‘And why should he be your servant?’
‘Why? Because there’s no gent or millionaire who wouldn’t lick a dirty Jew’s boots to make an extra copeck. Now, I’m a dirty Jew and a beggar, everyone looks at me like I was a dog, but if I had money Varlamov would be making as much a fool of himself in front of me as Moses is in front of you.’
Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov exchanged glances. Neither of them understood Solomon. Kuzmichov gave him a stern, severe look and said, ‘How can you compare yourself with Varlamov, you idiot!’
‘I’m not such a fool as to compare myself with Varlamov,’ replied Solomon, giving the two of them a sarcastic look. ‘Although Varlamov’s Russian, at heart he’s a dirty Jew. All he lives for is money and profit, but I burnt my money in the stove. I don’t need money or land or sheep, and people don’t have to be frightened of me and take their hats off when I go past. That means I’m cleverer than your Varlamov and more like a human being!’
A little later, in his deep drowsiness, Yegorushka could hear Solomon speaking about the Jews in a hurried, lisping voice that was hoarse from the loathing that was choking him. At first he spoke in correct Russian, but then he lapsed into the tone of those fairground tellers of tales from Jewish life, breaking into that same exaggerated Yiddish accent he once used at the fair.
‘Hold on!’ Father Khristofor interrupted. ‘Just a moment! If you don’t like your faith you’d better change it. Anyone who scoffs at his own faith is the lowest of the low.’
‘You just don’t understand!’ Solomon rudely cut him short. ‘We’re talking at cross purposes.’
‘That only goes to show how stupid you are!’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘I instruct you to the best of my ability and you go and lose your temper. I talk to you calmly, like a father, and you start gobbling away like a turkey! You’re a queer fish, no mistake!’
In came Moses. He looked in alarm at Solomon and his visitors and once more the skin on his face twitched nervously. Yegorushka shook his head and looked around, catching a fleeting glimpse of Solomon’s face just as it was three-quarters turned towards him and when the shadow of his long nose bisected the whole of his left cheek. That contemptuous smile, deep in shadow, those sarcastic, gleaming eyes, that arrogant expression and that whole plucked-hen’s figure doubling and dancing before Yegorushka’s eyes made him look less like a clown than something out of a nightmare – an evil spirit most likely.
‘That brother of yours is a real madman Moses, God help him!’ Father Khristofor said, smiling. ‘You should fix him up with a job somewhere or find him a wife. He’s not human…’
Kuzmichov angrily frowned. Once again Moses looked at his brother anxiously and quizzically.
‘Solomon, get out of here,’ he said sternly. ‘Get out!’
And he added something in Yiddish. Solomon laughed abruptly and left.
‘What’s going on?’ Moses asked Father Khristofor in alarm.
‘He keeps forgetting himself,’ replied Kuzmichov. ‘He’s a boor and he thinks too much of himself.’
‘I thought as much!’ Moses exclaimed, clasping his hands in horror. ‘Oh, goodness me, goodness me!’ he quietly muttered. ‘Now, please be so kind as to forgive him and don’t be cross. That’s the kind of person he is. Goodness me! He’s my own brother and I’ve had nothing but trouble with him. Why, did you know he…’
Moses curled his finger against his forehead.
‘He’s out of his mind,’ he continued, ‘a hopeless case. I just don’t know what to do with him. He cares for no one, respects no one and fears no one. You know, he laughs at everyone, says stupid things and rubs everyone up wrong way. You won’t believe it, but once when Varlamov was here Solomon said such things to him that he gave both of us taste of whip. Why did he have to whip me? Was it my fault? If God robbed him of brains it was God’s will. But how was I to blame?’
About ten minutes passed and Moses still carried on muttering in an undertone and sighing.
‘He doesn’t sleep at night – he just keeps thinking, thinking and thinking. What he thinks about God only knows. And if you go near him at night he gets angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me either… And there’s nothing he wants. When Papa died he left us six thousand roubles each. I bought an inn, married, and now I have children. But he went and burnt all his money in stove. Such shame, such shame! Why did he burn it? If he didn’t need it then why not give to me? Why burn it?’
Suddenly the door squeaked on its block and the floor shook with footsteps. There was a draught of air and Yegorushka felt as if a great black bird had swept past and flapped its wings right in his face. He opened his eyes and there was Uncle, standing by the sofa, bag in hand and ready to leave. Holding his broad-brimmed top hat, Father Khristofor was bowing to someone and smiling – not his customary soft, kindly smile, but a deferential, artificial smile which did not suit him at all. Meanwhile, Moses was trying to balance himself as though his body had broken into three and he was doing his best not to disintegrate altogether. Only Solomon seemed unconcerned and stood in one corner, arms folded, smiling as contemptuously as ever.
‘Your Ladyship, please forgive us, it’s not very clean in here,’ groaned Moses with that painfully sugary smile, paying no more attention to Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor and trying only to stop himself falling apart by balancing his whole body. ‘We’re only simple folk, your Ladyship!’
Yegorushka rubbed his eyes. In the middle of the room there really was a ‘ladyship’ in the shape of a young, very beautiful, buxom woman in a black dress and straw hat. Before Yegorushka could make out her features, for some reason he recalled that solitary, graceful poplar he had seen on the hill that day.
‘Was Varlamov here today?’ a woman’s voice asked.
‘No, your Ladyship,’ replied Moses.
‘If you happen to see him tomorrow please tell him to drop in and see me for a few moments.’
Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, about half an inch from his eyes, Yegorushka saw velvety black eyebrows, large brown eyes and well-groomed, dimpled female cheeks, from which her smile radiated like sunbeams all over her face. There was the smell of some wonderful perfume.
‘What a pretty little boy!’ the lady said. ‘Whose is he? Casimir, just take a look. How lovely! Heavens, he’s asleep! Oh, my darling little pet!’
And the lady firmly kissed Yegorushka on both cheeks. He smiled and closed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming. The door squeaked and the hurried footsteps of someone coming in and out could be heard.
Two deep voices whispered:
‘Yegorushka! Yegorushka! Get up now, we’re leaving!’
Someone, apparently Deniska, set Yegorushka on his feet and took him by the arm. On the way Yegorushka half opened his eyes and once again he saw that beautiful woman in the black dress who had kissed him. She was standing in the middle of the room and gave him a friendly smile and nod as she watched him go. As he went to the door he saw a handsome, thick-set, dark-haired gentleman in bowler hat and leggings. He must have been the lady’s escort.
‘Whoa there!’ someone shouted outside.
At the front of the inn Yegorushka saw a splendid new carriage and a pair of black horses. On the box sat a liveried footman with a long whip. Solomon was the only one to come out and see off the departing guests. His face was tense with the urge to start roaring with laughter and he seemed to be awaiting the guests’ departure with great impatience so that he could laugh at them to his heart’s content.
‘Countess Dranitsky,’ Father Khristofor whispered as he climbed into the carriage.