I

A thick autumn fog hung over Petersburg. Twilight was approaching, and in its whitish-murky light, thick waves of vapor quietly swirled over the Neva. Through them, the buildings loomed like fairy-tale giants. Pedestrians, horses, dogs — like ghosts suddenly emerged from the gray veil and disappeared back into it. Ships, like the phantoms of airships, lay motionless at anchor. The Nikolaevsky Bridge with its giant arches stretched somewhere into the impenetrable gloom, and even the chapel on its drawbridge part merged its gilded dome cone with the milky haze of the gray fog.

Petersburgers do not like such weather; they raise the collars of their woolen coats high, tuck their noses into scarves, and hurriedly cover the necessary distance, trying to reach a dry room as soon as possible, where the firewood crackles cheerfully and the lamps burn brightly, which are lit on such days almost from two in the afternoon. Cab drivers and boatmen are even more annoyed by the fog. Cab drivers have to let their horses walk to avoid unexpectedly getting under a tram or carriage, and boats do not risk crossing to the other side of the Neva at all, as meeting a steamboat is tantamount to a swim in the cold leaden water of the deep river.

But not all travelers felt the same about the fog. On the parapet of the embankment, leaning on the granite, stood a young artist, Trotsky, with a naively happy smile, gazing into the unusual perspective of the city. He mentally noted the tone of the colors, remembering the gradual gradation. His soft hat was pushed back on his head, the top button of his coat was undone. He would take two steps forward, then stop again, lean on the stones, look at the masts, the rigging, glance back at the Academy of Arts, and watch the boat gliding along the very edge of the shore. His young chest freely inhaled the moist, thick air. He was enjoying it — enjoying it as a landscape artist, with every fiber of his artistic soul, expressing his delight with such movements that a passing vendor found it necessary to remark:

— Look at him, so carried away!

But he paid no attention to her exclamation and, in turn, exclaimed:

— Well, it's just like London!

He had never been to London, but he always imagined that the capital of the three united kingdoms must be shrouded in just such a fog.

Approaching the academic embankment, where huge bronze candelabra stand, and on granite blocks lie Theban sphinxes brought from hot Egypt, Trotsky descended the stairs to the water to take a closer look at the play of ripples at the stone steps.

But as soon as he had taken three steps, a new artistic model caught his attention. In the corner of the granite ledge, pressed tightly against the stones, curled up in a ball, sat a boy of about twelve. His legs were tucked under him; his red hands were tucked into sleeves hanging in tatters. His mouth was chewing something slowly — he was motionless, and only his lively black eyes watched the approaching young man with suspicious caution.

Trotsky stopped in front of him in silent contemplation. There seemed to be something familiar in the boy's face; but where he had seen him, he could not recall.

— Where are you from? — he asked.

— What's it to you? — the boy replied evasively. — Cold, isn't it?

— Of course, it's cold.

— What are you doing here? Go home.

He chewed more vigorously.

— Do you live far? — the artist persisted.

— Far, — his companion replied reluctantly. — Beyond Rambov.

Trotsky whistled.

— Wow! What brought you here?

— Just like that, what's it to you?

— It's nothing to me. I see you're cold.

He rummaged in his pocket, found a coin, and handed it to the boy.

— Get yourself some tea, take it.

The boy first looked at the coin, then at the speaker, slowly took the coin, and did not thank him.

— What a little wolf! — said Trotsky.

He turned and went back up the stairs.

— I'm not a little wolf, — came the voice behind him.

He did not look back.

— Sir! — came the voice again. — Sir, listen to what I have to say.

Trotsky looked at him. The boy stood up, put his hands in the pockets of his short pants, and, looking from under his tattered round hat, suddenly said:

— Take me with you.

— With me? — the artist was surprised. — Why?

— I'll be your servant. I can clean boots. I can cook fish soup.

Trotsky suddenly felt amused.

— What a valet you've found! — he said. — How old are you?

— Twelve.

— You're a runt.

— No, I'm strong.

He clenched his fist and bent his arm.

— When I start rowing a boat, just hold on. I was the strongest among us.

— Where's "us"?

— Beyond Rambov. I left there.

— Your father will catch you and give you a thrashing.

— I have no father, no mother. I'm an orphan.

— Why did you leave?

— Got tired of it. Wanted to come here.

— What will you do here?

— I'll be your servant. I've seen how servants serve their masters.

The boy's eyes burned with a cunning fire. They shone with wit and intelligence.

— And you won't steal? — the artist asked.

— They beat you for stealing, — the boy noted sententiously.

— And it hurts, — Trotsky confirmed. — But I don't need a servant. I have staff.

— I don't need a salary, — the boy tempted him: — just feed me, that's all. Bread, onions, potatoes. Nothing more. I can chop wood.

He again extended his red fists to him, and in his eyes flashed the bravado and daring that boys of this age so boast about.

— A woodcutter has emerged! — the artist laughed again. — My dear, I don't even have a forest yard, and sometimes not even firewood, when the landlady doesn't provide.

He turned to leave and noticed that two steps away stood a large gray figure, in a soft hat, a thick leather jacket, and high knee boots. His mustache had been shaved about a week ago, and a reddish sparse beard curled around his cheeks and chin. A short pipe stuck out of his teeth. He stood sideways, squinting one eye, and with the other, he watched the boy intently.

When Trotsky almost bumped into him, he stepped aside, slowly descended, passed right by the boy, leaned over the water, untied some knot of rope, and jumped into a small black boat hidden at the very ledge. He pushed it away from the shore with a strong shove, habitually placed the oars in the oarlocks, but before striking the water with the oars, he shouted:

— Is that you, Petka?

The boy flinched, straightened up, looked at him with fear, wanted to say something, but said nothing. And the man in the boat adjusted his hat and with two strokes pushed the boat three fathoms away. The white fog enveloped him, he immediately turned into a vague silhouette, and seemed to dissolve in the damp air.

— Do you know him? — Trotsky asked.

The boy shook his head negatively.

— Then why did he call you by name?

The boy lowered his eyes and remained silent.

— Well, if you don't want to talk, it doesn't matter to me.

The artist climbed the steps and went out onto the embankment sidewalk. The boy followed him. He walked with his hands in his pants pockets, clutching the coin in his fist. He stared intently at Trotsky's feet, like a dog following its master's heels. His face somehow darkened and became indifferent, even his eyes dimmed and expressed only fatigue. Trotsky turned past the wet square towards his home, carefully crossed the street, almost by feel. Lights were lit in all the windows, but even they could not penetrate the dense thick cloud that had fallen to the ground.

— Listen, — said Trotsky, stopping and turning to his companion. — I can't take you with me. You hear, I can't, and I don't need any servants. But if you want —

He looked around at the gray shroud enveloping them like a shroud from all sides.

— If you want — I'll give you some tea. The tea will be hot, slightly smelling of soap, but with sugar, with a biscuit, with Finnish butter, and with tea sausage. Do you know what a brilliant invention tea sausage is? If you don't know, I'll introduce you to it...

The boy's face lit up again. It was obvious that he was not averse to a new acquaintance.

II

At the fruit shop, where the lights were also lit, they stopped.

— Wait for me here, Sancho Panza, — said Trotsky: — I'll make the necessary purchase now.

— Then take it, — said the boy, holding out a coin in his palm.

— Who's treating whom: you me, or I you? — asked the artist and entered the shop.

The boy approached the window, where oranges and apples lay on the windowsill, and glass jars with some round pellets were arranged along the walls. He saw the young man approach the counter and extend his hand to a gray-haired, pot-bellied man. In this shop, a wonderful variety of items were combined in a space of several square yards. They sold bread, tea, butter, lamps, lemons, eggs, dried mushrooms, and porcelain cups. The young man must have been a good acquaintance of the fat old man, because he even patted him on the shoulder and laughed so hard that his large belly began to convulsively jump over the counter. A girl in a pink dress and a gray flannel scarf, who darted into the shop from the street, was also familiar to both the old man and the young man, because they both started laughing at her, and she laughed too, turning away and showing cheeks as red as Antonov apples. Then Trotsky came out with a package, found his companion with his eyes, and said:

— And now shall we climb to the roof?

— Why? — the boy was surprised.

— I like to be above everyone, — replied the artist. — I leave living below to the old folks, and while I'm young, I'll live above everyone: so that there are no intermediaries between me and God.

He turned into the gates of a huge stone house. Around the corner, there was a small dark opening, which led to a steep stone staircase zigzagging upwards into the darkness.

— Once we count one hundred and nineteen steps, we'll be home, — said the tenant.

And they began to count. On the steps lay remnants of carrots and eggshells. From the doors on the landings came the smell of fried onions and coffee fumes. Somewhere a high-pitched voice was reproaching someone for something, even threatening to "hand the scoundrel over to the police." On the windowsills of the murky windows sat cats, jumping down fearfully at the sight of approaching people. Here and there, small windows in the walls glowed with lights, and through the glass, some bottles and jars were visible.

At the third turn, Trotsky turned his head and asked:

— What's your name?

— Peter, — the boy replied.

— Hmm... Peter, — Trotsky drawled. — You don't look like a Peter. Are you sure you know you're Peter?

— That's what I've always been called.

— No, Sancho Panza is better. You don't mind?

— I don't mind.

On the sixth floor, they stopped at a square oilcloth door; pieces of oilcloth hung in tatters, and tufts of matted felt protruded from underneath. The door was locked, but the weak, wheezing bell was answered immediately. The door was opened by a fourteen-year-old girl in a greasy dress with a stye on her eye. The hallway was separated from the kitchen by a low partition. From there, a round, plump face of a hefty woman peeked out. This face was shiny from heat and grease, her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and stained with flour.

— Elena Ivanovna, — Trotsky addressed her. — Would you like to meet a new subject?

He pointed to the boy, who had taken off his cap and was looking at the hostess with suspicious eyes.

— Look at this swell! — she said. — A model?

— Not exactly a model...

It hadn't occurred to him until now that the boy could be taken as a model. He looked him over carefully.

— Well, maybe a model, — he said. — But in any case, we need a samovar.

Elena Ivanovna grabbed the boy by the hand.

— When did you last wash? — she shouted. — Your face is all covered in soot. It'll take three days of scrubbing with a brick. Go to the kitchen now. Dunya! Give him some gray soap... I think the fleas must be living in a whole district... Huh? Well, go wash?

Trotsky entered his room. Strictly speaking, it was not a room, but a narrow long corridor, papered with gray wallpaper, with a window offering a cheerful view of chimneys, roofs, domes, and spires. However, now, in the thickening twilight, almost nothing was visible. The room was empty. Its entire decor consisted of a worn-out sofa upholstered in Turkish chintz, a very old-looking table, and a paint-stained easel that squeaked unbearably on the floor with its wheels at every movement. But on the walls hung a multitude of sketches, studies, underpaintings, and drafts. There were heads of old women, heads of shabby men, some gray crooked hut, a glass of water with a lilac flower stuck in it, a family of fly agarics, and a naked man — obviously the result of intensive studies in the sketch class. All these works of art were attached to the wall very loosely, and therefore, obeying the law of gravity, tended to fall behind the back of the sofa. One piece of canvas managed to do so: it fell completely, leaving a trace in the form of an empty rectangle. The glass with the violet had broken off at the top and rolled into a tube, as if peering over the sofa. The family of fly agarics hung sideways on one nail and covered the lower end of the gray hut. Almost in the same position were the things on the table. There were shoe brushes, remnants of a French roll, pastel pencils, a kerosene lamp, unwashed tea glasses with saucers serving as ashtrays. There were various jars and bottles with ink, Indian ink, white gouache, stomach drops, and remnants of raspberry jam cooked with glycerin so it wouldn't crystallize. There were also shoes on the table and a brass candlestick, but without a trace of a candle.

Trotsky threw his coat on the sofa, — and when it lay lining up, it was clear that it had seen better days, and that it was no wonder that cotton was sticking out from everywhere. The hat lay on top of the coat and modestly covered the torn lining. Trotsky approached the table and cleared a space for the samovar. To do this, he threw several nearby items on the floor and wiped the sweet circles left from the morning tea with a towel. Then he lit a lamp with a crooked cardboard shade, because it was dark in the room, and looked at the two-ruble alarm clock hanging by the door. It showed a quarter past three.

"Well, there's still plenty of time," he thought.

When the boy entered the room, both the bread and sausage had already been cut with a large pocket knife and lay on the oiled paper in which they had been wrapped in the store. The boy carried the samovar, holding it cautiously in front of him.

— Bring it! — Trotsky encouraged him. — Put it here. Can you wash glasses? Wait, you'll break them! Rosa, Rosa! — he shouted.

The girl with the stye on her sleepy eyes lazily opened the door.

— Rosochka, wash the dishes, — he pleaded. — Otherwise, you never guess until you're poked with a nose. And you sit down, Sancho, sit on this chair, but carefully, more to this side: the right leg is broken.

Peter sat down, not taking his eyes off the naked model.

— Do you like it? — Trotsky asked.

— Is he in the bath? — Peter asked in turn.

— Let's say he's in the bath, — Trotsky agreed. — But tell me, do you have a passport?

— What passport? — the boy was surprised.

— Hello! Hottentot, Papuan! Doesn't know what a passport is! You're a fool, boy.

— Passport, — the boy guessed. — No passport. Never had one.

— Admit it: you're a runaway? You ran away.

— Ran away.

— Why?

— They beat me.

— Who beat you?

— Some old man...

— The one you lived with?

— Yes. I lived.

— Why did he beat you? For what?

— Drunk. When he's sober, he's fine; but when he's drunk. And he's drunk every day. I said I'd leave. He said: I'll kill you. And I said: I'll set the house on fire. He started beating me with a belt. And then... I left...

— On foot?

— No... I took his boat. Then I abandoned it, pushed it away, let it drift somewhere. I don't care!

The boy's eyes lit up with a fierce fire, his fists clenched.

— What a bandit you are, for goodness' sake! — Trotsky was surprised. — And you want to be a servant. But you'll burn me too?

— Are you going to beat me? — he gritted through his teeth.

— I will.

The boy suddenly showed his white even teeth: he smiled for the first time.

— So you're taking me? — he asked.

— Look at you, so quick! Well, first have some sausage, wait, I'll make you a sandwich. We'll have some tea, and then we'll chat. I don't like to talk when I eat and drink. Be quiet and chew.

And they both began to chew in silence.

III

Both the sausage, the bread, and the butter disappeared rather quickly. It was harder to finish the samovar, but it was almost empty when Trotsky, thoughtfully stirring his glass with a pencil (there were no spoons in his household), said:

— Brother, we need to find a place for you somewhere.

The brother perked up.

— I can fish, — he said.

— You won't catch much fish here in Petersburg, brother. Maybe only in murky waters. I have no connections to get you even a single net. And I don't know how to forge passports, but you need at least some kind of document, even the shabbiest one. I can't keep you with me because there's no good to expect from you, only bedbugs. But I do have one place where I might be able to squeeze you in.

The boy suddenly pressed his lips to his hand.

— Take me in, — he whispered. — I'll even wash the floors...

— Get off! — Trotsky said, slightly pushing him away. — I'm not singing, why are you licking my hands? Why are you clinging to me? Where will I keep you? Look at my chicken coop. I barely have enough to eat myself, and now I have to feed you.

— I just need a place to sleep... And I'll manage...

— You're persistent!

He went to the door, opened it, and shouted:

— Elena Ivanovna, — to the conference, for a minute.

Elena Ivanovna didn't make them wait, although she had difficulty squeezing through the half-open door.

— What do you want? — she asked, sitting on the sofa and looking with pleasure at the artist's beautiful thin profile, his large gray eyes, and fluffy hair tucked behind his ears. — What's the conference about?

— You see, dear lady, — this pimple has clung to me and won't let go: he says he won't leave.

Elena Ivanovna laughed.

— Oh, really! — she said. — What if we send for the janitor?

The boy pressed fearfully against the doorframe.

— Is there nowhere to keep him with us? — Trotsky asked.

— God forbid! — confirmed Elena Ivanovna.

— Well, then: don't you have any place for him?

— What place can I give him? Am I an executor? Maybe in a shop, or does anyone need a boy like him?

— Who needs such a dirty one: I bet he only knows how to do one thing: fill his belly with bread. And we have plenty of that.

— But you should still ask around on the stairs.

— No need to ask. Who needs such a Richard here? Our tenant in the house tries to grab something for himself, let alone take in a new freeloader.

— Well, you see, kid, it doesn't work out, — said Trotsky.

The boy blinked tearfully.

— But you'll let him stay overnight, — the artist continued. — Will you?

— Where else to send him, let him sleep, he won't wear out the floor.

— I don't need anything to lie on, — noted Peter.

— No one asked you! — Elena Ivanovna interrupted him. — They'll put what they need. When the elders speak, you keep quiet!

— What do you think, — Trotsky began again: if I go with him to Uncle Andrey Ivanovich.

— Oh, your uncle! — she drawled. — Just a title, a general. He paints icons, but he's worse than a pawnbroker. I know him, of course! He looks at everyone as if they're insects, not people. He even amazes me with his rigidity: he's not as old as some ancient scribe, not Methuselah. And yet, he says such antique things, as if he's not from our time, and his notions are the most outdated. I've had passing encounters with him, and he always leaves such an impression that you feel like you have a splinter for three days! You want him to do something for someone! He'd choke on his money chest...

— I, dear Elena Ivanovna, — Trotsky interrupted her: completely agree with the moral character of my much-respected relative, which you have so skillfully depicted. But note that in this case, I want to hit his most tender spot: his stinginess. I know he needs boys in the workshop. Getting a lively child for free is profitable.

— That's where you're going! — sang Elena Ivanovna. — Yes, in that case, if he needs boys in the workshop, — maybe he'll take him. Try it. You still have an hour, go to him, he sits down to eat exactly at five: as soon as his clock ticks for the last time, they bring him a bowl. An apothecary, — in a word.

— Should I go right now?

— Without delay. Sometimes he's not very fierce at this time. After three o'clock on Mondays, he receives money for orders. If he received a lot, his spleen plays, and he's in an ecstatic state. Then you can wrap up the deal.

Trotsky stood up.

— Bless me, Mother Superior.

She hid her hands behind her back.

— I don't like it when you're so frivolous about the divine. Go, and take him with you, let him wait outside: if he wants to see his face, call him, he'll be right there.

— Smart, dear lady. Well, Peter... what's your patronymic?..

— I don't know, — the boy replied, embarrassed.

— Well, let's say, Peter Fedulych, — let's go, Peter Fedulych, to ask for a profitable place. Put your beret on your head. Oh, you should be taken to the bathhouse.

— Yes, without that, you can't go anywhere, — confirmed Elena Ivanovna and stood up. The relieved sofa even rang with one spring.

Again the artist put on his coat, buttoned up, put a box with pencils and compasses in his pocket, and said to the hostess:

— I'll go straight to the academy from there.

They went down the stairs, already lit by smelly kerosene lamps, and went out into the street again. The fog was thinning, and the lanterns were burning not as dimly as an hour ago.

Trotsky didn't like going to his uncle. Andrey Ivanovich carried himself proudly, importantly, not only with his students and relatives but also with fellow professors. He generally considered all of them artists of the lowest order and placed himself at the head of representatives of high art. He himself graduated from the academy about thirty-five years ago, having written the program: "The Judgment of King Solomon," and depicted the Jewish king in a horned crown with a curly beard, and two mothers with those unusually straight profiles that, since the French Revolution, had come into fashion among painters. Painters decided that the Greeks and Romans had no bridge of the nose and the forehead formed a straight line with the nose. Students reproduced such a mask with special love and received awards from their superiors for it. Andrey Ivanovich also earned encouragement from the professors, who found that his profiles resembled the profiles of the great David, — the artist who considered himself a revolutionary in painting and was Napoleon's court painter. Both the women and Solomon were dressed in bright red pieces of fabric, draped in even folds, exactly like those on curtains made by poor upholsterers. They made desperate hand movements, and their faces showed joy and horror of the lowest quality. But all this pleased the superiors, and Andrey Ivanovich was sent abroad. Andrey Ivanovich felt the ground beneath him. More precisely, he felt like a celestial being. He walked in a colored tailcoat along Nevsky Prospect (at that time everyone wore tailcoats), and looked with disdain at the carriages moving along the street, at the watchmen with halberds, at the "guitars" — special carriages, long gone from the face of the earth, used by townspeople, sitting on them astride. Then Andrey Ivanovich received several lumps of gold, — and he had only seen gold before in the windows of money-changing shops, and he left in a postal "malpost" abroad. When he reached Rome, the great Rome, he was not at all struck by the junk and rot of the antique clutter that Italy is filled with. He found that this was exactly how it should be, that this was exactly why the superiors sent him here, to study this pile of stones. He even found it necessary to admire the fluid lines, the liquid orange trees, and the hair of Italian women, smoothed hair by hair, according to the fashion of the time. He immediately began to paint "An Italian Woman at the Cradle." This Italian woman was smooth, slick, with blue whites and black eyes, like shiny buttons. From Petersburg, he was awarded the title of academician for this painting. A high-ranking person bought "The Italian Woman," and Andrey Ivanovich celebrated with joy. He spent three weeks in the police for scandal, breaking dishes, and the faces of respectable Italian citizens. But this was the last manifestation of his life energy. After sobering up, he froze in his artistic greatness and stopped bowing to comrades who had not received the title of academician. For this, he was called a boor. But he began to complain of deafness and thus removed any suspicion that these epithets reached his ears.

(To be continued)