sound of the singing voice, and warmed by the sympathetic look. The woman's words rang in his memory enveloping his heart in quiet joy.
That day was strangely long. Over the roofs of the houses and the Circle hung a grey cloud. The day, weary and dull, seemed to have become entangled in its grey mass, and, like the cloud, to have halted over the city. After dinner two customers entered the shop, one a stooping lean man with a pretty, grizzled mustache, the other a man with a red beard and spectacles. Both pottered about among the books long and minutely. The lean man kept whistling softly through his quivering mustache, while the red-bearded man spoke with the master.
Yevsey knew beforehand just what the master would say and how he would say it. The boy was bored. He was impatient for the evening to come, and he tried to relieve the tedium by listening to the words of the old man Raspopov, and verifying his conjectures while he arranged in a row the books the customers had selected.
"You are buying these books for a library?" the old man inquired affably.
"For the library of the Teachers' Association," replied the red-bearded man. "Why?"
"Now he'll praise them up," thought Yevsey, and he was not mistaken.
"You show extremely good judgment in your choice. It is pleasant to see a correct estimate of books."
"Pleasant?"
"Now he'll smile," thought Yevsey.
"Yes, indeed," said the old man, smiling graciously. "You get used to these books, so that you get to love them. You see they aren't dead wood, but products of the mind. So when a customer also respects books, it is pleasant. Our average customer is a comical fellow. He comes and asks, 'Have you any interesting books?' It's all the same to him. He seeks amusement, play, but no benefit. But occasionally someone will suddenly ask for a prohibited book."
"How's that? Prohibited?" asked the man screwing up his small eyes.
"Prohibited from libraries – published abroad, or secretly in Russia."
"Are such books for sale?"
"Now he will speak real low." Again Yevsey was not mistaken.
Fixing his glasses upon the face of the red-bearded man, the master lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
"Why not? Sometimes you buy a whole library, and you come across everything there, everything."
"Have you such books now?"
"Several."
"Let me see them, please."
"Only I must ask you not to say anything about them. You see it's not for the sake of profit, but as a courtesy. One likes to do favors now and then."
The stooping man stopped whistling, adjusted his spectacles, and looked attentively at the old man.
To-day the master was utterly loathsome to Yevsey, who kept looking at him with cold, gloomy malice. And now when Raspopov went over to the corner of the shop to show the red-bearded man some books there, the boy suddenly and quite involuntarily said in a whisper to the stooping customer:
"Don't buy those books."
Yevsey trembled with fright the moment he had spoken. The man raised his glasses, and peered into the boy's face with his bright eyes.
"Why?"
With a great effort Yevsey answered after a pause:
"I don't know."
The customer readjusted his glasses, moved away from him, and began to whistle louder, looking sidewise at the old man. Then he raised his hand, which made him straighter and taller, stroked his grey mustache, and without haste walked up to his companion, from whom he took the book. He looked it over, and dropped it on the table. Yevsey followed his movements expecting some calamity to befall himself. But the stooping man merely touched his companion's arm, and said simply and calmly:
"Well, let's go."
"But the books?" exclaimed the other.
"Let's go. I won't buy any books here."
The red-bearded man looked at him, then at the master, his small eyes winking rapidly. Then he walked to the door, and out into the street.
"You don't want the books?" demanded Raspopov.
Yevsey realized by his tone that the old man was surprised.
"I don't," answered the customer, his eyes fixed upon the face of the master.
Raspopov shrank. He went to his chair, and suddenly said with a wave of his hand in an unnaturally loud voice, which was new to Yevsey:
"As you please, of course. Still – excuse me, I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?" asked the stooping man, smiling.
"You looked through the books for two hours or more, agreed on a price, and suddenly – why?" cried the old man in excitement.
"Well, because I recollected your disgusting face. You haven't given up the ghost yet? What a pity!"
The stooping man pronounced his words slowly, not loud, and precisely. He left the shop deliberately, with a heavy tread.
For a minute the old man looked after him, then tore himself from where he was standing, and advanced upon Yevsey with short steps.
"Follow him, find out where he lives," he said in a rapid whisper, clutching the boy's shoulder. "Go! Don't let him see you! You understand? Quick!"
Yevsey swayed from side to side, and would have fallen, had the old man not held him firmly on his feet. He felt a void in his breast, and his master's words crackled there drily like peas in a rattle.
"What are you trembling about, you donkey? I tell you – "
When Yevsey felt his master's hand release his shoulder, he ran to the door.
"Stop, you fool!" Yevsey stood still. "Where are you going? Why, you won't be able – oh, my God! Get out of my sight!"
Yevsey darted into a corner. It was the first time he had seen his master so violent. He realized that his annoyance was tinged with much fear, a feeling very familiar to himself; and notwithstanding the fact that his own soul was desolate with fear, it pleased him to see Raspopov's alarm.
The little dusty old man threw himself about in the shop like a rat in a trap. He ran to the door, thrust his head into the street, stretched his neck out, and again turned back into the shop. His hands groped over his body impotently, and he mumbled and hissed, shaking his head till his glasses jumped from his nose.
"Umm, well, well – the dirty blackguard – the idea! The dirty blackguard! I'm alive – alive!" Several minutes later he shouted to Yevsey. "Close the shop!"
On entering his room the old man crossed himself. He drew a deep breath, and flung himself on the black sofa. Usually so sleek and smooth, he was now all ruffled. His face had grown wrinkled, his clothes had suddenly become too large for him, and hung in folds from his agitated body.
"Tell Rayisa to give me some peppered brandy, a large glassful." When Yevsey brought the brandy the master rose, drank it down in one gulp, and opening his mouth wide looked a long time into Yevsey's face.
"Do you understand that he insulted me?"
"Yes."
"And do you understand why?"
"No."
The old man raised his hand, and silently shook his finger.
"I know him – I know a great deal," he said in a broken voice.
Removing his black cap he rubbed his bare skull with his hands, looked about the room, again touched his head with his hands, and lay down on the sofa.
Rayisa Petrovna brought in supper.
"Are you tired?" she asked as she set the table.
"It seems I am a little under the weather. Fever, I think. Give me another glass of brandy. Sit down with us. It's too early for you to go."
He talked rapidly. Rayisa sat down, the old man raised his glasses, and scanned her suspiciously