked for two pounds, but as Auntie had no scales she poured about five
into the dainty basket the student carried over his shoulder on a stick.
     -The girls at once hung cherries over their little ears and dimpled and
laughed, looking  prettier than  ever, while  Auntie gazed at them as though
wondering, "Dear God, how can anyone be so happy!"
     Then the postman brought  a typed letter from the notary containing the
ominous warning that the final date for payment was in three days.
     Auntie  hurried   to  town  again  but  returned  empty-handed;  Madame
Storozhenko  had  been away again and  the Persians, as though  mocking  all
common  sense,  had  offered  not  two-forty, but  a  ruble-thirty  a  pood,
delivered.  It  seemed likely that they  had been  rude to  Auntie as  well,
because she was nearly crying as  she tore off her hat and paced up and down
the veranda  saying  again  and again,  "What  rascals!  Heavens above, what
scoundrels!"
     Only one  thing  remained-to  hire  carts, horses and baskets from  the
German settlers, and flying in the face of Vasily Petrovich's principles, to
exploit  labour by  hiring girls from the villages  round  about and get the
fruit off the trees as quickly as possible-for the birds had  already pecked
a quarter of it.
     The Germans refused to let them have any carts  or horses and the girls
were already working in other orchards.
     "Curse  the  hour  when  I  let  myself  get drawn  into  this  idiotic
business!" cried Vasily Petrovich.
     "Vasily Petrovich, for your dead  wife's sake have  mercy  on me!" said
Auntie through her tears, in a voice that showed her nose was swollen.
     Then, to wind up the whole business,  the gate opened  creakingly and a
britzka rolled  in. One Persian sat on  the box, another stood on  the step,
and a  very  large,  stout lady  in  a  white  linen  coat and  a dusty  hat
ornamented  with  faded forget-me-nots  swayed and  jolted on the  seat. The
britzka went straight across the beds of petunias and  flowering tobacco and
halted by the house. The Persians at once seized the lady's elbows arid  she
climbed awkwardly down.
     She had  a fat but muscular face  with  a moustache, purple cheeks  and
expressionless eyes.
     "Here,  you, boy-what's your  name-don't  stand  there staring, run and
call  the master,  and look  sharp,"  she said in  the raucous  voice of the
market-place,  and was just going to sit down,  puffing, on  an iron  garden
chair brought  by  one  of the Persians  when Auntie  appeared,  followed by
Vasily Petrovich. "Are  you the owners here?" she asked and  without waiting
for an answer  held  out a hand with short thick  fingers  projecting from a
black lace mitten first to Vasily Petrovich, then to Auntie.
     "Good morning," she said. "I'm Madame Storozhenko."
     Auntie bubbled over with excitement.
     "Ah, how extremely kind  of  you," she twittered, assuming  her society
smile. "I have twice  tried to find you at the wholesale market but you were
always away.  You  are such an  elusive lady!"  And Auntie shook her  finger
charmingly at Madame  Storozhenko. "But I see that if the mountain does  not
go to Mohammed, then Mohammed comes to the mountain."
     "It  makes  no  difference,"  said  Madame  Storozhenko,  ignoring  the
aphorism  about the mountain and Mohammed. "They told me you  wanted to sell
your crop. I'll buy it."
     "In  that case, perhaps, you would care to  look at the orchard?"  said
Auntie, exchanging a most significant look with Vasily Petrovich.
     "I know  that  orchard like  the  palm  of  my hand,"  answered  Madame
Storozhenko.  "It's not my  first time  here. I always bought  the crop when
Madame Vasyutinskaya was running it. And I must  say she ran it much better.
Half your cherries  are pecked.  Of course,  it's no business of mine, but I
can tell  you, you've neglected the orchard  badly.  You'll hardly make ends
meet this  way.  I've  been trading in  fruit only five years myself, before
that  I dealt in fish, but you can  ask anyone  and they'll  tell you Madame
Storozhenko knows  a  thing  or  two about fruit.  You call  those cherries?
They're more like lice. You can take my word for it."
     Vasily  Petrovich  and  Auntie   stood  before  Madame  Storozhenko  in
alternating  hope and fear. Their fate depended  on her alone, but there was
nothing to be read on her coarse face. At last Madame Storozhenko spoke:
     "Take it or leave it, I've no time to waste on you. Here!" She opened a
big leather bag hanging on a strap over her shoulder,  and took out  a crisp
hundred-ruble note, evidently prepared beforehand. "There you are!"
     "What-only a  hundred  rubles! Why,  we've three hundred  to pay on the
note of hand alone!"
     "Take it and  less chat,"  repeated  Madame Storozhenko. "And say thank
you for it, too. At least you'll have nothing more to worry about, I'll look
after the picking, packing and transport.
     "Madame   Storozhenko,  have  you  no   conscience?"  Vasily  Petrovich
expostulated. "It's sheer robbery!"
     "My dear man," Madame Storozhenko wheezed condescendingly, "I've got to
make something out of it, haven't I?"
     "Yes, but these  cherries will  sell for at least  five hundred rubles,
we've reckoned it up," said Auntie.
     "Well, if you've reckoned  it up,  go and sell your crop yourselves and
don't waste other people's time. A hundred rubles, that's my last word."
     "But we've got to pay on a note of hand."
     "I know. In a  day  or two you've got to pay Madame Vasyutinskaya three
hundred  and if you don't, you lose the place. And lose it you will, because
you've no money and you'll be bankrupt  anyway. So my advice is to take what
you  can,   at   least  it'll  feed  you  a  little  while.  As  for  Madame
Vasyutinskaya's property, she'll rent it  to me through the notary. It'll do
much better with me than with you."
     "We'll see about all that!" said Auntie, turning pale.
     "Better drop those  airs!" snapped Madame Storozhenko with  unconcealed
contempt,  looking Vasily Petrovich  and  Auntie  up and down  with a black,
incomprehensible malice.  "You  think  I don't know your sort? You haven't a
single  kopek between  you. You're  beggars!  Paupers! And  call  yourselves
intellectuals!"
     "My dear madame," said  Vasily Petrovich, "what right have you to speak
this way?"
     Madame Storozhenko turned majestically to Auntie.
     "Listen-what's your name-tell this man  of yours to  climb off his high
horse, because in  three  days  I'll  kick  you out  of here with  all  your
rubbish. Ragamuffins!"
     Vasily  Petrovich made  a convulsive  movement,  he wanted to speak but
could only stamp his foot and make strangled sounds like a dumb man; then he
slumped down on the veranda step clutching his head in his hands.
     "Take  the  hundred  and  write a  receipt,"  said Madame  Storozhenko,
holding it out to Auntie unconcernedly.
     "You're  a wicked, vile woman!"  cried Auntie,  trembling from head  to
foot. She burst into tears and stumbled into the house.
     It  was such a  dreadful, disgraceful scene that not only Petya, Pavlik
and Dunyasha-even Gavrila  was  shocked into immobility,  and nobody noticed
Gavrik, who had emerged some time before from among the trees.
     Now he marched slowly, with a slight  roll, to Madame Storozhenko,  his
right hand thrust deep in his trouser pocket.
     "Get out of here, you  mangy  old market  shark!" he hissed through his
teeth. "Get out!"
     She   stared  at  him,   amazed,   then  suddenly  recognized  in  this
sixteen-year-old  workman  the  little  beggar  boy,  the  grandson  of  old
Chernoivanenko, who used to  bring bullheads to her at the wholesale  market
when she  still  had a fish stall. Madame Storozhenko had  a good memory and
she  realized  in  a flash that she was faced with her  old  enemy. In those
days, however,  he  had been small and defenceless and she could  do  as she
liked with him; now he was very different. Instinctively the old fox  sensed
danger.
     "Now, now, none of your bullying!" she  cried, moving restlessly  about
by the britzka, and turned to her Persians. "What are you thinking of? Smash
his mug in!"
     The Persians advanced,  lowering their heads in the sheepskin hats; but
Gavrik  withdrew his hand from his  pocket holding a knuckle-duster, and his
white lips tightened into a straight line.
     "Get out of here!"  he repeated ominously. He seized the reins close to
the bit and led the horse out of the gate, while Madame  Storozhenko and the
Persians clambered into the moving britzka as best they could.
     For a  long time the  hat with the forget-me-nots could  be seen moving
along the road between fields of green grain, and Madame Storozhenko's voice
could be heard screeching curses and obscene threats in the direction of the
orchard.
     Gavrik returned,  breathing hard  as  though he had  been  doing  heavy
physical work. He held out  his hand  in silence to  Petya, patted  Pavlik's
shoulder  and  stood  for a while beside  Vasily  Petrovich,  who was  still
sitting on the steps, his face in his hands.
     Then  Gavrik spat angrily, said, "Well, we'll see," and ran through the
orchard out into the steppe, disappearing as suddenly as he had come.
     For  a long time all  were silent-they felt that there was nothing more
to be  said. At last Vasily Petrovich  passed his hand down his face  with a
visible  effort and  wiped his  glasses with the hem of his  long  shirt; an
unexpected smile appeared on his face-a helpless childlike smile.
     "Thus, their feasting turned to disaster," he said with a sigh.
     But strange as it might seem, it was a sigh of relief.


        FRIENDS IN NEED


     For  a little while calm  and quietness reigned in the house and in the
orchard.  The  Bacheis went about as though they had  just awakened and were
not yet  quite sure whether  it  was all  real or  a  dream.  They were very
considerate  to  each other,  even affectionate.  In the  evening  they  ate
yoghurt and  drank tea. They chatted  and joked.  But there was not one word
about their situation; it was as though they were saving all their  physical
,and mental strength for that very near future, the thought of  which was so
terrible.
     They went to bed early  and slept well,  luxuriating in  rest after all
their labour and perturbation, knowing  that the coming day would bring them
nothing new.
     At dawn Petya felt someone tugging his foot. He opened his eyes and saw
the wide-open  window and Gavrik standing by  his  bed.  The sun had not yet
risen, but it  was already  quite light in  the  room; the cool air of early
morning was  pouring  in;  outside, the trees  stood dark  green  against  a
crimson strip of sky, and the cocks were crowing sleepily in the distance.
     "Get up!" whispered Gavrik.
     "Why?" Petya whispered back.  He was so accustomed to  his friend's way
of popping up without warning  that his appearance at this early hour was in
no way startling.
     "Get your clothes on and out to work!" said Gavrik mysteriously, gaily,
and jerked his head  towards the  open  window. He turned, jumped on to  the
sill, and disappeared in the orchard.
     Petya knew  Gavrik, he  knew  this was no fooling,  it was serious.  He
dressed rapidly and shivering in the early chill followed Gavrik out through
the window.
     Voices came from the orchard. Petya went round the house and saw people
under  the cherry  trees. There was the beat of axes, the squeal of saws.  A
little way  off a  lad  he did not know  passed  by with a  new roughly made
ladder on his  shoulder. A similar ladder leaned against a tree,  and on the
top rung  stood a barefoot girl, one hand holding a branch heavy with fruit,
the other shading her eyes  from the sun which was just  rising over the sea
bathing her in blinding but still cool rays.
     "Petya!" the  girl called. He recognized Motya.  "What  are  you  doing
here?" he asked, approaching.
     "Picking  your fruit,"  she answered  gaily,  and Petya  saw the basket
hanging  from her arm.  "But  you've  quite forgotten us," she  added with a
sigh. "You never come to Near Mills now."
     She too had hung cherries over her ears and Petya thought they made her
look even prettier than before.
     "Well, here we are, you see," she went on merrily, pulling cherries off
the branches and dropping them into  her basket, leaves and all. "We've been
working over an hour, and you've only  just  managed to get your  eyes open.
Lazy-bones! God'll punish you for it!" She laughed so heartily that her foot
slipped.
     "Oh, catch me, I'm falling!"