Our little Screw gazed intently at the magician in his Indian temple, at his cat and bell—he gazed upon them with involuntary reverence and awe—and finally decided that the enigmatic old man must be the ruler of time, and that all the clocks in the place must be in his service. He was still meditating upon this, when suddenly the black clock began to hiss, the magician raised his left hand with the forefinger extended, as if commanding attention, and began slowly striking the silver bell with his hammer. He struck it ten times, and every time the cat opened its mouth and mewed at each stroke of the hammer.
The moment the magician had finished, an indescribable confusion arose in the shop: in three clocks, which represented houses, windows opened; from each window a cuckoo jumped out and called 'cuckoo' ten times. The other clocks, with the tin, china, and copper dials, all began striking in emulation of each other. Some struck rapidly and with a thin sound, others slowly and heavily; the first jarred on the ear with their harsh notes, while the others had a mellow ring; but all struck at once, as though trying to catch one another up. The brass alarum, which stood on the table, rattled long and mercilessly, as if it were determined to silence all the others with its deafening noise; then, when the other clocks had finished striking, it too struck ten. After that all the clocks continued busily ticking, just as if nothing had happened.
All this ringing, banging, and noise made our Screw quite dizzy; the poor little fellow lay in his watch-glass trembling all over. But when he recovered from his agitation, he was overwhelmed with silent ecstasy. He understood for what purpose clocks exist. He knew that they show to man the divisions of time, thus helping him in both his intellectual work and his ordinary life. Two men, however far apart from one another, can, if only they have good watches, come at the same moment to a particular spot, or do whatever they may have agreed upon—even the height of mountains is determined by means of watches. The little Screw understood all this, and his wee frame thrilled all over with enthusiasm. 'How useful they all are!' he thought. This set him involuntarily thinking of himself, and he grew sad—sad even to tears. How tiny he was! how insignificant and pitiable compared with all these clocks! If you were to hang up even the worst of them in a house where there was before no clock at all, there would at once be in that house more order, more reason and utility. But he! wherever you were to put him, it would make no difference.
Our Screw was very unhappy; he tried so long to be of use to some one, and he felt that he was fit for nothing! Once more he looked attentively round the bench. There were a great number of little axles, wires, pendulums, pinions, and springs. He did not understand for what they could be used, but he saw one thing—that every one of these little objects was larger than himself. 'Oh dear!' he thought, 'even if all these little things are useless in themselves, still, something useful can be made out of them. But what can be made of such a non-entity as I am—I, who cannot even be seen with the naked eye? Nothing, absolutely nothing!...' And all the tiny person of the Screw quivered with grief.
At that moment there ran into the workshop a little boy and girl, the children of Karl Ivánovich. Their father had gone to fetch his pipe; his assistant, Yegór,[5] had also left the shop, and the children had a chance to enjoy a peep at the wonders of the workshop, into which Karl Ivánovich generally would not let them come. The boy ran up to his father's bench and began quickly examining the things lying upon it.
'Look, look at the little Screw!' he said to his sister in a loud whisper, turning to take the blue steel Screw from the watch-glass.
'Don't touch! Don't touch; you'll drop it!' whispered the little girl, half frightened, but also looking inquisitively at our Screw.
'What next! Drop it!' repeated the boy, mimicking her. 'We're not all such butter-fingers as you!' and in a fit of obstinacy he picked up the Screw. But the Screw was so small that the boy could scarcely hold him with the tips of his fingers.
'Indeed, you'll drop it!... Papa will be cross!...' continued the little girl in the utmost anxiety.
Suddenly they heard the creaking of Karl Ivánovich's boots in the next room, and he blew his nose as loud as if it were a trumpet. The boy started, and dropped the Screw from his fingers on to the floor.