‘‘God help it, this compressed air!’’ Father Khristofor repeated, laughing loudly.
Moisei Moiseich rose two notes higher and rocked with such convulsive laughter that he barely kept his feet.
‘‘Oh, my God ...’’ he moaned amid his laughter. ‘‘Let me catch my breath ... You’ve made me laugh so much that ... oh! ... it’s the death of me.’’
He laughed and talked and meanwhile kept glancing timorously and suspiciously at Solomon. The latter stood in the same pose and smiled. Judging by his eyes and smile, his contempt and hatred were serious, but they were so unsuited to his plucked little figure that it seemed to Egorushka that he assumed this defiant pose and sarcastic, contemptuous expression on purpose in order to play the buffoon and make the dear guests laugh.
Having silently drunk some six glasses, Kuzmichov cleared a space before him on the table, took his sack, the same one that lay under his head while he slept under the britzka, untied the string on it, and shook it. Stacks of banknotes spilled from the sack onto the table.
‘‘Come, Father Khristofor, let’s count it while there’s time,’’ said Kuzmichov.
Seeing the money, Moisei Moiseich became embarrassed, got up, and, as a tactful man who does not want to know other people’s secrets, left the room on tiptoe, balancing himself with his arms. Solomon stayed where he was.
‘‘How many are there in the one-rouble stacks?’’ Father Khristofor began.
‘‘Fifty in each ... In the three-rouble stacks, ninety . . . The twenty-fives and hundreds are by the thousands ... You count out seven thousand eight hundred for Varlamov, and I’ll count out for Gusevich. And see that you don’t miscount ...’’
Never since the day he was born had Egorushka seen such a pile of money as now lay on the table. It was probably a great deal of money, because the stack of seven thousand eight hundred that Father Khristofor set aside for Varlamov seemed very small compared to the whole pile. Another time such a mass of money might have struck Egorushka and prompted him to reflect on how many bagels, babas, and poppy-seed rolls could be bought with this pile; but now he looked at it impassibly and sensed only the smell of rotten apples and kerosene that the pile gave off. He was worn out from the jolting ride on the britzka, was tired and wanted to sleep. His head was heavy, his eyes kept closing, and his thoughts were tangled like threads. If it had been possible, he would gladly have lowered his head to the table, closed his eyes so as not to see the lamp and the fingers moving over the pile, and let his sluggish, sleepy thoughts tangle still more. When he made an effort not to doze off, the flame of the lamp, the cups, and the fingers went double, the samovar swayed, and the smell of rotten apples seemed still sharper and more repellent.
‘‘Ah, money, money!’’ sighed Father Khristofor, smiling. ‘‘Nothing but woe! Now my Mikhailo is surely sleeping and dreaming of me bringing him such a pile.’’
‘‘Your Mikhailo Timofeich is a man of no understanding,’’ Kuzmichov said in a low voice, ‘‘he took up a business that’s not right for him, but you understand and can reason. Why don’t you give me your wool, as I said, and go back home, and I—very well—I’ll give you fifty kopecks over your asking price, and that only out of respect . . .’’
‘‘No, Ivan Ivanovich,’’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘‘Thank you for the offer ... Of course, if it were up to me, there’d be no discussion, but as you know, the goods aren’t mine . . .’’
Moisei Moiseich came in on tiptoe. Trying out of delicacy not to look at the pile of money, he crept up to Egorushka and tugged him by the shirt from behind.
‘‘Come along, little lad,’’ he said in a low voice, ‘‘I’ve got a bear cub to show you! Such a terrible, angry one! Ohh!’’
Sleepy Egorushka got up and lazily plodded after Moisei Moiseich to look at the bear. He went into a small room where, before he saw anything, his breath was taken away by the smell of something sour and musty, which was much more dense here than in the big room and had probably spread from here all over the house. One half of the room was occupied by a big bed covered with a greasy quilted blanket, and the other by a chest of drawers and heaps of all possible rags, beginning with stiffly starched petticoats and ending with children’s trousers and suspenders. A tallow candle was burning on the chest of drawers.
Instead of the promised bear, Egorushka saw a large, very fat Jewess with loose hair and in a red flannel dress with black specks; she was turning heavily in the narrow passage between the bed and the chest of drawers and letting out long, moaning sighs, as if she had a toothache. Seeing Egorushka, she made a tearful face, heaved a long sigh, and, before he had time to look around, brought to his mouth a chunk of bread smeared with honey.
‘‘Eat, child, eat!’’ she said. ‘‘You’re here without your mama, and there’s nobody to feed you. Eat.’’
Egorushka began to eat, though after the fruit drops and poppy-seed rolls he ate every day at home, he found nothing good in honey half mixed with wax and bees’ wings. He ate, and Moisei Moiseich and the Jewess watched and sighed.
‘‘Where are you going, child?’’ asked the Jewess.
‘‘To study,’’ replied Egorushka.
‘‘And how many of you does your mama have?’’
‘‘I’m the only one. There’s nobody else.’’
‘‘Och!’’ sighed the Jewess, and she raised her eyes. ‘‘Poor mama, poor mama! How she’s going to weep and miss you! In a year we, too, will take our Nahum to study! Och!’’
‘‘Ah, Nahum, Nahum!’’ sighed Moisei Moiseich, and the skin twitched nervously on his pale face. ‘‘And he’s so sickly.’’
The greasy blanket stirred, and from under it appeared a child’s curly head on a very thin neck; two black eyes flashed and stared at Egorushka with curiosity. Moisei Moiseich and the Jewess, without ceasing to sigh, went over to the chest of drawers and began talking about something in Yiddish. Moisei Moiseich talked softly in a low bass, and generally his Yiddish resembled a ceaseless ‘‘gal-gal-gal-gal . . .’’ and his wife answered him in a thin hen- turkey’s voice, and with her it came out something like ‘‘tu-tu-tu-tu . . .’’ While they were conferring, another curly head on a thin neck peeked from under the greasy blanket, then a third, then a fourth ... If Egorushka had possessed a rich fantasy, he might have thought a hundred-headed hydra was lying under the blanket.
‘‘Gal-gal-gal-gal . . .’’ said Moisei Moiseich.
