"The light is full of injustice. No gift is worthy of evaluation. What, for example, higher education, ambitious dreams, unconditional decency, accuracy, accuracy, finally, handwriting, what would not be ashamed to write on Olympus? Alas, all vain.
So reasoned the warden of the prison in N. - a town so secluded and small that he could not afford the luxury of having a large prison and important criminals. Hardly ever was it that all forty prison cells were occupied by guests. As a rule, there were no more than ten prisoners at the same time; but there were no shining names. Neither Ravascholes1 nor Jack the Ripper2 nor Kartusz nor Rinaldo Rinaldini - but small thieves and grey crooks and tramps.
Thus, Pinkerton3, the warden, who hated his loud name precisely because of its shine of a fake diamond, suffered eternally with bile and vain ambition.
Spring came. Thousands of ambitious people, legions of misunderstood Napoleons are cultivating beds or digging up flowerbeds at this time. This is their fatal destiny: to plant salad and peonies, while their happier camarads plant border posts.
That's what Pinkerton did now: he wandered through a small prison garden, outlining where, what and how to plant. The garden was separated from the prison yard by a hedge; on the other hand, the outer wall adjoined it. There was a rocking chair by the wall; having wandered, Pinkerton sat in it, tired of night work, and began to squint under the hot rays, like a cat. The sun, heating up the wall, formed a kind of greenhouse here; the boss sweated.
A sentry came in with a frail mouse-like subject who was torn enough not to describe his costume in detail. His small eyes ran with a thoughtful expression; a short, bony face, covered with a bunch of clothes, had a philosophical tinge, typical of tramps.
- Can you dig the ground? - Pinkerton asked. - In general - can you work in the garden? Go ahead, Smith, I'll be sitting here.
The sentry left; the boss repeated the question.
- Can I do that? - I was respectfully asked by a torn subject," but you really made me laugh. I worked in the hanging gardens of the Duchess Joanna Fioritura, in the park of Lord Alveita, in the greenhouses of the famous gardener Nice Kumacher, and I...
- You seem to be lying," Pinkerton said, yawning and settling down more comfortably. - But here's the thing, buddy: you see these two flowerbeds? You have to raise them higher.
- It's nothing," the tramp said. - Don't worry. One day, on foot, of course, from Belgrade to Herzegovina, I wanted to decorate the roadside meadows. I found an old shovel. What is it, then? By the evening, a mile and a half of meadows were covered with flowerbeds of natural wildflowers!
- How you lie! - Pinkerton said. - Why are you lying?
Before answering, the tramp made a few strokes with a pickaxe, then leaned on it as a vacationing sculptor.
- That's not a lie," he said sadly. - Oh, my God! What a spring! I remember my adventures among the mountains and valleys of Evaresca. It's great to walk barefoot through the fresh dust. Peasants sometimes plant lunch. Sleeping on the hay, repeating a nice lesson from the astronomy above your head. How it smells. There are a lot of flowers there. You walk as if on honey. Also lakes. I had rods. There were strange cases. Since I caught a carp of twenty-two pounds. And what was that? He had a silver thimble in his stomach...
- This time you're really lying godlessly! - Pinkerton shouted. A carp of twenty-two pounds is absurd!
- Whatever you want," the tramp said indifferently, "but I was eating it.
It was silence. The detainee was tearing up a small area.
- There's no better bait," he said, pulling a huge lazy worm out of a block and throwing it from hand to hand, "than those sea bass crawls. Here's your attention. If you tear it into small pieces, and then put two or three of them on the hook, it can not fall apart. Tried-and-tested method. Meanwhile, the profane put on one piece, why he pulls the fish all over.
- Nonsense," said Pinkerton. - How can it not snap if the crawl is turned over and pierced several times, head down.
- Upside down?!
- No, down.
- But pay attention...
- Ah, damn it! I'm telling you: Down!
The detainee looked at the boss regretfully, but did not argue. However, he was hurt and, wrestling the ground with a pickaxe, he was muttering very clearly:
- ...not on every hook. Moreover, the fish prefers to take from the head. Of course, there are weirdos who even know no more about floating than a cat. But here...
Again, the digger turned to Pinkerton, convincingly and gently murmuring:
- Did you know that for one hundred cases of instant drowning of a ninety empty float, because the fish tears its tail off? The head is holding on tighter. Once the float didn't move at all, just turned around, and I realized that I had to drag it. And why? She was chewing on the head; and I caught it. Meanwhile...
His speech flowed smoothly and naively, like a song. The heat was getting worse. From Pinkerton's feet to his eyes rose sweet sleepy numbness; half-closing his eyes, he listened to the murmurings and whispers of the greenery of deep lakes, and, finally, to clearly imagine the sharp shiver of water circles around the wary float, clasped completely. This is what I was expecting: Pinkerton was asleep.
- It spoils my nerves," the tramp continued, looking sadly at him and quietly gesticulating, "so bad the nerves are spoiled by the bad nozzle that I decided to plant only up. And very carefully. But not down.
He was silent, thoughtfully examined Pinkerton and, looking back, took a cigarette case from his cigarette case on the table. He smoked it and sighed, and his eyes wandered through the sky dreamily, he started to smoke, repeating: "No, no, just up. And never - down. This is a mistake.
He threw the cigarette butt, slowly approached the far corner of the garden, where the dumped on top of each other empty lime barrels were a known temptation for him, and climbed onto the crest of the wall. - Down," he muttered, "is a mistake. The fish will definitely steal it. Exceptionally upwards!
Then he jumped and disappeared, continuing to be quietly angry at the frivolous fishermen.