"Yes," I said, "a stubborn child." "I must try again," and he walked away.
The window again gave way. "Please," the same voice said, "can't you give any advice to us? We are so frightened! Father is praying; Mother's very ill; we are all alone."
"I'll write you," I said, (without moving my lips), "what I think and bring it back."
"Thank you."
I went to Pashinsky, whose teasing was becoming hideous and rough.
He said to the Heir that they had decided to shoot the whole family.
Tears were on the child's face but he kept on bravely; he could not go
away—Pashinsky was at the gate.
I wished: "Just a day or two,—and I will be able to do something. Oh,
God! Send something to stop it right now."
I guess that my prayer was heard.
The tutor's face,—one of those broad Russian faces,—gradually grew purple and then grey. Slowly, and hypnotising Pashinsky, he approached the scamp, took him by the collar and pulled him towards the fence. Then, losing his breath, Derevenko said, "Leave the boy alone, you scoundrel! You,—you call yourself a Russian sailor? You? Have this…." and the slap on Pashinsky's face sounded to me like Chopin's First Nocturne. What divine music!
I expected a clash. But no! The rifle fell out of Pashinsky's hands and, silent and tamed, with half-closed eyes, he was waiting for another smash. Then Derevenko saw me and thought I was going to shoot him, but I made no such move. I slipped away and went innocently towards the big gate. So, when Pashinsky came to me—he was sure I had seen nothing, and when I asked how the teasing was going on, he answered:
"Oh, I let this trash go. It annoys me."