7Q;ooooo}}}} :< x} *o Phooeyness In our apartment long ago settled in an elder, who comes to the rooms at night: from rooms, closed by him; therethe storeroom, in which I have not been; there, probably, they pass through the dark little room (the plumber exits from there); the elder has long been rooted in the storeroomin cobwebs: Phooey! barefoot, stoutheeled, in patched up old trousers hanging over from the skin like a not skinned hide, shaggy, pockmarked: a green and wenchlike stomach, pushing out above the trousers, the navel smiles in the shaggy ribs, from which two half-woman flabby overhangs babble weakly: he is bearded with chewed up felt, quietly having opened the squeaking doors; and rooms! rooms are constructed in cor- ridor construct: running wild, cobwebs hang; bare little feet smack loudlythere, to the elder, leaning against his own cobweb, falling to his own personal paw, both gray, and dirtily overgrownto suck; he picks with it, compressing a rusted-orange nail; he picks at a mushroomy, dried ear; but the paw is shackled by a rusted ring, ex-claiming with the bunch of keys from the apartment. He phooeys, like a hedgehog! evenspiritedly tossing himself on anyone who awakes; and from the tiredness of a quick run he sticks out a slobbering tongue; he begins to run through the rooms (ah, the way is long, the way is long!) to the dining room, where Granny is dolefully telling fortunes, fearing that the king of hearts, or our Church elder, Svetoslavsky, will be covered in spades; andI rush to her knees. What is it, Kotenochek? ItsPetrovich! Come in, Petrovich! Petrovich comes in. If you gasp for breath on the runone thing is left: to fall, covering your little facewith your brow into the cobwebs: onto the floor; and you the clear bright hot phooeying of a wet nose in the back of the neck: you hear it; no, no, it doesnt bite At night the covered-up door is opened; and with a bunch of rusted keys the barefooted onestamp-stamp about the apartment; he appears: sniffs, advances, rustles, suddenly beginning to scratch behind the ear with his foot; and I hear the stamping of the elders foot, striking the floor, and smackings of a slobbering lip, actively clawing into the fur: to snap a flea by the tail between the teeth; he is being searched for there; andhe begins to pull, to pull: with bare little feet I stamp into the past; ah,there everything is fiery: two eyes flare up like candles; I, am grabbed,in the wild jumps (on the back!) from the floorboardonto the chair, and onto the table, and onto the door: through the years, through the centuries,to the window sill: the cotton is extracted, little glasses with poison; I hung like a Berendei, I hung above the Arbat; from stone grapevines: here a green gutter,along the gutter to the roof, there, to fatherlessness: we do not climb up; the twelfth, the twenty-fifth, the one hundred and first floor; there are no walls; only the gutterlike a stalk in unboundlessness came to an end! The gutter, shaken loose, here begins rocking under me; time flows from out of it under me into the widening of the gutter; twitching a hung little leg,above which Icollapse, into knowledgenessah, because to sit down in such a condition! Resoluteness begins to take root: to sit it out here without a grasp of no matter what it is; that which can be grabbed onto, is in me; in order to grab onto it, I turn myself inside out; so what? Having surpassed the limits, I exited andsat down: on the stalk of mathematics! I ama mathematician, a crazy manI shout like crazy. Andah! proclaiming nothing, I impetuously fall thus, like the lance of the Scythian gone wild on the dead Persian, and like a star which has punctured the earth,the uncovered crown of an infants headinflames: in the brain everything flared up: from the sparkle of a candle!.. . . . . . . . . . . . . Kotik, my Kotenochek, my Kotosyonochek: whats with you, my little one? What do you want, little dove? We are here: calm your-self!blurted something. Ah, whats with you?something blurted. What, what? Itswe, itswe: its Papa and Mama! I, the quiet witless one, I see skinny-minny, Mama, with a wave of hair covering my little breast and with an embrace, bringing joy to me, falling feverishly; and I see Papa, with a little candle: in a gray dressing gown, shaggy, he phooeys, he wrinkles his brow so sleepily, fana-tically; the uncovered breast ishairy; on it barely noticeable is a hang of flabsome sort of halfwench; hebleets: You, my little brother, how could it be, as if yes! You have given yourself up to atavism, brother: to the experience of primitive man To pile dwellings! . . . . But Mama blew up like a bean at Papa. But I am always telling you: here are the fruits of science The child ought to play! Why do you bother him: all your forces and forces What forces are there The childought to sing, romp about, but you with mathematics He even shouts: Aphrosim. But what is this, my little one? Who is this Aphrosim there? Nightly restlessnesses withdraw, being replaced by restfullnesses. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Light-eating night nibbles at all thats mine, even my sleep; andit appears around; and lets itself blackthoughtedly down into the arm-chair: to sit until dawnwith the deep glooms saying to me: There are no bounds! Everywhere isthe unchangeability of the absences of everything there is; and the unchanging faithfulness of darknesses, the unchangeable malice of blanknesses; suddenlyobjects dullen; and there bluens between them the presence of morning: inkyblack blues flutter apart into blue blues; and gray demons appear; gray demons have sat down on the little back of the stooping armchair; I know: when they flower,these will be whites; I will clothe myself in them: thus do all demons dress in the morning,and they take them off in the morning, in order to run about the rooms: gray demons my doubts they begin to flower: they lick their lips all over; here is a chair, and on the chair whites, observing with a just deceased puss; the wall stands out already over the little bed in the place of the absences of everything there is; anddarkness takes cover; the nursery is stuck like a little nest to the small bed hanging over the precipice; in the little nest amI; so that it doesnt fallthe house of Kosyakov was put under, and under it is placed the whole earths sphere; they flew in from the night again to the Arbat! Already white, all white: Henrietta Martynovna stands there like a papillote over the bed. Genug! Genug schlafen: neun Uhr! Ah, what kind of genug: I lay about the whole time without sleep! The apartment stands out like a cliff: streams of events strike, with their foam they lick the impenetrable walls; floor boards squeak under the rocking of the temporal waves; all constructs of events, alas, melt into destructs of non-events: only the walls are left; in the time running by we run inescapeably: Iwith a constructo cube, Mamawith a hat carton, and Papochka with a new brochure of his: On the Radical eex; but the all-eating time gnaws at everything there is, gnaws to death everything there is: there will be nothing to eat! Septipeds of weeks run by impetuously; the floorboards loudly squeak under the heavy foot: that time always passes the same road: it limps by hours on a black leg; and everything settles down under the action of time: the floor, Doctor Pfeffer, living under it; Pils, the confectioner, living under Doctor Pfeffer; the house of Kosyakov has long ago settled down; under it the earth settles down; a blowing wind passes by thunderously along the roofs!.. Yes, everything changes in wind and time: most of all people change; objects aremore stable; but I have no faith in them: the picture of Marcian sparkles with gildingthe armchair is decorated with cutwork; but in its little backa hole with a broken-through tooth of a spring and with felt hair; beyond the gilted framea mound of dust; the piano, from where soundsthis is everything, having moved it, they saw the boards; but that about which was sung, and that which the keys shouted under the fingers,where is it, where? Calico? Yes it is torn Playthings in which life was visible to me, like in the raspberry clown snapping on a tambourine when you pressed on his breast,it seemed to have had the stuffing beaten into it: hair, felt, like a raspberry clown stuffed with this felt! No matter what you break,you see a spring which I took out of everywhere, breaking the playthings. O, gray demons,my doubts; wakelessly I am stagnating in you! . . . . My curiousity comes from the fact that I have no faith in the fairy tale of objects; andI know that behind the picture of Marcian is not the far away distance, but dust on the wall; beyond the pattern of the wallpaper are the wallpaperless walls; and that which is fastened to them, flies away and is arranged otherwise, like the study, which appeared in the same place where the beds had been: two beds in a row; objects flew about; and Mamochka sleeps in the little room by our drawing room, spacing out into the drawing room and chasing out from there Papa, who had just walked in: Get out of here: what are you loitering about for! I remember: you awake: the dining room ishere, and the drawing room isthere; this isMamochka: she was always fussing about, she rewiped, changed, screamed, chased me, Henrietta Martynovna, Papa from room to room and made us hope that now would come, after all the changesthe magnificent life; it was left as before: with hair, felt, dust and a doggy smell; the spreadpawed armchair smelled of a doggy smell. Mama tries in vain to decorate everything with a complicated construct of objects, delivered abundantly from Kuznetsky Most; constructs of objects aredestructs: they fell apart! . . . . I remember two important events in the life of objects; the satin furniture had been wiped worn all the way through: it had been worn out by sitting; ragamuffins dangled about; dirty cotton stuck out; in the places where the professor usually bent his gray spot were designated dark spots of his unwashed hair; here appeared the upholsterer from Kuznetsky Most: and he showed us scraps of material; we liked the blue, with the little eyes; butwe ordered the olive color; we re-upholstered the armchairs with the material, glued paper on the walls; we hung elegantly very dense shades of olive, dark shadings; but the armchairs grew gloomy from the new satin; the exact same wallpaper stared from the walls; there was hung the darkest green lantern, il-lumining all of this with a scattered-about light; elegant, butsullen; we were fed up with the color: I longed sorrowfully for the crimson wallpaper, for the former upholstery; I remembered the crimson see-through lampshade, with the black beak, with the owlish little eyes; the crimson sparkle smashed to pieces on the parquets,not this one, a green and pale one; now they come in; andgrow dark with green faces; they look with green faces; it seems to me: with the appearance of the olive armchairsMamochka has become gloomy: the red fairy tale of objects darkened into green prose: There tried in vain to com-fort herIvan Nikolaevich Gorozhankin, the director of the botanical garden, when he unexpectedly bestowed on us a gift of reeds, rho-dodendron, ficus, palms; they placed pots of flowers all around our apartment; so whatthe palms withered from the dumb window sills, reminding: that all istransitory: all isfelt and hair! Soyes: thats all there is to it Nikolai Irasovich is also here: dust,thats all there is to it! This isPhooey. . . . . . . I stare into the little corridor; itseems to me a suspicious place; already dusk: all the roofs have sat down into darkest niches; gnawers-miceplay all the quieter; from the corridor again has come to us to glance aboutPhooey: it exits, sits down on the little back of the stooping chair; when it dawns,it turns into little trousers; orit becomes a little shirt, yes, yes: these demons areclothes; they are put on in the morning; and they are taken off in the evening; they will run about the rooms, hanging like dustcovers and with a deadly puss; and I shout: Aphrosim an ununderstandable word, the key to a secret, combining fevers and a sphere! The fever widens out in the nights, the sphere develops quite distinctlyin the morning: with the geography of India, Persia and Scythia; the earths sphere isfeverish; the nightly fever isspherical: Aphrosim! They assured me, comforted me, that there is no Aphrosim, but there is Afrosinya, Petrovich, a muzhik; but I know: that very same widening of the organs of the body without skin, in total un-graspability,comes not from Petrovich, not from Anton (gangreneAntons firethat is something!) no, a muzhik has nothing to do with it: I know: the gutter which you will not overcome in one hundred thousand years: the backbone; I crawled from worm to gorilla, to to the widening of the sphere: of my head, on which I attempt to sit down; and I fall anew: into the antediluvian past: I heard from Papochka: Reincarnation is, Lizochek,a hypothesis of the ancients, according to which we, so to say The Hindushad faith in it and Pythagorus recognized it; and I, you know, so to say! Tenderly he stared beyond the window: at the Persian colors of peacock sunsets: the universe which was propping up my heels, here was put aside; Ilived without prop; the striking opinions of Papa against Mama, and of Mama against Papa (Reincarnation isnonsense!) they were turned into shoves of two leaden spheres, quickly set in motion to the right and to the left along the weak five year old body: utter crushings. Iin a crush of delirium was knocked out into a realm beyond my skin: and a sensation of the gravestrengthened: into a wreck of foundationsof physical, nervous and moral ones; dependence in me shook into independence: yesboth blank, and black. This stalk sticking up into nowhere isa transgression. . . . . . The raw damp, multidropped gutterbegan to drip; and itdrips; everywhere icicles flew out from gutters with a weak crackle; the snows halvahed, they crumbled; sleigh runners, like little knives, sliced straight to the stone; throughwinds started in the windchasing days; snowfalls dampened. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thus I became an independent variable, disagreeing with the laws of Papa that the house does not fly upside down because of the forces of gravity; at night we all fly upside down, widening out: the law of gravity does not work; everything dissolves, gravitating neither to Papa, nor to Mama (I am smacked away by her smacks). There beganthe dissolution: an American sitting above us, sensed himself very strongly, but we,the dissolved,fell through the roof of the house onto the flame of the constellation The Great Dog . . . . . Aphrosim! I awake a glassy, dark blue morning; living fireson the snows, as if sprinkled by a broken glass I awake with a confused con-sciousness: reason is not necessary; without a rule, a limit, guiltI sense myself; all the same I am guilty; in me strengthens the consciousness: of guilt without guilt. I recall: why it is that Papa shouts at me when I become messed up from fright in thoughts of Mama, who may awake; if you listenyou are guilty; if you do not listenyou are guilty: guilty without an end; guilty and all alone: guiltyup to the end, guiltywithout reason!.. And for everything you get a resounding smack in the face! I tried to please, living in sheer lawlessness; squeaking out with a tiny little mouth made-up thoughts, in order to all the quicker, having torn myself away from the malevolent worlds,to spin out of the orbit: to sink into development: of this and thats own my own! . . . . Here toward midday an outline is drawn in a goldenstreamed stream, toward midday it breaks up and everything sheds a few tears; and everythingbecomes diamondlike, so that it covers evening with a coarsened film; the shiny icy ruddy glow crunches under the feet. And thenweak February with drizzles and soft sleet slushes the streets; a yellow-raging mist sticks to the little window: and Papochka whispers to Dunyasha: Thats something for you: our ladyfrom ill-health, from nerves! Its shameful so! Have patience: thats something for you. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And for me the thread of the transgression is clear: these nerves arethe consequences of difficult births; the lawlessness I committed against Mama, appearing before her, and after: I planted dissension between her and Papa: selfconsciousness istransgressive: to seem eternally unknowing! Yes: and if Papa would recognize this,he would tumble his head downward with his study: seven shelves, striking into the deaf ceiling, they would break through an opening; Papa would with a volume of Sophus Lie, the Swedish mathematician, tumble down there: into his own black precipices! . . . . . . . . . Those, who areprecipices: the dissolution of forces; the nail islawlessness; I walk up to it, crawling out with my legs: to overturn all constructs, to overthrow rules; Phooey phooeys in me; he was walking past, he was coming: a bigheaded gorilla, a Scythian (Reincarnation, my Lizochek, so to say!); he had been employed as the progenital, as a congenital and domesticated animal, he becamethe progenital domestic spirit; yes! He, chomping on the Papa in Papa, begins chomping on the me in me; it is evident: the universe is,phooeyness! . . . . Eh, yes the fever has appeared! The slush sours; everyone coughs; I cough; they await Smirnov, the domestic doctor; my little body isburning hot; in the veins, in the ears very distinctly: it shushes, phooeys; I am waiting for Phooeybarefoot, stoutheeled, in patched-up old trousers, to stick out his felt hair from the corridor doors; and it seems to me, that a green and wenchlike stomach, stuck out above the trousers, drummily bleats with a dull, silly navel. The sound of the bell: two sounds (at the doors, and in the ears)! This is Doctor Smirnov; he runs in to me: an elderly manlittle yellowspots under his moustache, andhow he taradiddles! Dont talkhe waves his bald little headin spectacles, in golden ones: Eh, thats it! Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes-yes, yes-yes-yes! The little shirt is tossed up, and he presses his head to the burning hot little body: he pokes with a pipe; and he goes rat-tat with his tiny hammer along the body: Breathe in Again And again And again: deeper, deeper; thats it thats it Aha! He waves his little head, running from the bedside table to the little table: he writes a prescription; having written it out, he slaps his palms very gayly: Well now, brother: well you get it; you get the castor oil: castor oil for a start, propping up his hand with the pipe on his respectable waist; with the other he collects a white tuft of his beard, lifts it up to his nose; and chuckles thoughtfully into the tuft of beard: And then: a piece of oilcloth goes here; and on the oilcloth, this here, cloth We have to fold it in fours, press out the water And with cotton, cotton on top Keep it on three hours And then? Do the same thing!.. You ask: Do I get some of the sour stuff No-no-no, no-no-no, brother: no-no, no-no-no Here they stand around Smirnov: both Papa, and Mamochka. What? Hewrinkles his brow, winks and with a shake of the little head with eh-eh he sours in a yellow-lemon grimace, glancing up through his spectacles at Papa: Eh, rrregular brrronchitis!.. Andimmediately: without any break: And thouwhats up, brother? (He is a classmate: as soon as they meet, they begin to thou each other): Inothingthous Papahow are things with thee? Having overthoued each other, they come to a stop in front of one another; and they can say nothing, except: Thou, brother, thou Smirnov remembers about Bismarck: Three little hairs! And he lets down his little eyes: he bellows and pants (everything has been said: they have been thoued through and through; there is no-thing else to talk about); and he grabs one palm in the other palm, as though frightened, shooting out the exclamation: Well, brother, so long: brother,there are ill patients, ill patients!.. Grabbing his peaked cap (he walked in a peaked cap), wrapping himself tighter in his overcoat, waving his gray little beard this way and that, as though scalded, he leaps up from: Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes-yes, yes-yes-yes... Dont tell me: three little hairs,andeverything here yes-yes, yes-yes-yes! I am already more at ease; and everyone is at ease; naturally: rrregular brrronchitis! Yes-yes So that the sour stuff: no-no-no-no; so that the oil-cloth, cotton, cloth. Everythingis fulfilled; and they say of Smirnov: Now, Sergei Vasilievich: hes always the same; both gay, and hearty; a bachelor and a simple man. Yes, now Sergei Vasilievich: he is the gayest, the simplest; anda clever person; now thats whom we ought to give our Dotya to in marriage: he was after all interested Yes, but shechuckle, chuckle, chuckle! They bring me the capsules; you open them,the capsules are somehow sticky; they look with eyes, in little papers, like from candy; I already know: you touch it: and sothe capsule begins: to turn its eyes around and around! I recall: such eyesof Mrs. Doktorovsky; she turned her castor oil eyes around and around at the very handsome Grot; and I oppose it: it is positively offensive; the castor oil eye of Doktorovsky is sweet, and stickily crushes my tongue; I cannot swallow it; and itburst in my mouth; what was there! I took it when Papa, tumbling in with a new verse composed on this occasion, shouted it into my ear, while I was swallowing the capsules, smiling with little tears: Alls in vain: its horrible after all!.. Ah, its only castor oil! Why the tears? What look is this? Alls in vain: its magnificent after all: Kotikcant you see: this oil Will help cure your bronchitis. It is not in vain that Papochka writes me verses: with them he creates an enormous power over me; he ispowerful; he is secretive; I read this secret; and ate that, the forbidden one; a round lump in my throat pounds: like an applein the little throat, becoming swollen at night, breaking my limits, with the development of the Tree, from the height of which they eat apples. I fell, like Adam, calling forth a guess on the part of Mama (she ispenetrating); here she comes in up to the patient ill with development (she comes to me); and she tests the little brow: There is still a little fever! And on her isa wingedhorned hat; andin a black veil, in her blackplumed boa, in a black blouse, in black gloves, with a not very wide bustle she passes into the anteroom, inquiring, where is the naphthalene: soon the winter things are concealed away; the furcoats are sent off to Belkin,for conservation against moths. It seems to me: Mamochka tests the little brow not because there isfever; but because the little brow is growing (this little brow is a little sphere ); all of that which appears during the days, like the round and firm little sphere, that is during the nightsa little fever; and the little fever isfrom development: A little seed of mature antonovka, smelling like Papa, swells, like a throbbing of the little brow: it breaks my little brow, my brow is broken by two horned branches; herethe ends of the branches little horns slice through! Ah, it is exposed: the applehas been eaten! The branches areconcealed; but one leaf is exposed: it isa fig leaf; the fig will grow up, will grow up; and it came to be: its not a matter of the book, but of the fig (under the book). . . . . . . . . A warm wind blew; the snows softened; the street dripped; the wet walls seemed more ancient, more congenital, tinier; thus Arbat burst into tears, the severe bare icing on the streets strengthened; the months moon, a simple darkness, became a clear twinkling; drawn out of the air March; drizzles began to drip. The spring month arrived with an icehardened ruddy glow, which during the day isoverflowing puddles, during the eveningfilms and little films of ice and fragile wings of glass dragonflies, and the hanging of icicles; in the dryness very dark bald spots dampen more often; and there is no longer any white snow, buta yellowish-brown, yellowish-dungcolored; they run into three streamsinto the entrance gates: little papers, little boxes, the outbearing of sand from the courtyards. In the end, I recovered: and we go out to take a walk, for the first time Where is the little snow? O, how everything has changed! I love to observe the space under the gate in spring and I know from where what flows: from this little courtyard will trickle the purest clarity; from this onea murky brown swill; they flow together: and the murk enlightens, and the clarity browns; and from Greenblatts are borne out: the seven colors of the rainbow; if I glimpse a rainbow circle; thissignifies: it had flowed out from the courtyard belonging to the white house, Greenblatts. March: yes, people walk on the streets in their new clothes; and a young lady in a bluish blouse heaves clearly her redwinged hat, in a gray little veil, fluttering ahead of its time a raspberry little umbrella; there comes a young fellow in a very yellow coat, in very red gloves and in new galoshes; yes, everythingbecame short: the fur coats disappeared, although under the feet there is still a chocolate mud, freezing, it becomes a pale firmament; cheeks are rosy; and the noses of young ladies are rosy; the white hares hanging by their feet at the entrance to the meat stores, disappeared: only gray hareshangthey stare with a bloody little puss; the smells of smoke and burning are exchanged for the smell of rotten eggs; little greens shops reek of cabbage leaf; soaked apples are being sold. In the house they clean out the putty; andit banged, they crashed: the troubles of tramping, the grumblings of groans of loud cabs flying by, which are dragged slowly after the flying sleighs; the cabdrivers have bent backs; and everywhere are smacks: of sticky mud. And therea selfwilled smoke passes selfrunning like fleecy clouds in the heavens; andthe voice of the pedlar: Fresh eggs bursts through the window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ah, how shameful the actmine, my very own: to eat on the q.t. the herring tail: from the sauce boat! Where is the herring tail? Dunyasha? Again! A unimaginable disgrace Mama with the ring with the turquoisehurls the turquoise against the little table: and herethe turquoise flew out from the ring (the ring will be given for repair to Raspopov, the goldsmith,on the Arbat). Henrietta Martynovna,Mamochka here spread her arms and threw her headbefore herself: toward Henrietta Martynovna: You, maybe? The little eyes (leeches)drank in; Henrietta Martynovna threw her napkin onto the table cloth, having rosened just a bit. Andinto tears: Nein, nein! Gott sei dank! I aint come yet to dis! Andshe exited from the room; here something in me went pitter-patter. I hadcome to this!I imagined my fate in this: Mama comes quickly up to me, and jerking me painfully by the arm, pulls me up to her, shoves me, waving her hands: You little thief: the herring tailyou stole it! And grabbing the little comb, she starts to comb my curls, in order to reveal the big brow; and on the browto the right, to the leftgrow tumors, i.e. horns: Look! Admire them! I imagined it so clearly; meanwhile: Papa, began drumming his fingers on the tablecloth: You, my Lizok,you did it in vain: ai, aihow could you A girl from a poor Livland family,and the suspicion A herring tail! But Mamochka, pressing her neck, and sticking out her chinuff: Puff-puff-puff! Youmake no mistake: she ate twenty-five mandarins recently; I came inreached for the sack with the mandarins: skin and pits! Where are the mandarins? I searched, searched: swore at Dunyasha, swore; sheconfessed: Iate them. How I saidcould you eat twenty-five?Yes: first one; Iliked it; next another; and thus one after another I ate them: Forgive me, please. I said: How come you are not ill? Its nothing! she answers. Please, dont mess me up: I know, what I am talking about Papa spread his arms, and how he thunders in a peal of laughter: How, twenty-five mandarins? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Without Asian cholera? May I say Yes! An amazingly limited nature They forgot about the herring tail; Idid not forget; andI fell into Mamas arms. I I! What is it? The herring tail: it seemed to me so tasty! Soyou? Andnot a word? You prig! But Papa, leaping up with a napkin threw himself straight at me; and in his palms he pinched my little head: Ah,how could you! The herring tail! Leave his tail be!! Leave the herring tail be!!! And Mama left it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I became a prig,o, if she would know in what measure. And so somehow she looked askance (a keen one)! Papa does not know that it is forbidden for us to be friends: we can develop ourselves without Mamanot with Mama: stealthily; and Papadoes not know, that developings are harmful to me; sinful feelings come; therefore I love to develop myself, understanding, that a clear butterfly turned out her own wings from the cocoon; Papa read this from Baers zoology, Papa was reading for himself one little book: of visual learning; and having learned to learn visually, he visually teaches me: Baers zoology appeared at our place; here he thunders off, scratches himself under his lip with a bent finger; andsucking in the air through his teeth like sweet syrup, he indicates with his hand the little picture of a gigantic oak; andhe becomes a ruddy show-off: he stuck out his head, and looks, placing two fingers under the glasses of the huge spectacles: andwheezes, andsniffles: and at the felling of the gigantic oaka little square; men and ladies dance at the felling Hee-hee he picks at the air with his nosehee: here-here-here! But, tell me please! The tree! Is an American one! Now that there is a tree! Turning over the page, he jumps onto the chair, spreads his hands in the air: Here is, my little brother,such a scandal: do you know, the monkey ischaintailedhe plays with words. Wellrepeat it! I repeat: Chaintailed! The nose, like a frog, begins to leap: This ram is made of stone: he throws himself about, the rascal, from the slanted slopes, onto his own horns. Papas mouth is overfilled with beasts (and Iam bestialized); he is alla grainery; my head isa sharp little beak; itpecked its fill of the grain, the grain of knowledge; Mama from the bedroom shouts: Here! Come here! Sheknows, that this development isphooey; it iscon-genital, domestic, domesticated; it walks along my veins, I will bephooey; during the days I will, having put on my spectacles, calculate, and nightsI will have an axe to grind, widen out; I will be a muzhikstoutheeled, shaggyshow a wenchlike green stomach, sticking out above the trousers, and shaggy ribs, where two imageless flabby overhangs are barely noticeable; I will walk looking like this to Dunyasha, hearing from Dunyasha reproaches, that it is very em-barassing for her with such a muzhik. I know, I know: the herring tail isthe beginning of the end; there will be a more important onethe tail of the white salmon from Generalov! The policeman on duty will grab me; they willlead me in: Look: with the tail! Papa sullenly gazes, so asto hit the nail on the head with me. Well, and this good-for-nothing, Lizochek, well Expelled! Andparadise will come to pass between Papa and Mama: they go to a correction home, they go to whip with the copper, belt buckle this ones own out of me. When Mama flayed me by the curls, with one side I prayed for this sinner; well, but with the other I knew: she isright that she flays me for the original sin, for phooey; andnight approached: with a bunch of rusted keys the barefoot onestamp-stamp about the apart-ment: he appears: sniffs, advances, rustles, suddenly beginning to scratch behind the ear with his foot; and I hear the stomping of the elders foot, striking the floor, andthe chomps of a slobbering lip, actively seizing onto the fur: to snap a flea by the tail; and with bare feet I stomp into the past; ah,there everything is fiery: two eyes flare up, like candles: Iam a grabbed nameless one: in wild leapsthrough years, through the ages, through the gutter: we crawl, we do not crawl up: but the gutter ismy height; Imon the gutter, twitching a hung foot, apparently exceeding the limitsfrom the stalk (of mathematics) I am falling!.. Kotik, my Kotenochek, my Kotosyonochek: whats with you? What are you doing, little one? Its we: Papa and Mama And Papa in a housecoatshaggy (the uncovered breast ishairy): You, my little brother, what is this: is this how you develop yourself? Andwith a little smack he dropped with a thud backwards, into his own room; I hearhe tosses and turns; and sneezes: he cannot sleep; he goes chiffuchir with a match, stalking about in little tomes of Sophus Lie, the Swedish mathematician; previously, when the two beds stood there in a rowhe slept, did not read, always fearing to frighten off mothers sleep, a very keen one; now the study has been turned into the drawing room, the bedroom turned into a study; here he romps going chiffuchir, sneezing and phooeying; gray demons drop in there; I know: the gray demons arewhites. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cumulus clouds, graying, curtain off the heavens and earth; and time, a frightened hare, pressing in its own ears, runs into the yellowing scum. . . . . . . . . . . I am amazing: they dress mein silks, in laces; and coquettishly curl very dark curls on my shoulders; and they cover my browup to the future bald spot; I am just like a girl. The curls are tossed back: the brow changes me; the little mouth isslightly enlarged; itjerks with a half-smile, cunning, with double entendre, and from the sleepless little eyes, screwed up, inset into circles, having darkened, of enormous orbits there breaks through like gigantic eyes an archgreen: terrifying! Locks, a dress, bowsa face mask: an orangutang squats behind it! . . . . . Lets get him a bowler hat, Lets get him a new frock coat Then some comme-il-faut cloth pants In which to thrust his little hands! . . . . . . . .  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