THE COPPER PLATES

By KONSTANTIN PAUSTOVSKY

BERG fanned the bonfire. Deep night hung over the wood, and summer lightning played over the lake. In the thicket, the air was so full of the smell of the golden leaves, that it made one's head dizzy.

Lionya Ryjov, a konsomol, commonly known as " Carrotty " Lionya, woke up and listened.

In the marshes, the ducks and cranes cried out, and the fish leaped in the lake. They had tea at dawn, and they went to look for woodcock in the woods. The woodcock fed on bilberries. A blue glow shot up into the zenith. Berg was sorry that the night was over and that they had to leave the bonfire, the sharp smell of damp autumn leaves and the summer lightning reflected in the black lake.

Walking was tedious and Berg said : " Lionya, do tell us something amusing."

" What shall I tell you ? " asked Lionya. " Well here is a true story about those two old women, your landladies. These old ladies are the daughters of the famous artist Pojalostin. He was an Academician—his family had always been shepherds—people of no account. His engravings hang in the museums of Paris, London and our own Riazan. Have you seen them by any chance ? "

Berg remembered the exquisite engravings, slightly yellowed by time, hanging on the walls of his room.

He had taken lodgings with two bustling old ladies at Zaborie, a remote village. Berg took them for former school teachers. They didn't sleep at nights, used to keep watch over their orchard which had run wild, sighed, were rather afraid of Berg, used to complain a little timidly about the injustices of the village soviet, and their rooms smelt of dried mint.

Only now did Berg remember the strange impression that the engravings had made on him at first. They were portraits of people of former times, and Berg couldn't get away from the expression in their eyes. Whether he was cleaning his rifle, or writing, these ladies and gentlemen, the latter in tightly buttoned frock coats, left-overs from the 'seventies, watched him from the walls with grave attention. Berg would look up and encounter the glance of Polonskie or Dostoievsky, turn his back on them and go on cleaning his rifle, but somehow would fail to go on whistling.

" Well," asked Berg, " and what next ? "

" Next was the very devil. Our blacksmith Yegor comes to the village council. You've probably seen him—so lean that his trousers scarcely hold up. And demands copper. He says he has nothing to do the folks' repairs with, and wants to have the bells taken down from the holy church.

" As it happened, that woman Theodosia, from Pustinya, a chatterbox and a bad lot, took part in the discussion : What, you are going to take down the church bells, when at the Pojalostin's, those old women are walking on copper ! I've seen them myself. And something is scratched on the pieces of metal—I can't understand it—and I can't understand why they hide them and don't give them up as scrap metal to the Government ! ' The chairman of the Soviet gives me an order : Go, Lioshka to these old women, and take away the plates. They are no use to them ! '

" I went to them and explained all about it. I caught only the hunchbacked one. She looked at me, began crying, and said, ' What are you thinking of, young man ? You'd never dare touch those plates. They're national treasures. I wouldn't give them up for anything ! '

" I said, Show them to me please, and we will see what can be done about it.' So she brought the plates, all wrapped up in a clean cloth. I looked at them and was spellbound. Goodness ! What exquisitely fine work, and what a powerful hand ! Specially Pugachev's portrait. The sort of thing one can't look at for long—one feels as if one were talking to him.

" I thought for a bit and then said to the old lady : You can't possibly keep those plates here in this house. They're State property. Here anyone can get at them—the black- smith, Theodosia or the devil himself—and these precious portraits will be used for nails for the soles of people's boots. They must be taken to the museum.' The old lady was adamant and began to tremble : I won't give them even to the museum. Let them stay here till we die, and then you can do what you like with them.'

" I went back to Stepan, the chairman of the village soviet, and told him those copper plates must be handed over to the Russian Museum.

" To the devil with you ! ' he shouted, if you won't get them someone else will have to,' and he sent Yegor to collect them, armed with an official demand. All very well, thought I, and ran off to the old ladies, getting there before Yegor, and said : " Give me those plates for safety, otherwise Yegor will melt them down. Our chairman is an ass—he doesn't understand such things.'

" The old ladies were frightened, and gave up the plates to me, and I hid them. Yegor came to my house and was going to make a search, and if you want to know, I hit him and kicked him out and sent the plates off to the museum at Riazan. Only after I'd got rid of them, did I feel comfortable.

" Well of course they called a meeting and had me up for this business. I stood up and said I did what was right. It's true I hit Yegor in anger. We won't talk about the engravings—you can't understand their value—but your children will. What we will talk about is the honour due to labour. This man rose from shepherds. For years and years he studied, while all the food he got was black bread and weak tea. On each plate untold labour was spent, sleepless nights, trouble, talent. . . _ " Talent,' repeated Lionya. thoughtfully: One his to understand it. One has to guard it and value it ! 'How can one achieve the new life without talent ? ' Well, to cut it short, I did not deny my guilt and I had enough trouble over it. But one thing did come of it-Stepan was dismissed from the village soviet—his work was a disgrace."

Lionya stopped talking. Through the copse of aspens, shedding their lemon leaves, ran a woodcock. It took refuge in the dense undergrowth, -and made a noise like a bear.

" To hell with that," said Lionya, " I'd like to know what you think about it—was I right or not ? "

" What are you talking about," replied Berg. " It's obvious."

The wind was blowing the dried leaves from the birch trees on to the lake.

He looked at Lionya with a smile. Autumn breathed out a smell of the woods, cold water and freshness. Lionya bent down and sniffed at the moss-covered stump of a tree, and smiling said : " Pure ozone ! " as he slung his rifle over his shoulder. " Carry on ! "