My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [51]
He came over to me again, holding the steaming vessel in his hand; and peeping into it with one eye, he said:
"I 'll make you a thrower, and you promise not to come near me again--is that agreed?"
I was terribly hurt at this.
"I will never come near you again, never!" And I indignantly left him and went out to the garden, where grandfather was bustling about, spreading manure round the roots of the apple trees, for it was autumn and the leaves had fallen long ago.
"Here! you go and clip the raspberry bushes," said grandfather, giving me the scissors.
"What work is it that 'Good-business' does?" I asked.
"Work--why, he is damaging his room, that's all. The floor is burned, and the hangings soiled and torn. I shall tell him he 'd better shift."
"That's the best thing he can do," I said, beginning to clip the dried twigs from the raspberry bushes.
But I was too hasty.
On wet evenings, whenever grandfather went out, grandmother used to contrive to give an interesting little party in the kitchen, and invited all the occupants of the house to tea. The draymen, the officer's servant, the robust Petrovna often came, sometimes even the merry little lodger, but always "Good-business" was to be found in his corner by the stove, motionless and mute. Dumb Stepa used to play cards with the Tartar. Valei would bang the cards on the deaf man's broad nose and yell:
"Your deal!"
Uncle Peter brought an enormous chunk of white bread, and some jam in large, tall pots; he cut the bread in slices, which he generously spread with jam, and distributed the delicious raspberry-strewn slices to all, presenting them on the palm of his hand and bowing low.
"Do me the favor of eating this," he would beg courteously; and after any one had accepted a slice, he would look carefully at his dark hand, and if he noticed any drops of jam on it, he would lick them off.
Petrovna brought some cherry liqueur in a bottle, the merry lady provided nuts and sweets, and so the feast would begin, greatly to the content of the dear, fat grandmother.
Very soon after "Good-business" had tried to bribe me not to go and see him any more, grandmother gave one of her evenings.
A light autumn rain was falling; the wind howled, the trees rustled and scraped the walls with their branches; but in the kitchen it was warm and cozy as we all sat close together, conscious of a tranquil feeling of kindness towards one another, while grandmother, unusually generous, told us story after story, each one better than the other. She sat on the ledge of the stove, resting her feet on the lower ledge, bending towards her audience with the light of a little tin lamp thrown upon her. Always when she was in a mood for story-telling she took up this position.
"I must be looking down on you," she would explain. "I can always talk better that way."
I placed myself at her feet on the broad ledge, almost on a level with the head of "Good-business," and grandmother told us the fine story of Ivan the Warrior, and Miron the Hermit, in a smooth stream of pithy, well-chosen words.
"Once lived a wicked captain--Gordion,
His soul was black, his conscience was of stone;
He hated truth, victims he did not lack,
Fast kept in chains, or stretched upon the rack,
And, like an owl, in hollow tree concealed,
So lived this man, in evil unrevealed.
But there was none who roused his hate and fear
Like Hermit Miron, to the people dear.
Mild and benign, but fierce to fight for truth,
His death was planned without remorse or ruth.
The captain calls--most trusted of his band--
Ivan the Warrior, by whose practiced hand
The Monk, unarmed and guileless, must be slain.
'Ivan!' he said, 'too long that scheming brain
Of Hermit Miron has defied my power.
This proud Monk merits death, and now the hour
Has struck when he must say farewell to earth.
A curse he has been to it, from his birth.
Go, seize him by his venerable beard,
And to me bring the head which cowards have feared.
My dogs with joy shall greedily devour
The head of him who thirsted after power.'
Ivan,