Father Khristofor looked anxiously at the door.
‘Uncle Ivan will help you,’ he continued in a whisper. ‘He won’t leave you in the lurch. He doesn’t have children of his own and he’ll help you. Don’t worry!’
He looked grave and whispered even more softly, ‘Only mind you don’t forget your mother and Uncle Ivan – God forbid! Honour your mother, as the commandment bids us. Uncle Ivan is your benefactor, your guardian. If you become a scholar and you find other people a burden or despise them – God forbid – because they are stupider than you – then woe, woe unto you!’
Father Khristofor raised his hands and repeated in a thin voice, ‘Woe, I say, woe unto you!’
Father Khristofor warmed to his theme, began to relish it as they say and would have continued until dinner-time, but the door opened and in came Uncle Ivan. He hastily greeted them, sat at the table and rapidly gulped his tea.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’ve settled all the business. We should have gone home today, but there’s still a problem with Yegorushka. We must find him a place to live. My sister told me she has a friend around here, Nastasya Petrovna. Perhaps she could take him in as a boarder.’
He rummaged in his pocketbook, took out a crumpled letter and read, ‘ “Little Nizhny Street, to Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova, at her own house.” We must go and see her right away. Oh, it’s a real nuisance!’
Shortly after breakfast Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka left the inn.
‘It’s a real nuisance!’ Uncle muttered. ‘You just stick to me like a leech, damn you! All you and your mother want is book-learning and to be nice and refined, but you both give me no end of trouble!’
When they crossed the yard the wagons and drivers had disappeared – early that morning they had all gone down to the quayside. In a far corner stood that familiar dark shape – the carriage. The bays were standing nearby, eating their oats.
‘Goodbye, brichka!’ thought Yegorushka.
First they had a long walk uphill along a wide avenue, then across a large market square where Uncle Ivan asked a policeman the way to Little Nizhny Street.
‘Well now,’ grinned the policeman. ‘That’s miles from ’ere, over by the commons!’
On the way some cabs passed them, but Uncle allowed himself such extravagances as cabs only in exceptional circumstances and on major holidays. He and Yegorushka walked for a long time along paved streets, then along unpaved streets with footpaths and finally along streets that were neither paved nor with footpaths. When their legs and tongues had got them to Little Nizhny Street both were red in the face and, after removing their hats, they wiped away the sweat.
‘Can you please tell me,’ said Uncle Ivan, addressing a little old man sitting on a bench by a gate, ‘where Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house is?’
‘There ain’t no Toskunova round ’ere,’ replied the old man after a pause for thought. ‘Perhaps it’s Timoshenko you be wanting?’
‘No, Toskunova.’
‘Sorry, ain’t no Toskunovas round ’ere…’
Uncle Ivan shrugged his shoulders and trudged on.
‘You’re wasting your time!’ the old man shouted after him. ‘If I says there ain’t none, that means there ain’t none!!’
‘Tell me, dearie,’ Uncle Ivan said, turning to an old woman on the corner selling seeds and pears from a tray, ‘where’s Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house?’
The old woman looked at him in surprise and laughed.
‘Can she be living in a house of her own now?’ she asked. ‘Heavens, it’s nearly eight years since she married her daughter off and left the house to her son-in-law. It’s the son-in-law that lives there now.’
And her eyes seemed to be saying: ‘How could those idiots not know a simple fact like that?’
‘But where is she living now?’ asked Uncle Ivan.
‘Heavens!’ repeated the old woman in amazement, clasping her hands. ‘She’s been in lodgings for ages. It’s eight years since she made her house over to her son-in-law. Honestly!’
Most probably she was waiting for Uncle Ivan to be similarly surprised and exclaim: ‘But that’s not possible!’ but he asked very calmly, ‘So, where does she live?’
The fruit-seller rolled up her sleeves, pointed with her bare arm and shrilled, ‘Now, go straight on and on till you come to a little red house. You’ll see an alley to your left. Go down it and it’s the third gate on the right.’
Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka reached the little red house, turned left into the alley and headed for the third gate on the right. On both sides of the very ancient gate stretched a grey fence with wide cracks in it. The right-hand section listed heavily forwards, threatening to collapse altogether, whilst the left sloped back towards the yard. The gate was still upright, but was apparently deliberating which would be more convenient – to fall backwards or forwards. Uncle Ivan opened the wicket-gate and both he and Yegorushka saw a large yard overgrown with tall weeds and burdock. About a hundred steps from the gate stood a red-roofed cottage with green shutters. A plump woman with her sleeves rolled up and her apron outspread was standing in the middle of the yard. She was scattering something on the ground and shouting in a shrill, piercing voice like the fruit-seller’s, ‘Chick, chick, chick!’
Behind her sat a ginger dog with pointed ears. On seeing the visitors it started barking tenor (all ginger dogs bark tenor).
‘Who do you want?’ shouted the woman, screening her eyes from the sun with one hand.
‘Good morning!’ Uncle Ivan shouted back, waving the ginger dog away with his stick. ‘Tell me, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova live here?’
‘She does. What do you want with her?’
Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka went over to her. She eyed them suspiciously and repeated, ‘What do you want with her?’
‘Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?’
‘Yes, I am!’
‘Very pleased to meet you. Well now, your old friend Olga Ivanovna Knyazeva sends her regards. And perhaps you remember me – I’m her brother Ivan. We’re all from the village of N—. You were born in our house and then you got married…’
There was silence. The plump woman stared vacantly at Uncle Ivan as if she neither believed nor understood. Then she flushed and threw up her hands. The oats spilled from her apron and tears spurted from her eyes.
‘Olga Ivanovna!’ she shrieked, breathless with excitement. ‘My sweet darling! Oh, heaven save us, why am I standing here like an idiot? My dear little beautiful angel!’
She embraced Yegorushka, made his face wet with her tears and then broke down completely.
‘Heavens above!’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Olga’s little boy! What joy! He’s his mother all over, the spitting image! But why are you standing out in the yard? Please come inside.’
Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried into the house. The visitors wearily followed her.
‘I’m afraid it’s not very tidy in here,’ she said, ushering the visitors into a small stuffy room filled with icons and flowerpots.
‘Oh, goodness gracious!… Vasya!… At least open the shutters! My little angel! He’s so adorable! And fancy me not knowing that Olga had such a dear little boy!’
When she had calmed down and grown used to her visitors, Uncle Ivan asked to speak to her in private. Yegorushka went into the next room where there was a sewing-machine, a cage with a starling in the window and as many icons and flowers as in the parlour. A little girl, sunburnt and as chubby-cheeked as Titus and wearing a clean cotton-print frock, was standing stock-still by the sewing-machine. She stared at Yegorushka without blinking and evidently felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at her in silence.