Anatoly Petrovich loved to sit at the table with Zoya on his knee. He usually read at dinner, and his daughter would sit there very quietly, with her head on his shoulder, and never bother him.
She was still small and frail. She began to walk at eleven months. People loved her because she was very amiable and trusting. When she went outside the gate she would smile at the passers-by, and if someone said jokingly, "Come and pay me a visit," she would gladly put out her hand and follow her new friend.
By the time she was two Zoya could already speak well, and simply loved to talk about the things she had seen when she came back from her visits. "I have just been at Petrovna's. Do you know Petrovna? There's Galya, Ksanya, Misha, Sanya and old grandad. And a cow. And there are some lambs too. Do they jump!"
Zoya was not yet two years old when her brother Shura was born. Our boy came into the world shouting at the top of his lungs. He shouted in a deep bassvoice, very sure and insistent. He was bigger and more robust than Zoya, but had the same bright eyes and dark hair.
After Shura was born we often used to say to Zoya, "You are older. You are a big girl!" She would sit at the table together with the grownups, but on a high chair. She used to treat Shura patronizingly: she would give him his dummy if he dropped it, rock his cradle if he woke up and there was no one in the room. And now I would quite often ask her to do things for me.
"Zoya, bring me a napkin," I would say. "Give me a cup, please."
Or, "Well, Zoya, help me to clear up: put the book away, put the chair in place."
She would do everything very willingly and then ask, "Is there anything else I could do?"
Once, when she was three and Shura was entering his second year, she took him by the hand and picking up a bottle went off to Grandma's for the milk.
I remember I was milking a cow once. Shura was crawling nearby; Zoya, cup in hand, stood waiting for fresh milk. Suddenly the fly-pestered cow waved its tail, hitting me smartly. Zoya put the cup down quickly, grasped the cow by the tail with one hand, and taking a twig in the other started to drive the flies away, saying, "Why did you hit Mummy? Don't you dare hit Mummy!" Then she looked at me, adding, "I'm helping you!"
The two were a funny combination — Zoya so frail and slight, and Shura, chubby and clumsy.
In the village they used to say about Shura: "Our teacher's got a boy as broad as he's tall, he's the same height lying down as he is standing up."
And indeed, Shura was a thick-set lad, surpassing Zoya in strength when he was only eighteen months old. But that did not prevent Zoya from caring for him just as if he were the weaker one, nor from shouting at him sometimes in a strict voice.
Zoya began to talk clearly from the very outset. But Shura could never say "r" till he was three. This pained Zoya very much.
"Now, Shura, say: rain."
"Lain," repeated Shura.
"No, not like that! Say: ray."
"Lay."
"Not 'lay' but 'ray'! What a silly boy you are! Try again: run."
"Lun."
"Porridge."
"Pollidge."
Once, losing her patience, Zoya slapped her brother on the forehead. But the two-year-old pupil was a lot stronger than his four-year-old teacher: he shook his head indignantly and pushed Zoya away.
"Keep off!" he shouted angrily. "Stop fighting!"
Zoya looked at him in surprise, swallowing her tears. And a little later I again heard, "Now say: sparrow."
And Shura's voice repeated obediently, "Spallow."
I do not know whether Shura realized that he was our youngest, but from the very first he managed to make full use of this. "I'm little," he would say in self-defence. "I'm little!" he would insist if he were not given something he had set his heart on. "I'm little!" he would announce proudly, sometimes for no reason at all, but fully aware of his privileges and the justice of his cause. He knew that we loved him and he wanted to submit everyone, Zoya and me and Father and Grandma, to his will.
He had only to start crying for Grandma to say, "And who has been hurting my little Shura? Come to me quick, my darling! See what I've got here for my little one!"
And with a happy, mischievous smile on his face Shura would clamber onto Grandma's knee.
If he was refused something he would lie on the floor and begin to howl deafeningly, stamp his feet or moan plaintively, his whole appearance saying clearly, "Here I am, poor little Shura, and no one pets me, no one feels sorry for me!"
Once when Shura began to shout and cry, demanding to be given jelly before dinner, Anatoly Petrovich and I left the room. Shura was left alone. At first, he went on crying loudly and exclaiming from time to time, "Give me jelly! I want jelly!" Then, apparently, he decided not to waste so many words and shouted simply: "Give! Want!" While he was crying he had not noticed that we had gone out, but sensing the silence he raised his head, looked round and stopped shouting: what was the use if no one listened! He thought for a moment and began to build something out of twigs.
Then we came back. As soon as he saw us he began shouting again, but Anatoly Petrovich said, "If you go on crying, we shall leave you alone, and we won't live with you. Understand?"
And Shura was silent.
On another occasion he began crying and peeped out through outspread fingers to see if we had any sympathy for his tears. But we paid no attention to him: Anatoly Petrovich went on reading his book, and I marked the notebooks. Then Shura clambered quietly onto my knee as if nothing had happened. I ruffled his hair and, putting him down, went on with my work. And Shura did not bother me any more. These two occasions cured him: the naughtiness and shouting ceased as soon as we stopped our indulgence.
Zoya was very fond of Shura. She would often repeat very seriously what she had heard the grownups say: "No use spoiling the child, let him cry, no great harm will come of it." It sounded very funny, coming from her. But when she was left alone with her brother she was unfailingly kind to him. If he fell over and burst into tears, she would run over to him, take him by the hand and try to lift our little fatty up. She would wipe away his tears with the hem of her dress, saying:
"Don't cry, there's a good boy, that's a fine chap! Here, take your bricks. Let's build a railway. And here's a magazine! Would you like me to show you the pictures? Here, look…
It was a curious thing—if there was something Zoya did not know, she would at once admit it. But Shura was uncommonly vain, and his tongue simply would not pronounce the words "I don't know." To avoid admitting that he did not know something he was ready to resort to any tricks. I remember Anatoly Petrovich bought a big children's book with lovely pictures of all kinds of animals, objects and people. The children and I loved to look through this book, and I used to point to a picture and ask Shura: "What's that?" He named the things he knew at once, gladly and with pride, but what did he not invent to avoid giving an answer he did not know!
"What's that?" I ask, pointing at a locomotive.
Shura sighs, looks worried, and suddenly says with a cunning little smile, "You tell me yourself!"
"And what's that?"
"Chicken," he answers quickly.
"That's right. And this?"
It is a picture of a strange, mysterious animal—a camel.
"Mummy," begs Shura, "you turn over the page and show me something else!"
I am waiting to see what other excuses he will find.
"And what is that?" I say slyly, pointing at a hippopotamus.
"Let me eat first and I'll tell you," answers Shura and hews so long that it looks as if he will never finish.
Then I show him a picture of a smiling girl in a blue dress and white apron, and ask, "What's the name of this little girl, Shura?"
And with a crafty smile Shura answers, "You ask her yourself!"
Next: Grandmother