Alyonka was standing up in the attic at the top of the ladder, and my young charge was at the bottom, making it quite impossible for the girl to come down. It was quite simply shameful – well, you know how they carry on. And he kept on teasing her: “Come on down,” he kept saying, “or I’ll take the ladder away.” I was seized by such a fit of anger that I took him out into the passage and boxed his ears.’

‘So that the blood came spurting out of his ears and nose,’ Chelnovsky broke in, with a laugh.

‘As he so richly deserved.’

‘What did his mother have to say about that?’

‘I didn’t see her again to find out. When I left the servants’ room, I walked straight to Kursk.’

‘How many versts was that?’

‘A hundred and seventy; and even if it had been a thousand and seventy, it would have been all the same to me.’

If you had been able to see Musk-Ox at that moment, you would have been in no doubt that it really was ‘all the same’ to him how many versts he had to walk and whose ears he had to box if, according to his view of things, such a punishment appeared to be indicated.

2

A sweltering June set in. Vasily Petrovich would appear punctually in our house every day at twelve noon, remove his calico tie and his braces and, having said ‘good day’ to both of us, would settle down to reading his classical authors. In this manner he would pass the time before dinner; after dinner he would light his pipe and, taking up a position by the window, would usually inquire: ‘Well, any tutoring posts?’ A month had gone by since the day on which Musk-Ox had first put that question to Chelnovsky – each day since then he had repeated it, and each day throughout this entire month he had received the same dispiriting answer. There was not the faintest prospect of a post becoming available. Vasily Petrovich did not, however, seem to find this in the slightest upsetting. He ate with a hearty appetite, and was forever in the mood that was habitual with him. Only once or twice did I observe him a little more irritable than usual; but even this irritability was in no way connected with his personal situation. It proceeded from two entirely extraneous circumstances. On one occasion he encountered a woman who was sobbing fit to burst, and asked her: ‘You foolish woman, what are you bellowing about?’ At first the woman was afraid, but subsequently told him that her son had been press-ganged by the military and was to be taken off the next day to be a recruit. Vasily Petrovich recalled that the clerk at the recruiting office was an old friend of his from his days at the theological seminary. Early the next morning, he went to see the clerk and returned in an unusually disconcerted frame of mind. His petition had proved unsuccessful. On another occasion a party of young recruits1 was being driven through the town. At this period coerced inductions into the army were frequent. Vasily Petrovich, chewing his upper lip and propping his arms in rather a rakish fashion, stood looking attentively out of the window at the transport of recruits that was going by below. The waggons of the local inhabitants trundled slowly along; carts, jolting from side to side along the municipal thoroughfare, swayed to and fro the heads of children, who were clad in overcoats made of grey army material. The large, grey caps which they wore pulled down over their foreheads lent a horribly melancholy aspect to their pretty faces and intelligent eyes, which looked with a mixture of anguish and childish curiosity at the unfamiliar town and the crowds of tradesmen’s boys who were skipping along behind the carts. Two female cooks brought up the rear.

‘I suppose they must have mothers somewhere?’ said one of the strapping, pock-marked cooks, as they drew level with our window.

‘I expect they have,’ the other replied, thrusting her elbows under her sleeves and scratching her arms with her fingernails.

‘And I suppose they care for them even though they’re just little Jews?’

‘Well, what else can a mother do?’

‘Of course. But it’s only because they’re their mothers, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s because they’re their mothers … it’s their own flesh and blood … They couldn’t do any different …’

‘Of course not.’

‘Silly fools!’ Vasily Petrovich shouted to them.

The women stopped in their tracks and looked up at him with astonishment. They both said, simultaneously: ‘What are you barking at, you old dog?’ – and on they went. I felt I wanted to go and see the manner in which these unhappy children were unloaded outside the garrison barracks.

‘Let’s go over to the barracks, Vasily Petrovich!’ I called to Bogoslovsky.

‘What for?’

‘Let’s go and see what they do with them over there.’

Vasily Petrovich made no reply; but when I reached for my hat, he too got up and came along with me. The garrison barracks to which the transiting party of young Jewish recruits were being taken was quite some distance from our house. When we arrived there, the carts were already empty and the children were standing in double ranks beside them. The party officer, together with an NCO, was carrying out a name-check on them. Onlookers crowded around the ranks of recruits. Near one of the carts several ladies were standing, and a priest wearing a bronze cross on a ribbon of St Vladimir. We went up to this cart.