Another little pupil approached the gate; he was wrapped in a broad scarf and wore the large shoes of a grown-up person. He held his hands inside the scarf, and either because he was indifferent or because it was too cold, he did not remove them to wipe his nose, from which mucus leaked down to his mouth.
Out of his pocket peeped a crust of bread. Itsye was seized with a longing for it, but the appearance of the poor child restrained him. He sought, however, to convince himself that he was incensed against the child, even as he was against the whole world, and that he ought to give him a hard kick, as he had just done to Zhutshke. He seized the child by the nose, then struck him on the cap and scowled, “Slob, it’s running into your mouth!” The child was frightened, brought his elbow up to his nose and ran off. But soon he turned back, looked at his unexpected enemy and began to cry, “Wicked Itsye! Itsye the bad man!” And he disappeared through the gate. Itsye did not even deign to look at him.
He leaned against the gate. Why? He did not himself know. At any rate, he was weary. Angry and exhausted. The two cakes had only excited him. Food, food! He could see before his eyes the piece of bread in the poor boy’s torn pocket. That would have come in very handy. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken it away. A whole big piece of bread——
He leaned more heavily against the gate, not knowing why and not knowing what was to come or what would result from his standing there. The cold grew intense, but Itsye did not feel it, for he was angry and paid no attention to it. Besides, he had no place of refuge. Up there in his garret it was still colder. Moreover, there was nobody there, and he would have none upon whom to vent his wrath.
He stood thinking of nothing. It was impossible for him to think. He no longer knew precisely that he was in a rage; it seemed to him that to-day he would work a very clever piece of malice. He knew nothing about dynamite; otherwise he would have thought unceasingly of bombs, and would have painted himself pictures of the whole city, the whole country, the world itself, being blown by him into atoms. But he gave no thought to any definite project. He was certain that he would do something malicious enough. He felt it.
Two labourers passed by and were conversing about hunting for work. It flashed through his head that he would stop looking for work even if the employers starved to death! At the same time he felt that his seeking was all in vain. He would find no work to-day, any more than yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, or the whole twenty-seven days in which he had been searching for employment.
In his mind’s eye he could see “to-morrow,”—a dragging, cloudy day, on which he would be faint with hunger. But he did not care to think of to-morrow. Only “to-day.”... To-day he must accomplish something; then he would know what would come to-morrow, the day after, and all the other days. Wherefore he remained leaning against the gate and looked into the street with a cutting smile upon his pale lips and in his dull, weary eyes, without the trace of a thought in his head. He even ceased scolding and cursing.
All at once he tore himself away from the gate and began to walk. He paid no attention to whither he went. He lost his bearings, unknown to himself. He strode on, not knowing that he was moving. His feet were like logs and he could scarcely lift them. He became soon aware that he was no longer at the gate, and that he was wandering about the street. Then it seemed to him that he had wished and resolved to take a little walk, only he could not recall when he had thought of it. It was good that he would now have a little exercise. His feet must get warm. But he affected not to be troubled about his feet any more than about the cold itself, which pierced him to the very marrow.
He walked along slowly, cautiously, calmly. The street on which he was led at one end to the city-market and at the other to the municipal garden. He had no idea of whither he was headed, but the nearer he approached to the market the shriller and clearer became the noises from that vicinity. Then he realised the direction in which his feet were taking him, and again it seemed to him that this was exactly what he had desired and determined upon. This was the very spot for him to execute his plan of vengeance. He stopped on the curb.
The great market-place seethed with shouting, gesticulating persons. The air resounded with the din of thousands of human beings. The clamorous despair of the wretched poor, the grunting indifference of the sated rich, the screeching impudence of the money-hungry,—all mingled here and rose above the heads of the multitude, deafening the ears of the unaccustomed spectator. About Itsye all manner of individuals were walking, hurrying, scampering, with and without bundles. Almost every passer-by touched him, jostled against him, but he stood there calm, motionless. It occurred to him that this in itself was good,—that in this manner alone he was doing harm. Yes, he must continue to stand here and obstruct everybody’s passage! His eyes, however, darted about the square, as if seeking there just what form his vindictive ire should assume. They rested upon the bread-shops and the bank-stalls, laden with “Korah’s wealth.” And he began to contemplate how it would be if he made off with a packet of bank-notes——