It was after she’d taken me in as her son that she came across him somewhere or other, the drunkard, to her great misfortune. He really did beat her, I can tell you! My skin used to prickle in fear…”

The mother felt disarmed by his candour, and it occurred to her that Pavel might be angry with her for her unfriendly reply to this eccentric fellow. With a guilty smile she said:

“I wasn’t angry, but it was really very immediate… your asking. It was my hubby that treated me to it – may he rest in peace! Would you be a Tatar?”

The man twitched his legs and smiled so broadly that his ears even moved towards the back of his head. Then he said seriously:

“Not yet.”*

“Your way of talking doesn’t seem Russian!” the mother explained with a smile, getting his joke.

“It’s better than Russian!” said the guest with a merry shake of the head. “I’m Ukrainian, from the town of Kaneva.”

“And have you been here long?”

“I lived for about a year in town, and now I’ve moved to your factory, a month ago. I’ve found good people here – your son and others. I’m going to live here for a while!” he said, tugging at his moustache.

She liked him and, obeying a desire to repay him somehow for his words about her son, she suggested:

“Maybe you’ll have some tea?”

“What, am I going to enjoy your hospitality alone?” he replied, raising his shoulders. “When everyone’s gathered, then you can do the honours…”

He had reminded her of her fear.

“If only they could all be like this!” she wished ardently.

Footsteps rang out in the lobby again, the door opened hurriedly, and the mother again stood up. But to her surprise, into the kitchen came a girl of no great height, with the plain face of a peasant and a thick plait of fair hair. She asked quietly:

“Am I late?”

“Not at all!” replied the Ukrainian, looking in from the other room. “On foot?”

“Of course! Are you Pavel Mikhailovich’s mother? Hello! My name’s Natasha…”

“And your patronymic?” the mother asked.

“Vasilyevna. And you are?”

“Pelageya Nilovna.”

“Well, so now we’re acquainted…”

“Yes!” said the mother, sighing a little and scrutinizing the girl with a smile.

The Ukrainian was helping her to remove her outer clothes and asking:

“Is it cold?”

“Out in the open, very! It’s the wind…”

Her voice was fruity and clear, her mouth small and plump, and altogether she was round and fresh. With her outer clothes off, she rubbed her rosy cheeks hard with little hands that were red from the cold, and then went through quickly into the other room, the heels of her ankle boots clicking sonorously over the floor.

“She’s not wearing galoshes!” flashed through the mother’s head.

“Ye-es,” drawled the girl, shivering. “I’m chilled to the bone… and how!”

“I’ll heat up the samovar for you right away!” said the mother, immediately in a hurry as she went off into the kitchen. “Right away…”

It seemed to her as if she had known this girl for a long time and loved her with the good, sympathetic love of a mother. Smiling, she listened to the conversation in the other room.

“Why are you so miserable, Nakhodka?” the girl was asking.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the Ukrainian answered in a low voice. “The widow has kind eyes, and it occurred to me that maybe my mother’s are the same. I often think of my mother, you know, and it still seems to me that she’s alive.”

“Didn’t you say she was dead?”

“It’s my foster-mother that’s dead. But I’m talking about my real mother. It seems to me that she’s somewhere in Kiev, collecting alms. And drinking vodka. And when she’s drunk, the police slap her cheeks.”

“Ah, you warm-hearted thing!” thought the mother, and sighed.

Natasha started saying something quickly and heatedly in a low tone. The resonant voice of the Ukrainian rang out again.

“Oh, you’re still young, comrade, damp behind the ears! Giving birth is hard, teaching someone goodness even harder…”

“How about that!” the mother exclaimed inwardly, and she wanted to say something gentle to the Ukrainian. But the door opened unhurriedly, and in came Nikolai Vesovshchikov, the son of the old thief Danila, regarded by the whole settlement as being unsociable. He was always morosely shunning people and was mocked for it. Surprised, she asked him:

“What do you want, Nikolai?”

His broad palm wiped his pockmarked face with its prominent cheekbones, and without any greeting he asked in a muffled voice:

“Is Pavel at home?”

“No.”

He looked into the other room and went in, saying:

“Hello, comrades…”

“Him?” the mother thought with hostility, and she was very surprised to see Natasha offering him her hand with joy and affection.

Then came two lads, little more than boys. One of them the mother knew – this was Fyodor, the nephew of the old factory hand Sizov, sharp-faced, with a high forehead and curly hair. The other, shy and with his hair combed flat, was unfamiliar to her, but not frightening either. Finally Pavel appeared, and with him two young men – she knew them; they were both from the factory.