I HAVE sad and ludicrous reasons for remembering the burdensomehumiliations, insults, and alarms which my swiftly developed passion forreading brought me.

　　The books of the tailor’s wife looked as if they were terribly expensive,and as I was afraid that the old mistress might burn them in the stove, I triednot to think of them, and began to buy small colored books from the shopwhere I bought bread in the mornings.

　　The shopkeeper was an ill-favored fellow with thick lips. He was given tosweating, had a white, wizen face covered with scrofulous scars and pimples,and his eyes were white. He had short, clumsy fingers on puffy hands. Hisshop took the place of an evening club for grown-up people; also for thethoughtless young girls living in the street. My master’s brother used to gothere every evening to drink beer and play cards. I was often sent to call himto supper, and more than once I saw, in the small, stuffy room behind theshop, the capricious, rosy wife of the shopkeeper sitting on the knee ofVictorushka or some other young fellow. Apparently this did not offend theshop-keeper ; nor was he offended when his sister, who helped him in theshop, warmly embraced the drunken men, or soldiers, or, in fact any onewho took her fancy. The business done at the shop was small. He explainedthis by the fact that it was a new business, al — though the shop had beenopen since the autumn. He showed obscene pictures to his guests andcustomers, allowing those who wished to copy the disgraceful verses beneaththem.

　　I read the foolish little books of Mischa Evstignev, paying so manycopecks for the loan of them. This was dear, and the books afforded me nopleasure at all. “Guyak, or, the Unconquerable Truth,” “Franzl, the Venitian,”

　　“The Battle of the Russians with the Kabardines,” or “The BeautifulMahomedan Girl, Who Died on the Grave of her Husband,” — all that kind ofliterature did not interest me either, and often aroused a bitter irritation. Thebooks seemed to be laughing at me, as at a fool, when they told in dull wordssuch improbable stories.

　　“The Marksmen,” “Youri Miloslavski,” “Monks’ Secrets,” “Yapacha, theTatar Freebooter,” and such books I like better. I was the richer for readingthem; but what I liked better than all was the lives of the saints. Here wassomething serious in which I could believe, and which at times deeply stirredme. All the martyrs somehow reminded me of “Good Business,” and thefemale martyrs of grandmother, and the holy men of grandfather in his bestmoments.

　　I used to read in the shed when I went there to chop wood, or in the attic,which was equally uncomfortable and cold. Sometimes, if a book interestedme or I had to read it quickly, I used to get up in the night and light thecandle; but the old mistress, noticing that my candle had grown smallerduring the night, began to measure the candles with a piece of wood, whichshe hid away somewhere. In the morning, if my candle was not as long as themeasure, or if I, having found the measure, had not broken it to the length ofthe burned candle, a wild cry arose from the kitchen. Sometimes Victorushkacalled out loudly from the loft :

　　“Leave off that howling, Mamasha! You make life unbearable. Of coursehe burns the candles, because he reads books. He gets them from the shop. Iknow. Just look among his things in the attic.”

　　The old woman ran up to the attic, found a book, and burned it to ashes.

　　This made me very angry, as you may imagine, but my love of readingincreased. I understood that if a saint had entered that household, myemployers would have set to work to teach him, tried to set him to their owntune. They would have done this for something to do. If they had left offjudging people, scolding them, jeering at them, they would have forgottenhow to talk, would have been stricken with dumbness, and would not havebeen themselves at all. When a man is aware of himself, it must be throughhis relations with other people. My employers could not behave themselvestoward those about them otherwise than as teachers, always ready tocondemn; and if they had taught somebody to live exactly as they livedthemselves, to think and feel in the same way, even then they would havecondemned him for that very reason. They were that sort of people.

　　I continued to read on the sly. The old woman destroyed books severaltimes, and I suddenly found my — self in debt to the shopkeeper for theenormous amount of forty-seven copecks. He demanded the money, andthreatened to take it from my employers’ money when they sent me to makepurchases.

　　“What would happen then?” he asked jeeringly.

　　To me he was unbearably repulsive. Apparently he felt this, and torturedme with various threats from which he derived a peculiar enjoyment. When Iwent into the shop his pimply face broadened, and he would ask gently :

　　“Have you brought your debt?”

　　“No.”

　　This startled him. He frowned.

　　“How is that? Am I supposed to give you things out of charity? I shallhave to get it from you by sending you to the reformatory.”

　　I had no way of getting the money, my wages were paid to grandfather. Ilost my presence of mind. What would happen to me? And in answer to myentreaty that he wait for settlement of the debt, the shopkeeper stretched outhis oily, puffy hand, like a bladder, and said:

　　“Kiss my hand and I will wait.”

　　But when I seized a weight from the counter and brandished it at him, heducked and cried :

　　“What are you doing? What are you doing? I was only joking.”

　　Knowing well that he was not joking, I resolved to steal the money to getrid of him. In the morning when I was brushing the master’s clothes, moneyjingled in his trousers’ pockets, and sometimes it fell out and rolled on thefloor. Once some rolled into a crack in the boards under the staircase. Iforgot to say anything about this, and remembered it only several daysafterward when I found two greven between the boards. When I gave it backto the master his wife said to him :

　　“There, you see! You ought to count your money when you leave it inyour pockets.”

　　But my master, smiling at me, said:

　　“He would not steal, I know.”

　　Now, having made up my mind to steal, I remembered these words andhis trusting smile, and felt how hard it would be for me to rob him. Severaltimes I took silver out of the pockets and counted it, but I could not take it.

　　For three days I tormented myself about this, and suddenly the whole affairsettled itself quickly and simply. The master asked me unexpectedly:

　　“What is the matter with you, Pyeshkov? You have become dull lately.

　　Aren’t you well, or what?”

　　I frankly told him all my troubles. He frowned.

　　“Now you see what books lead to! From them, in some way or another,trouble always comes.”

　　He gave me half a ruble and admonished me sternly :

　　“Now look here; don’t you go telling my wife or my mother, or there willbe a row.”

　　Then he smiled kindly and said :

　　“You are very persevering, devil take you! Never mind; it is a good thing.

　　Anyhow, give up books. When the New Year comes, I will order a goodpaper, and you can read that.”

　　And so in the evenings, from tea-time till supper-time, I read aloud tomy employers “The Moscow Gazette,” the novels of Bashkov, Rokshnin,Rudinskovski, and other literature, for the nourishment of people whosuffered from deadly dullness.

　　I did not like reading aloud, for it hindered me from understanding whatI read. But my employers listened attentively, with a sort of reverentialeagerness, sighing, amazed at the villainy of the heroes, and saying proudlyto one another :

　　“And we live so quietly, so peacefully; we know nothing of such things,thank God!”

　　They mixed up the incidents, ascribed the deeds of the famous brigandChurkin to the post-boy Thoma Kruchin, and mixed the names. When Icorrected their mistakes they were surprised.

　　“What a memory he has!”

　　Occasionally the poems of Leonide Grave appeared in “The MoscowGazette.” I was delighted with them. I copied several of them into a notebook,but my employers said of the poet:

　　“He is an old man, you know; so he writes poetry.” “A drunkard or animbecile, it is all the same.”

　　I liked the poetry of Strujkin, and the Count Memento Mori, but both thewomen said the verses were clumsy.

　　“Only the Petrushki or actors talk in verse.”

　　It was a hard life for me on winter evenings, under the eyes of myemployers, in that close, small room. The dead night lay outside the window,now and again the ice cracked. The others sat at the table in silence, likefrozen fish. A snow-storm would rattle the windows and beat against thewalls, howl down the chimney, and shake the flue-plate. The children criedin the nursery. I wanted to sit by myself in a dark corner and howl like a wolf.

　　At one end of the table sat the women, knitting socks or sewing. At theother sat Victorushka, stooping, copying plans unwillingly, and from time totime calling out :

　　“Don’t shake the table! Goats, dogs, mice!”

　　At the side, behind an enormous embroidery-frame, sat the master,sewing a tablecloth in cross-stitch. Under his fingers appeared red lobsters,blue fish, yellow butterflies, and red autumn leaves. He had made the designhimself, and had sat at the work for three winters. He had grown very tiredof it, and often said to me in the daytime, when I had some spare time :

　　“Come along, Pyeshkov; sit down to the tablecloth and do some of it!”

　　I sat down, and began to work with the thick needle.

　　I was sorry for my master, and always did my best to help him. I had anidea that one day he would give up drawing plans, sewing, and playing atcards, and begin doing something quite different, something interesting,about which he often thought, throwing his work aside and gazing at it withfixed, amazed eyes, as at something unfamiliar to him. His hair fell over hisforehead and cheeks ; he looked like a laybrother in a monastery.

　　“What are you thinking of?” his wife would ask him.

　　“Nothing in particular,” he would reply, returning to his work.

　　I listened in dumb amazement. Fancy asking a man what he wasthinking of. It was a question which could not be answered. One’s thoughtswere always sudden and many, about all that passed before one’s eyes, ofwhat one saw yesterday or a year ago. It was all mixed up together, elusive,constantly moving and changing.

　　The serial in “The Moscow Gazette” was not enough to last the evening,and I went on to read the journals which were put away under the bed in thebedroom. The young mistress asked suspiciously:

　　“What do you find to read there? It is all pictures.”

　　But under the bed, besides the “Painting Review,” lay also “Flames,” andso we read “Count Tyatin–Baltiski,” by Saliass. The master took a great fancyto the eccentric hero of the story, and laughed mercilessly, till the tears randown his cheeks, at the mel — ancholy adventures of the hero, crying:

　　“Really, that is most amusing!”

　　“Piffle!” said the mistress to show her independence of mind.

　　The literature under the bed did me a great service. Through it, I hadobtained the right to read the papers in the kitchen, and thus made itpossible to read at night.

　　To my joy, the old woman went to sleep in the nursery for the nurse hada drunken fit. Victorushka did not interfere with me. As soon as thehousehold was asleep, he dressed himself quietly, and disappearedsomewhere till morning. I was not allowed to have a light, for they took thecandles into the bedrooms, and I had no money to buy them for myself; so Ibegan to collect the tallow from the candlesticks on the quiet, and put it in asardine tin, into which I also poured lamp oil, and, making a wick with somethread, was able to make a smoky light. This I put on the stove for the night.

　　When I turned the pages of the great volumes, the bright red tongue offlame quivered agitatedly, the wick was drowned in the burning, evil-smelling fat, and the smoke made my eyes smart. But all this unpleasantnesswas swallowed up in the enjoyment with which I looked at the illustrationsand read the description of them. These illustrations opened up be — fore mea world which increased daily in breadth — a world adorned with towns, justlike the towns of story-land. They showed me lofty hills and lovely sea —shores. Life developed wonderfully for me. The earth became morefascinating, rich in people, abounding in towns and all kinds of things. Nowwhen I gazed into the distance beyond the Volga, I knew that it was not spacewhich lay beyond, but before that, when I had looked, it used to make me feeloddly miserable. The meadows lay flat, bushes grew in clumps, and wherethe meadows ended, rose the indented black wall of the forest. Above themeadows it was dull, cold blue. The earth seemed an empty, solitary place.

　　And my heart also was empty. A gentle sorrow nipped it; all desires haddeparted, and I thought of nothing. All I wanted was to shut my eyes. Thismelancholy emptiness promised me nothing, and sucked out of my heart allthat there was in it.

　　The description of the illustrations told me in language which I couldunderstand about other countries, other peoples. It spoke of variousincidents of the past and present, but there was a lot which I did notunderstand, and that worried me. Sometimes strange words stuck in mybrain, like “metaphysics,” “chiliasm,” “chartist.” They were a source of greatanx — iety to me, and seemed to grow into monsters obstruct — ing myvision. I thought that I should never under — stand anything. I did notsucceed in finding out the meaning of those words. In fact, they stood likesentries on the threshold of all secret knowledge. Often whole phrases stuckin my memory for a long time, like a splinter in my finger, and hindered mefrom thinking of anything else.

　　I remembered reading these strange verses:

　　“All clad in steel, through the unpeopled land, Silent and gloomy as thegrave, Rides the Czar of the Huns, Attilla. Behind him comes a black mass ofwarriors, crying, ‘Where, then, is Rome ; where is Rome the mighty ? ”

　　That Rome was a city, I knew; but who on earth were the Huns? I simplyhad to find that out.

　　Choosing a propitious moment, I asked my master.

　　“The Huns?” he cried in amazement. “The devil knows who they are.

　　Some trash, I expect.”

　　And shaking his head disapprovingly, he said:

　　“That head of yours is full of nonsense. That is very bad, Pyeshkov.”

　　Bad or good, I wanted to know.

　　I had an idea that the regimental chaplain. Soloviev, ought to know whothe Huns were, and when I caught him in the yard, I asked him. The pale,sickly, always disagreeable man, with red eyes, no eyebrows, and a yellowbeard, pushing his black staff into the earth, said to me :

　　“And what is that to do with you, eh?”

　　Lieutenant Nesterov answered my question by a ferocious :

　　“What-a-t?”

　　Then I concluded that the right person to ask about the Huns was thedispenser at the chemist’s. He always looked at me kindly. He had a cleverface, and gold glasses on his large nose.

　　“The Huns,” said the dispenser, “were a nomad race, like the people ofKhirgiz. There are no more of these people now. They are all dead.”

　　I felt sad and vexed, not because the Huns were dead, but because themeaning of the word that had worried me for so long was quite simple, andwas also of no use to me.

　　But I was grateful to the Huns after my collision with the word ceased toworry me so much, and thanks to Attilla, I made the acquaintance of thedispenser Goldberg.

　　This man knew the literal meaning of all words of wisdom. He had thekeys to all knowledge. Setting his glasses straight with two fingers, he lookedfixedly into my eyes and said, as if he were driving small nails into myforehead:

　　“Words, my dear boy, are like leaves on a tree. If we want to find out whythe leaves take one form instead of another, we must learn how the treegrows. We must study books, my dear boy. Men are like a good garden inwhich everything grows, both pleasant and profitable.”

　　I often had to run to the chemist’s for soda-water and magnesia for theadults of the family, who were continually suffering from heartburn, and forcastor-oil and purgatives for the children.

　　The short instructions which the dispenser gave me instilled into mymind a still deeper regard for books.

　　They gradually became as necessary to me as vodka to the drunkard.

　　They showed me a new life, a life of noble sentiments and strong desireswhich incite people to deeds of heroism and crimes. I saw that the peopleabout me were fitted for neither heroism nor crime. They lived apart fromeverything that I read about in books, and it was hard to imagine what theyfound interesting in their lives. I had no desire to live such a life. I was quitedecided on that point. I would not.

　　From the letterpress which accompanied the drawings I had learned thatin Prague, London, and Paris there are no open drains in the middle of thecity, or dirty gulleys choked with r............