Childhood - Student Quality Library (Master Companion Version)

Author: Maxim Gorky
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: In the dimly lit room, my father lay on the floor near the window, wearing white clothes and his body stretched out long; his bare toes were strangely spread open; his dear hands lay quietly on his chest, fingers also bent; his happy eyes were tightly closed, like two round black copper coins; his kind face was dark, with ugly teeth bared, scaring me. My mother knelt there, her upper body unclothed, her lower half wrapped in a red skirt. She used the small black comb I loved to peel watermelon rinds to comb my father's long, soft hair from his forehead to the back of his head. My mother often talked to herself, her voice rough and hoarse, her gray eyes swollen as if about to melt, rolling down large drops of tears. Grandmother took my hand. She was round-faced, with a big head, big eyes, and a soft, comical nose. She wore black clothes, and her whole body was soft and extremely playful. She also cried, in a unique way, as if accustomed to crying with my mother, trembling all over. She pulled me towards my father, but I hid behind her, unwilling to go no matter what, both scared and awkward. I had never seen adults cry and didn't understand what Grandmother meant when she repeatedly said, "Say goodbye to your dad, you'll never see him again, dear child. He wasn't old enough, he died before his time." I had just recovered from a serious illness and had not been up for long. When I was sick, I remembered clearly: my father took good care of me happily, but later, he suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a strange person—Grandmother—to take care of me. "Where did you come from?" I asked her. She replied, "From above, from Nizhniy Novgorod, not by walking, but by boat. You can't walk on water, little one!" This was quite funny and confusing, because several Persian bearded men with dyed hair lived on our upper floor, an old yellow-faced Kalmyk man lived in the basement, making a living by selling sheepskin; along the stairs, you could slide down the railing, and if you fell, you'd roll over and over—this I knew very well. What did that have to do with water? Everything was chaotic, so muddled it was laughable. "Why are you a little one?" "Because you're talkative." She also laughed. She spoke in a way that was both kind, cheerful, and fluent. From the day I met her, I became close with her. Now I hoped she would take me out of this room quickly.