The Spy. Максим Горький

face closely, and added, "My name is Matvey Matveyevich."

      Turning away, he took up a glass of tea, which he drank noiselessly. Then he rose and with a silent nod walked out.

      Yevsey and his uncle now went to the yard, where they seated themselves in the shade near the stable. The blacksmith spoke to Yevsey cautiously, as if groping with his words for something unintelligible to him.

      "You'll surely have it good with him. He's a quiet little old man. He has run his course and left all sorts of sins behind him. Now he lives in order to eat a little bite, and he grumbles and purrs like a satiated Tom-cat."

      "But isn't he a sorcerer?" asked the boy.

      "Why? I should think there are no sorcerers in the cities." After reflecting a few moments, the blacksmith went on. "Anyway it's all the same to you. A sorcerer is a man, too. But remember this, a city is a dangerous place. This is how it spoils people: the wife of a man goes away on a pilgrimage, and he immediately puts in her place some housemaid or other, and indulges himself. But the old man can't show you such an example. That's why I say you'll have it good with him. You will live with him as behind a bush, sitting and looking."

      "And when he dies?" Yevsey inquired warily.

      "That probably won't be soon. Smear your head with oil to keep your hair from sticking out."

      About noon the uncle made Yevsey bid farewell to their hosts, and taking him firmly by the hand led him to the city. They walked for a long time. It was sultry. Often they asked the passersby how to get to the Circle. Yevsey regarded everything with his owl-like eyes, pressing close up to his uncle. The doors of shops slammed, pulleys squeaked, carriages rattled, wagons rumbled heavily, traders shouted, and feet scraped and tramped. All these sounds jumbled together were tangled up in the stifling dusty atmosphere. The people walked quickly, and hurried across the streets under the horses' noses as if afraid of being too late for something. The bustle tired the boy's eyes. Now and then he closed them, whereupon he would stumble and say to his uncle:

      "Come, faster!"

      Yevsey wanted to get to some place in a corner where it was not so stirring, not so noisy and hot. Finally they reached a little open place hemmed in by a narrow circle of old houses, which seemed to support one another solidly and firmly. In the center of the Circle was a fountain about which moist shadows hovered on the soil. It was more tranquil here, and the noise was subdued.

      "Look," said Yevsey, "there are only houses and no ground around them at all."

      The blacksmith answered with a sigh:

      "It's pretty crowded. Read the signs. Where is Raspopov's shop?"

      They walked to the center of the Circle, and stopped at the fountain. There were many signs, which covered every house like the motley patches of a beggar's coat. When Yevsey saw the name his uncle had mentioned, a chill shiver ran through his body, and he examined it carefully without saying anything. It was small and eaten by rust, and was placed on the door of a dark basement. On either side the door there was an area between the pavement and the house, which was fenced in by a low iron railing. The house, a dirty yellow with peeling plaster, was narrow with four stories and three windows to each floor. It looked blind as a mole, crafty, and uncozy.

      "Well," asked the smith, "can't you see the sign?"

      "There it is," said the boy, indicating the place with a nod of his head.

      "Let's cross ourselves and go."

      They descended to the door at the bottom of five stone steps. The blacksmith raised his cap from his head, and looked cautiously into the shop.

      "Come in," said a clear voice.

      The master, wearing a black silk cap without a visor, was sitting at a table by the window drinking tea.

      "Take a chair, peasant, and have some tea. Boy, fetch a glass from the shelf."

      The master pointed to the other end of the shop. Yevsey looked in the same direction, but saw no boy there. The master turned toward him.

      "Well, what's the matter? Aren't you the boy?"

      "He's not used to it yet," said Uncle Piotr quietly.

      The old man again waved his hand.

      "The second shelf on the right. A master must be understood when he says only half. That's the rule."

      The blacksmith sighed. Yevsey groped for the glass in the dim light, and stumbled over a pile of books on the floor in his haste to hand it to the master.

      "Put it on the table. And the saucer?"

      "Oh, you!" exclaimed Uncle Piotr. "What's the matter with you? Get the saucer."

      "It will take a long time to teach him," said the old man with an imposing look at the blacksmith. "Now, boy, go around the shop, and fix the place where everything stands in your memory."

      Yevsey felt as if something commanding had entered his body, which impelled him powerfully to move as it pleased. He shrank together, drew his head in his shoulders, and straining his eyes began to look around the shop, all the time listening to the words of his master. It was cool, dusky, and quiet. The noise of the city entered reluctantly, like the muffled swashing of a stream. Narrow and long as a grave the shop was closely lined with shelves holding books in compact rows. Large piles of books cluttered the floor, and barricaded the rear wall, rising almost to the ceiling. Besides the books Yevsey found only a ladder, an umbrella, galoshes, and a white pot whose handle was broken off. There was a great deal of dust, which probably accounted for the heavy odor.

      "I'm a quiet man. I am all alone, and if he suits me, maybe I will make him perfectly happy."

      "Of course it lies with you," said Uncle Piotr.

      "I am fifty-seven years old. I lived an honest and straightforward life, and I will not excuse dishonesty. If I notice any such thing I'll hand him over to the court. Nowadays they sentence minors, too. They have founded a prison to frighten them called the Junior Colony of Criminals – for little thieves, you know."

      His colorless, drawling words enveloped Yevsey tightly, evoking a timorous desire to soothe the old man and please him.

      "Now, good-bye. The boy must get at the work."

      Uncle Piotr rose and sighed.

      "Well, Orphan, so you live here now. Obey your master. He won't want to do you any harm. Why should he? He is going to buy you city clothes. Now don't be downcast, will you?"

      "No," said Yevsey.

      "You ought to say 'No, sir,'" corrected the master.

      "No, sir," repeated Yevsey.

      "Well, good-bye," said the blacksmith putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, and giving his nephew a little shake he walked out as if suddenly grown alarmed.

      Yevsey shivered, oppressed by a chill sorrow. He went to the door, and fixed his round eyes questioningly on the yellow face of the master. The old man twirling the grey tuft on his chin looked down upon the boy. Yevsey thought he could discern large dim black eyes behind the glasses. As the two stood thus for a few minutes apparently expecting something from each other, the boy's breast began to beat with a vague terror; but the old man merely took a book from a shelf, and pointed to the cover.

      "What number is this?"

      "1873," replied Yevsey lowering his head.

      "That's it."

      The master touched Yevsey's chin with his dry finger.

      "Look at me."

      The boy straightened his neck and quickly mumbled closing his eyes:

      "Little uncle, I shall always obey you. I don't need beatings." His eyes grew dim, his heart sank within him.

      "Come here."

      The old man seated himself resting his hands on his knees. He removed his cap and wiped his bald spot with his handkerchief. His spectacles slid to the end of his nose, and he looked over them at Yevsey. Now he seemed to have two pairs of eyes. The real eyes were small, immobile, and dark grey with red lids. Without the glasses the master's face looked thinner, more