The Spy. Максим Горький
and less stern. In fact it wore an injured and downcast expression, and there was nothing in the least formidable in his eyes. The bump over his forehead got larger.
"Have you been beaten often?"
"Yes, sir, often."
"Who beat you?"
"The boys."
"Oh!"
The master drew his glasses close to his eyes and mumbled his lips.
"The boys are scrappers here, too," he said. "Don't have anything to do with them, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Be on your guard against them. They are impudent rascals and thieves. I want you to know I am not going to teach you anything bad. Don't be afraid of me. I am a good man. You ought to get to love me. You will love me. You'll have it very good with me, you understand?"
"Yes, sir. I will."
The master's face assumed its former expression. He rose, and taking Yevsey by the hand led him to the further end of the shop.
"Here's work for you. You see these books? On every book the date is marked. There are twelve books to each year. Arrange them in order. How are you going to do it?"
Yevsey thought a while, and answered timidly:
"I don't know."
"Well, I am not going to tell you. You can read and you ought to be able to find out by yourself. Go, get to work."
The old man's dry even voice seemed to lash Yevsey, driving away the melancholy feeling of separation from his uncle and replacing it with the anxious desire to begin to work quickly. Restraining his tears the boy rapidly and quietly untied the packages. Each time a book dropped to the floor with a thud he started and looked around. The master was sitting at the table writing with a pen that scratched slightly. As the people hastened past the door, their feet flashed and their shadows jerked across the shop. Tears rolled from Yevsey's eyes one after the other. In fear lest they be detected he hurriedly wiped them from his face with dusty hands, and full of a vague dread went tensely at his work of sorting the books.
At first it was difficult for him, but in a few minutes he was already immersed in that familiar state of thoughtlessness and emptiness which took such powerful hold of him when, after beatings and insults, he sat himself down alone in some corner. His eye caught the date and the name of the month, his hand mechanically arranged the books in a row, while he sat on the floor swinging his body regularly. He became more and more deeply plunged in the tranquil state of half-conscious negation of reality. As always at such times the dim hope glowed in him of something different, unlike what he saw around him. Sometimes the all-comprehending, capacious phrase uttered by Yashka dimly glimmered in his memory:
"It will pass away."
The thought pressed his heart warmly and softly with a promise of something unusual. The boy's hands involuntarily began to move more quickly, and he ceased to notice the lapse of time.
"You see, you knew how to do it," said the master.
Yevsey, who had not heard the old man approach him, started from his reverie. Glancing at his work, he asked:
"Is it all right?"
"Absolutely. Do you want tea?"
"No."
"You ought to say, 'No, thank you.' Well, keep on with your work."
He walked away. Yevsey looking after him saw a man carrying a cane enter the door. He had neither a beard nor mustache, and wore a round hat shoved back on the nape of his neck. He seated himself at the table, at the same time putting upon it some small black and white objects. When Yevsey again started to work, he every once in a while heard abrupt sounds from his master and the newcomer.
"Castle."
"King."
"Soon."
The confused noise of the street penetrated the shop wearily, with strange words quacking in it, like frogs in a marsh.
"What are they doing?" thought the boy, and sighed. He experienced a soft sensation, that from all directions something unusual was coming upon him, but not what he timidly awaited. The dust settled upon his face, tickled his nose and eyes, and set his teeth on edge. He recalled his uncle's words:
"You will live with him as behind a bush."
It grew dark.
"King and checkmate!" cried the guest in a thick voice. The master clucking his tongue called out:
"Boy, close up the shop!"
The old man lived in two small rooms in the fourth story of the same house. In the first room, which had one window, stood a large chest and a wardrobe.
"This is where you will sleep."
The two windows in the second room gave upon the street, with a view over an endless vista of uneven roofs and rosy sky. In the corner, in front of the ikons, flickered a little light in a blue glass lamp. In another corner stood a bed covered with a red blanket. On the walls hung gaudy portraits of the Czar and various generals. The room was close and smelt like a church, but it was clean.
Yevsey remained at the door looking at his elderly master, who said:
"Mark the arrangement of everything here. I want it always to be the same as it is now."
Against the wall stood a broad black sofa, a round table, and about the table chairs also black. This corner had a mournful, sinister aspect.
A tall, white-faced woman with eyes like a sheep's entered the room, and asked in a low singing voice:
"Shall I serve supper?"
"Bring it in, Rayisa Petrovna."
"A new boy?"
"Yes, new. His name is Yevsey."
The woman walked out.
"Close the door," ordered the old man. Yevsey obeyed, and he continued in a lower voice. "She is the landlady. I rent the rooms from her with dinner and supper. You understand?"
"I understand."
"But you have one master – me. You understand?"
"Yes."
"That is to say, you must listen only to me. Open the door, and go into the kitchen and wash yourself."
The master's voice echoed drily in the boy's bosom, causing his alarmed heart to palpitate. The old man, it seemed to Yevsey, was hiding something dangerous behind his words, something of which he himself was afraid.
While washing in the kitchen he surreptitiously tried to look at the mistress of the apartment. The woman was preparing the supper noiselessly but briskly. As she arranged plates, knives, and bread on an ample tray her large round face seemed kind. Her smoothly combed dark hair; her unwinking eyes with thin lashes, and her broad nose made the boy think, "She looks to be a gentle person."
Noticing that she, in her turn, was looking at him, the thin red lips of her small mouth tightly compressed, he grew confused, and spilt some water on the floor.
"Wipe it," she said without anger. "There's a cloth under the chair."
When he returned, the old man looked at him and asked:
"What did she tell you?"
But Yevsey had no time to answer before the woman brought in the tray.
"Well, I'll go," she said after setting it on the table.
"Very well," replied the master.
She raised her hand to smooth the hair over her temples – her fingers were long – and left.
The old man and the boy sat down to their supper. The master ate slowly, noisily munching his food and at times sighing wearily. When they began to eat the finely chopped roast meat, he said:
"You see what good food? I always have only good food."
After supper he told Yevsey to carry the dishes into the kitchen, and showed him how to light the lamp.
"Now, go to sleep. You will