The night lamp had been switched on in the corridor. Valya Zhukov's
eyelids quivered in his sleep like a dog's. Maybe he was dreaming about
dogs? Romashka was snoring. I was the only one awake, thinking all the
time. Each thought more daring than the other. I saw myself getting up
at the meeting of the school and denouncing Nikolai Antonich, revealing
to everyone the mean plan to drive Korablev out of the school. Or I saw
myself writing a letter to Korablev. While composing it I fell asleep.
Strangely enough, when I woke up (while the rest were still asleep) I
continued the letter from the very point I had left off. I started to
recollect the letters which Aunt Dasha had once read to me. At last I
made up my mind.
69
It was still quite early—just gone seven o'clock and it was as dark as
night outside. But that did not deter me, of course. Lame Japhet tried to
stop me, but I dodged past him and ran out by the back way.
Korablev lived in Vorotnikovsky Street, in a one-storey wooden annex
with shutters and a veranda like a summer bungalow. For some reason I
was sure that he was not asleep. Obviously, a rejected suitor who had
received his rebuff from Maria Vasilievna only the day before, could not
be asleep. As a matter of fact, he wasn't. A light was burning in the room
and he was standing at the window staring out into the yard-staring so
hard that one would think there was God knows what out there. So hard
and absorbed that he did not notice me, though I was standing right
under the window and making signs to him with my hands.
"Ivan Pavlovich!"
But Ivan Pavlovich frowned, shook his head and moved away.
"Ivan Pavlovich, open the door, it's me!"
He returned a few minutes later with his coat thrown over his
shoulders and came out on to the veranda.
"It's me, Grigoriev," I repeated, afraid that he might have forgotten
me. He looked at me in an odd sort of way. "I've come to tell you
something. They want to shut down the theatre and have you-"
I don't think I said "kicked out". But maybe I did, because he suddenly
came to himself.
"Come in," he said tersely.
His place was always clean and tidy, with books on the shelves, a
white counterpane on the bed and a cover on the pillow. Everything
shipshape. The only thing that wasn't was the host himself, it seems. At
one moment he screwed up his eyes, the next he opened them wide, as
though things in front of him were getting blurred. I'm sure he had not
been to bed that night. I had never seen him looking so tired.
"Ah, Sanya," he said haltingly. "What is it?" "I was going to write you a
letter, Ivan Pavlovich," I said earnestly. "It's all because of the school
theatre, really. They say you've driven your wife to an early grave."
"Hold on!" he laughed. "Who says I've driven my wife to her grave?"
"All of 'em. 'The cause of his late wife's death is nothing to do with us.
Vulgarisation of the idea—that's what worries us.' " "I don't understand
a thing," Korablev said gravely. "Yes, vulgarisation," I repeated firmly. I
had been memorising these words since the previous day:
"vulgarisation", "popularity", "loyal duty". I had said "vulgarisation",
now there remained "popularity" and "loyal duty".
"At the meetings he sheds crocodile tears," I plunged on. "He started
that theatre stunt in order to win popularity. Yes, 'popularity'. He sucks
up to the Soviets. We must do our loyal duty."
I may have got it a bit mixed up, but it was easier for me to rattle off
by heart what I had heard the night before than to tell it in my own
words. Anyway, Korablev understood me. Understood me perfectly well.
His eyes immediately lost their former clouded look and a tinge of
colour mounted to his cheeks and he paced up and down the room.
"This is great fun," he muttered, though there was no fun in it for him
at all. "And, of course, the boys and girls don't want to see the theatre
closed down?" "Sure they don't."
"Is it because of the theatre that you've come?" I was silent. Perhaps it
was because of the theatre. Or perhaps because the school would be a
70
dull place without Korablev. Or perhaps because I didn't like the mean
way they were plotting to get rid of him.
"What fools!" Korablev said suddenly. "What abysmally dull fools!"
He squeezed my hand, and started pacing the room again with a
thoughtful air. During his pacing he went out, probably into the kitchen,
fetched a boiling kettle, brewed tea and got glasses down from a small
cupboard on the wall.
"I was thinking of leaving, but now I've decided to stay," he said.
"We'll fight. What d'you say, Sanya? And now let's have some tea."
I don't know whether they ever held that School Council meeting at
which Korablev was to pay heavily for "vulgarising the idea of manual
education". Obviously it wasn't held, because he had not been made to
pay for it. Every morning old Whiskers combed his moustache in front
of the mirror as though nothing had happened and went in to take his
lessons.
Within a few days the theatre announced production of Ostrovsky's
play Every Man Has a Fool in His Sleeve, with Grisha Faber in the
leading role.
Two dark, curly-haired boys from the local branch of the Komsomol
came down to organise a Komsomol group in our school. Valya asked
from the floor whether Children's Home boys could enrol in the group,
and they said, yes, they could, provided they had reached the age of
fourteen. I did not know myself how old I was. I figured that I was
getting on for thirteen. To be on the safe side I said I was fourteen. All
the same they wouldn't believe me. It may have been because I was
small for my age that time.
71
The only teachers who attended this meeting were Korablev and
Nikolai Antonich. Korablev made a rather impressive speech, first
congratulating us briefly on the formation of the Group, then criticising
us at length for being poor pupils and hooligans. Nikolai Antonich also
made a speech. It was a fine speech, in which he greeted the Branch
representatives, whom he described as the young generation, and ended
up by reciting a poem of Nekrasov's.
After the meeting I met him in the corridor and said: "Good morning,
Nikolai Antonich!" For some reason he did not answer me.
In short, all was in order, and I don't know what made me suddenly
change my mind about going to the Tatarinovs and decide to meet Katya
in the street the next day and give her the modelling-knife and clay she
had asked for. Within half an hour, however, I had changed my mind
again.
The old lady answered the door, but kept it on the chain, when she
saw me. She seemed to be debating with herself whether to let me in or
not. Then she quickly opened the door, whispered to me:
"Go into the kitchen," and gave me a gentle push in the back.
While I hesitated, rather surprised, Nikolai Antonich came into the
hall, and seeing me, he switched on the light.
72
"A-ah!" he said in a suppressed voice. "You're here."
He gripped my shoulder roughly.