My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [71]
"Doroga, dvouroga, tvorog, nedoroga,
Kopwita, popwito, korwito--"
I recollected myself too late. Mother rose to her feet, and resting her hands on the table, asked in very distinct tones:
"What is that you are saying?"
"I don't know," I replied dully.
"Oh, you know well enough!"
"It was just something--"
"Something what?"
"Something funny."
"Go into the corner."
"Why?"
"Go into the corner," she repeated quietly, but her aspect was threatening.
"Which corner?"
Without replying, she gazed so fixedly at my face that I began to feel quite flustered, for I did not understand what she wanted me to do. In one corner, under the icon, stood a small table on which was a vase containing scented dried grass and some flowers; in another stood a covered trunk. The bed occupied the third, and there was no fourth, because the door came close up to the wall.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, despairing of being able to understand her.
She relaxed slightly, and wiped her forehead and her cheeks in silence; then she asked:
"Didn't grandfather put you in the corner?"
"When?"
"Never mind when! Has he ever done so?" she cried, striking the table twice with her hand.
"No--at least I don't remember it."
She sighed. "Phew! Come here!"
I went to her, saying: "Why are you so angry with me?"
"Because you made a muddle of that poetry on purpose."
I explained as well as I was able that I could remember it word for word with my eyes shut, but that if I tried to say it the words seemed to change.
"Are you sure you are not making that up?"
I answered that I was quite sure; but on second thoughts I was not so sure, and I suddenly repeated the verses quite correctly, to my own utter astonishment and confusion. I stood before my mother burning with shame; my face seemed to be swelling, my tingling ears to be filled with blood, and unpleasant noises surged through my head. I saw her face through my tears, dark with vexation, as she bit her lips and frowned.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked in a voice which did not seem to belong to her. "So you did make it up?"
"I don't know. I didn't mean to!"
"You are very difficult," she said, letting her head droop. "Run away!"
She began to insist on my learning still more poetry, but my memory seemed to grow less capable every day of retaining the smooth, flowing lines, while my insane desire to alter or mutilate the verses grew stronger and more malevolent in proportion. I even substituted different words, by which I somewhat surprised myself, for a whole series of words which had nothing to do with the subject would appear and get mixed up with the correct words out of the book. Very often a whole line of the verse would seem to be obliterated, and no matter how conscientiously I tried, I could not get it back into my mind's eye. That pathetic poem of Prince Biazemskov (I think it was his) caused me a great deal of trouble:
At eventide and early morn
The old man, widow and orphan
For Christ's sake ask for help from man.
But the last line:
At windows beg, with air forlorn.
I always rendered correctly. Mother, unable to make anything of me, recounted my exploits to grandfather, who said in an ominous tone:
"It is all put on! He has a splendid memory. He learned the prayers by heart with me. . . . He is making believe, that's all. His memory is good enough. . . . Teaching him is like engraving on a piece of stone . . . that will show you how good it is! . . . You should give him a hiding."
Grandmother took me to task too.
"You can remember stories and songs . . . and aren't songs poetry?"
All this was true and I felt very guilty, but all the same I no sooner set myself to learn verses than from somewhere or other different words crept in like cockroaches, and formed themselves into lines.
"We too have beggars at our door,
Old men and orphans very poor.
They come and whine and ask for food,
Which they will sell, though it is good.
To Petrovna