I IMAGINE myself, in my childhood, as a hive to which all manner of simple, undistinguished people brought,as the bees bring honey, their knowledge and thoughts about life, generously enriching my soul with what theyhad to give. The honey was often dirty, and bitter, but it was all the same knowledge and honey.

　　After the departure of “Good-business,” Uncle Peter became my friend. He was in appearance like grandfather,in that he was wizened, neat, and clean ; but he was shorter and altogether smaller than grandfather. He lookedlike a person hardly grown-up dressed up like an old man for fun. His face was creased like a square of very fineleather, and his comical, lively eyes, with their yellow whites, danced amidst these wrinkles like siskins in acage. His raven hair, now growing gray, was curly, his beard also fell into ringlets, and he smoked a pipe, thesmoke from which the same color as his hair curled upward into rings too; his style of speech was florid, andabounded in quaint sayings. He always spoke in a buzzing voice, and sometimes very kindly, but I always had anidea that he was making fun of everybody.

　　“When I first went to her, the lady-countess Tatian her name was Lexievna said to me, ‘You shall beblacksmith’; but after a time she orders me to go and help the gardener. ‘All right, I don’t mind, only I didn’tengage to work as a laborer, and it is not right that I should have to.’ Another time she ‘d say ‘Now, Petrushka,you must go fishing.’ It was all one to me whether I went fishing or not, but I preferred to say ‘good-by’ to thefish, thank you! and I came to the town as a drayman. And here I am, and have never been anything else. So far Ihave not done much good for myself by the change. The only thing I possess is the horse, which reminds me ofthe Countess.”

　　This was an old horse, and was really white, but one day a drunken house painter had begun to paint it in variouscolors, and had never finished his job. Its legs were dislocated, and altogether it looked as if it were made of ragssewn together; the bony head, with its dim, sadly drooping eyes, was feebly attached to the carcass by swollenveins and old, worn-out skin. Uncle Peter waited upon the creature with much respect, and called it “Tankoe.”

　　“Why do you call that animal by a Christian name?” asked grandfather one day.

　　“Nothing of the kind, Vassili Vassilev, nothing of the kind in all respect I say it. There is no such Christian nameas Tanka but there is ‘Tatiana’ !”

　　Uncle Peter was educated and well-read, and he and grandfather used to quarrel as to which of the saints was themost holy; and sit in judgment, each more severely than the other, on the sinners of ancient times. The sinnerwho was most hardly dealt with was Absalom. Sometimes the dispute took a purely grammatical form,grandfather saying that it ought to be “sogryeshiM0#z, bezzakonnovaM0w, nepravdava-khom” and Uncle Peterinsisting that it was “sogry.” “I say it one way, and you say it another!” said grandfather angrily, turning livid.

　　Then he jeered: “Vaska! Skiska!”

　　But Uncle Peter, enveloped in smoke, asked maliciously:

　　“And what is the use of your ‘Idioms’? Do you think God takes any notice of them? What God says when Helistens to our prayers is : Pray how you like, pray what you like.”

　　“Go away, Lexei !” shrieked grandfather in a fury, with his green eyes flashing.

　　Peter was very fond of cleanliness and tidiness. When he went into the yard he used to kick to one side anyshavings, or pieces of broken crockery, or bones that were lying about, with the scornful remark :

　　“These things are no use, and they get in the way.”

　　Although he was usually talkative, good-natured, and merry, there were times when his eyes became bloodshotand grew dim and fixed, like the eyes of a dead person, and he would sit, huddled up in a corner, morose and asdumb as his nephew.

　　“What is the matter with you, Uncle Peter?”

　　“Let me alone!” he would say darkly and grimly.

　　In one of the little houses in our street there lived a gentleman, with wens on his forehead, and the mostextraordinary habits; on Sundays he used to sit at the window and shoot from a shot-gun at dogs and cats, hensand crows, or whatever came in his way that did not please him. One day he fired at the side of “Good-business”;the shots did not pierce his leather coat, but some of them fell into his pocket. I shall never forget the interestedexpression with which the boarder regarded the dark-blue shots. Grandfather tried to persuade him to make acomplaint about it, but, throwing the shots into a corner of the kitchen, he replied :

　　“It is not worth while.”

　　Another time our marksman planted a few shots in grandfather’s leg, and he, much enraged, got up a petition tothe authorities, and set to work to get the names of other sufferers and witnesses in the street ; but the culpritsuddenly disappeared.

　　As for Uncle Peter, every time he heard the sound of shooting in the street if he were at home he used to hastilycover his iron-gray head with his glossy Sunday cap, which had large ear-flaps, and rush to the gate. Here hewould hide his hands behind his back under his coat-tails, which he would lift up in imitation of a cock, andsticking out his stomach, would strut solemnly along the pavement quite close to the marksman, and then turnback. He would do this over and over again, and our whole household would be standing at the gate; while thepurple face of the war-like gentleman could be seen at his window, with the blonde head of his wife over hisshoulder, and people coming out of Betlenga yard only the gray, dead house of the Ovsyanikovs showed no signsof animation.

　　Sometimes Uncle Peter made these excursions without any result, the hunter evidently not looking upon him asgame worthy of his skill in shooting; but on other occasions the double-barrelled gun was discharged over andover again.

　　“Boom! Boom!”

　　With leisurely steps Uncle Peter came back to us and exclaimed, in great delight :

　　“He sent every shot into the field!”

　　Once he got some shot into his shoulder and neck; and grandmother gave him a lecture while she was gettingthem out with a needle :

　　“Why on earth do you encourage the beast? He will blind you one of these days.”

　　“Impossible, Akulina Ivanna,” drawled Peter contemptuously. “He ‘s no marksman !”

　　“But why do you encourage him?”

　　“Do you think I am encouraging him? No ! I like teasing the gentleman.”

　　And looking at the extracted shot in his palm, he said:

　　“He ‘s no marksman. But up there, at the house of my mistress, the Countess Tatiana Lexievna, there was anArmy man Marmont Ilich. He was taken up most of the time with matrimonial duties husbands were in the samecategory as footmen with her and so he was kept busy about her; but he could shoot, if you like only with bulletsthough, grandmother; he wouldn’t shoot with anything else. He put Ignashka the Idiot at forty paces orthereabouts from him, with a bottle tied to his belt and placed so that it hung between his legs; and whileIgnashka stood there with his legs apart laughing in his foolish way, Marmont Ilich took his pistol and bang! thebottle was smashed to pieces. Only, unfortunately Ignashka swallowed a gadfly, or something, and gave a start,and the bullet went into his knee, right into the kneecap. The doctor was called and he took the leg off; it was allover in a minute, and the leg was buried ...”

　　“But what about the idiot?”

　　“Oh, he was all right! What does an idiot want with legs and arms? His idiocy brings him in more than enough toeat and drink. Every one loves idiots ; they are harmless enough. You know the saying: ‘It is better forunderlings to be fools; they can do less harm then.’ ”

　　This sort of talk did not astonish grandmother, she had listened to it scores of times, but it made me ratheruncomfortable, and I asked Uncle Peter:

　　“Would that gentleman be able to kill any one?”

　　“And why not? Of cou rse he could! . . . He even fought a duel. A Uhlan, who came on a visit to TatianaLexievna, had a quarrel with Marmont, and in a minute they had their pistols in their hands, and went out to thepark; and there on the path by the pond that Uhlan shot Marmont bang through the liver. Then Marmont was sentto the churchyard, and the Uhlan to the Caucasus . . . and the whole affair was over in a very short time. That ishow they did for themselves. And amongst the peasants, and the rest of them, he is not talked of now. Peopledon’t regret him much; they never regretted him for himself . . . but all the same they did grieve at one time forhis property.”

　　“Well, then they didn’t grieve much,” said grandmother.

　　Uncle Peter agreed with her:

　　“That ‘s true ! . . . His property. . . yes, that wasn’t worth much.”

　　He always bore himself kindly towards me, spoke to me good-naturedly, and as if I were a grown person, andlooked me straight in the eyes; but all the same there was something about him which I did not like. Havingregaled me with my. favorite jam, he would spread my slice of bread with what was left, he would bring memalted gingerbread from the town, and always conversed with me in a quiet and serious tone.

　　“What are you going to do, young gentleman, when you grow up? Are you going into the Army or the CivilService?’

　　“Into the Army.”

　　“Good! A soldier’s life is not a hard one in these days. A priest’s life isn’t bad either ... all he has to do is tochant, and pray to God, and that does not take long. In fact, a priest has an easier job than a soldier . . . but afisherman’s job is easier still; that does not require any education at all, it is simply a question of habit.”

　　He gave an amusing imitation of the fish hovering round the bait, and of the way perch, mugil, and bream throwthemselves about when they get caught on the hook.

　　“Now, you get angry when grandfather whips you,” he would say soothingly, “but you have no cause to be angryat that, young gentleman; whippings are a part of your education, and those that you get are, after all, merechild’s play. You should just see how my mistress, Tatiana Lexievna, used to thrash! She could do it all right,she could ! And she used to keep a man especially for that Christopher his name was and he did his work so wellthat sometimes neighbors from other manor-houses sent a message to the Countess: ‘Please, Tatiana Lexievna,send Christopher to thrash our footman.’ And she used to let him go.”

　　In his artless manner, he would give a detailed account of how the Countess, in a white muslin frock with agauzy, sky-colored handkerchief over her head, would sit on the steps, by one of the pillars, in a red armchair,while Christopher flogged the peasants, male and female, in her presence.

　　“And this Christopher was from Riazan, and he looked like a gipsy, or a Little Russian, with mustaches stickingout beyond his ears, and his ugly face all blue where he had shaved his beard. And either he was a fool, or hepretended to be one so that he should not be asked useless questions. Sometimes he used to pour water into a cupto catch flies and cockroaches, which are a kind of beetle, and then he used to boil them over the fire.”

　　I was familiar with many such stories, which I had heard from the lips of grandmother and grandfather. Thoughthey were different, yet they were all curiously alike; each one told of people being tormented, jeered at, ordriven away, and I was tired of them, and as I did not wish to hear any more, said to the cab-driver :

　　“Tell me another kind of story.”

　　All his wrinkles were gathered about his mouth for a space, then they spread themselves to his eyes, as he saidobligingly:

　　“All right, Greedy! Well, we once had a cook”

　　“Who had?”

　　“The Countess Tatian Lexievna.”

　　“Why do you call her Tatian ? She wasn’t a man, was she?”

　　He laughed shrilly.

　　“Of course she wasn’t. She was a lady; but all the same she had whiskers. Dark she was . . . she came of a darkGerman race . . . people of the negro type they are. Well, as I was saying, this cook this is a funny story, younggentleman.”

　　And this “funny story” was that the cook had spoiled a fish pasty, and had been made to eat it all up himself,after which he had been taken ill.

　　“It is not at all funny!” I said angrily.

　　“Well, what is your idea of a funny story? Come on ! Let ‘s have it.”

　　“I don’t know”

　　“Then hold your tongue !” And he spun out another dreary yarn.

　　Occasionally, on Sundays and holidays, we received a visit from my cousins the lazy and melancholy SaschaMichhailov, and the trim, omniscient Sascha Jaakov. Once, when the three of us had made an excursion up to theroof, we saw a gentleman in a green fur-trimmed coat sitting in the Betlenga yard upon a heap of wood againstthe wall, and playing with some puppies; his little, yellow, bald head was uncovered. One of the brotherssuggested the theft of a puppy, and they quickly evolved an ingenious plan by which the brothers were to godown to the street and wait at the entrance to Betlenga yard, while I did something to startle the gentleman; andwhen he ran away in alarm they were to rush into the yard and seize a puppy.

　　“But how am I to startle him?’

　　“Spit on his bald head,” suggested one of my cousins.

　　But was it not a grievous sin to spit on a person’s head”? However, I had heard over and over again, and hadseen with my own eyes, that they had done many worse things than that, so I faithfully performed my part of thecontract, with my usual luck.

　　There was a terrible uproar and scene; a whole army of men and women, headed by a young, good-lookingofficer, rushed out of Betlenga House into the yard, and as my two cousins were, at the very moment when theoutrage was committed, quietly walking along the street, and knew nothing of my wild prank, I was the only oneto receive a thrashing from grandfather, by which the inhabitants of Betlenga House were completely satisfied.

　　And as I lay, all bruised, in the kitchen, there came to me Uncle Peter, dressed in his best, and looking veryhappy.

　　“That was a jolly good idea of yours, young gentleman,” he whispered. “That ‘s just what the silly old goatdeserved to be spit upon! Next time throw a stone on his rotten head !”

　　Before me rose the round, hairless, childlike face of the gentleman, and I remembered how he had squeakedfeebly and plaintively, just like the puppies, as he had wiped his yellow pate with his small hands, and I feltoverwhelmed with shame, and full of hatred for my cousins ; but I forgot all this in a moment when I gazed onthe drayman’s wrinkled face, which quivered with a half-fearful, half-disgusted expression, like grandfather’sface when he was beating me.

　　“Go away!” I shrieked, and struck at him with my hands and feet.

　　He tittered, and winking at me over his shoulder, went away.

　　From that time I ceased to have any desire for intercourse with him; in fact, I avoided him. And yet I began towatch his movements suspiciously, with a confused idea that I should discover something about him. Soon afterthe incident connected with the gentleman of Betlenga House, something else occurred. For a long time I hadbeen very curious about Ovsyanikov House, and I imagined that its gray exterior hid a mysterious romance.

　　Betlenga House was always full of bustle and gaiety; many beautiful ladies lived there, who were visited byofficers and students, and from it sounds of laughter and singing, and the playing of musical instruments,continually proceeded. The very face of the house looked cheerful, with its brightly polished window-panes.

　　Grandfather did not approve of it.

　　“They are heretics . . . and godless people, all of them!” he said about its inhabitants, and he applied to thewomen an offensive term, which Uncle Peter explained to me in words equally offensive and malevolent.

　　But the stern, silent Ovsyanikov House inspired grandfather with respect.

　　This one-storied but tall house stood in a well-kept yard overgrown with turf, empty save for a well with a roofsupported by two pillars, which stood in the middle. The house seemed to draw back from the street as if itwished to hide from it. Two of its windows, which had chiselled arches, were at some distance from the ground,and upon their dust-smeared panes the sun fell with a rainbow effect. And on the other side of the gateway stooda store-house, with a facade exactly like that of the house, even to the three windows, but they were not realones; the outlines were built into the gray wall, and the frames and sashes painted on with white paint. Theseblind windows had a sinister appearance, and the whole storehouse added to the impression which the housegave, of having a desire to hide and escape notice. There was a suggestion of mute indignation, or of secret pride,about the whole house, with its empty stables, and its coachhouse, with wide doors, also empty.

　　Sometimes a tall old man, with shaven chin and white mustache, the hair of which stuck out stiffly like so manyneedles, was to be seen hobbling about the yard. At other times another old man, with whiskers and a crookednose, led out of the stables a gray mare with a long neck a narrow-chested creature with thin legs, which bowedand scraped like an obsequious nun as soon as she came out into the yard. The lame man slapped her with hispalms, whistling, and drawing in his breath noisily; and then the mare was again hidden in the dark stable. I usedto think that the old man wanted to run away from the house, but could not because he was bewitched.

　　Almost every day from noon till the evening three boys used to play in the yard all dressed alike in gray coatsand trousers, with caps exactly alike, and all of them with round faces and gray eyes; so much alike that I couldonly tell one from the other by their height.

　　I used to watch them through a chink in the fence; they could not see me, but I wanted them to know I was there.

　　I liked the way they played together, so gaily and amicably, games which were unfamiliar to me; I liked theirdress, and their consideration for each other, which was especially noticeable in the conduct of the elder ones totheir little brother, a funny little fellow, full of life. If he fell down, they laughed it being the custom to laughwhen any one has a fall but there was no malice in their laughter, and they ran to help him up directly; and if hemade his hands or knees dirty, they wiped his fingers and trousers with leaves or their handkerchiefs, and themiddle boy said good-naturedly:

　　“There, clumsy!”

　　They never quarreled amongst themselves, never cheated, and all three were agile, strong and indefatigable.

　　One day I climbed up a tree and whistled to them; they stood stock-still for a moment, then they calmly drewclose together, and after looking up at me, deliberated quietly amongst themselves. Thinking that they weregoing to throw stones at me, I slipped to the ground, filled my pockets and the front of my blouse with stones,and climbed up the tree again; but they were playing in another corner of the yard, far away from me, andapparently had forgotten all about me. I was very sorry for this; first, because I did not wish to be the one tobegin the war, and secondly, because just at that moment some one called to them out of the window :

　　“You must come in now, children.”

　　They went submissively, but without haste, in single file, like geese.

　　I often sat on the tree over the fence hoping that they would ask me to play with them; but they never did. But inspirit I was always playing with them, and I was so fascinated by the games sometimes that I shouted andlaughed aloud ; whereupon all three would look at me and talk quietly amongst themselves, whilst I, overcomewith confusion, would let myself drop to the ground.

　　One day they were playing hide-and-seek, and when it came to the turn of the middle brother to hide, he stood inthe corner by the storehouse and shut his eyes honestly, without attempting to peep, while his brothers ran to hidethemselves. The elder one nimbly and swiftly climbed into a broad sledge which was kept in a shed against thestorehouse, but the youngest one ran in a comical fashion round and round the well, flustered by not knowingwhere to hide.

　　“One” shoute............