t for a bride of refined
education, and so was considered the cleverest of the lodgers. He
sang tenor.

"My good friend," began the mamma, dissolving into tears. "If you
would have the generosity--thrash my boy for me. . . . Do me the
favour! He's failed in his examination, the nuisance of a boy! Would
you believe it, he's failed! I can't punish him, through the weakness
of my ill-health. . . . Thrash him for me, if you would be so
obliging and considerate, Yevtihy Kuzmitch! Have regard for a sick
woman!"

Kuporossov frowned and heaved a deep sigh through his nose. He
thought a little, drummed on the table with his fingers, and sighing
once more, went to Vanya.

"You are being taught, so to say," he began, "being educated, being
given a chance, you revolting young person! Why have you done it?"

He talked for a long time, made a regular speech. He alluded to
science, to light, and to darkness.

"Yes, young person."

When he had finished his speech, he took off his belt and took Vanya
by the hand.

"It's the only way to deal with you," he said. Vanya knelt down
submissively and thrust his head between the lodger's knees. His
prominent pink ears moved up and down against the lodger's new serge
trousers, with brown stripes on the outer seams.

Vanya did not utter a single sound. At the family council in the
evening, it was decided to send him into business.

VANKA

VANKA ZHUKOV, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed
to Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting
till his master and mistress and their workmen had gone to the
midnight service, he took out of his master's cupboard a bottle of
ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled sheet
of paper in front of him, began writing. Before forming the first
letter he several times looked round fearfully at the door and the
windows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides of which
stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paper
lay on the bench while he knelt before it.

"Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch," he wrote, "I am writing
you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from
God Almighty. I have neither father nor mother, you are the only
one left me."

Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his
candle was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin
Makaritch, who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev.