Centenarian

A lady said to me the other day, "I started late that morning, and it was almost noon when I left the house. I had been deliberately distracted into two places not far apart in Nikolaevsky Street. Go to the office first. You'll see the old lady by the door. She gave me the impression of being so old and stooped and carrying a stick, but I still couldn't guess how old she was. She went to the gate and rested on the yard sweeper's bench in a corner beside it. In fact, as I passed her, she only flashed in front of me.

"In about ten minutes I came out of the office, and two houses past was a shop where I had ordered a pair of leather shoes for Sonya last week, and had gone to collect them. I looked up and saw that the old woman had now come to the shop and was sitting on a bench by the door. She sat there and looked at me, and I smiled. I went into the shop to get my shoes. Well, three or four minutes later, when I went on to Nevsky Street, I saw that the old woman had arrived at the third house, also at the gate, but not sitting on the landing, but leaning against the projecting part of the wall. There is no bench by the gate. I stopped suddenly in front of her and thought: Why does she sit down in front of every house?

"' Are you tired, madam? 'I asked.

"' Yes, dear, I feel so tired all the time. I thought it was warm and sunny today, so I went to my granddaughters' house for dinner. '

"' Are you going to dinner, madam? '

'To dinner, dear, to dinner. '

'You won't get there, will you? '

'Yes, I can. See, I walk like this for a while, rest for a while, and then get up and go again. '

I looked at the old woman in amazement. The old woman was a small, clean woman, dressed in shabby clothes. She must have been a citizen. She leaned on a stick, her face pale, her skin sallow, her lips lifeless, like a mummified corpse. She sat, smiling, and the sun bathed her.

'Madam, you must be very old, aren't you? 'I asked casually.

'A hundred and four, my dear, I am a hundred and four, only (she was joking)... Where are you going? '

She looked at me and smiled happily. Did she want to talk to someone? I was surprised that the centenarian cared so much about where I was going, as if she really wanted to know.

'Well, madam,' I said, laughing, 'I bought a pair of shoes for my daughter at the store, and I'm taking them home. '

"Why, little shoes, you have a little daughter? You are so lucky. Do you have any other children? '

She looked at me and smiled again. Her eyes were dead, almost lifeless, but they seemed to glow with a kind flame.

'Madam, take five kopecks from me, if you like, and buy yourself a white loaf,' and I gave her five kopecks.

'Why did you give it to me? Well, I'll take yours, then. Thank you. '

'Here you go, madam, if you don't mind,' she took it. Obviously, she's not begging. She's not there yet. She took it carelessly, without thinking of it as alms, as if she were doing it out of politeness or kindness. But perhaps she liked it, too, for who talked to the old woman? Not just to talk, but to care for her with love?

'Well, good-bye, old woman. 'I said,' Have a safe journey. '

'Yes, my dear, yes, I will. You go to your granddaughter's. The old woman was mistaken. She forgot that I had a daughter, not a granddaughter, and presumably assumed that she and I both had granddaughters. I walked forward and, looking back for the last time, saw her rise slowly and with difficulty, poke the ground with her stick, and shuffle down the street. Perhaps she would rest ten more times on the way before she reached the place where she ate. Where does she often go to eat? Such a strange old woman."

I heard the story that morning. It's not a story, but an impression of meeting a centenarian (actually, when do you meet a centenarian, and a spiritually active one at that?). So I forgot all about it. Late at night, after reading an article in a magazine and putting it aside, I suddenly thought of the old woman, and for some reason I forced myself to continue imagining: how did she walk to her granddaughter's house for dinner? I saw another, perhaps very vivid, little picture.

Her granddaughters, and perhaps her great-granddaughters, as she called them all together, were probably of the same profession, and of the same family, of course, or else she would eat at their house. They live in the basement, probably renting a barber shop. They were poor, of course, but they still had to make a living, and they had to follow the rules. It was about one o 'clock in the afternoon when the old woman arrived at her granddaughter's house. They didn't expect her to come, but they probably greeted her very kindly.

"It's you, Marya Maximovna, come in, come in, welcome, slave of God!"

The old woman went in with a smile on her face, and the doorbell still rang a long, shrill, shrill sound. One of her granddaughters, no doubt the barber's wife. The barber himself was not very old, perhaps thirty-five, but he was an old master by profession. Although the craft is not complicated, the uniform is as oily as a pancake. Whether it was because of the use of cosmetic balm, I don't know. But I have never seen such "barbers," as if the collars of their overalls were always stained with dust. The children -- a boy and two girls -- ran at once to their great-grandmother. Usually, for some reason, old women of this age get on very well with children: they themselves have become very much like children in their minds, and sometimes even exactly like them. The old woman sat down; The host didn't know if he was receiving guests or otherwise engaged. An acquaintance of his, about forty, was getting ready to leave. His nephew, his sister's son, a lad of sixteen or seventeen, who wanted to work in a printing house, also came. The old woman crossed herself and sat looking at the guests.