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Once, in early October—I was almost sixteen then—leaving for the gymnasium early in the morning, I forgot the envelope with money that my mother had put out in the dining room the evening before, which was needed to pay for the first semester. I remembered the envelope only when I was standing in the tram, when—from the accelerating motion—the acacias and the spikes of the boulevard fence changed from an intermittent flicker into a continuous stream, and the weight leaning on my shoulders pressed my back ever tighter against the nickel-plated rail.
My forgetfulness, however, didn’t bother me at all. The money could be paid at the gymnasium tomorrow, and there was no one in the house to steal it; besides my mother, only my old nanny Stepanida lived in the apartment as a maid. She had been with us for over twenty years, and her only weakness, or perhaps even passion, was her continuous mutterings, like the clicking of sunflower seeds, which she used to carry on long conversations, and sometimes even arguments, with herself, lacking any interlocutor, occasionally interrupting herself with loud, voiced exclamations, such as: “well, of course!” or “you bet!” or “open your pocket wider!”
At the gymnasium, I completely forgot about the envelope. On that particular day, which was not often the case, my lessons were not prepared, and I had to study them partly during breaks, and sometimes even while the teacher was in the classroom. This intense state of focused attention, in which everything was absorbed with such ease (though forgotten just as easily the day after), was highly conducive to shaking off everything extraneous from memory.
It was only when the long break began, when, due to the cold but dry and sunny weather, we were all released into the courtyard, and I saw my mother on the lower landing of the stairs, that I remembered the envelope and realized that she must have been impatient and brought it herself. My mother was standing aside in her bald fur coat, a ridiculous bonnet under which gray hair hung (she was fifty-seven then), and with noticeable agitation, which somehow accentuated her pathetic appearance even more, she helplessly peered into the horde of running schoolboys, some of whom were laughing and glancing at her, saying things to each other.
Approaching, I intended to slip past unnoticed, but my mother, seeing me and immediately lighting up with a gentle but not cheerful smile, called me over — and I, though terribly ashamed in front of my comrades, went up to her.
“Vadichka, my boy,” she spoke in a deep, aged voice, handing me the envelope and timidly touching the button of my overcoat with her yellowish hand, as if it burned her; “you forgot the money, my boy, and I thought you’d be frightened, so I brought it.” Having said this, she looked at me as if begging for alms, but in a fury over the disgrace inflicted upon me, I retorted in a hateful whisper that such calf-like tenderness was inappropriate for us, and that since she was so impatient and brought the money, she should pay it herself.
My mother stood quietly, listening silently, guiltily and sorrowfully lowering her old, kind eyes. I, having run down the now empty staircase and opening the stiff, air-sucking door with a bang, did look back and look at my mother, yet I did so not because I felt sorry for her, but merely out of fear that she would burst into tears in such an unsuitable place. My mother was still standing on the top landing and, sadly bowing her ugly head, was watching me leave. Noticing me looking at her, she waved her hand and the envelope at me, the way one does at a train station, and this movement, so young and vigorous, only further revealed how old, ragged, and pitiful she was.
In the courtyard, where several comrades approached me and one asked what sort of buffoon in a skirt I had just been speaking with, I laughed heartily and replied that it was an impoverished governess who had come to me with written references, and that if they wished, I would introduce them: they could court her with some success. Having said all this, I felt, not so much because of my words but because of the reciprocal laughter they provoked, that this was too much even for me and that I shouldn’t have said it.
When, having paid the money, my mother left and, looking at no one, stooping as if trying to make herself even smaller, hurried as fast as she could along the asphalt path toward the gates, knocking her worn, completely crooked heels—I felt my heart ache for her.
This pain, which so fiercely scorched me in the first moment, lasted, however, very briefly, and its distinct ebbing, and thus my complete healing from this pain, occurred as if in two stages. When I returned home from the gymnasium, entered the hallway and walked down the narrow corridor of our poor little apartment, which reeked sharply of the kitchen, to my room — the pain, though no longer hurting, still somewhat reminded me of how much it had hurt an hour ago. And then, when I came into the dining room, sat down at the table, and my mother sat opposite me, ladling soup, — the pain not only didn’t bother me anymore, but I even found it difficult to imagine that it could ever have troubled me.
But as soon as I felt relieved, a host of spiteful considerations began to agitate me. The idea that such an old woman ought to understand that she was only embarrassing me with her clothes — and that she shouldn’t have been wandering around the gymnasium with an envelope — and that she forced me to lie, and deprived me of the opportunity to invite comrades over. I watched her eat her soup, how, lifting the spoon with a trembling hand, she spilled some back into the plate; I looked at her yellow cheeks, her nose reddened from the hot soup, and saw how, after every sip, she licked the fat with her whitish tongue, and I acutely and fiercely hated her.
Sensing that I was looking at her, my mother looked at me with her fading brown eyes, as gently as always, put down her spoon and, as if compelled by this very gaze to say something, — asked: is it tasty? She said this almost like coaxing a child, while nodding her gray head in questioning affirmation. “Ff-kyoos-nyeh,” I said, neither confirming nor denying, but mimicking her. I pronounced that “ff-kyoos-nyeh” with a repulsive grimace, as if I were about to throw up, and our gazes — mine cold and hateful, — hers warm, openly loving, met and merged. This lasted for a long time. I distinctly saw how the look in her kind eyes dimmed, becoming bewildered, then sorrowful, — but the more obvious my victory became, the less palpable and comprehensible seemed the feeling of hatred towards this loving and old person, by the power of which this victory was achieved. Perhaps for this reason, I couldn’t stand it, lowered my eyes first, and took up my spoon and began to eat.
But when, internally reconciled, wanting to say something trivial, I raised my head again, I said nothing and involuntarily leaped up. One of my mother’s hands, with a spoon of soup, lay directly on the tablecloth. She rested her head on the palm of the other hand, propped up by her elbow on the table. Her narrow lips, twisting her face, climbed up her cheek. Tears flowed from the brown hollows of her closed eyes, which fanned out wrinkles. And there was so much defenselessness in this yellow, old head, so much non-malicious, bitter sorrow, and so much hopelessness from this now useless, ugly old age of hers, — that I, still glancing at her, said in a suspiciously rough voice — now, don’t, — come on, stop, — it’s nothing to cry about, — and was just about to add — Mummy — and perhaps even walk over and kiss her, when at that very moment, from the exterior, the corridor, the nanny, balancing on one felt boot, kicked the door with the other and brought in a dish. I don’t know for whom or why, but right then I struck the plate with my fist, and with the pain in my wounded hand and the trousers soaked with soup, finally convinced of my righteousness, the justice of which was somehow vaguely supported by the nanny’s extreme fright, — I cursed menacingly and went to my room.
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