she cried,  but managed to  hold on, while
cherries rained down on Petya from the basket.
     "Look here, seriously, what's going on?" Petya asked.
     "Can't  you see for yourself?"  said Motya. "Your friends have come  to
gather your crop so it won't be lost."
     Petya looked round. And everywhere, on the trees and under them, he saw
more or less familiar  faces  from  Near Mills. With  surprise he recognized
Uncle  Fedya  Sinichkin, the  old railwayman, the young  schoolmistress  and
others of Terenty's  occasional  or regular visitors. Motya's brother Zhenya
was  there  too with  all his friends,  sitting  in  the trees like monkeys,
filling caps, baskets land  boxes with amazing dexterity and speed. Wherever
Petya looked he saw bare legs, bare, sunburned arms  and cotton shirts, from
all  sides he heard voices, laughter, jests and chaff. Before  he  had fully
taken it all in,  Gavrik came running  up carrying a pile of  old sacks  and
bast matting on his shoulder.
     "Here, take hold, put these under the trees,"  he  panted, and tossed a
number of sacks over to Petya.
     With a feeling that something very good was happening, caught up in the
atmosphere of  gay  activity, Petya  promptly  set to work spreading out the
sacks, crawling round them on his knees to smooth out the folds.
     Soon  great, ripe cherries began  falling on them with soft  thuds from
baskets, caps and aprons.
     When  Auntie,  wakened  by  the  noise,  came out  on  the  veranda  to
investigate, her first thought was that Madame Storozhenko had already taken
possession of the orchard and her roughs were unceremoniously plundering the
crop.
     Although  she  had  resigned  herself to the  knowledge  that  this was
inevitable, nevertheless, the sight of strangers stripping the trees was too
much for  her. She turned pale and  cried weakly, "How  dare  you! You've no
right! Robbers!"
     "Na-a-ay, you're  all  wrong," Gavrik half sang on a warm, affectionate
note as he passed her dragging a  ladder,  "We're your  own folks, from Near
Mills.  Now,  don't  you  worry  about anything,  not a single cherry'll  go
astray, I'll see  to that personally. Except maybe one or two that drop into
somebody's mouth by accident, that sort of thing might very well happen. But
what's it matter? You see yourself what a grand crop it is. I hope you never
have  any worse! Selling it retail, you'll get at least three rubles a pood.
And as for that old market bitch!" And Gavrik put his thumb to his nose.
     "Stop  a minute, I  don't  understand, won't you explain?" said Auntie,
looking into Gavrik's angry, determined face and  trying to make out what it
was all about.
     "Don't be angry with us  for not asking you  first," he said.  "No time
for  it-this is when a day feeds a year, as the  saying goes. Let the moment
slip and  it's gone! We had to  get hold  of  the wood for  ladders, and the
sacks  and bast mats and all that sort of thing. Wasn't  it the thing to do?
Or should we have let that old shark make beggars of you all?  No  sir! Time
to stop that! They've  sucked enough of our blood. The  day's gone  when  we
used to stand in front of them like asses."
     Auntie stared at Gavrik, his militant stance, a boy with a peeling nose
and yet a man with serious, angry eyes that said much more than his words.
     Perhaps she did not yet understand  everything, but the  main thing was
clear. Kind folks from Near Mills had come to their aid, and again there was
hope that they might be saved. Auntie's housewifely instincts reawakened.
     She quickly tied a  kerchief round her head and hurried about under the
trees,  putting  this and that right. She  told them to place the sacks  and
matting  so that they  would  not  have to carry the fruit so far, asked the
pickers to keep the various kinds of cherries  separate, gaily told the boys
not to put  more in their  mouths than in the baskets, sent Gavrila to fetch
some buckets  of drinking  water, then herself climbed a ladder into one  of
the trees, hung cherries over her ears  and, singing "The Sun is Low" at the
top  of  her voice,  began picking cherries and  dropping them  into  an old
hat-box.
     What a  wonderful day that was! It was a long time since Petya had felt
so full  of  bubbling  happiness. True, he  had no  ladder and did not  pick
cherries from the trees, which would have been more interesting, but running
about underneath was not so bad  either.  Now here,  now there, a full heavy
basket descended from the leafy  branches; he caught it in his arms,  poured
its contents out on to the  nearest  pile,  returned  to  the tree, sent the
basket  up again with a bounce from his head  and  went on to  the next tree
where another awaited him.
     His arms ached  pleasantly from  the  unaccustomed exercise, and it was
wonderful to see the pile of dark, shining berries growing  before his eyes,
prettily  mingled  with dark leaves, to which striped wasps  added flecks of
bright gold.
     Petya  was in charge of  ten  trees. Practically every minute  somebody
called him  to  take  a  filled  basket.  But Motya's  voice  was  the  most
insistent.
     "Petya, come here, mine's full! Where are you? Don't be so lazy! Here!"
     A  soft arm  in a pink  cotton sleeve would  lower a  heavy basket, and
through the leaves  Petya could  see Motya's rosy face  and  a cherry  stone
between her lips.
     By midday all were tired,  and  Gavrik marched up  and down between the
trees, calling out, "Break off, dinner-time, break off!"
     That was when Petya suddenly saw Marina and her mother. They were quite
close, coming  towards  him with  arms round  one another's waists like  two
girls, and the cherries  hung on their ears and the baskets in  their  hands
showed they must have been helping too.
     At  the sight  of Madame Pavlovskaya Petya's  courage oozed  out of his
toes. What if she had guessed who  it was that rustled in the weeds at night
and tossed love-notes in through the window?  Why, she really might pull his
ears!  That  first  time  he  saw  her  she  had  looked  rather  stern  and
disapproving.  But now, in her old house frock,  with  cherries hung on  her
ears, she seemed very kind and good-humoured. And Marina smiled with evident
pleasure, not a trace was left of that  cold, contemptuous  look  with which
she had thrown the dreadful word "babbler" at him.
     "Good morning,"  Petya  said  in confusion, and in an effort to produce
the best  possible  impression on Marina's mother essayed la polite click of
his  heels, which  came  off rather badly owing to his  being barefoot.  But
nobody seemed to notice.
     "You're  quite right, it  really is a marvellously good  morning," said
Marina's mother  with a kind of deep, serious smile. "Isn't it,  Petya? Your
name is Petya, isn't it?"
     She examined  him  with  interest,  for she  knew well enough about the
notes. Marina,  for her part, glanced up innocently and  said,  "It's a long
time since I've seen you," just as if nothing had ever happened.
     She provoked him. Petya would have liked to make some brilliantly witty
reply, but all  he could manage was to mumble morosely, "Well, that's not my
fault."
     "Why, whose is  it, then?" said Marina captiously, turned a little away
from Petya and began  picking at a rubbery drop of resin on the bark  of the
cherry tree under which she stood.
     "You  know whose," Petya  replied with  tender reproach, and then  took
fright-wasn't that almost a declaration?
     Auntie  came up just at  the  right  moment  to greet  the visitors and
rescue her nephew from the awkward situation.
     "Ah, it's  you?  At last! I  never  seem  to see you. How can you  shut
yourself up like that? After all, people come out here to enjoy the country,
the sea  air,  the garden. It's all here waiting for you and still you  stay
indoors all day,"  she twittered,  at  once  assuming  the mincing,  society
manner  which,  according  to her ideas, was  the correct one for a  refined
owner  of  a villa talking to  her refined guests. "Good gracious, what do I
see?" And Auntie clasped her hands.  "You have baskets! Is it  possible that
you have come to help us? But that is too charming, too kind of you! I won't
conceal it, we  were in a difficult situation,  a dreadful situation. Such a
wonderful  harvest, and  we, impractical  people  that we are.... You are  a
cultured person yourself, you will understand."
     "Yes, oh yes," said Madame Pavlovskaya coldly. "It  is a small but very
typical  incident,  clearly  illustrating  the  concentration  of commercial
capital. It  would seem that this Storozhenko-or whatever  her name is-has a
monopoly  of  the  local fruit  market  and  is  now  destroying  her weaker
competitors by fair means or foul. You must have been very blind not to have
seen it  at  once.  The  strong swallow up the weak-such is the  law  of the
historical development of capitalism."
     Auntie  listened  in alarm. Madame  Pavlovskaya, it  seemed, was  fully
informed about all their  affairs,  despite the fact  that  she never showed
herself outside the cottage.
     Of  all  she said Auntie  understood one  thing  only-that  it was very
"political,"   and  Madame   Pavlovskaya   must  be   a   dangerous  person.
Nevertheless, she tried to bring the talk back to the society tone.
     "You are absolutely right," she said, "and Madame Storozhenko is a real
monster.  A  rude,  uneducated animal,  absolutely out  of  place  in decent
society."
     Pavlovskaya frowned.
     "Madame  Storozhenko is first and foremost a foul creature that must be
fought."
     "Yes,  but  how?" said  Auntie,  with  a shrug  of distaste.  "I  can't
complain to a magistrate-it would be paying her too big a compliment!"
     Pavlovskaya  looked earnestly at  Auntie  for  a moment, then  suddenly
smiled, the way one smiles at children who ask foolish questions.
     "The magistrate? That's fine," she said and gave a dry, angry laugh.
     Auntie  looked  at  this  small  woman  with  the  amused, intelligent,
resolute  face, the  stubborn  little chin,  the  dark shadow  on her  upper
lip-and  felt she belonged  to some special, strange world, a world hard  to
understand, but a world which drew one.
     She  wanted  to  ask,  "Are you a  Social-Democrat?"  but  instead  she
embraced Pavlovskaya  and cried  impulsively,  like a  girl,  "Oh, I do like
you!"
     "I  don't know why,"  answered Pavlovskaya seriously, but it  was clear
that she liked Auntie too.
     Evidently, Pavlovskaya had started off with a  wrong impression of  the
Bachei family. She had thought them ordinary tenant farmers making money out
of  letting rooms and running the orchard, and they turned out to be  naive,
impractical people unable to cope with life and in bad trouble as a result.
     The sense  of  strain  disappeared and  talk became  easy. And although
Pavlovskaya  maintained  her  reserve,  within five  minutes Auntie's  quick
understanding  had  given  her a  fairly accurate  picture  of  all that was
happening round her.
     She realized that these pickers Gavrik had brought from Near Mills were
not  just casual workers,  but people united by  common interests and,  most
surprising of all, well acquainted with the Pavlovskayas. And in all of this
there seemed to be some mysterious significance.


     DON'T KICK A MAN WHEN HE'S DOWN!


     Petya and Marina  strolled along a path in  the garden, each pretending
to be deep in thought, but actually not knowing  what to say, or rather  how
to begin.
     "Are you angry  with me?" asked  Marina, and as Petya remained morosely
silent  she cautiously  scratched his sleeve.  "Don't  be  angry," she said.
"Better let's be friends. Shall we?"
     Petya squinted down at her  and scented a trick. She was trying to lure
him  into  a  declaration.  She  wanted him  to  say,  "I don't  believe  in
friendship between a man and a woman." And then she would catch him at once.
Oh, no,  my dear, that's an  old game.  I'm not so silly! And Petya remained
silent.
     "Why are you so quiet?" she asked, trying to see his face.
     "There's  nothing I can say to you," he answered in a significant tone.
Let her understand it any way she liked. She sighed, then lowering her voice
almost to a whisper she asked, "Have you been wanting to see me?"
     "Have you?" asked Petya in his turn, not recognizing his own voice.
     "Yes, I  have,"  she  answered and  dropped her head so  low  that  the
cherries  fell off her  ears.  She  stopped  and  picked  them  up  in  some
confusion.
     "I even dreamed of you once," she said, blushing.
     Petya could  not  believe  his  ears.  "What's  this,"  he  thought  in
agitation.  "Can this be  a confession  of love?" Petya had never even dared
dream  of such happiness. But now,  when she shyly, truthfully told  him she
had  wanted to see  him,  she  had dreamed  of him, Petya  suddenly  felt an
enormous  relief, even disappointment.  Well,  that was all  right!  Only  a
minute ago she had seemed inaccessible, and now she had become a nice but at
the same time quite ordinary girl, not in the least like that Marina whom he
had loved in such hopeless torment.
     "Have you ever dreamed of me?" she asked.
     Petya felt the  decisive moment had come, the whole  further  course of
the romance depended on his answer. If he said, "Yes," it was the same  as a
declaration  of love. Where would he be then? He dreamed of her, she dreamed
of him; he loved  her,  she  loved him.  Mutual love. The  very thing he had
wanted. Of course, it was very nice and all that, but wasn't it a little too
soon?  Just as  things  were getting  interesting-there you were,  all of  a
sudden-mutual love!
     Of course, that would  relieve Petya of all sorts of worry and  trouble
like sleepless nights, jealousy, or sitting in wet wormwood tossing notes in
through a window.  That was certainly a  big advantage. But afterwards? Only
one thing  left-to  kiss  her. The very thought of that made  Petya  hot and
uncomfortable. No, no, anything you like, only not that!
     But there stood Marina leaning against the  ladder under a cherry tree,
looking at him  with darkened eyes and licking cracked lips that even looked
hot, lips from which Petya could not tear his eyes.
     "Why don't  you answer?" she insisted, in the voice of a snake-charmer.
"Did you dream of me?"
     Again she was clearly gaining the upper  hand. Another second and Petya
would  have  submissively  whispered,  "Yes." But  a  spirit  of  doubt,  of
contradiction, triumphed.
     "Strange as it may be, I haven't," said  Petya with a strained, crooked
smile which he imagined to be icy.
     She dropped her Lashes and turned slightly pale.
     "Aha,  caught  the  wrong  bird  this  time,  my  dear,"  thought Petya
triumphantly.
     He  had no pity  for her. Now, when  he  felt himself the conqueror, he
already liked her less.
     "Is that true?" She raised her  eyes and with feigned interest examined
the crown of the tree under which they were standing. Petya  even thought he
caught  a faint smile as though she had seen something amusing there. But he
was not to be caught by tricks like that.
     "You see," said Petya,  who was far from wanting to  bring matters to a
break, "it's not so much that I haven't  seen you in  dreams, but I've never
dreamed of you."
     "What do you mean?" she  asked with interest and  again  smiled up into
the tree, and even seemed to wink at it slyly.
     "It's  simple  enough," Petya answered. "To see a person in a  dream is
one  thing,  to  dream of a person is another. Can't  you understand that? I
could have seen you, you  see all sorts of things in dreams. Plenty of them.
But to dream specially of one person-that's something quite different."
     "I don't understand," she said, biting her lip.
     "I'll explain. To dream of a person, that's when ... well, how shall  I
put it... when, well,  when  you're in love,  or  whatever it is.  You,  for
instance,  have  you  ever loved  anyone?" asked  Petya  sternly, up on  his
hobbyhorse.
     "Yes. You," Marina answered quickly.
     Petya frowned to hide his satisfaction.
     "I don't believe in women's love," he answered with weary disillusion.
     "You're  wrong. And have you ever loved anyone?" she  asked.  She could
not have found a question that would please him more. Like a silly mouse she
came running into the trap so cleverly, insidiously set out by Petya.
     "Questions of that kind are never answered," said Petya, "but I'll tell
you,  because I regard  you as my  friend. After all, we are friends, aren't
we?"
     "I don't believe in friendship between a man and a woman," said Marina.
     "Well,  I  do!" said  Petya  in  chagrin. She  was beginning  really to
irritate  him;  she kept on  saying just  the things  he ought to have said.
Anyone would have thought she had never read a single love-story.
     "You're wrong," she observed. "But I thought you had  something to  say
to me?"
     "I wanted to  say-or rather, not say, to tell....  Well,  say  or tell,
what does it matter. But of course, only to you as  a friend, because nobody
else  knows or ever will  know."  Petya half  turned  from her  and hung his
head.-"I have loved," he said with a sad smile.  "Or rather, I love now. But
it is of no importance."
     "And she?"
     "Ah,  even more than I love her! I love, but  she is  in love.  And one
day, just imagine it, we went out on the steppe to  gather snowdrops. It was
a lovely evening in spring-"
     "I know," said Marina quickly. "It's Motya, isn't it?"
     "How did you guess?"
     "That doesn't matter. I did. Though I can't understand what you see  in
her," she added with a slight grimace. "Do you really love her?"
     "It's  queer, but  I do," said Petya  with a shrug. "I don't understand
myself how it  happened. There's nothing special  about her,  just  a pretty
face, but-there you are."
     There  was a  rustle in  the  leaves  above  and  a  cherry stone fell,
probably dropped by a starling.
     "Shoo!" cried Petya, waving his arms.
     "So that's it," said Marina jealously. "So you like going to the steppe
for snowdrops? Well, and what happened there? I suppose you kissed her?"
     "Questions like that are never answered," said Petya evasively.
     "But I'm your  friend so you've got to  tell me  everything. You've got
to!" Marina cried with an angry stamp.
     "Aha,  jealous, are you, my dear?" thought Petya. "You  wait, I've more
for you yet!"
     "Tell  me this minute, did you  kiss her or not? Or I'll go  right away
and you'll never see me again! You hear me? Never!" Her eyes flashed.
     She was  wonderfully pretty  at the  moment, and Petya with a  careless
shrug answered, "All right. Of course I kissed her."
     "Oh, for  shame, you little  fibber!" That  was Motya's voice from over
their  heads, and the next moment  Motya  herself,  her  face flushed,  came
sliding down and started hopping round Petya on one foot  chanting, "I never
thought you'd tell such fibs! I never thought you'd tell such fibs!"
     "Oh, Motya, you're a wonder, how you ever kept from laughing too soon!"
cried Marina, clapping her hands.
     "I  had to keep  my hand over my  mouth all the  time!"  Motya bubbled,
still hopping round Petya. "Fib-ber! Fib-ber!"
     Petya wished the earth would open and swallow him.
     "So that was it?" said Marina menacingly. "So you kissed her, did you?"
She went  close up  to Petya, with a quick,  dexterous  movement  twisted  a
strand of his hair round her finger and gave it a good, hard tug.
     "Ow! That hurts!" cried Petya.
     "Didn't you hurt me?" said Marina.
     Despite all the horror of his situation, Petya could not but appreciate
that splendid answer, taken straight from Turgenev's First Love.
     Suddenly  Marina gave her  mysterious, mermaid laugh  and with feminine
inconsequence said, "Listen, Motya, let's just give him a good beating!"
     "Let's!"  said Motya, and the two girls advanced  on Petya with ominous
laughter.
     With a quick movement he twisted away  from  under their very hands and
raced off at top speed, bare heels twinkling.
     Off went the girls after him. He could hear their merry, mocking cries.
They  were overtaking him. Then Petya decided on a well-known trick-to throw
himself  down  right  under the feet of  his pursuers. He was in too great a
hurry,  however, he flopped  down  before  the  girls were close enough. And
there he was,  looking  foolish on  all fours, while the girls leisurely ran
up, sat astride on him and started pummelling him.
     It did not hurt particularly, but it was humiliating.
     "Don't kick a man when he's down!" Petya groaned piteously.
     Then with  triumphant giggles they turned to tickling him. He  squealed
with helpless laughter. But just at the right moment Gavrik dropped from the
skies to help his friend.
     "Two to one's not fair! Rescue all!" he cried and flung himself down on
the girls. "Come on all! Come on all!"
     The summons immediately brought Pavlik, Zhenka  and the  boys and girls
of  Zhenka's gang, and  in a few moments  all that  could be seen under  the
trees was a  pile of heaving,  panting, giggling, squealing bodies, arms and
legs.


        TERENTY SEMYONOVICH


     That  night  Vasily  Petrovich  had  slept  like  the  dead-  the heavy
dreamless  sleep  of a  tormented exhausted  man, devoid of  all  thought or
feeling.
     It was  late when he wakened,  and for a  long time he continued lying,
eyes closed, face to the wall, unable to imagine  what  would happen to them
all now.
     At last he forced  himself to rise, dress and  go out into the orchard.
There he saw piles of cherries on the sacks and matting spread out under the
trees,  and  a great many  people-some  familiar, some strangers-standing on
ladders  or sitting  on  the  branches, gathering  the  crop. He  saw horses
cropping the  grass near  two platforms. And finally  he saw  Auntie  coming
towards him with small energetic steps, smiling cheerfully.
     "Well,  Vasily  Petrovich,  everything's  settled  and  it couldn't  be
better!"
     "What do you mean?"  he answered in a monotonous, expressionless voice.
A  faint smile  appeared on  his face, a strange fixed smile like  that of a
sleepwalker.
     "Oh, good gracious, what else could I mean but our crop, our cherries!"
Auntie answered gaily.
     At the word "cherries" Vasily Petrovich started.
     "No, no! For pity's sake,"  he groaned,  "for pity's  sake spare me all
that-that torture."
     "But listen a moment," said Auntie gently.
     "I won't  listen! I don't want to listen!  Leave  me alone!  I'd sooner
carry sacks at the  port!" cried Vasily Petrovich desperately, and, turning,
ran back into the house without looking hack, stumbling, waving his arms.
     "Listen to me at least!" Auntie called after him.
     He made  no  reply, he did  not want to understand anything except that
this  must  be  another  of  Auntie's  foolish  ideas  and  they  were   now
irretrievably ruined.
     He lay  down  again on  his  bed,  face to the  wall, wanting one thing
only-to be let alone.
     Auntie did let him alone, she knew it was no good talking to him. So in
two days everything was done, without Vasily Petrovich's participation.
     Platforms  drove  away and drove  back  again.  Horses snorted. Baskets
creaked. In the evening camp-fires sparkled on the steppe and, together with
the  smoke, the wind brought an appetizing smell of stew and baked potatoes,
and  the sound of singing. All  this made  for  a  cheerful,  almost festive
atmosphere. And it was indeed a festival of gay, free work.
     Vasily  Petrovich, however, saw nothing of it, or rather, he refused to
see  anything. He  was  in the  hopeless,  desperate, tormented state  of  a
trusting  man who  suddenly discovers that he has been  grossly deceived. He
realized that the whole world had deceived him.
     His world had been one of illusions. And the most dangerous of them had
been his belief that he was a free man of independent mind.  For  in reality
he, with all his  splendid, lofty thoughts,  his purity of spirit, his noble
heart,  with all his love  for his  country and his people, had been  a mere
slave, as much  a slave as  the millions of  other Russians, a slave  of the
church,  the state,  and what  was  called "society." As soon  as he made  a
feeble attempt to be honest and independent, the state poured its wrath upon
him in the person of  the official from the Education Department, "society,"
in the person of Faig; and when he tried to live by  the labour of his hands
so as to  preserve his  independence, to earn his bread  in the sweat of his
brow, he found that  this too was impossible, because  it did  not happen to
suit. Madame Storozhenko.
     Most of the time Vasily  Petrovich  spent  on his  bed,  but  now he no
longer turned his face to the wall,  he lay on his back,  his arms folded on
his chest, staring  at the ceiling with its  play  of green reflections from
the  orchard  outside.  His  jaws  were tightly clenched  and angry  furrows
crossed his handsome forehead.
     On the third day Auntie knocked at the door-softly but very decidedly.
     "Vasily Petrovich, would you mind coming out for a minute?"
     He jumped up and sat on the edge of the bed.
     "What is it? What do you want?"
     "Come on to the veranda."
     "Why?"
     "There's something important."
     "Will you kindly spare me any important affairs whatsoever."
     "All the same, I beg you to come."
     Vasily Petrovich caught a new, serious note in Auntie's voice.
     "Very well," he said dully. "Just a minute."
     He tidied himself, put on his  sandals, rinsed his  face,  smoothed his
hair with a wet brush and went out, prepared for any trials or humiliations.
     But  instead  of a  bailiff,  a policeman, a notary or something  along
those lines, he saw a stout  man of middle age in a canvas jacket-apparently
a workman, who  held a piece of sugar in  his  teeth  and  was  drinking tea
"through"  it from a saucer balanced on three fingers. Perspiration trickled
down  his red, pock-marked face,  and judging by the  warm  smile with which
Auntie regarded him, he was evidently a most admirable person.
     "Ah, here you are, let me introduce you," Auntie said. "This is Terenty
Semyonovich Chernoivanenko  from Near Mills. You remember, Petya stayed with
him, and our furniture's there."
     "I'm Gavrik's brother, your Petya's friend," said Terenty. He carefully
put  down the saucer and held out his great hand to  Vasily Petrovich. "Very
glad to make your acquaintance. I've heard a lot about you."
     "Really?" Vasily  Petrovich  said,  seating  himself at the  table  and
unconsciously assuming his "teacher" pose with one leg flung over the other,
his  pince-nez on  the black  cord dangling from  his hand.  "Well, well, it
would be interesting to hear exactly what it was you heard about me."
     "Oh, just that first you couldn't get on with  the  authorities because
of Count Tolstoi,  and  then you couldn't  get on with Faig because of  that
blockhead Blizhensky," Terenty said with a sigh, "well, and all the  rest of
it. And of course, you acted quite rightly and we respect you for it."
     Vasily Petrovich pricked up his ears.
     "And who are 'we'?" he asked.
     Terenty laughed good-naturedly.
     "  'We,' Vasily Petrovich, are ordinary  working folk. The people, that
is."
     Vasily Petrovich's alertness increased. It all .smacked of  "politics."
With some uneasiness he looked at Auntie, because this,  of course,  must be
her latest undertaking,  and perhaps a dangerous one. But  suddenly he saw a
pile of paper  money on the table-green  three-ruble notes, blue  fives  and
pink tens, neatly stacked and tied round with .thread.
     "What's that money?" he asked.
     "Just imagine," Auntie said with a modest smile of hidden triumph, "our
early cherry crop's sold and this is what we've made."
     "Six  hundred  and fifty-eight  rubles clear  profit!"  Terenty  added,
rubbing his hands. "Now you'll be all right!"
     "But just a moment," cried Vasily  Petrovich, mistrusting his own eyes.
"How did it all happen? The horses? The platforms? Our delivery? What? How?"
     "That's simple," Terenty said. "Our firm is on a sound footing. For the
right  kind  of  people we  can get  hold of anything-horses, platforms,  or
packing.  Because we're,  well  ...  the proletariat. Everything  is in  our
hands, Vasily Petrovich. Isn't that so?"
     Although the word "proletariat" was one of the most dangerous, smelling
not only of politics but even of revolution,  Terenty spoke it so simply and
naturally that Vasily Petrovich accepted it  just  as naturally, without the
slightest inner protest.
     "So  it's  you who  arranged  everything?"  he  said,  putting  on  his
pince-nez and looking at Terenty with renewed cheerfulness.
     "Yes, we did it," Terenty answered with a shade  of pride, and returned
Vasily Petrovich's cheerful look.
     "Our saviour!" said Auntie,
     Then she told  him in detail  and with a good deal of humour about  the
sale  of the cherries. They  had been taken on platforms through  the  whole
town and  sold right from  the platforms retail, and their success had  been
phenomenal.   People    grabbed    them    up,   sometimes    buying   whole
basketfuls-especially the  white  and pink ones; the black ones were less in
demand.
     "And  just   imagine,"  said  Auntie,  wrinkling  her  nose,  her  eyes
sparkling, "our Pavlik was the best salesman of all."
     "What?" Vasily Petrovich frowned. "Pavlik sold cherries?"
     "Of course," Auntie said, "we all did. Do you think I didn't  sell them
too? I most certainly did. I  put on an old hat a la Madame Storozhenko, sat
on the box by the driver, and drove in triumph along  all the streets. Well,
and how could I  stop the children after that?  They all sold cherries-Petya
and Motya and Marina and little Zhenya."
     "Wait  a moment,"  Vasily Petrovich said sternly. "Did my children sell
cherries in the streets? I think I can't have understood you properly."
     "Oh,  good  gracious,  there's  nothing to understand.  They sat on the
platforms  and drove  along  the  streets  shouting,  'Cherries!  Cherries!'
Somebody had to do the shouting. Just think how they enjoyed it! But Pavlik,
Pavlik!  He really amazed me. He shouted  better than any of the others. I'd
never thought. You know, he's got a voice just like-  Sobinov's. And such an
artistic manner,  and the most important  thing-a  real understanding of the
customer! He always knew how to treat them, when to  insist on a  high price
and when to lower it a bit."
     "Oh, this  is  outrageous!" muttered  Vasily  Petrovich  and  was  just
preparing  to  be  really  angry when he suddenly seemed to hear  his Pavlik
calling  out  in  a  voice  like  Sobinov's,  "Cherries! Cherries!"  and  an
involuntary smile slipped under his moustache. He snatched his pince-nez off
and sat back with his benevolent teacher's "He-he-he!" It did not last long,
however, in a moment he was frowning again.
     "It's  not  really  very funny,  though,"  he  said with  a  sigh.  "If
anything, it's sad. But it's a true  saying:  When in Rome, do as the Romans
do."
     "That's true," Terenty said, "but  it's not  all the truth. You mustn't
just do as the Romans do, you must fight them.  Or  they'll gobble you up so
there's nothing  left. Take that  old  bitch Madame  Storozhenko-excuse  the
language, but it's  the only name for her-she almost swallowed  you whole. A
good thing we managed to get here in time."
     "Yes," said Vasily  Petrovich, "I  don't know how to  thank you. You've
literally saved us from  ruin. Thank you! Thank you  from the  bottom of  my
heart!"
     "Fine words butter no parsnips," said Terenty with a grin.
     Vasily Petrovich looked  at Auntie in some  perplexity. He did not know
what to  do  next.  Ought he to offer Terenty  money? But  Terenty evidently
guessed his thought.
     "Nay, it's not money I mean,"  he said. "We helped you out, well,  just
to be neighbourly. From a feeling of solidarity. And, of course, not  to let
a good man down. Now we want you to help us a bit."
     Terenty kept using  the word "we,"  but for  some reason it  no  longer
alarmed Vasily Petrovich.
     "How can I help you?" he asked with interest.
     "This way." Terenty took out a folded  handkerchief and wiped  his big,
kindly face and round cropped head with the satiny-white soar on the temple.
"We've got  a small study  circle, a sort of Sunday school. We  read various
pamphlets, books, and  newspapers, and so  far as we can, we study political
economy. Well, that's all right as far as it goes," and Terenty sighed, "but
it  doesn't  go  far  enough.  Vasily  Petrovich,  we're  short  of  general
knowledge. You  know-history, geography ... how life began in the world  ...
that sort of thing. Now, how do you look at that?"
     "You mean, you want me to read some popular lectures?" Vasily Petrovich
asked.
     "That's  exactly it.  Yes, and a bit  of Russian literature wouldn't do
any harm either. Pushkin, Gogol, Count Tolstoi. ... In general, whatever you
think is needed, you know more about that. And in return we'll help you with
the orchard. The early cherries  are all sold, but there are still  the late
cherries, and apples, and  pears. And you've  a vineyard too. Not  very big,
but it'll take a good bit of work. You'll never manage it all by yourselves.
So that's the idea, you help us and we'll help you."
     Vasily Petrovich had already  resigned himself to the  thought that his
educational activities were over, and now such a  blaze of joy flared  up in
him that for  a  moment he could hardly  master himself. He  even rubbed his
hands  and  flashed  his pince-nez in his  old  class-room  manner, .saying,
"Well,  well...."  But  with  the  memory  of  the  trouble  and humiliation
connected with his former work, his enthusiasm quickly died out.
     "Ah, no," he said,  "no, no!  Anything but that!  I've had enough." His
face bore an imploring look and he cracked his fingers. "For pity's sake not
that! I vowed to myself. And what  sort of teacher am I if they've driven me
out from everywhere?" he concluded bitterly.
     "Why,  Vasily Petrovich, how can  you talk like  that!"  cried  Auntie,
horrified.
     "They didn't drive you out, they tried to gobble you up," Terenty said.
"You stuck in the throat of those gentry, so they just tried to get  you out
of the way. It's as Simple as that. We  stick in their throats too, but they
can't get rid of us.  We're too tough. They  couldn't  settle us properly in
1905, and now, in 1912,  they don't have a chance. And you want to deny it!"
he added reproachfully, although Vasily  Petrovich  had  said  nothing, only
stared at Terenty, trying to find the connection between 1905, 1912  and his
own fate which had worked out so dreadfully.
     "No," he said at last,  but with less resolution. "All  you  say may be
right to a certain extent, but it doesn't make it any easier for me." He was
just going to  add that he would rather go to the port and carry sacks,  but
for some  reason  stopped himself, thrust his  beard forward  and said, "And
that's that."
     "All right,"  Terenty said,  "have it your own  way. But I think you're
making a mistake. Where's the sense of  it if a  teacher stops teaching? Why
should  you  stop?  What's  it  matter that  you  couldn't  agree with  that
blockhead of an official  and that shark Faig?  They're  not the people. The
people  are still very  ignorant, you know  it  yourself. They  need  light,
knowledge. The working class lacks  educated people. And  where can  we find
them, when we haven't the means?  Who can help us  as  you can? We've helped
you,  you help us. We've got to  be  neighbourly, Vasily Petrovich. It's not
far from us to  you. The same proletariat. It's only two miles from here  to
Near Mills, across  the  steppe  as the  crow  flies. Well, what  about it?"
Terenty bent a warm look on Vasily Petrovich. "You won't have to come to us.
We'll  come  ourselves, if you agree; on Saturday evenings after work, or on
Sundays. We'll earth  up  your trees and water  the orchard  and work in the
vineyard, and  then you'll teach us a bit after.  Out in the open air, under
the trees, on the grass or somewhere on the steppe, in -some quiet spot-that
would really be fine. Especially as the police  have been giving us no peace
at all in Near Mills lately. As soon as folks get together anywhere to  talk
or  read  books-there's  a  raid,  a   search,  a  fuss-and  come   to   the
police-station. But  this is ideal. Even if they should come it is all plain
and  clear-folks  working in an orchard, the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the
world."
     Terenty talked gently, almost tenderly, respectfully, now and then just
touching Vasily Petrovich's sleeve with two fingers as softly  as though  he
were removing a wisp of down. And the more  he talked, the more that idea of
lessons under the sky, in the open air, appealed to Vasily Petrovich. It was
just  the  thing  that  had been lacking-free enlightenment inspired by free
physical labour.

     While Terenty was still talking, Vasily Petrovich made a mental plan of
his first  lectures. He would begin,  of course, with a  popular  outline of
general history and physical geography-perhaps to be followed by astronomy.
     "Well, Vasily Petrovich, what about it? Do you agree?" Terenty asked.
     "Yes, I do," Vasily Petrovich answered decidedly.
     That day Auntie went to town, made the payment, and a new life  started
at the farm.


        GLOW-WORMS


     For five days of the  week  everything went on  as  before. The Bacheis
continued to work in the  sweat of their brow, earthing up and watering late
cherry  and  apple trees.  The only  change  was  that  now the Pavlovskayas
sometimes joined them.
     Petya and  Marina had slipped into friendly, somewhat dull, neighbourly
terms. Nevertheless-more  from  habit than anything  else-he would sometimes
look  volumes at her to  which she usually replied by  unobtrusively putting
out her tongue.
     Every Saturday afternoon, however, a whole procession would arrive from
Near  Mills.  Motya,  Gavrik and  Zhenka  came,  then  tall, thin  Sinichkin
carrying his  spade carefully wrapped  in  newspaper under his arms. The old
railwayman  with his lamp whom Petya knew  from Near Mills and  Uncle  Fedya
would come striding .along in step  like  soldiers, Uncle Fedya with  a  big
copper kettle in his hand and a large, flat loaf of bread under his arm.
     The  young  schoolmistress  would  come  running  from  the  horse-tram
terminus, clasping a few dog-eared pamphlets to her breast.
     There were  others of Terenty's Sunday guests,  workers whom Petya  had
often seen  in the  streets, the  workshops or the gardens when  he lived in
Near Mills.
     Terenty  himself  usually came  last. He would  throw off his boots and
jacket, place them neatly under a tree and at once take charge.
     "Well, folks, time to stop smoking and get to work."
     He distributed the jobs quickly;  some people he  sent to help with the
earthing, others to  weed,  or  bring  water from the cistern, or  water the
trees, or work in the vineyard. Then he would take a spade or hoe  and start
himself.
     They worked for only a couple of hours or so, but got through more than
the  Bacheis had  done in  a week. Then  all went  to the sea for  a  bathe,
returned  refreshed,  sat  down soberly  in  a circle  under the  trees, and
Terenty went to fetch Vasily Petrovich.
     "Certainly, I'm  quite ready," he invariably replied, coming out on the
veranda in a freshly-ironed tussore jacket, starched shirt with a black tie,
and pointed kid boots.
     He approached  the  group  with his springy teacher's  step, erect  and
severe, carrying  under his arm an  exercise  book containing the outline of
his  lecture  which  he  had  been  preparing  for  several   days;  Terenty
respectfully brought a chair from the veranda and placed it for him.
     When Vasily Petrovich appeared, the "pupils" wanted to rise, but with a
quick  movement he gestured to them to remain seated, refused the  chair and
himself  sat  down  on  the  grass  as  though stressing  the special, free,
unofficial nature of the studies.
     It  should be added  that  this was the only  freedom  Vasily Petrovich
permitted himself. In  nothing else did he deviate a hair's breadth from the
strictest academic tradition.
     "Well,"  he  would say, glancing  down  at  his  notes,  "last  time we
discussed the life of primitive man who  alrea