Olyonushka was right. One can’t be too careful.
Once the first surge of delight and elation had passed, we all began to feel bored again. How were we going to pass the time until evening?
The little dog was whining. Her owner was darning her gloves and grumbling about something.
Olyonushka was in one of her moods: “No, this really can’t be the right way to live. We should learn how to live without trampling the grass. Today we’re having fried eggs again, which means still more destruction of life. One should plant an apple tree and live only off its fruit.”
“Olyonushka, darling,” I say. “Just now you polished off a good dozen apples in one sitting, without even thinking about it. A single apple tree won’t last you very long, will it?”
Olyonushka’s lips were trembling. She was about to start bawling. “You’re laughing at me. Yes, I ate a dozen apples, but so what? What ups… what really upsets me… that I’ve sunk so low… lost all self… self-control…”
At this point she began to sob. She truly did lose all self-control. Her mouth fell open and, like a child, she began to howclass="underline" “Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!”
Averchenko didn’t know what to do.
“Olyonushka!” he said gently. “Don’t get so upset! It won’t be long till we get to Kiev. Then we can plant your apple tree for you.”
Olyonushka carried on weeping inconsolably.
“Honest to God, we will. And the apples will ripen just like that—Kiev has a wonderful climate. And if there aren’t enough for you, then we can buy a few more. Just now and again. Just now and again, Olyonushka! All right, we won’t buy any more apples, only please stop crying!”
“It’s all the old woman’s fault for being so saintly,” I said to myself. “Olyonushka now sees all of us—herself included—as vile, callous, and petty-minded. Ach, ach, ach…”
The door gave a quiet creak, interrupting my troubled thoughts.
Another eye!
The eye peeps in, then disappears. A quick scuffle behind the door. Another eye, very different. It peeps in, then disappears. And yet another. This eye is bold enough to allow a nose to follow it into the crack.
A voice behind the door asks impatiently, “Ri-ight?”
“There,” replies the eye. And disappears.
What on earth was going on?
We watched.
There was no doubt. People were taking turns to peep into our room.
“Maybe Gooskin’s making them pay to see us,” said Averchenko.
I walked quietly up to the door and flung it open.
About fifteen people, maybe even more, sprang back and did their best to squeeze behind the stove. They were clearly not part of the family—the daughters’ daughters and other family members were all going about their household chores with particular zeal, as if to emphasize that they had nothing to do with these outsiders. As for Gooskin, he was standing alone, innocently picking bits of loose plaster from the wall.
“Gooskin! What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing much—just people being inquisitive! ‘What do you want to look at writers for?’ I asked them. ‘If you really must look at something, then look at me. So what if they’re writers! You’re not going to see inside them and on the outside they’re no different from me. Ri-ight? How could they be any different?”
Had Gooskin been selling tickets? I wondered. Or had he been letting everyone in for free—like a pianist practising on mute keys so that his fingers don’t lose their agility?
We went back inside, closing the door more firmly.
“I don’t know,” said Olyonushka. “Do we really have to deprive them of their entertainment? If they’re that interested, why not just let them look?”
“Yes, you’re right,” I agreed quickly, afraid she might start bawling again. “Really, we should have put on even more of a show for them. We could have got Averchenko to stand on his head. Then we could have held hands in a circle and danced round him, while your fellow actress sat with her little dog on top of the wardrobe calling out ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’”
In the afternoon, after the first serving of fried eggs (there would be yet more before our departure), the old woman’s husband came and entertained us. In all my life I have never met anyone so gloomy. He neither trusted the present nor had faith in the future.
“It’s nice and peaceful here in Klintsy.”
He hung his head dejectedly.
“Peaceful enough. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“The apples you have here are delicious!”
“Good enough. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“You have a lot of daughters.”
“A lot of daughters—yes. But who knows…”
Since none of us knew what tomorrow would bring, we were unable to reply. And so our conversations with this old man always took the form of brief questions and answers, dense with philosophical implication, somewhat like Plato’s dialogues.
“You have a lovely wife,” said Olyonushka. “And you are, I think, all kind and good people!”
“Kind, good. But who…”
With a sudden gesture of despair he turned around and walked out.
After our second serving of fried eggs we packed our things; the husbands of the daughters’ daughters dragged our luggage along to the station; we said emotional goodbyes to everyone and went out onto the porch, leaving Gooskin to handle the most delicate aspect of our departure—payment. We told him he really must get the family to accept our money. If he failed, the best thing he could do—Olyonushka and I were agreed—was to put the money on the table and make a swift exit. And we added that if the saintly old woman chased after him, he should run all the way to the station without a backward glance. We’d meet him on the platform. She was, after all, an old woman; she wouldn’t be able to catch up with him.
We waited anxiously.
Through the door we could hear their voices—Gooskin’s and the old woman’s, one at a time, then both together.
“No!” Olyonushka said in distress. “He’s simply not up to it. Matters like this require tact and sensitivity.”
Then a sudden wild shriek. Gooskin.
“He’s gone mad!”
He was shrieking loud, wild words.
“Gelt?” we heard. “Gelt?”
And the old woman began to shriek too. The same word: “gelt.”
And then silence.
Gooskin rushed out. He looked awful. He was bright red, soaked in sweat, his mouth all twisted. His bootlaces were undone and his collar had broken free of its stud.
“Let’s go!” he commanded grimly.
“Well, did she take the money?” Olyonushka asked with timid hope.
Gooskin’s whole body began to shake: “Did she take the money? Just try stopping her! I’d understood long ago that she was out to fleece us, but to fleece us so royally—may never the sun set again if ever I have heard the like of it!”
When angered, Gooskin would launch out into the most complex of rhetorical figures. There were occasions when we really had no idea what he was talking about.
“I told her in plain language—you, Madame, must have woken yourself up, Madame, from the wrong side of bed, Madame. So I suggest we wait until you’ve slept your way through it. Yes, I put it to her straight.”
“But did you pay her the right amount?” we asked anxiously.
“Indeed I did! A lot more than the right amount. Do I look like the kind of person who doesn’t pay? No, I’m the kind who pays.”
He said all this with pride. And then, a little inappropriately, he muttered, “Though really, of course, it’s you who’ll be paying.”
6
WE LEFT Klintsy in a freight car.