"So, then, what's your job? You give up? To treat them, of course. You have to treat people, my fine boy!"

Benedikt felt a chill pass through him.

"Who-me?"

"And who else? Of course you! We'll feed you up a bit-I'll give you a little hook, and when you're used to it, when you've got the hang of it-you'll get a big one."

"I can't, no, no, no I can't. What do you… I can't hook people, no, no, no… knock, knock, knock on wood, no no no-"

"There you go again! I explained it to you, and I thought you were listening up good, and then I hear this T can't, I can't.' You just forget that 'I can't.' Do you have a duty to society or not? Should the people move toward the bright, lofty future or not? Should we help our brothers? Yes, we should. Don't argue. Our job, dear boy, couldn't be more noble, but the people are backward, they don't get it. They've got all these silly fears, they spread gossip. Savages!"

Benedikt was dejected. He had only just understood everything and then Father-in-law sort of turned it all topsy-turvy- and once again everything was all mixed up and he was in the doldrums.

"So what does that mean: We can't read books?"

"What do you mean you can't read books?" said Father-in-law in surprise. "Why not? Read to your heart's content, I have a whole library of Oldenprint books, some of them have pictures. I'll get you a pass."

"Then why treat people?"

"Again all this why oh why! Because of Illness!"

"I don't get it…"

"Not all at once. You'll get it, you will."

"Well, but you said Mice Are Our Mainstay. Then why aren't there any mice in our house?"

"We don't have any mice because we lead a spiritual life. We don't need mice."

UK

Father-in-law had a whole storeroom full of Oldenprint books. When Benedikt got his pass to the books-ooooeeee!- his eyes popped out, his knees went weak, his hands shook and he nearly had a fainting fit. The room was huge, on the very top floor, with windows, and shelves, shelves, and more shelves, all along the walls, and on the shelves were books, books, and more books! Big ones, little ones, all kinds. Some fit in your palm but the letters were big. Others were big but the letters were tiny. There were books with pictures, not just plain ones, but color! Honest to God. Color pictures! There was a whole book of color pictures, with lots of naked women, all pink-sitting on the grass, and on stools, and squatting, and every which way. Some were thin as brooms, others not bad, nice and plump. One of them had climbed onto a bed and thrown off the blanket- pretty good, that one.

He turned the pages-some men were walking along with rakes-they must be going to plant turnips.

Then there was the sea, and on it a boat, and over the boat a sheet on sticks. They must have decided to do the washing and hung it out to dry. That's handy: look how much water there is in the sea.

He turned the pages back to where the woman climbed on the bed. A fine woman. Kind of like Olenka, only no sour cream on her face.

Then there were a lot of Golubchiks sitting on animals-animals that looked something like goats, but with no beards. Father-in-law said they're steeds. Steeds. Aha. So that's what a steed is. Scary looking. But these guys rode them and weren't afraid.

Then there were colored flowers. A pot, and flowers sticking out of it. Boring. Then everything was all slathered on and mushed around and you couldn't figure out what it was. That was boring too. He turned some more pages and there was this picture: nothing on it, just a white page, and in the middle, a square-shaped black hole. Nothing else. Kind of like the end of everything. He looked and looked at the hole-and suddenly got scared, like in a dream. He clapped the book shut and dropped it.

There were lots of pictures in other books too. Benedikt sat on the floor for three days turning the pages. There were drawings of everything you could imagine. Good Lord! Pretty girls with babies sat laughing, and off in the distance were white roads and green hills, and on the hills were mountain towns, bright blue, or pink like the dawn. There were serious men, all important, with pancake-shaped hats on their heads, yellow chains across their chests, and puffy sleeves like women wear. Or a huge crowd of Golubchiks, and a bunch of little kids, only the kids are naked, they've only got colored rags wrapped around them. They're flying up somewhere, and they're taking lots of flowers and wreathes with them. The whole family must have gone weeding together, and some tricksters robbed them, took off with their coats while they were in the fields.

Once something familiar caught his eye. It was none other than The Demon. For sure. The one Fyodor Kuzmich gave them. Benedikt sat for a long time looking at it and thinking, so long that his feet went to sleep. It's one thing to listen to others, and another thing altogether to see for yourself. So it was true, they weren't lying, it wasn't Fyodor Kuzmich who wrote books, but other Golubchiks. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, must have seen this Demon, painted by a Golubchik named Vrubel, and he just up and tore the picture out of the book. So that's what he's like: dinky but daring. It was sad, somehow: he had deceived Benedikt, set him up, taken him for a fool.

After these books Benedikt started dreaming in color, and his heart pounded. It was all big green hills, covered with green-grass, and a road, and Benedikt was running along the road on light feet, amazed at how easy it was to run. And there were trees on the hills, and their shadows were lacy and fleet: the sun played through the leaves, danced on the greengrass. He ran and laughed: it's so easy to run, I want to tell someone! But there wasn't anyone, everyone was hiding. That's all right: they'll come out in time and laugh together with Benedikt! He didn't know where he was running, only that someone was waiting for him happily, someone wanted to praise him: Good boy, Benedikt, good boy!

He dreamt he knew how to fly. Not very high, and not for long, but still, he was flying. This was on a road too, but it was dark. And warm. It must be summer. Benedikt seemed to be dressed in white pants and a white shirt. And somehow he just knew that if he pushed off the ground with his feet, and then arched his back like this, and waved his arms to the side like a frog, that he could float in the air for about ten yards. Then that power seemed to dry up, and he pushed off again, and floated again. Benedikt showed someone and explained. You see how simple it is, just arch your back, point your stomach to the ground, and do this with your arms, there, like that. Then he'd wake up-and what a pity: he had known how to fly, and now he'd forgotten.

Once he dreamt that his tail had grown back ornate and patterned, all white, like the tail of the Princess Bird. He looked over his shoulder and gazed at his tail… It was dark and cool in the room and the window was low. The light of the morning sun hit the window and the white feathers, splintering into tiny rainbows, sparkling splotches. He would fan out his tail and gather it up again, and watch how the sparks played on the white feathers, as though they were made of fluffy, flying snow. He liked this tail so much, so much-he'd like to squat and jump through the window onto a branch right now, and walk along the branch: ko-ko-ko. Only the tail ached a little bit, and it was hard to walk with it. Then he was no longer by the window, but going down a staircase, the tail rustling behind him, bumping along the stairs, stiff and cold, and even fuller than before. Benedikt went into a room where the family was waiting for him. They're sitting at the table and watching… They're creeping around in lapty. And they look at him so sternly, judging, angry. Benedikt looks too and sees he's naked. He forgot to put his pants on, or he lost them or something. It's time to eat. So he sits down at the table and wants to cover his privates with his tail. He tries this way, and that, but nothing works because the tail's too short. How could that be? Just now it was so long it thumped on the stairs, and suddenly it's too short. He reached for it with his hands, turned his head, and looked at it under his arms. It wasn't the same tail anymore. It was dark and speckled, and the feathers stuck to his hands: he touched them and they fell off…