She stands before
us, leaning her head somewhat on one side and smiles all the time. A
thick, long braid of chestnut hair, falling across her shoulder, lies
on her breast. We, dirty, dark, deformed men, look up at her from
below--the threshold was four steps higher than the floor--we look at
her, lifting our heads upwards, we wish her a good morning. We say
to her some particular words, words we use for her alone. Speaking
to her our voices are somehow softer, and our jokes lighter.
Everything is different for her. The baker takes out a shovelful of
the brownest and reddest biscuits and throws them cleverly into
Tanya's apron.
"Look out that the boss doesn't see you!" we always warn her. She
laughs roguishly and cries to us cheerfully:
"Good-by, little prisoners!" and she disappears quickly, like a
little mouse. That's all. But long after her departure we speak
pleasantly of her to one another. We say the very same thing we said
yesterday and before, because she, as well as we and everything
around us, is also the same as yesterday and before. It is very hard
and painful for one to live, when nothing changes around him, and if
it does not kill his soul for good, the immobility of the
surroundings becomes all the more painful the longer he lives.
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