My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [60]
go-"
In his artless manner, he would give a detailed account of how the Countess, in a white muslin frock with a gauzy, 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 sticking out beyond his ears, and his ugly face all blue where he had shaved his beard. And either he was a fool, or he pretended to be one so that he should not be asked useless questions. Sometimes he used to pour water into a cup to 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. Though they were different, yet they were all curiously alike; each one told of people being tormented, jeered at, or driven 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 said obligingly:
"All right, Greedy! Well, we once had a cook--"
"Who had?"
"The Countess Tatian Lexievna."
"Why do you call her Tatian? She was n't a man, was she?"
He laughed shrilly.
"Of course she was n't. She was a lady; but all the same she had whiskers. Dark she was . . . she came of a dark German race . . . people of the negro type they are. Well, as I was saying, this cook--this is a funny story, young gentleman."
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 Sascha Michhailov, and the trim, omniscient Sascha Jaakov. Once, when the three of us had made an excursion up to the roof, we saw a gentleman in a green fur-trimmed coat sitting in the Betlenga yard upon a heap of wood against the wall, and playing with some puppies; his little, yellow, bald head was uncovered. One of the brothers suggested the theft of a puppy, and they quickly evolved an ingenious plan by which the brothers were to go down to the street and wait at the entrance to Betlenga yard, while I did something to startle the gentleman; and when 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 had seen with my own eyes, that they had done many worse things than that, so I faithfully performed my part of the contract, with my usual luck.
There was a terrible uproar and scene; a whole army of men and women, headed by a young, goodlooking officer, rushed out of Betlenga House into the yard, and as my two cousins were, at the very moment when the outrage was committed, quietly walking along the street, and knew nothing of my wild prank, I was the only one to 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 very happy.
"That was a jolly good idea of yours, young gentleman," he whispered. "That's just what the silly old goat deserved--to be spit