7 DTCQ=RoRoRoRoRoR}S+S+S+S; SE"SgSg<SxR,T T;TQ*T{oRo Ahura-Mazda I stand by the window under the strong walnut baguet: a rolldown shade is hung on copper ringlets; andthe samovar is served, sending into the air a development of steam: under the glass lamp; I stick to the window, where Moscow is firming; and beyond it forests, cities and fields, along which are borne from the border Swiss and German girls to us, to the children, and along which the French girl will go. Here rhinoceroses walk along the corridor (the buffet stomped its feet: the little busts jumped about); then from the doorsPapa heads in, gazing at me with his tin spectacles; he stands, having con-summated behind the door the fastening of his pantaloons; here he had already plopped into the passageway, waving with one hand, pressing with his other a green little book to his side: he hurries behind the table, his mustache growing savage: Well, Kotik, my little friend!.. Lets do some learning. He places me in front of himself: he takes it upon himselfto teach me to click my heels; I click my heels, shaking only my head (Imin a little dress: my curls, having flown about, tickle under the nose): Well now then! Well then I! But at the Dadarchenkos place the boys can not click their heels; one slobbers, his little fist thrust in his little mouth; another is still crawling; Sonechka does curtsies; but she doesnt want to do one for me; we simply kiss: One! Andready: quickly now Papochka, loudly clicking his heels, sits me on his knees; hesin his uniform tail coat (he will break away to a lecture); hurriedly he stumbles with his meaty face in front of the opened book, stooping and slanted off to the side: he bites a rose-drop, he runs with his tongue to far distant countries, where the sun brightly shines; where an olive-bronzed Hindu wrapped in a turban walks, where a Persian in a striped dressing gown champs on a persic. The little sun, a radiant pheasant, spreads out now its lightplume through the wintry smokes; its know-it-allssunbeams run to us from the windows; and in it areblankflights. Now then well, my Kotik! Russia, brother,is!he tosses out his palms, reminding me of the gesture of the Sabaoth under the cupola of the Cathedral of the Redeemer (the nose of the Sabaoth was taken by Koshelyov from Professor Usov: a nosealmost three yards long!) Enormous! It compriseshe throws up his little knife and deftly catches itTurkestan, and the Caucasus, and Siberia, Bukhara and Khiva, and Finlanddeftly he throws up the little knife The Uralsand catches itRepeat I repeat: Siberia, Bukhara and Khiva He throws the little knife: In Siberia, brother, it is cold, but in Turkestan reeds grow: striped tigers sit there and they eat Sarts; the Sarts have dressing gowns, motley ones, my little brother. He smells of antonovka, he walks with words: We have Kamchatka; and we even ruled Alaska, but damn itand his face is slit through by a sullen wrinkle, and he looks with eyes blank from the horror: Damn it! Germans, sharpy bureaucrats, winked it through: we sold Alaska he snaps his finger under his nose and cocks his fingers into a fig:for a million, my little brother! His face sours and he shows his tongue: They sat those German minsters on us: Lamsdorfs and others; Bismarck with Kalnoky were trying for this: Bismarck has three hairs We soldAlaska! Here he grows silent, as if he is listening inside of himself, he screws up his little eyes and presses apart his mouth, lifting his spreadnostriled nose; andsavagely sneezing, he hastily gets a hand-kerchief out from the tail of the coat; then on words,yes into a hop: But nevertheless, hm: something was left for us. And he is embarrassed, rather pleased with the wealth of Russia: Well thats how it is, Kotik. Thats how we are: we are developing ourselves!.. . . . . . From the dining rooman open door: therethe drawing room door secretly opens Mamas bedroom; behind the screen with the lacquered field of heavenly color, from where goldenwinged storks fly on the cutwork, under a light-blue blanket, her head placed shaggily on her bare elbow,Mamochka is all ears; secreting her breathing, she is collecting herself to prove to us, that it is forbidden to develop our-selves,with a threat: Kotik! Come here Dont you dare listen! Its too earlyfor you! Come here now! How to withdraw? Kot, stay!Papochka gnashes his teeth What can you do? But? Arent you listening to your mother? But? Well then from now on you should know: Imnot your mother! How not my mother? I, growing timid, start to go; but hardly do I start to go, when behind me stumbling Papa stamps his words, spread-ing out his hand with trembling fingers: tsap at the little skirt, and the smell of antonovka suddenly falls away; and there wafts another smell, also characteristic of him; this smell of extinguished stearin candles and burnt paper was familiar to me, when Papa with an ex-tinguished candle went to the study from the dark little room; herethe vein on the brow fills; the vein on the neck fills; andthe silence lasts, full of horror: in the chimney treeshaking winds howl; and distinctly is heard the sound of prattlins being stitched on the sewing machine (an impromptu is being stitched: a masquerade costume); the sound of falling logs is heard (it is from the kitchen); the surety (what a naughty thought) is borne that the kitchen is all smelled up with sheepskin; Anton, the oakcrusher, woodchopper, blockhead, a chopping block of some sort, drops a bound bundle of logs there; and having sucked on a hang nail, he withdrew reeking of sheepskin: I would like to go: to sniff sheepskins! . . . . . All this is brought to my memory inopportunely,from the terror that Mama awoke, like a tiger, laying down behind the screens, in order to jump out from there, snapping her teeth; and to drag me, a Sart, behind the screens. And because of that: when Papa rolls out words (so does a swarm of wooden figures roll around in a chess box)my memory runs from my heel to my toe: from the terror that Mama will awake; from terror some altogether unnecessary thoughts revolve in my little head : not long ago I saw to the right and left of the suntwo false suns; two suns grew dark, but one sun was left; the Persian sun will darken, the Hindu sun will darken, like Papa disappears to his lectures: Mamawill be left! At this point Papa loudly stamps: You, Kotenka, you know, dont listen at all? Such a person! And jerking up the tablecloth, his fingers start dancing along the tableclothlike little peas; he jerks out a word: In Russia there is what? Istumbled: I keep silent; Isit so bowlegged; Istagnate so boneheaded. The Urals! The Uralshe thunders and exhorts. What else? I do not know: he leans his weight on, jerks: How, how, how, how?!? I look: Papa hasslanting, malicious, little Tatar eyes: I want to answer; but behind the lacquered little screen howl, snapping, the tigers: Kot! Kotik! Dont you dare! Its too early for you This very minuteto me! No, allow me! The Urals, andwhat else?Papa puffs out of breath with his palms in the air. Imnot alive and not dead: I hear how Mama smacks: with the sleepy, with a dreamily swollen face, growing unattractive, having forgotten her capote, without corset, without jacket, without slippers, she runs out to the dining room with a concentrated look; and hereshe swings, stamping her foot in a not so very pretty way. Am Iyour mother? Your mother?! Here having grabbed my little shoulder, she jerks the little shoulder: she twists and turns the little shoulder; dimly she falls with her face under my little nose and leads with a finger, settling by the nose, pressing with a full hand the shirt to the legs and baring her shoulder; she brushes me with a turquoise along the nose: Am I your mother? Iresolve, thatno: I do not have another choice; I know, I know everything, butthere is no choice, because grabbed by Papas fivefingered hand by the skirt,I cannot run from there: ai, ai, ai, aiso she can twist and turn my shoulder: there will be black and blue marks againan unimaginable disgrace! Tach-tararach: a chair falls loudly; a struggle has arisenfor me (they tore off my lace): Papa let go of the skirt; he sat down threateningly, like a billygoat, before the already seated Mamochka; they look one another in the eyes (just like cocks, before they jump in front of one another,they sit down: andlook at one another); and Papa cannot hold out: with a biting slice of his slanting, Chinese little eyes, bloodfilled, like red-lead, he suddenly winks, andhe started to go, slamming the door; I am left with Mama. Snapping the doors shut, spreading her little legs and sticking out a very angry belly, she bites her red lips with angry teeth: andsmacksmacksmacksmack on the cheek; Mamas fingers dont hurt me so much; the malicious little ring hurts: the greenish, hardish little stone really bites; to Mamaunder her legs: like a little lump; I kiss her little foot with love: Christ commanded us to pray for sinners. Mamochkaalso begins to cry; andshe exits; I siton the floor; along the parquet a crawler-spider runs like a multipawed little ball;behind it; and with a little foot I smacked it on the parquet: under the little foot was smeared a black louse-louse. Hereit turns evening: and the burned oculus burns,far away; and shadows cry out from the East; hearts burn; and under the heart is compressed some sort of something: and it grows dark beyond the windows: the cold bluened from the darkening house; the long ago whitewashed with gray streaks day showed that it isa Negro, having turned black from its evening face; andmisting from snows on the roofs; onto the bald head of the earths sphere they put a cylindrical top hat, very black; with a fateful hand they had pulled over the head the night; lonely and stern. I sit down under the window; and the night is blackhorned: it gazed in the window; in the corner the multiplication of darknesses had begun; I went into the little corridor: orphaned up to the stove; the stove savagely crackled the logs; the red flame walked along the red, already eaten from the edges firewood,it hissed, scattering gold and feverish heat: blackened charcoals; everywhere cornflower blue butter-flies of coal gas fluttered shinily. In the drawing room,there Granny has sat strongly in the worn-out seat of the armchair with hank, with hook: for me to unwind, to mumble at me: from me myselfmy life and to look, having gleamed a glance, like fiery steel, from the dusk: black Granny islife; and Granny became this Granny; we will become her, when we become tired; and we are becoming somewhat tired: we are growing old, like others, who from youth just, like I, lie down, like a caterpillar, in firmly wound diapers, then fly out, like butterflies, eat much, like Mama, become stout wenches, like Mrs. Doktorovsky, walk big-breasted, sit bigbellied, and flabbily hang wrinkles, they dry out, like Granny, a little hunch, or hanging dry ears, like a bunch of mushrooms, made ready for soup and here toothless twotoothed Granny breaks out laughing; andblankeyed Auntie winks from the shadow: in such a condition; and sprinkling her own blankgeneration of sounds, with me, beaten, smacked, she carries out her own strange ways of playing, she embraces me and leads me through the shadows, like through the days; someone stuck out a paw from the dark darknesses, and I pass through the paw, but there: tou tou tou black-walkers began walking along the corridor: to knock out! Black tailcoats pass by legless, headlessone after another, bowing one to another with a removal of faces and then rising up an armleg of shadows into the septiped of days: to twirl around the ceilings and burst in a ray of whitepawed flame: this is Dunyasha passing with a candle: a seethrough, blacksmeared grimacerjumped behind her, casting a shadow, in order to hover weightlessly in the burdened dusk; in the orange flame and in the chocolate wallpaper Papa stoops, having returned from his lectures; Mama, tossing back her head and with-drawing with it into a boa, heaves her bustle, trembles her wide-open raspberry toque, sticking her hand into the muff,passes, from the snow (all white, in snow) to her room: I have no thoughts of grievingshe jerked her little nose; Papa sits, delving deeply into calculations, and making it look as though he doesnt see Mama; if he raises a little eye to Mama, very clever and not at all malicious, then she will stick out her lips; he very scatterbrainedly, blinking before himself, buries himself in the green spots of the cloth, andsharpens a pencil stub: WellI thinkthe quarrel continues. Imweak; yes Ima slave: I drown again in the mutterings of wenches,having dug into the little mattress until morning: but an old wenchbowed down; andshe smacks with a black jaw; sud-denly! it dawned! Not a black wench, but white Mama glitters with a candle, digging into my little brow,into my eyes; with a merciless hand tossing aside the curls,as if to look at the little brow; and the little brow isbig: Bigbrowed! Takes after his father . . . . . . . . How tousled are Mamas curls: the belly is malevolent; a bent little finger threatens; a second chin blows up under the chin: O, no! Not after me! All after his father And she smacks in the dusk; I fear: the blackhorned boogeyman, a seethrough unknown one moos from the armchair at me with a cow puss . . . . Nights Ima prisoner; nights the sheer spindle mutters in me with a broadening of sound; and the small tiny hair of a rustle, booms like a loud log; and a black little spot, like a slicing gritting of teeth, quickly rises on the run: to force the moons beam into submission; it stops, squats heavily like a little crab: a cockroach! Here the minutes ticked off, they weaken with the hardly noticeable dawn; I see: the black inkhas bluened; and I know: the little day, a whitelegged infant, shouting at the top of its lungs already runs into the ancient arc of the vault of heaven; shaggy Mamas set out after the white infant: with concentrated fury; anda murder is consummated: the mi-nutes begin to tick like drops of blood and tears; the soulslayers, in a column of mourners stand to the right and stand to the left; and some-one bearded, and someone winged stands up with a shaggy miter over the little grave; he will loudly read: beri-beri-beri-beri berberi: berberi-berberi-beri; eriarii, arii: Papa once told of the great Persian prophet by the name of Zoroaster; and I see in a dream: they continue to nail the little coffin shut, until it bursts from the rays of the centiarmed sun: Ahura-Mazda! And here I awake . . . . Morning! Lightest chases of snowflakes smoke under the glassy, sparkling, bluish morning; some sort of an adamant: the universe has just put on an adamantine miter and sprinkles its precious colors like a Persian carpet; Papa is drawn to Mamochka: he tugs at her little shoulder; Mama, her little lips blown up, allows him; Isqueal from joyfulness; I know that toward evening there will be a loud sound of the bell: little cartons will arrive (Papa will send a little gift from Kuznetsky Most); and my heart isall agog, and Mamas eyeslike a wheel, her hands begin to shake, tearing the twine; she takes from there a big lampshade, hung about with lace, andlicks her lips, like a cat, from pleasure. . . . . . . . In our drawing room the fir tree has been saved since the Nativity; this evening they decorate it again; and it isin clear little spheres; all of the selfcolored little spheres are filled with a lightness; touch it just a bit, andthe broken blown up little sphere cracked its shell; I know: again the dragees in the little cardboard boxes; they bought some more snappers . . . . . Already the golden snappers have swelled with powder; and the yellow, paper cap is dragged out from it; and already on the headit is torn; another pooped; andit bestowed on me its gift of little trousers of blue paper; butthey are too short; such a pity; wellI jerk off a nut; all the boughs began to shake, needles fell, and a torn off sphere cluttered onto the parquet; the golden shell now crunches under the feet: how everything is enlightened, how everything is illumined; it diamondized, eyed one clearly; a bigeyed adamant, or a miter; my Papochka, luminous, having put on his cap, just like a miter, hung himself with a golden, paper chain and walks like some Zoroaster: For Russia, my friend, in the far away future standsthe light; Rousant this isluminous; and Russian or russet isa luminance! Yes! I look at the seethrough translucence; I stuffed my mouth with pastille; from the scent of greenery the red-bright little lantern is so ruby-clear to us; we grabbed each others hands; andwe whirl: a sparklein rotaryflights!  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