It was still dark. He walked no more than ten steps away from the cottage, and when he turned, hearing the voice of his mother, who stood at the gate, he could no longer see her in the murk, and could only hear broken words which resounded anxiously in the stillness:

“City girls…bad sickness…”

“Good-by!” shouted Vanka.

And suddenly he felt sad about his mother, about the village, about his poor old cottage. He stopped, listened.…But already everything was quiet again, his mother had gone in. With a sigh he moved to meet the unstirring silent darkness, still untouched by dawn.

As he strode through the fields he was thinking of how he might earn good money in the city, and come home towards spring to marry Vasilisa Shamova. And he pictured Vasilisa, plump, sturdy, and cleanly. Or perhaps he might find a position as a porter with some kind, rich merchant, and then he would marry not Vasilisa but a city girl. He was walking along, and behind him dawn was gently breaking, all around night’s shadows were vanishing unseen, and the pale yellow rays of the winter sun were beginning to fall on the snow. Underfoot the snow creaked more loudly and cheerfully, and Vanyushka began singing. Three twenty-kopeck pieces were jingling in the pocket of his trousers, and thoughts and guesses about the future were slowly moving through his head, to the sound of the tune.

It was easy, pleasant walking; his feet did not stick in the packed snow of the road. The frosty air filled his lungs and gave him a sense of well-being. The blue haze of the distance was beautiful and inviting. Hoar-frost feathered Vanya’s budding mustache, and he thrust out his upper lip, looking at it with pleasure—his mustache seemed to him long and handsome.…A large crow, black as a charred ember, was stepping heavily on the snow beside the road. Vanyushka whistled. But the gloomy bird only looked at him with one eye and waddled even nearer to the road. Then he slapped his mittens, making a sound like a rifle- shot, but even that did not frighten the bird.

“You devil!” Kuzin muttered, and walked faster.

By mid-day, when he had covered more than half the distance, a snow-storm set in. Light, transparent puffs of snow, torn from the hillocks by the wind, flung a cold, white dust into his face. At times a flock of snowflakes rose from under his feet, as if wanting to stop the boy, while the wind pushed him in the back as though hurrying him on. The far-off distance was blotted out by murky clouds. The wind shrieked, as it touched the ground, covering up all traces, and wailed in a sad, long-drawn-out manner. The people and horses that he encountered appeared before his eyes and vanished like stones thrown into water. Vanyushka closed his eyes and walked with a swaying gait amidst the noises and sad songs of the storm. His thighs ached, his feet were heavy, he thought angrily of his mother: “She is sitting there, and here am I walking!”

And then he grew so tired that he could think of nothing. The only thing he wanted was to get to the city, to rest in a warm room, to drink tea. His back bent, his head down, he walked without noticing anything around him until, through the thunder of the storm, he heard the sullen roar of a factory siren. He halted and, straightening up, sighed deeply. Then he pulled the three coins out of his pocket, and put them in his mouth, thrusting them into his cheek, so that he might not tempt city folk with their jingling.

Seen through the gray curtain of snow, the city looked like a heavy cloud that had settled on the ground. Vanyushka took off his cap, crossed himself, and said to himself: “Here I am!”

II

When he entered the tea-house, the thick, damp air touched his face and like a warm, wet rag wiped from his cheeks the stinging sensation of cold. A bluish, acrid smoke wavered under the low, vaulted ceiling and stung the eyes; the smell of vodka, tobacco, and burnt oil tickled the nose; the noise in the