Childhood

Author: Maxim Gorky
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-01-01
Features: Grandmother spread her arms, raised her eyebrows, and her two black eyes gazed into the distance. She moved slowly and silently across the floor. Little Zыгон also jumped in front of Grandmother, squatted down, and began to dance a leg-kicking dance around her. Watching Grandmother's clumsy dance, I couldn't help but burst into laughter. Master Grigory immediately pointed at me to scare me, and the adults all cast reproachful glances at me. "Ivan, stop dancing!" Grigory smiled. Little Zыгон obediently sat down on the threshold. At this moment, the young nanny Yegorya quietly began to sing, her voice so melodious: "From Monday to Saturday, girls embroider lace, their backs ache, their muscles are sore, oh dear, life is unbearable." Grandmother's dance, steps, and demeanor were like a story being told. Look at her, walking slowly and lightly, as if thinking or sleeping, swaying, cautiously as if exploring in the dark. A kind and benevolent smile filled her face. Sometimes, she lowered her head and stood motionless, as if listening to the voice of God. Suddenly, she lifted her long skirt and spun like a whirlwind. Wow! Her figure became graceful and elegant with the light dance steps and fluttering skirt. Everyone watched her intently. She was so beautiful, like a blooming rose. In that instant, her youthful vitality miraculously revived! The young nanny Yegorya also sang excitedly: "On Sundays, we pray, and we dance until the middle of the night. Girls don't come home until dawn. Alas, happy times are so rare!" Grandmother was a warm-hearted person. She often helped others with childbirth, mediate family disputes, and treat children's illnesses. Sometimes, many women came to her house to listen to her tell "The Dream of the Virgin." She also often gave advice to housewives and helped them arrange household chores: "If cucumbers don't have a earthy smell or any other strange odor, it's time to pickle them. To make kvass taste good, you need to do a good job with fermentation. The taste of kvass shouldn't be sweet, so you just need to add a little raisin. If you add sugar, then you can only put a tiny bit in a barrel. The taste of yogurt varies with different methods: there's the Don River flavor, the Spanish flavor, and the Caucasus flavor." I followed Grandmother all day, almost inseparably. I followed her around the garden, courtyard, upstairs, and downstairs, and often went to visit neighboring houses with her. She would sit with her neighbors, drinking tea and talking about many things, sometimes sitting there for hours. I felt as if I was attached to her, closely connected to her. Now, I can't remember anything else from that period in my life except this kind, active, and lifelong helpful old woman. Once, I asked Grandmother, "Are you a witch?" Grandmother laughed heartily, "You can imagine that!" But she added thoughtfully, "I don't have that kind of talent. Witchcraft is a very difficult thing to understand. I can't read or write a single character. Your grandfather is the one who can read and write. Unfortunately, the Virgin didn't bless me with that ability." Then, she thoughtfully told me about a fragment of her life: "I was an orphan from a young age. My mother was a poor farmer without land and also disabled. When she was still a girl, a landlord who wanted to do bad things scared her, and she jumped out of the window at midnight. As a result, she broke her ribs and injured her shoulder. From then on, her right hand couldn't move. At that time, my mother was famous for her lace-making skills. The landlord saw she was no longer useful and freed her from serfdom, kicking her out and saying, 'From now on, you can do whatever you want!' She had to drag her disabled body, begging from village to village, asking for alms. Back then, people were wealthier and kinder than now. In the autumn and winter, I followed her around the city, wandering the streets. When the Archangel Gabriel waved his sword to drive away the cold winter and bring a spring with flowers blooming everywhere, we moved on to another place. As long as there was a path ahead, we kept going. We went to many places, following the Volga and Oka rivers forward. It was so wonderful to wander around in the spring and summer! The sun warmed us, and the trees and flowers covered the ground with lush greenery, making us feel cheerful. That sense of freedom was truly joyful. Sometimes, we sat under the trees to rest, and my mother would close her blue eyes and sing loudly. She sang as if she didn't need much effort, but her voice was so clear and loud that everyone around was captivated and didn't move. Although begging was a beautiful life, I watched myself grow up. When I was nine, my mother couldn't bear to let me follow her begging, so she settled down by the Volga River in Balakhna. She left me at home and went out alone, begging from door to door to support me. On holidays, she would go to the church to collect alms. I didn't stay idle at home either. Following my mother's instructions, I learned to make lace. I practiced desperately, wanting to learn quickly and earn money to support my mother. Sometimes, I cried because I couldn't learn it and was so frustrated. It took me over two years to master this skill, and I even became somewhat famous locally. Often, people would come to me asking me to make lace. Every time I heard someone say, 'Akulia, use your little wooden shuttle! I want to buy some lace,' I was overjoyed. I was very grateful to my mother. Although her right hand couldn't move, she couldn't weave lace anymore, but she would show me how to do it. Without a good teacher, how could I have such skill? The money I earned from weaving lace increased day by day. At this point, I became a little proud and told my mother, 'Mom, don't go begging anymore. I can support you.' My mother scolded me, 'Shut up! The money you save is for your dowry.' After a while, your grandfather suddenly appeared. He was a very attractive young man who became the foreman of a barge at the age of 22! His mother carefully examined me and chose me. She saw I had skillful hands and could work, and that I was the daughter of a beggar, who would surely have a stable life in the future. Things later went very badly. Her mother, who baked bread, was very cruel. Oh, God forgive me, I shouldn't have mentioned this. Sigh, why did I have to talk about others' faults? The Almighty God will see it, and the devil likes them." We sat in silence for a long time. It was an autumn evening that made people feel melancholic. The surroundings were quiet, and although the flowers were still blooming in all their colors, some withered leaves were waiting for the near approach of decay. The sky was clear and high, filled with crimson clouds, and the returning crows, flapping their wings, flew past in rows and columns, evoking a strange sense of melancholy. The sun reflected the sky below the horizon, and all was silent, so silent that even the sound of a falling dry leaf seemed like a loud noise. But after being startled, the mind returned to peace, and tranquility covered the earth, filling the heart with serenity. I leaned closely against this lodger, sharing the scenery and silence with him. I felt everything was so beautiful and special, and it gave me an extraordinary understanding of him and everything around me. Sometimes, he would suddenly ask me, "Little brother, what do you feel? It's so pleasant! Is it?" As the sky gradually darkened, dampness and cold followed. He said, "Alright, let's stop here today. Let's go." We helped each other climb out of the pit and walked toward the house. When we reached the garden fence, he stopped and said softly but happily, "Your grandmother is so kind. Oh, look at this scenery, how beautiful!" Then, he closed his eyes and smiled, reciting, "What a terrible punishment: to obey the orders of the wicked, to be a scapegoat! Little brother, you must remember these words firmly!" He rested his hand on my back as we walked, asking me, "Do you know how to write?" "No." "You must learn. If you can write, you can record all the stories Grandmother tells. Little brother, that's wealth." We became good friends. From then on, I could go to "Good Things" anytime, sit quietly on those broken wooden boxes, and watch him do anything he wanted. He would knock here and touch there, sometimes fiddling with strange and wonderful potions, occasionally flipping through thick books, biting his red lips as he thought about something, talking to himself over and over. Occasionally, he would sing in a hoarse voice like a cow: "Ah, the rose of Sharon." "What are you doing?" I asked. "Making something." "What kind of thing?" "This, I tell you, you won't understand." "Your grandfather says you might be counterfeiting money." "Counterfeiting money? Your grandfather said that?" He laughed heartily, "That's ridiculous. Money, what's the use of money? Little brother, money is nothing." "But without money, what can you buy bread with?" "That's right, you need money to buy bread." "You need money to buy beef too!" "Yes." He didn't get angry but smiled and pinched my ear, saying, "It seems I can't argue with you. I can't answer your questions, little brother. Let's change the subject or stop talking, okay?" He would focus on his work for a while, then sit beside me and silently watch the window together. Watching the raindrops fall on the roof, on the small garden full of trees and flowers, washing the withering apple leaves. "Good Things" rarely spoke, but every word seemed very important. He often reminded me to look at things, even without a word, just a light touch or a gesture was enough. I watched the courtyard and didn't notice anything special, but because of "Good Things" light touch or a few words, I developed a special feeling for what I saw, and it deeply stuck in my heart. For example, during the rain, a small cat ran into the courtyard. It stood in front of a mirror-like puddle, looking at its shadow, quite strange. Slowly, it lifted one of its front paws and struck the water fiercely as if attacking something, then looked intently. At this moment, "Good Things" would whisper, "Cats are proud and suspicious animals."