Suddenly father heaved a loud sigh and stirred.  Yura walked away quietly.  And then all was the same as ever.  No one would have learned of this; but the image of the enormous, mysterious and charming man who was his father and who was crying remained in Yura’s memory as something dreadful and extremely serious.  And, if there were things of which he did not feel like speaking, it was absolutely necessary to say nothing of this, as though it were something sacred and terrible, and in that silence he must love father all the more.  But he must love so that father should not notice it, and he must give the impression that it is very jolly to live on earth.

And Yura succeeded in accomplishing all this.  Father did not notice that he loved him in a special manner; and it was really jolly to live on earth, so there was no need for him to make believe.  The threads of his soul stretched themselves to all—­to the sun, to the knife and the cane he was peeling; to the beautiful and enigmatic distance which he saw from the top of the iron roof; and it was hard for him to separate himself from all that was not himself.  When the grass had a strong and fragrant odour it seemed to him that it was he who had such a fragrant odour, and when he lay down in his bed, however strange it may seem, together with him in his little bed lay down the enormous yard, the street, the slant threads of the rain and the muddy pools and the whole, enormous, live, fascinating, mysterious world.  Thus all fell asleep with him and thus all awakened with him, and together with him they all opened their eyes.  And there was one striking fact, worthy of the profoundest reflection —­if he placed a stick somewhere in the garden in the evening it was there also in the morning; and the knuckle-bones which he hid in a box in the barn remained there, although it was dark and he went to his room for the night.  Because of this he felt a natural need for hiding under his pillow all that was most valuable to him.  Since things stood or lay there alone, they might also disappear of their accord, he reasoned.  And in general it was so wonderful and pleasant that the nurse and the house and the sun existed not only yesterday, but every day; he felt like laughing and singing aloud when he awoke.

When people asked him what his name was he answered promptly: 

“Yura.”

But some people were not satisfied with this alone, and they wanted to know his full name—­and then he replied with a certain effort: 

“Yura Mikhailovich.”

And after a moment’s thought he added: 

“Yura Mikhailovich Pushkarev.”

CHAPTER II

An unusual day arrived.  It was mother’s birthday.  Guests were expected in the evening; military music was to play, and in the garden and upon the terrace parti-coloured lanterns were to burn, and Yura need not go to bed at 9 o’clock but could stay up as late as he liked.