III
Saksaoolov thought sadly of Tamar as he wandered in the streets, and looking into the faces of the passersby he thought many of the older people unpleasantly coarse. He recalled that there was no one with whom he would exchange the kiss of Easter with real desire and joy. There would be many coarse lips and prickly beards, smelling of wine, to kiss the first day.
It was much pleasanter to kiss the children. Children’s faces grew lovely in Saksaoolov’s eyes.
He walked a long time, and when he was tired he entered a church enclosure just off the noisy street. A pale lad sat on a form and looked up frightened at Saksaoolov; then he once more began to gaze absently before him. His blue eyes were gentle and sad, like Tamar’s. He was so small that his feet projected from the seat.
Saksaoolov, who sat near him, began to eye him, half with pity, half with curiosity. There was something in this youngster that stirred his memory with joy, and at the same time excited him. In appearance he was a most ordinary urchin; he had on ragged clothes, a white fur cap on his bright hair, and a pair of dirty boots, worse for wear.
He sat long on the form, then he rose suddenly and gave a cry. He ran out of the gate into the street, then stopped, turned quickly in another direction, and again stopped. It was clear that he did not know which way to turn. He began to weep quietly, making no ado, and large tears ran down his cheeks. A crowd gathered. A policeman came. They began to ask him where he lived.
“At the Gliukhov house,” he lisped in a childlike but indistinct tone.
“In what street,” the policeman asked.
The boy did not know, and only kept on repeating: “At the Gliukhov house.”
The young and good-natured policeman thought awhile, and decided that there was no such house near.
“With whom do you live?” asked a gruff workman. “With your father?”
“I have no father,” answered the boy, as he scanned the faces round him with his tearful eyes.
“So you’ve got no father, that’s how it is,” said the workman gravely, and shook his head. “Then where’s your mother?”
“I have a mother,” the boy replied.
“What’s her name?”
“Mamma,” said the boy; then, upon reflection, he added, “black mamma.”
Someone laughed in the crowd.
“Black? I wonder whether that’s the name of the family?” suggested the gruff workman.
“First it was a white mamma, and now it’s a black mamma,” said the boy.
“There’s no making head or tail of this,” decided the policeman. “I’ll take him to the station. They’ll telephone about it.”
He went to the gate and rang. But the house-porter had already seen the policeman and, besom in hand, he was coming to the gate. The policeman ordered him to take the boy to the station. But the boy suddenly bethought himself, and cried out: “Never mind, let me go, I’ll find the way myself.”
Perhaps he was frightened of the house-porter’s besom, or perhaps he had really recalled something; at any rate he ran off so hard that Saksaoolov almost lost sight of him. But soon the boy walked more quietly. He turned street corners and ran from one side to the other searching for, but not finding, his home. Saksaoolov followed him in silence. He was not an adept at talking to children.
At last the boy grew tired. He stopped before a lamppost and leant against it. Tears gleamed in his eyes.
“My dear boy,” said Saksaoolov, “haven’t you found it yet?”
The lad looked at him with his sad, soft eyes, and Saksaoolov suddenly understood what had impelled him to follow the boy with such resolution. There was something in the face and glance of the little wanderer that gave him an unusual likeness to Tamar.
“My dear boy, what’s your name?” asked Saksaoolov in a tender and agitated voice.
“Lesha,” said the boy.
“Tell me, dear Lesha, do you live with your mother?”
“Yes, with mamma. Only now it’s a black mamma—and before it was a white mamma.”
Saksaoolov thought that by black mamma he meant a nun.
“How did you get lost?” he asked.
“I walked with mamma, and we walked and walked. She told me to sit down and wait, and then she went away. And I got frightened.”
“Who is your mother?”
“My mamma? She’s so black and so angry.”
“What does she do?”
The boy thought awhile.
“She drinks coffee,” he said.
“What else does she do?”
“She quarrels with the lodgers,” answered Lesha after a pause.
“And where is your white mamma?”
“She was carried away. She was put into a coffin and carried away. And papa was carried away.”
The boy pointed into the distance somewhere and burst into tears.
“What’s to be done with him?” thought Saksaoolov.
Then suddenly the boy began to run again. After he had turned a few corners he went more quietly. Saksaoolov overtook him a second time. The lad’s face expressed a strange mixture of joy and fear.
“Here’s the Gliukhov house,” he said to Saksaoolov, as he pointed to a huge, five-storeyed monstrosity.
At this moment there appeared at the gates of the Gliukhov house a black-haired, black-eyed woman in a black dress, a black kerchief with white dots on her head. The boy shrank back in fear.
“Mamma,” he whispered.
His stepmother looked at him with astonishment.
“How did you get here, you young whelp!” she shrieked out. “I told you to sit on the bench, didn’t I?”
She seemed to be on the point of whipping him when she noticed that some sort of gentleman, serious and dignified in appearance, was watching them, and she spoke more softly.
“Can’t I leave you for a half-hour anywhere without you taking to your heels? I’ve walked my feet off looking for you, you young whelp!”
She caught the child’s very small hand in her own huge one and dragged him within the gate. Saksaoolov made a note of the house number and the name of the street, and went home.