My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [58]
"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 name as 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 the most holy; and sit in judgment, each more severely than the other, on the sinners of ancient times. The sinner who was most hardly dealt with was Absalom. Sometimes the dispute took a purely grammatical form, grandfather saying that it ought to be "sogryeshikhom, bezzakonnovakhom, nepravdavakhom," and Uncle Peter insisting that it was "sogryeshisha, bezzakonnovasha, nepra\dovaska."
"I say it one way, and you say it another!" said grandfather angrily, turning livid. Then he jeered: "Vasha! Shisha!"
But Uncle Peter, enveloped in smoke, asked maliciously:
"And what is the use of your 'khoms'? Do you think God takes any notice of them? What God says when He listens 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 any shavings, 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 bloodshot and grew dim and fixed, like the eyes of a dead person, and he would sit, huddled up in a corner, morose and as dumb 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 most extraordinary habits; on Sundays he used to sit at the window and shoot from a shot-gun at dogs and cats, hens and crows, or whatever came in his way that did not please him. One day he fired at the side of "Goodbusiness"; the shots did not pierce his leather coat, but some of them fell into his pocket. I shall never forget the interested expression with which the boarder regarded the dark-blue shots. Grandfather tried to persuade him to make a complaint 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 to the authorities, and set to work to get the names of other sufferers and witnesses in the street; but the culprit suddenly disappeared.
As for Uncle Peter, every time he heard the sound of shooting in the street--if he were at home--he used to hastily cover his iron-gray head with his glossy Sunday cap, which had large ear-flaps, and rush to the gate. Here he would hide his hands behind his back under his coat-tails, which he would lift up in imitation of a cock, and sticking out his stomach, would strut solemnly along the pavement quite close to the marksman, and then turn back. He would do this over and over again, and our whole household would be standing at the gate; while the purple face of the warlike gentleman could be seen at his window, with the blonde head of his wife over his shoulder, and people coming out of Betlenga yard--only the gray, dead house of the Ovsyanikovs showed no signs of animation.
Sometimes Uncle Peter made these excursions without any result, the hunter evidently not looking upon him as game worthy of his skill in shooting; but on other occasions the double-barrelled gun was discharged over and over again.
"Boom! Boom!"
With leisurely steps Uncle Peter came back to us and exclaimed, in great