Twenty-six and One | Page 5

replied to us with laughter and never obeyed us, but we
did not feel offended at this. All we needed was to show that we cared
for her. She often turned to us with various requests. She asked us, for
instance, to open the heavy cellar door, to chop some wood. We did
whatever she wanted us to do with joy, and even with some kind of
pride.
But when one of us asked her to mend his only shirt, she declined, with
a contemptuous sneer.
We laughed heartily at the queer fellow, and never again asked her for
anything. We loved her; all is said in this. A human being always wants
to bestow his love upon some one, although he may sometime choke or
slander him; he may poison the life of his neighbor with his love,
because, loving, he does not respect the beloved. We had to love Tanya,
for there was no one else we could love.
At times some one of us would suddenly begin to reason thus:
"And why do we make so much of the girl? What's in her? Eh? We
have too much to do with her." We quickly and rudely checked the man
who dared to say such words. We had to love something. We found it
out and loved it, and the something which the twenty-six of us loved
had to be inaccessible to each of us as our sanctity, and any one coming
out against us in this matter was our enemy. We loved, perhaps, not
what was really good, but then we were twenty-six, and therefore we
always wanted the thing dear to us to be sacred in the eyes of others.
Our love is not less painful than hatred. And perhaps this is why some
haughty people claim that our hatred is more flattering than our love.
But why, then, don't they run from us, if that is true?

Aside from the biscuit department our proprietor had also a shop for
white bread; it was in the same house, separated from our ditch by a
wall; the bulochniks (white-bread bakers), there were four of them, kept
aloof, considering their work cleaner than ours, and therefore
considering themselves better than we were; they never came to our
shop, laughed at us whenever they met us in the yard; nor did we go to
them. The proprietor had forbidden this for fear lest we might steal
loaves of white bread. We did not like the bulochniks, because we
envied them. Their work was easier than ours, they were better paid,
they were given better meals, theirs was a spacious, light workshop,
and they were all so clean and healthy--repulsive to us; while we were
all yellow, and gray, and sickly. During holidays and whenever they
were free from work they put on nice coats and creaking boots; two of
them had harmonicas, and they all went to the city park; while we had
on dirty rags and burst shoes, and the city police did not admit us into
the park--could we love the bulochniks?
One day we learned that one of their bakers had taken to drink, that the
proprietor had discharged him and hired another one in his place, and
that the other one was a soldier, wearing a satin vest and a gold chain to
his watch. We were curious to see such a dandy, and in the hope of
seeing him we, now and again, one by one, began to run out into the
yard.
But he came himself to our workshop. Kicking the door open with his
foot, and leaving it open, he stood on the threshold, and smiling, said to
us:
"God help you! Hello, fellows!" The cold air, forcing itself in at the
door in a thick, smoky cloud, was whirling around his feet; he stood on
the threshold, looking down on us from above, and from under his fair,
curled moustache, big, yellow teeth were flashing. His waistcoat was
blue, embroidered with flowers; it was beaming, and the buttons were
of some red stones. And there was a chain too. He was handsome, this
soldier, tall, strong, with red cheeks, and his big, light eyes looked
good--kind and clear. On his head was a white, stiffly-starched cap, and
from under his clean apron peeped out sharp toes of stylish, brightly

shining boots.
Our baker respectfully requested him to close the door; he did it
without haste, and began to question us about the proprietor. Vieing
with one another, we told him that our "boss" was a rogue, a rascal, a
villain, a tyrant, everything that could and ought to be said of our
proprietor, but which cannot be repeated here. The soldier listened,
stirred his moustache and examined us with a soft, light look.