Fifty-Two Stories

“Volodechka’s here!” hollered Natalya, running into the dining room. “Oh, my God!”

The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodya to come any moment, rushed to the windows. At the entrance stood a wide sledge, and from the troika of white horses a thick mist rose. The sledge was empty, because Volodya was already standing in the front hall and undoing his bashlyk with red, cold fingers.¹ His school coat, cap, galoshes, and the hair at his temples were covered with rime, and the whole of him from head to foot gave off such a tasty, frosty smell that, looking at him, you wanted to get chilled and say “Brrr!” His mother and aunt rushed to embrace and kiss him, Natalya fell at his feet and began pulling off his felt boots, his sisters let out squeals, doors creaked and slammed, and Volodya’s father, in his shirtsleeves and with scissors in his hand, ran to the front hall and cried out in alarm:

“We’ve been expecting you since yesterday! A good trip? All’s well? Lord God, let the boy greet his father! What, am I not his father?”

“Bow-wow!” bellowed the bass voice of Milord, a huge black dog, his tail knocking against the walls and furniture.

Everything merged into one general, joyful noise that went on for about two minutes. When the first impulse of joy passed, the Korolyovs noticed that, besides Volodya, there was another small person in the front hall, wrapped in kerchiefs, shawls, and bashlyks, and covered with rime. He stood motionless in the corner, in the shadow of a big fox-fur overcoat.

“Volodechka, who is this?” his mother asked in a whisper.

“Ah!” Volodya caught himself. “I have the honor of introducing my friend Lentilkin, a junior in my school…I’ve brought him for a visit.”

“How nice, you’re very welcome!” the father said joyfully. “Excuse me, I’m in my house clothes…Come in! Natalya, help Mr. Ventilkin out of his coat! My God, chase this dog away! What a punishment!”

A short time later Volodya and his friend Lentilkin, stunned by the noisy reception and still rosy from the cold, were sitting at the table having tea. The winter sun, passing through the snow and frosty patterns on the windows, glimmered on the samovar and bathed its pure rays in a rinsing bowl. The room was warm, and the boys felt how, unwilling to yield to each other, warmth and frost both tickled their chilled bodies.

“Well, soon it will be Christmas!” the father said in a singsong voice, rolling a cigarette of reddish-brown tobacco. “It feels like no time since it was summer, and your mother wept seeing you off! Yet here you are again! Time flies, lad! Before you can say ‘Ah!’ old age will be upon you. Mr. Mentilkin, help yourself, don’t be shy! We’re simple folk.”

Volodya’s three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha—the eldest was eleven—sat at the table and did not take their eyes off the new acquaintance. Lentilkin was the same age and height as Volodya, but not so plump and white; he was thin, swarthy, and covered with freckles. His hair was bristly, his eyes narrow, his lips thick; generally he was quite unattractive, and if he had not been wearing a school jacket, by his appearance he might have been taken for a scullery maid’s son. He was sullen, silent all the time, and never once smiled. Looking at him, the girls immediately figured out that he must be a very intelligent and educated man. He was thinking about something all the time, and was so taken up with his thoughts that, when he was asked about something, he gave a start, shook his head, and asked them to repeat the question.

The girls noticed that Volodya, always cheerful and talkative, also spoke little this time, did not smile at all, and did not even seem glad that he had come home. While they sat over tea, he addressed his sisters only once, and that with somehow strange words. He pointed to the samovar and said:

“In California they drink gin instead of tea.”

He, too, was taken up with some thoughts, and, judging by the glances he exchanged with his friend Lentilkin, the boys’ thoughts were the same.

After tea they all went to the children’s room. The father and the girls sat down at the table and went on with the work interrupted by the boys’ arrival. They were making flowers and Christmas tree garlands from different colored papers. It was fascinating and noisy work. The girls met each newly made flower with rapturous cries, even cries of awe, as if the flower had fallen from the sky; Papa also went into raptures and occasionally threw the scissors on the floor, angry with them for being dull. The mother kept running into the children’s room with a very anxious look and asking:

“Who took my scissors? Ivan Nikolaich, did you take my scissors again?”

“Lord God, they won’t even give me scissors!” Ivan Nikolaich would reply in a tearful voice and, heaving himself against the back of his chair, would assume the pose of an insulted man, but a minute later he would again be in raptures.