My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [73]
"Put these pillows and things in their places. The idea! Fancy throwing pillows at any one! . . . And was it any business of yours? As for that old devil, he has gone out of his mind--the fool!"
Then she drew in her breath sharply, wrinkling up her face as she called me to her, and holding her head down said:
"Look! What is it that hurts me so?"
I put her heavy hair aside, and saw that a hairpin had been driven deep into the skin of her head. I pulled it out; but finding another one, my fingers seemed to lose all power of movement and I said: "I think I had better call mother. I am frightened."
She waved me aside.
"What is the matter? . . . Call mother indeed! I 'll call you! . . . Thank God that she has heard and seen nothing of it! As for you-- Now then, get out of my way!"
And with her own flexible lace-worker's fingers she rummaged in her thick mane, while I plucked up sufficient courage to help her pull out two more thick, bent hairpins.
"Does it hurt you?"
"Not much. I 'll heat the bath to-morrow and wash my head. It will be all right then."
Then she began persuasively: "Now, my darling, you won't tell your mother that he beat me, will you? There is enough bad feeling between them without that. So you won't tell, will you?"
"No."
"Now, don't you forget! Come, let us put things straight. . . . There are no bruises on my face, are there? So that's all right; we shall be able to keep it quiet."
Then she set to work to clean the floor, and I exclaimed, from the bottom of my heart:
"You are just like a saint . . . they torture you, and torture you, and you think nothing of it."
"What is that nonsense you are jabbering? Saint--? Where did you ever see one?"
And going on all fours, she kept muttering to herself, while I sat by the side of the stove and thought on ways and means of being revenged on grandfather. It was the first time in my presence that he had beaten grandmother in such a disgusting and terrible manner. His red face and his dishevelled red hair rose before me in the twilight; my heart was boiling over with rage, and I was irritated because I could not think of an adequate punishment.
But a day or two after this, having been sent up to his attic with something for him, I saw him sitting on the floor before an open trunk, looking through some papers; while on a chair lay his favorite calendar--consisting of twelve leaves of thick, gray paper, divided into squares according to the number of days in the month, and in each square was the figure of the saint of the day. Grandfather greatly valued this calendar, and only let me look at it on those rare occasions when he was very pleased with me; and I was conscious of an indefinable feeling as I gazed at the charming little gray figures placed so close together. I knew the lives of some of them too--Kirik and Uliti, Barbara, the great martyr, Panteleimon, and many others; but what I liked most was the sad life of Alexei, the man of God, and the beautiful verses about him. Grandmother often repeated them to me feelingly. One might consider hundreds of such people and console oneself with the thought that they were all martyrs.
But now I made up my mind to tear up the calendar; and when grandfather took a dark blue paper to the window to read it, I snatched up several leaves, and flying downstairs stole the scissors off grandmother's table, and throwing myself on the couch began to cut off the heads of the saints.
When I had beheaded one row I began to feel that it was a pity to destroy the calendar, so I decided to just cut out the squares; but before the second row was in pieces grandfather appeared in the doorway and asked:
"Who gave you permission to take away my calendar?"
Then seeing the squares of paper scattered over the table he picked them up, one after the other, holding each close to his face, then dropping it and picking up another; his jaw went awry, his beard jumped up and down, and he breathed so hard that the papers flew on to the floor.