Shponka and his aunt read in full. Online book reading evenings on a farm near Dikanka Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt

Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt
(Draft autograph)*

ROAD.

AUNT.

DINNER.

* * *

"Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 09 Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt"

There was a story about this story: Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka, who came from Gadyach, told us about it. You need to know that I have a memory, it’s impossible to say what kind of rubbish it is: say it, don’t say it, it’s all the same. The same as pouring water into a sieve. Knowing that he had such a sin, he deliberately asked him to write it down in his notebook. Well, God bless him, he was always a kind person to me, he took it and wrote it off. I put it on a small table; I think you know him well: he stands in the corner when you enter the door... Yes, I forgot that you were never with me. My old woman, with whom I have been living together for thirty years, has never learned to read and write; There’s no point in hiding it. I notice that she is baking pies on some kind of paper. She, dear readers, bakes pies surprisingly well; You won't have better pies anywhere. Once I looked at the back of the pie and saw: written words. As if my heart knew, I come to the table - not even half of my notebook is there! The rest of the leaves were all taken away for pies. What do you want me to do? You can't fight in your old age!

Last year I happened to pass through Gadyach. On purpose, before reaching the city, he tied a knot so as not to forget to ask Stepan Ivanovich about it. This is not enough: I made a promise from myself - as soon as I sneezed in the city, I would remember him. All in vain. He drove through the city, and sneezed, and blew his nose into a handkerchief, but forgot everything; Yes, I already remembered how I drove six miles away from the outpost. There was nothing to do, I had to type endlessly. However, if anyone definitely wants to know what is said later in this story, then he just has to come to Gadyach specifically and ask Stepan Ivanovich. He will tell it with great pleasure, at least, perhaps, again from beginning to end. He lives not far near the stone church. There is now a small alley here: as soon as you turn into the alley, there will be a second or third gate. But it’s better: when you see a large pole with a quail in the yard and a fat woman in a green skirt comes out to meet you (he doesn’t interfere say, he leads a single life), then this is his yard. However, you can meet him at the market, where he is every morning until nine o’clock, chooses fish and greens for his table and talks with Father Antip or with the Jew tax farmer. You are his "You'll recognize him immediately, because no one except him has colored trousers and a yellow Chinese frock coat. Here's another sign for you: when he walks, he always waves his arms. The late assessor there, Denis Petrovich, always used to see him from a distance, he said: “Look, look, there comes a windmill!”

Ivan Fedorovich Shponka

For four years now, Ivan Fedorovich Shponka has been retired and lives in his Vytrebenki farmstead. When he was still Vanyusha, he studied at the Gadyach district school, and it must be said that he was a well-behaved and diligent boy. The teacher of Russian grammar, Nikifor Timofeevich Communion, used to say that if everyone in his class were as diligent as Shponka, he would not carry a maple ruler with him to class, with which, as he himself admitted, he was tired of hitting the hands of sloths and naughty people. His notebook was always clean, lined all over, not a stain anywhere. He always sat quietly, with his hands folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and never hung pieces of paper on the back of his friend sitting in front of him, did not cut the bench, and did not play with the tight woman before the teacher arrived. When someone needed a knife to sharpen a pen, he immediately turned to Ivan Fedorovich, knowing that he always had a knife; and Ivan Fedorovich, then just Vanyusha, took it out of a small leather case tied to a loop of his gray frock coat, and asked only not to scrape the pen with the tip of a knife, assuring that there was a blunt side for this. Such good behavior soon attracted the attention of even the Latin teacher himself, whom one cough in the hallway, before his frieze overcoat and his face, dotted with smallpox, stuck out at the door, struck fear into the whole class. This terrible teacher, who always had two bundles of rods on the pulpit and half of the students were on their knees, made Ivan Fedorovich an auditor, despite the fact that there were many in the class with much better abilities.

Here one cannot miss one incident that had an impact on his entire life. One of the students entrusted to him, in order to persuade his auditor to write scit for him on the list, while he did not know his lesson at all, brought to class a pancake wrapped in paper, doused in oil. Ivan Fedorovich, although he adhered to justice, was hungry at this time and could not resist the seduction: he took a pancake, put a book in front of him and began to eat. And I was so busy with this that I didn’t even notice how suddenly there was dead silence in the class. Only then did he wake up in horror when a terrible hand, reaching out from his frieze overcoat, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him into the middle of the class. “Give the damn here! Bring it, they tell you, you scoundrel!” - said the formidable teacher, grabbed the butter pancake with his fingers and threw it out the window, strictly forbidding the schoolchildren running around the yard to pick it up. After that, he immediately and painfully whipped Ivan Fedorovich’s hands. And the thing is: the hands are to blame, why did they take it, and not another part of the body. Be that as it may, only from then on the timidity, already inseparable from him, increased even more. Perhaps this very incident was the reason that he never had the desire to enter civilian service, seeing from experience that it is not always possible to bury loose ends.

He was already nearly fifteen years old when he moved to the second grade, where instead of an abbreviated catechism and the four rules of arithmetic, he began to study a lengthy one, a book about human positions and fractions. But, having seen that the further into the forest, the more firewood there was, and having received the news that the father had ordered him to live long, he stayed for another two years and, with the consent of his mother, then joined the P*** infantry regiment.

The P*** infantry regiment was not at all of the sort to which many infantry regiments belong; and, despite the fact that he mostly stood in the villages, he was on such a footing that he was not inferior to others and the cavalry. Most of the officers drank hard liquor and knew how to drag Jews by their sidelocks no worse than the hussars; several people even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the P*** regiment never missed an opportunity to notice this when talking with someone in society. “For me, sir,” he usually said, patting himself on the belly after each word, “many people dance the mazurka; very many, sir; very many, sir.” To further show the readers the education of the P*** infantry regiment, we will add that two of the officers were terrible bank players and lost a uniform, a cap, an overcoat, a lanyard and even an underwear, which cannot be found everywhere and among cavalrymen.

Dealing with such comrades, however, did not in the least reduce Ivan Fedorovich’s timidity. And since he did not drink cold drinks, preferring a glass of vodka before lunch and dinner, did not dance mazurkas and did not play bank, then, naturally, he always had to remain alone. Thus, when others were driving around the small landowners in philistine cars, he, sitting in his apartment, practiced activities akin to one meek and kind soul: he cleaned buttons, then read a fortune-telling book, then set mousetraps in the corners of his room, then, finally Having taken off his uniform, he lay on the bed. But there was no one more serviceable than Ivan Fedorovich in the regiment. And he commanded his platoon in such a way that the company commander always held him up as a model. But soon, eleven years after receiving the rank of ensign, he was promoted to second lieutenant.

During this time, he received news that his mother had died; and his aunt, his mother’s sister, whom he knew only because she brought him in childhood and even sent him to Gadyach dried pears and delicious gingerbread cookies she made herself (she was in a quarrel with mother, and therefore Ivan Fedorovich did not see her after), - this aunt, out of her good nature, undertook to manage his small estate, which she notified him about in due time by letter. Ivan Fedorovich, being completely confident in his aunt’s prudence, began to perform his service as before. Someone else in his place, having received such a rank, would have become proud; but pride was completely unknown to him, and, having become a second lieutenant, he was the same Ivan Fedorovich as he had once been in the rank of ensign. Having stayed four years after this remarkable event for him, he was preparing to set out with a regiment from the Mogilev province to Great Russia, when he received a letter with the following content:

"Dear nephew,

Ivan Fedorovich!

I am sending you linen: five pairs of cotton slips and four shirts of thin linen; and I also want to talk to you about the matter: since you already have an important rank, which I think you know, and came at such an age that it’s time to take care of the household, then you have no need to serve in military service anymore. I’m already old and can’t look after everything in your household; and indeed, I have much to reveal to you personally. Come, Vanyusha; In anticipation of the true pleasure of seeing you, I remain your much-loving aunt.

Vasilisa Tsupchevska.

A wonderful turnip grew in our garden: it looks more like a potato than a turnip.”

A week after receiving this letter, Ivan Fedorovich wrote the following response:

"Dear Madam, Auntie

Vasilisa Kashporovna!

Thank you very much for sending the linen. Especially my carpets are so old that even the orderly darned them four times and that’s why they became very narrow. Regarding your opinion of my service, I completely agree with you and resigned on the third day. And as soon as I get fired, I’ll hire a cab driver. I couldn’t fulfill your previous commission regarding wheat seeds, Siberian Arnautka: there is no such thing in the entire Mogilev province. The pigs here are fed mostly with mash, mixing in a little of the beer they win.

With complete respect, dear lady aunt, I remain nephew

Ivan Shponka."

Finally, Ivan Fedorovich received his resignation with the rank of lieutenant, hired a Jew from Mogilev to Gadyach for forty rubles and got into the tent at the very time when the trees were dressed with young, still sparse leaves, the whole earth was brightly green with fresh greenery and the whole field smelled of spring.

Nothing too remarkable happened on the road. We traveled for a little over two weeks. Perhaps Ivan Fedorovich would have arrived sooner, but the devout Jew went on Saturdays and, covered with his blanket, prayed all day. However, Ivan Fedorovich, as I had the opportunity to notice before, was the kind of person who did not allow boredom to come to him. At that time, he untied the suitcase, took out the linen, examined it carefully: whether it was washed or folded correctly, carefully removed the fluff from the new uniform, sewn without shoulder straps, and again laid it all out in the best possible way. In general, he did not like to read books; and if he sometimes looked into a fortune-telling book, it was because he liked to meet there something familiar that he had already read several times. So a city dweller goes to the club every day, not to hear something new there, but to meet those friends with whom he has been accustomed to chatting in the club since time immemorial. So the official with great pleasure reads the address-calendar several times a day, not for any diplomatic undertakings, but he is extremely amused by the printed list of names. “Ah! Ivan Gavrilovich so-and-so!” he repeats dully to himself. “Ah! Here I am! Hm!..” And the next time he rereads it again with the same exclamations.

After a two-week drive, Ivan Fedorovich reached a village located a hundred miles from Gadyach. It was on Friday. The sun had long since set when he rode into the inn with the wagon and the Jew.

This inn was no different from others built in small villages. They usually treat the traveler with hay and oats with great zeal, as if he were a post horse. But if he wanted to have breakfast, as they usually have breakfast decent people, then he would have preserved his appetite intact until another occasion. Ivan Fedorovich, knowing all this, stocked up on two bundles of bagels and sausage in advance and, having asked for a glass of vodka, which is not lacking in any inn, began his dinner, sitting down on a bench in front of an oak table, motionless, dug into the clay floor.

During this time, the sound of the chaise was heard. The gates creaked; but the chaise did not enter the yard for a long time. A loud voice scolded the old woman who kept the inn. “I’ll drive in,” Ivan Fedorovich heard, “but if even one bug bites me in your hut, I’ll kill you, by God, I’ll kill you, old witch! And I won’t give you anything for the hay!”

A minute later the door opened and a fat man in a green frock coat walked in, or rather climbed in. His head rested motionless on his short neck, which seemed even thicker because of his two-story chin. It seemed, in appearance, that he belonged to those people who never racked their brains over trifles and whose whole life went swimmingly.

I wish you good health, dear sir! - he said when he saw Ivan Fedorovich.

Ivan Fedorovich bowed silently.

Let me ask, with whom do I have the honor of speaking? - continued the fat visitor.

During such an interrogation, Ivan Fedorovich involuntarily rose from his seat and stood at attention, which is what he usually did when the colonel asked him what.

Retired lieutenant, Ivan Fedorov Shponka,” he answered.

Do I dare ask what places you would like to go to?

To your own farm, sir, Vytrebenki.

You little bastards! - exclaimed the strict interrogator. - Allow me, dear sir, allow me! - he said, approaching him and waving his arms, as if someone was not letting him in or he was pushing through the crowd, and, approaching, he took Ivan Fedorovich into his arms and kissed him first on the right, then on the left, and then again on the right cheek . Ivan Fedorovich really liked this kiss, because his lips mistook the stranger’s large cheeks for soft pillows.

Allow me, dear sir, to meet you! - continued the fat man. - I am a landowner of the same Gadyachsky district and your neighbor. I live no further than five miles from your Vytrebenka farm, in the village of Khortyshche; and my last name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. Definitely, definitely, dear sir, and I don’t want to know you unless you come to visit the village of Khortyshche. Now I’m in a hurry when necessary... What is this? - he said in a meek voice to his footman who came in, a boy in a Cossack scroll with patched elbows, who was placing bundles and boxes on the table with a perplexed expression. - What is this? What? - and Grigory Grigorievich’s voice imperceptibly became more and more menacing. “Did I tell you to put this here, my dear?” Did I tell you to put this here, you scoundrel! Didn't I tell you to reheat the chicken ahead of time, you scammer? Let's go! - he cried, stamping his foot. - Wait, face! where is the cellar with damasks? Ivan Fedorovich! - he said, pouring tinctures into a glass, - I humbly ask for a medicinal one!

By God, sir, I can’t... I already had a case... - Ivan Fedorovich said with a hesitation.

And I don’t want to listen, dear sir! - the landowner raised his voice, - and I don’t want to listen! I won't leave my place until you eat...

Ivan Fedorovich, seeing that he could not refuse, drank with some pleasure.

This is a chicken, dear sir,” continued fat Grigory Grigorievich, cutting it with a knife in a wooden box. “I must tell you that my cook Yavdokha sometimes likes to whine and that’s why she often gets too dry.” Hey, boy! - here he turned to the boy in the Cossack scroll, who had brought a feather bed and pillows, - make a bed for me on the floor in the middle of the hut! Look, put the hay higher under the pillow! Yes, pull out a piece of hemp from the woman’s ear and plug my ears for the night! You need to know, dear sir, that I have been in the habit of plugging my ears at night since that damned incident when, in a Russian tavern, a cockroach crawled into my left ear. The damned Katsaps, as I later found out, even eat cabbage soup with cockroaches. It’s impossible to describe what happened to me: it’s tickling in my ear, it’s tickling... well, even on the wall! A simple old woman already helped me in our area. And what would you think? just whispering. What do you say, dear sir, about doctors? I think they are just fooling and fooling us. Some old woman knows all these doctors twenty times better.

Indeed, you deign to speak the absolute truth. It definitely happens differently... - Here he stopped, as if unable to find any more decent words.

It doesn’t hurt me to say here that he was not generous with his words at all. Perhaps this came from timidity, or perhaps from a desire to express myself more beautifully.

Well, shake the hay well! - Grigory Grigorievich said to his lackey. “The hay here is so disgusting that every moment a twig gets in.” Allow me, dear sir, to say good night! We won't see you tomorrow: I'm leaving before dawn. Your Jew will be running wild because tomorrow is Saturday, and therefore you have no reason to get up early. Do not forget my request; and I don’t want to know you until you come to the village of Khortyshche.

Then Grigory Grigorievich's valet pulled off his coat and boots and put on a robe instead, and Grigory Grigorievich fell onto the bed, and it seemed that a huge feather bed lay on another.

Hey, boy! where are you going, scoundrel? Come here, straighten the blanket for me! Hey, boy, scaffold the hay under your head! So, have the horses already been watered? More hay! here, under this side! Yes, correct it, scoundrel, make a good blanket! That's it, again! Oh!..

Here Grigory Grigorievich sighed twice more and let out a terrible nasal whistle throughout the room, snoring from time to time so that the old woman who had been dozing on the couch, waking up, suddenly looked with both eyes in all directions, but, not seeing anything, calmed down and fell asleep again.

The next day, when Ivan Fedorovich woke up, the fat landowner was no longer there. This was just one remarkable incident that happened to him on the road. On the third day after this, he approached his farm.

Then he felt that his heart began to beat strongly when a windmill appeared, flapping its wings, and when, as the Jew drove his nags up the mountain, a row of willows appeared below. The pond shone vividly and brightly through them and breathed freshness. Here he once swam, in this very pond he and his children once walked neck-deep in water for crayfish. The wagon pulled up to row, and Ivan Fedorovich saw the same old house, covered with an outline; the same apple and cherry trees that he once sneakily climbed. He had just entered the yard when dogs of all kinds came running from all sides: brown, black, gray, piebald. Some threw themselves at the horses' feet, barking, others ran behind, noticing that the axle was smeared with lard; one, standing near the kitchen and covering a bone with his paw, began to sing at the top of his lungs; another barked from a distance and ran back and forth, wagging his tail and as if saying: “Look, baptized people, what a wonderful young man I am!” Boys in soiled shirts ran to look. A pig, walking around the yard with sixteen piglets, raised its snout upward with an inquisitive look and grunted louder than usual. In the yard there were many rows of wheat, millet and barley lying on the ground, drying in the sun. There were also a lot of different kinds of herbs drying on the roof: peter’s batogs, nechu-vetra and others.

Ivan Fedorovich was so busy looking at this that he woke up only when the piebald dog bit the Jew who had climbed off the goat on the calf. The servants who came running, consisting of a cook, one woman and two girls in woolen underpants, after the first exclamations: “That’s our gentleman!” - announced that the aunt was planting wheat in the garden, together with the girl Palashka and the coachman Om'elko, who often filled the position of gardener and watchman. But the aunt, who had seen the matting wagon from afar, was already here. And Ivan Fedorovich was amazed when she almost raised in his arms, as if not trusting whether this is the same aunt who wrote to him about her decrepitude and illness.

Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna at that time was about fifty years old. She was never married and usually said that the life of a girl was most precious to her. However, as far as I remember, no one matched her. This happened because all the men felt some kind of timidity in front of her and did not have the courage to confess to her. “Vasilisa Kashporovna is very characterful!” - the suitors said, and they were absolutely right, because Vasilisa Kashporovna knew how to make anyone quieter than grass. She, with her own courageous hand every day tugging at his forelock, knew how to turn the drunken miller, who was completely good for nothing, into gold, and not into a man, without any extraneous means. Her height was almost gigantic, her stature and strength were completely proportionate. It seemed that nature had made an unforgivable mistake in determining that she should wear a dark brown bonnet with small frills on weekdays and a red cashmere shawl on the day. Happy Sunday and her name day, while a dragoon mustache and long boots would suit her most. But her activities were completely consistent with her appearance: she rode a boat herself, rowing with an oar more skillfully than any fisherman; shot game; stood constantly over the mowers; knew off and on the number of melons and watermelons on the tower; she took a toll of five kopecks from a cart that passed through her row; she climbed a tree and shook pears, beat lazy vassals with her terrible hand and offered the worthy a glass of vodka from the same terrible hand. Almost at the same time she scolded, dyed yarn, ran to the kitchen, made kvass, cooked honey jam and bustled all day and kept up with everything. The consequence of this was that Ivan Fedorovich’s small estate, which consisted of eighteen souls at the last revision, flourished in the full sense of the word. Moreover, she loved her nephew too dearly and carefully collected a penny for him.

Upon arrival home, Ivan Fedorovich’s life changed decisively and took a completely different path. It seemed that nature had created him specifically to manage an eighteen-person estate. The aunt herself noted that he would be a good owner, although, however, she did not allow him to interfere in all branches of the economy. “That little girl is still young,” she usually used to say, despite the fact that Ivan Fedorovich was almost forty years old, “how can he know everything!”

However, he was constantly in the field with the reapers and mowers, and this gave inexplicable pleasure to his meek soul. A unanimous wave of a dozen or more shiny braids; the sound of grass falling in orderly rows; the occasional songs of the reapers, sometimes cheerful, like welcoming guests, sometimes mournful, like parting; a calm, clean evening, and what an evening! how free and fresh the air is! How alive everything was then: the steppe turns red, blue and ablaze with flowers; quails, bustards, seagulls, grasshoppers, thousands of insects, and from them whistle, buzz, crackle, scream and suddenly a harmonious chorus; and everything is not silent for a minute. And the sun sets and disappears. Uh! how fresh and good! Across the field, here and there, lights are laid out and cauldrons are placed, and mustachioed mowers sit around the cauldrons; Steam is wafting from the dumplings. Twilight is turning grey... It is difficult to tell what was happening to Ivan Fedorovich then. When he joined the mowers, he forgot to taste their dumplings, which he loved very much, and stood motionless in one place, watching with his eyes the seagull disappearing in the sky or counting the piles of acquired bread that were humiliating the field.

In a short time, people started talking about Ivan Fedorovich everywhere as a great owner. The aunt couldn’t get enough of her nephew and never missed an opportunity to show him off. One day - it was already after the end of the harvest, and precisely at the end of July - Vasilisa Kashporovna, taking Ivan Fedorovich by the hand with a mysterious look, said that she now wanted to talk to him about a matter that had been occupying her for a long time .

You, dear Ivan Fedorovich,” she began, “know that there are eighteen souls in your farm; however, this is according to the audit, and without that, maybe there will be more, maybe up to twenty-four. But that's not the point. You know that forest that is behind our levada, and, probably, you know behind the same forest a wide meadow: there are almost twenty dessiatines in it; and there is so much grass that you can sell more than a hundred rubles every year, especially if, as they say, there will be a cavalry regiment in Gadyach.

Well, sir, auntie, I know: the grass is very good.

I myself know that I am very good; but do you know that all this land is truly yours? Why are your eyes bulging out so much? Listen, Ivan Fedorovich! Do you remember Stepan Kuzmich? What I say: remember! You were so small then that you couldn’t even pronounce his name; where to go! I remember when I arrived at the very clearing, in front of Filippovka, and took you in my arms, you almost ruined my whole dress; Fortunately, I managed to hand you over to mother Matryona. You were so nasty back then!.. But that’s not the point. All the land behind our farm, and the village of Khortyshche itself, belonged to Stepan Kuzmich. I must tell you that before you were in the world, he began to visit your mother; True, at a time when your father was not at home. But I, however, do not say this as a reproach to her. God rest her soul! - although the deceased was always wrong against me. But that's not the point. Be that as it may, only Stepan Kuzmich made a deed of gift for you on the very estate that I told you about. But your late mother, let it be said between us, had a wonderful disposition. The devil himself, God forgive me for this nasty word, could not understand her. Where she made this recording - only God knows. I simply think that she is in the hands of this old bachelor Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. This pot-bellied scoundrel got his entire estate. I'm ready to bet God knows what if he didn't hide the records.

Allow me to report, auntie: isn’t this the same Storchenko I met at the station?

Here Ivan Fedorovich told about his meeting.

Who knows! - Auntie answered, after thinking a little. - Maybe he is not a scoundrel. True, he only moved to live with us for six months; at such a time you don’t recognize a person. The old woman, his mother, I heard, is a very intelligent woman and, they say, a great skill at pickling cucumbers. Her girls know how to make their own carpets very well. But since you say that he received you well, then go to him! Perhaps the old sinner will obey his conscience and give away what does not belong to him. Perhaps you can go in a britzka, only the damned child pulled out all the nails from behind. It will be necessary to tell the coachman Omelka to nail down better leather everywhere.

For what, auntie? I'll take the cart in which you sometimes go to shoot game.

This ended the conversation.

At lunchtime, Ivan Fedorovich entered the village of Khortyshche and became a little timid when he began to approach the master’s house. This house was long and not under a fence, like many district landowners, but under a wooden roof. Two barns in the yard are also under a wooden roof; oak gates. Ivan Fedorovich looked like that dandy who, having stopped by a ball, sees everyone, wherever he looks, dressed more dapper than him. Out of respect, he stopped his cart near the barn and walked up to the porch.

A! Ivan Fedorovich! - shouted fat Grigory Grigorievich, walking around the yard in a frock coat, but without a tie, vest and suspenders. However, even this outfit seemed to burden his corpulence, because sweat rolled off him like a hail. - Why did you say that now, as soon as you see your aunt, you’ll come, but you didn’t come? - After these words, Ivan Fedorovich’s lips met the same familiar pillows.

Mostly housework... I came to you for a minute, actually on business...

For a minute? This won't happen. Hey, boy! - the fat owner shouted, and the same boy in a Cossack scroll ran out of the kitchen. - Tell Kasyan to lock the gate now, do you hear, lock it tighter! And I could unharness this gentleman’s horses this very minute! Please go to the room; It's so hot here that my whole shirt is wet.

Ivan Fedorovich, entering the room, decided not to waste time and, despite his timidity, to attack decisively.

Auntie had the honor... to tell me that the deed of gift of the late Stepan Kuzmich...

It is difficult to imagine what an unpleasant expression Grigory Grigorievich’s broad face made at these words.

By God, I don’t hear anything! - he answered. - I must tell you that there was a cockroach in my left ear. In Russian huts, the damned katsaps bred cockroaches everywhere. It is impossible to describe with any pen what kind of torment it was. So it tickles, and it tickles. One old woman already helped me with the simplest means...

I wanted to say... - Ivan Fedorovich dared to interrupt, seeing that Grigory Grigorievich deliberately wanted to turn the conversation to something else, - that the will of the late Stepan Kuzmich mentions, so to speak, a deed of gift... it follows, with me. ..

I know your aunt managed to tell you this. This is a lie, by God, a lie! My uncle did not make any deed of gift. Although, it is true, the will does mention some kind of entry; but where is she? no one introduced her. I am telling you this because I sincerely wish you well. By God, this is a lie!

Ivan Fedorovich fell silent, reasoning that perhaps it was really just his aunt’s imagination.

And here comes my mother and her sisters! - said Grigory Grigorievich, - therefore, dinner is ready. Let's go! - At the same time, he dragged Ivan Fedorovich by the hand into the room in which vodka and snacks stood on the table.

At that same time, an old woman came in, short, a perfect coffee pot in a cap, with two young ladies - blond and black-haired. Ivan Fedorovich, like a well-mannered gentleman, approached first the old lady’s hand, and then the hands of both young ladies.

This, mother, is our neighbor, Ivan Fedorovich Shponka! - said Grigory Grigorievich.

The old woman looked intently at Ivan Fedorovich, or perhaps she only seemed to be looking. However, it was complete kindness. It seemed like she wanted to ask Ivan Fedorovich: how many cucumbers do you pickle for the winter?

Did you drink vodka? - asked the old lady.

“You, mother, probably didn’t get enough sleep,” said Grigory Grigorievich, “who asks the guest if he drank?” You only serve; whether we drank or not is our business. Ivan Fedorovich! Please, centaury or Trochimov's fusel, which one do you like better? Ivan Ivanovich, why are you standing there? - said Grigory Grigorievich, turning back, and Ivan Fedorovich saw Ivan Ivanovich approaching the vodka, in a long frock coat with a huge standing collar that covered the entire back of his head, so that his head sat in the collar, as if in a chaise.

Ivan Ivanovich went up to the vodka, rubbed his hands, took a good look at the glass, poured it, held it up to the light, poured all the vodka from the glass into his mouth at once, but without swallowing it, rinsed it thoroughly in his mouth, after which he swallowed it; and, having eaten some bread and salted honey mushrooms, turned to Ivan Fedorovich.

Is it not Ivan Fedorovich, Mr. Shponka, with whom I have the honor of speaking?

“That’s right, sir,” answered Ivan Fedorovich.

A lot has deigned to change since I knew you. Why,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, “I still remember you like this!” - At the same time, he raised his palm a yard from the floor. - Your late father, may God grant him the kingdom of heaven, was a rare person. He always had watermelons and melons that you can’t find anywhere now. If only here,” he continued, taking him aside, “they will serve you melons at the table.” What kind of melons are these? - I don’t want to look! Would you believe, my dear sir, that he had watermelons,” he said with a mysterious look, spreading his arms, as if he wanted to clasp a thick tree, “by God, these are what they are!”

Let's go to the table! - said Grigory Grigorievich, taking Ivan Fedorovich by the hand.

Everyone went out to the dining room. Grigory Grigoryevich sat down in his usual place, at the end of the table, hanging himself with a huge napkin and in this appearance resembling those heroes whom barbers draw on their signs. Ivan Fedorovich, blushing, sat down in the place indicated to him opposite the two young ladies; and Ivan Ivanovich did not fail to sit next to him, rejoicing mentally that he would have someone to share his knowledge with.

You took the cupric in vain, Ivan Fedorovich! It's turkey! - said the old woman, turning to Ivan Fedorovich, who at that time was brought a dish by a village waiter in a gray tailcoat with a black patch. - Take the back!

Mother! After all, no one is asking you to interfere! - said Grigory Grigorievich. - Be sure that the guest knows what to take! Ivan Fedorovich, take the wing, the other one, with the navel! Why did you take so little? Take a quilt! Did you open your mouth with the dish? Ask! Get down, you scoundrel, on your knees! Say now: “Ivan Fedorovich, take the quilt!”

Ivan Fedorovich, take your whip! - the waiter roared, kneeling down with the dish.

Hmm, what kind of turkey is this! - Ivan Ivanovich said in a low voice with an air of disdain, turning to his neighbor. - Is this how turkeys should be? If only you could see my turkeys! I assure you that there is more fat in one than in a dozen like these. Would you believe, my lord, that it’s even disgusting to look at them walking around my yard, so fat!..

Ivan Ivanovich, you're lying! - said Grigory Grigorievich, listening to his speech.

“I’ll tell you,” Ivan Ivanovich continued in the same way to his neighbor, pretending that he had not heard Grigory Grigorievich’s words, “that last year, when I sent them to Gadyach, they gave them fifty kopecks apiece. And I still didn’t want to take it.

Ivan Ivanovich, I’m telling you that you’re lying! - Grigory Grigorievich said, for better clarity - in words and louder than before.

But Ivan Ivanovich, pretending that this did not apply to him at all, continued in the same way, only much more quietly.

Exactly, my lord, I didn’t want to take it. In Gadyach, not a single landowner...

Ivan Ivanovich! “You’re stupid, and nothing more,” Grigory Grigorievich said loudly. “After all, Ivan Fedorovich knows all this better than you and probably won’t believe you.”

Here Ivan Ivanovich became completely offended, fell silent and began to remove the turkey, despite the fact that it was not as fat as those that are disgusting to look at.

The clatter of knives, spoons and plates replaced conversation for a while; but the loudest sound was Grigory Grigorievich's smearing of lamb bone marrow.

“Have you read,” Ivan Ivanovich asked after some silence, sticking his head out of his chaise towards Ivan Fedorovich, “the book “Korobeinikov’s Journey to Holy Places”? A true delight for the soul and heart! Nowadays such books are not published. I’m very sorry that I didn’t watch what year.

Ivan Fedorovich, having heard that it was about a book, diligently began to pour himself some sauce.

It’s truly amazing, my lord, when you think that a simple tradesman has walked through all these places. More than three thousand miles, my sir! More than three thousand miles. Indeed, God himself granted him the opportunity to visit Palestine and Jerusalem.

So you’re saying that he,” said Ivan Fedorovich, who had heard a lot about Jerusalem from his orderly, “was also in Jerusalem?..

What are you talking about, Ivan Fedorovich? - Grigory Grigorievich said from the end of the table.

That is, I had the opportunity to notice that what distant countries there are in the world! - said Ivan Fedorovich, being heartily pleased that he had uttered such a long and difficult phrase.

Don't believe him, Ivan Fedorovich! - said Grigory Grigorievich, without listening carefully, - he’s all lying!

Meanwhile, lunch was over. Grigory Grigorievich went to his room, but as usual, snore a little; and the guests followed the old hostess and the young ladies into the living room, where the very table on which they had left vodka when they went out to dinner, as if by some kind of transformation, was covered with saucers of jam different varieties and dishes with watermelons, cherries and melons.

The absence of Grigory Grigorievich was noticeable in everything. The hostess became more talkative and revealed herself, without asking, many secrets about making marshmallows and drying pears. Even the young ladies began to talk; but the fair one, who seemed six years younger than her sister and who looked to be about twenty-five years old, was more silent.

But Ivan Ivanovich spoke and acted most of all. Confident that now no one would knock him down or mix him up, he talked about cucumbers, and about sowing potatoes, and about how reasonable people were in the old days - how different from those of today! - and how everything gets smarter and comes to inventing the wisest things. In a word, he was one of those people who with the greatest pleasure love to engage in soul-delighting conversation and will talk about everything that can be talked about. If the conversation concerned important and pious subjects, then Ivan Ivanovich sighed after each word, nodding his head slightly; if it was about household chores, he stuck his head out of his chaise and made such faces, looking at which, it seemed, one could read how to make pear kvass, how big those melons he was talking about, and how fat those geese that run around him around the yard.

Finally, with great difficulty, already in the evening, Ivan Fedorovich managed to say goodbye; and, despite his tractability and the fact that he was forcibly left to spend the night, he still persisted in his intention to go and left.

New idea aunts

Well? lured the old villain out of the recording? - Ivan Fedorovich was greeted with this question by his aunt, who had been impatiently waiting for him on the porch for several hours and finally could not stand it so as not to run out of the gate.

No, auntie! - said Ivan Fedorovich, getting off the cart, - Grigory Grigorievich does not have any record.

And you believed him! He's lying, damn it! Someday I’ll really beat him with my own hands. Oh, I'll spare him some fat! However, we need to talk to our defendant in advance, whether it is possible to demand the court from him... But this is not the point now. Well, was it a good lunch?

Very... yes, very much, auntie.

Well, what were the dishes, tell me? The old woman, I know, is a master at looking after the kitchen.

The cheesecakes were covered in sour cream, auntie. Sauce with pigeons, polished...

Was there turkey with plums? - asked the aunt, because she herself was a great expert in preparing this dish.

There was also an Indian!.. Very beautiful young ladies, Grigory Grigorievich’s sisters, especially the blond one!

A! - said the aunt and looked intently at Ivan Fedorovich, who, blushing, lowered his eyes to the ground. A new thought quickly flashed through her head. - Well? - she asked curiously and lively, what kind of eyebrows do she have?

It doesn’t hurt to notice that Auntie always placed the first beauty of a woman in her eyebrows.

The eyebrows, auntie, are exactly the same as you said you had in your youth. And there are small freckles all over my face.

A! - said the aunt, being pleased with Ivan Fedorovich’s remark, who, however, had no intention of saying a compliment. - What kind of dress was she wearing? although, however, now it is difficult to find such dense materials as, for example, I have on this hood. But that's not the point. Well, did you talk to her about anything?

That is, how?.. I, sir, auntie? You may already be thinking...

So what? What's strange here? God wants it that way! Maybe you and her were destined to live as a couple.

I don't know, auntie, how you can say this. This proves that you don't know me at all...

Well, I’m already offended! - said the aunt. “Dytyna is still young,” she thought to herself, “she doesn’t know anything! We need to bring them together, let them get to know each other!”

Then the aunt went to look into the kitchen and left Ivan Fedorovich. But from that time on, she only thought about how to see her nephew married as soon as possible and take care of her little granddaughters. Only preparations for the wedding were piled up in her head, and it was noticeable that she was fussing about all her affairs much more than before, although, however, these things were going worse rather than better. Often, while making some kind of cake, which she never trusted the cook in general, she, having forgotten herself and imagining that her little granddaughter was standing next to her asking for a pie, absentmindedly extended her hand to him with the best piece, and the yard dog, taking advantage of this, grabbed the tasty morsel and with his loud squeaking brought her out of her thoughts, for which she was always beaten with a poker. She even abandoned her favorite pastimes and did not go hunting, especially when instead of a partridge she shot a crow, which had never happened to her before.

Finally, four days later, everyone saw a chaise rolled out of the barn into the yard. The coachman Omelko, who is also a gardener and watchman, had been hammering and nailing leather since early morning, constantly driving away the dogs that were licking the wheels. I consider it my duty to warn readers that this was exactly the same britzka in which Adam still rode; and therefore, if anyone passes off another as Adam’s, then this is a complete lie and the britzka is certainly fake. It is completely unknown how she escaped the flood. It must be thought that in Noah's Ark there was a special shed for her. It is a great pity that readers cannot vividly describe her figures. Suffice it to say that Vasilisa Kashporovna was very pleased with its architecture and always expressed regret that ancient carriages had fallen out of fashion. She really liked the design of the chaise, slightly on one side, that is, so that its right side was much higher than the left, because, as she said, a short person could get in on one side, and a tall one on the other. However, about five small people and three people like my aunt could fit inside the chaise.

Around noon, Omelko, having managed near the chaise, led three horses out of the stable, a little younger than the chaise, and began tying them with a rope to the majestic carriage. Ivan Fedorovich and his aunt, one on the left side, the other on the right, climbed into the chaise, and it started moving. The men who came across on the road, seeing such a rich carriage (my aunt very rarely traveled in it), stopped respectfully, took off their hats and bowed at the waist. About two hours later the wagon stopped in front of the porch - I don’t think there is any need to say: in front of the porch of Storchenko’s house. Grigory Grigorievich was not at home. The old lady and the young ladies went out to meet the guests in the dining room. The aunt approached with a majestic step, with great dexterity she put one foot forward and said loudly:

I am very glad, my lady, that I have the honor to personally convey my respects to you. And along with the respect, allow me to thank you for your hospitality to my nephew Ivan Fedorovich, who boasts about it a lot. Your buckwheat is wonderful, madam! I saw her as I approached the village. Let me know how many kopecks you get from your tithe?

After this there followed a general kiss. When they sat down in the living room, the old hostess began:

I can’t tell you about buckwheat: this is Grigory Grigorievich’s part. I haven't done this for a long time; Yes, I can’t: I’m already old! In the old days, I remember, we used to have buckwheat up to our waists, now God knows what. Although, however, they say that everything is better now. - Here the old woman sighed; and some observer would have heard in this sigh the sigh of the ancient eighteenth century.

“I heard, my lady, that your own girls are excellent at making carpets,” said Vasilisa Kashporovna, and this touched the old lady’s most sensitive chord. At these words, she seemed to come to life, and her speeches flowed about how yarn should be dyed, how to prepare thread for this. The conversation quickly moved from the carpets to pickling cucumbers and drying pears. In a word, not an hour had passed before both ladies started talking to each other as if they had known each other for centuries. Vasilisa Kashporovna had already begun to talk to her a lot in such a quiet voice that Ivan Fedorovich could not hear anything.

Would you like to take a look? - said the old housewife, getting up.

The young ladies and Vasilisa Kashporovna stood behind her, and everyone headed to the girls’ room. Auntie, however, gave a sign to Ivan Fedorovich to stay and said something quietly to the old woman.

Mashenka! - said the old lady, turning to the blond young lady, - stay with the guest and talk to him so that the guest does not get bored!

The blond young lady stayed and sat on the sofa. Ivan Fedorovich sat in his chair as if on pins and needles, blushed and lowered his eyes; but the young lady did not seem to notice this at all and sat indifferently on the sofa, diligently examining the windows and walls or following with her eyes the cat that cowardly ran under the chairs.

Ivan Fedorovich cheered up a little and wanted to start a conversation; but it seemed that he lost all his words on the road. Not a single thought came to mind.

The silence lasted for about a quarter of an hour. The young lady was still sitting there.

Finally, Ivan Fedorovich gathered his courage.

There are a lot of flies in summer, madam! - he said in a half-trembling voice.

Extremely many! - answered the young lady. - Brother deliberately made a firecracker out of his mother’s old shoe; but still a lot.

Here the conversation stopped again. And Ivan Fedorovich could no longer find words.

Finally, the hostess, her aunt and the dark-haired young lady returned. After talking a little more, Vasilisa Kashporovna said goodbye to the old woman and the young ladies, despite all the invitations to stay overnight. The old woman and the young ladies went out onto the porch to see off the guests and for a long time bowed to their aunt and nephew, who were looking out of the chaise.

Well, Ivan Fedorovich! What were you talking about with the young lady? - asked the dear aunt.

A very modest and well-behaved girl Marya Grigorievna! - said Ivan Fedorovich.

Listen, Ivan Fedorovich! I want to talk to you seriously. After all, thank God, you are thirty-eighth year old. You already have a good rank. It's time to think about children! You definitely need a wife...

How, auntie! - Ivan Fedorovich cried out, frightened. - As a wife! No, auntie, do me a favor... You bring me to complete shame... I have never been married before... I don’t know at all what to do with her!

You’ll find out, Ivan Fedorovich, you’ll find out,” said the aunt, smiling, and thought to herself: “Where else are we calling the young lady, she doesn’t know anything!” - Yes, Ivan Fedorovich! - she continued aloud, - you cannot find a better wife like Marya Grigorievna. You really liked her, too. We have already talked a lot about this with the old woman: she is very glad to see you as her son-in-law; It is still unknown, however, what this sinner Grigorievich will say. But we will not look at him, and even if he decides not to give the dowry, we will judge him...

At this time the chaise drove up to the yard, and the ancient nags came to life, sensing a nearby stall.

Listen, Omelko! Give the horses a good rest first, and don’t immediately lead them, unharnessed, to the watering hole! they are hot horses. Well, Ivan Fedorovich,” the aunt continued, getting out, “I advise you to think carefully about this.” I still need to run into the kitchen, I forgot to order dinner for Solokha, and she’s worthless, I don’t think she even thought about it.

But Ivan Fedorovich stood as if stunned by thunder. True, Marya Grigorievna is a very good young lady; but to get married!.. it seemed so strange to him, so wonderful that he could not think about it without fear. Living with my wife!.. it’s incomprehensible! He will not be alone in his room, but there must be two of them everywhere!.. Sweat appeared on his face, the deeper he went into thought.

He went to bed earlier than usual, but, despite all his efforts, he could not fall asleep. Finally, the desired sleep, this universal calmer, visited him; but what a dream! He had never seen more incoherent dreams. Then he dreamed that everything was noisy and spinning around him, and he was running, running, not feeling his legs under him... now he was exhausted... Suddenly someone grabbed him by the ear. "Ay! who is this?" - “It’s me, your wife!” - a voice told him noisily. And he suddenly woke up. It seemed to him that he was already married, that everything in their house was so wonderful, so strange: in his room there was a double bed instead of a single one. The wife is sitting on the chair. He feels strange; he doesn’t know how to approach her, what to say to her, and notices that she has a goose-like face. He accidentally turns to the side and sees another wife, also with a goose face. He turns in the other direction - the third wife is standing. Back - another wife. Here he becomes sad. He started running into the garden; but it's hot in the garden. He took off his hat and saw: his wife was sitting in the hat. Sweat appeared on his face. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief - and there was his wife in his pocket; he took the cotton paper out of his ear - and his wife was sitting there... Then suddenly he was jumping on one leg, and the aunt, looking at him, said with an important look: “Yes, you should jump, because you are now a married man.” He comes to her - but auntie is no longer auntie, but a bell tower. And he feels that someone is dragging him with a rope to the bell tower. "Who's dragging me?" - Ivan Fedorovich said plaintively. “It’s me, your wife, who’s dragging you because you’re the bell.” - “No, I’m not a bell, I’m Ivan Fedorovich!” - he shouted. “Yes, you are a bell,” said Colonel P*** of the infantry regiment as he passed by. Then he suddenly dreamed that his wife was not a person at all, but some kind of woolen material; that he comes to a merchant’s shop in Mogilev. “What kind of material would you like?” says the merchant. “Take a wife, this is the most fashionable material! Very good quality! Everyone now sews frock coats from it.” The merchant measures and cuts his wife. Ivan Fedorovich takes it under his arm and goes to the Jew, the tailor. “No,” says the Jew, “this is bad material! No one sews a frock coat from it...”

Ivan Fedorovich woke up in fear and unconsciousness. Cold sweat poured from him like hail.

As soon as he got up in the morning, he immediately turned to the fortune-telling book, at the end of which one virtuous bookseller, out of his rare kindness and selflessness, placed an abbreviated dream book. But there was absolutely nothing there, even a little like such an incoherent dream.

Meanwhile, a completely new plan has matured in the aunt’s head, which you will learn about in the next chapter.

Nikolai Gogol - Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 09 Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt, read the text

See also Gogol Nikolai - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Evenings on a farm near Dikanka - 10 Enchanted place
The true story told by the sexton of the church By God, I’m already tired of telling...

Viy
As soon as the rather ringing seminary bell struck in Kyiv in the morning,...

“A story happened with this story”: told by Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka from Gadyach, it was copied into a notebook, the notebook was put on a small table and from there part of it was dragged by the pasichnik’s wife for pies. So there is no end to it. If you wish, however, you can always ask Stepan Ivanovich himself, and for convenience detailed description it is attached.

Ivan Fedorovich Shponka, who now lives on his Vytrebenki farm, was distinguished by his diligence at school and did not bully his comrades. With his good character, he attracted the attention of even the terrible Latin teacher and was promoted to auditor by him, which, however, did not avoid an unpleasant incident, as a result of which he was beaten on the wrist by the same teacher and retained such timidity in his soul that he never had the desire to go into civilian service. Therefore, two years after the news of his father’s death, he joined the P*** infantry regiment, which, although stationed in villages, was not inferior to other cavalry regiments; for example, several people in it were dancing a mazurka, and two of the officers were playing bank. Ivan Fedorovich, however, kept to himself, preferring to clean buttons, read a fortune-telling book and place mousetraps in the corners. For serviceability, eleven years after receiving an ensign, he was promoted to second lieutenant. His mother died, his aunt took over the estate, and Ivan Fedorovich continued to serve. Finally, he received a letter from his aunt, in which, complaining about old age and infirmity, she asked him to take over the household. Ivan Fedorovich received his resignation with the rank of lieutenant and hired a carriage from Mogilev to Gadyach.

On the journey, which took a little over two weeks, “nothing too remarkable happened,” and only in a tavern near Gadyach did Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko make his acquaintance, who said he was a neighbor from the village of Khortyshe and was certainly inviting him to visit. Soon after this incident, Ivan Fedorovich was already at home, in the arms of Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna, whose corpulence and gigantic height do not really correspond to her complaints in the letter. The aunt regularly runs the household, and the nephew is constantly in the field with the reapers and mowers and sometimes becomes captivated by the beauty of nature that he forgets to taste his favorite dumplings. In between, the aunt notices that all the land behind their farm, and the village of Khortyshe itself, was registered by the former owner Stepan Kuzmich in the name of Ivan Fedorovich (for the reason that he visited Ivan Fedorovich’s mother long before his birth), there is a deed of gift somewhere - So Ivan Fedorovich goes to Khortysh after her and meets his acquaintance Storchenko there.

The hospitable owner locks the gate, unharnesses Ivan Fedorovich’s horses, but at the words about the deed of gift he suddenly becomes deaf and remembers the cockroach that once sat in his ear. He assures that there is no deed of gift and there never was, and, introducing him to his mother and sisters, he drags Ivan Fedorovich to the table, where he meets Ivan Ivanovich, whose head is sitting in high collar, “as if in a chaise.” During dinner, the guest is treated to turkey with such zeal that the waiter is forced to kneel, begging him to “take the stitch.” After dinner, the formidable owner goes to bed, and a lively conversation about making marshmallows, drying pears, cucumbers and sowing potatoes occupies the whole society, and even two young ladies, Storchenka’s sisters, take part in it. Having returned, Ivan Fedorovich retells his adventure to his aunt, and, extremely annoyed by the neighbor’s evasiveness, at the mention of the young ladies (especially the blond one), she is animated by a new plan. Thinking about her nephew “she’s still young,” she’s already mentally nursing her grandchildren and falls into complete absent-minded daydreaming. Finally they go to a neighbor's house together. Having started a conversation about buckwheat and taken the old lady away, she leaves Ivan Fedorovich alone with the young lady. Having exchanged, after a long silence, ideas about the number of flies in the summer, both fall hopelessly silent, and the conversation started by the aunt on the way back about the need for marriage unusually confuses Ivan Fedorovich. He dreams wonderful dreams: a wife with a goose face, and not one, but several, a wife in a hat, a wife in her pocket, a wife in her ear, a wife lifting him to the bell tower, since he is a bell, a wife who is not a person at all, but fashionable matter (“take your wives<...>Everyone now sews frock coats from it." The fortune-telling book can do nothing to help the timid Ivan Fedorovich, and the aunt has already “ripened a completely new plan,” which we are not destined to know, since the manuscript ends here.

IVAN FEDOROVICH SHPONKA AND HIS AUNT

There was a story about this story: Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka, who came from Gadyach, told us about it. You need to know that I have a memory, it’s impossible to say what kind of rubbish it is: say it, don’t say it, it’s all the same. The same as pouring water into a sieve. Knowing that he had such a sin, he deliberately asked him to write it down in his notebook. Well, God bless him, he was always a kind person to me, he took it and wrote it off. I put it on a small table; I think you know him well: he stands in the corner when you enter the door... Yes, I forgot that you were never with me. My old woman, with whom I have been living together for thirty years, has never learned to read and write; There’s no point in hiding it. I notice that she is baking pies on some kind of paper. She, dear readers, bakes pies surprisingly well; You won't have better pies anywhere. Once I looked at the back of the pie and saw: written words. As if my heart knew, I come to the table - not even half of my notebook is there! The rest of the leaves were all taken away for pies. What do you want me to do? You can't fight in your old age!

Last year I happened to pass through Gadyach. On purpose, before reaching the city, he tied a knot so as not to forget to ask Stepan Ivanovich about it. This is not enough: I made a promise from myself - as soon as I sneezed in the city, I would remember him. All in vain. He drove through the city, and sneezed, and blew his nose into a handkerchief, but forgot everything; Yes, I already remembered how I drove six miles away from the outpost. There was nothing to do, I had to type endlessly. However, if anyone definitely wants to know what is said later in this story, then he only needs to come to Gadyach on purpose and ask Stepan Ivanovich. He will tell it with great pleasure, at least, perhaps, again from beginning to end. He lives nearby near a stone church. There is now a small alley: as soon as you turn into the alley, there will be a second or third gate. Well, it’s better: when you see a large pole with a quail in the yard and a fat woman in a green skirt comes out to meet you (it doesn’t hurt to say that he leads a single life), then this is his yard. However, you can meet him at the market, where he is every morning until nine o’clock, chooses fish and greens for his table and talks with Father Antip or with the Jew tax farmer. You will recognize him immediately, because no one but him has colored trousers and a yellow Chinese frock coat. Here's another sign for you: when he walks, he always waves his arms. The late assessor there, Denis Petrovich, always used to see him from afar and say: “Look, look, there goes the windmill!”

I. IVAN FEDOROVICH SHPONKA

For four years now, Ivan Fedorovich Shponka has been retired and lives in his Vytrebenki farmstead. When he was still Vanyusha, he studied at the Gadyach district school, and it must be said that he was a well-behaved and diligent boy. The teacher of Russian grammar, Nikifor Timofeevich Communion, used to say that if everyone in his class were as diligent as Shponka, he would not carry a maple ruler with him to class, with which, as he himself admitted, he was tired of hitting the hands of sloths and naughty people. His notebook was always clean, lined all over, not a stain anywhere. He always sat quietly, with his hands folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and never hung pieces of paper on the back of his comrade sitting in front of him, did not cut the bench, and did not play with the tight woman before the teacher arrived. When someone needed a knife to sharpen a pen, he immediately turned to Ivan Fedorovich, knowing that he always had a knife; and Ivan Fedorovich, then just Vanyusha, took it out of a small leather case tied to a loop of his gray frock coat, and asked only not to scrape the pen with the tip of a knife, assuring that there was a blunt side for this. Such good behavior soon attracted the attention of even the Latin teacher himself, whom one cough in the hallway, before his frieze overcoat and his face, dotted with smallpox, stuck out at the door, struck fear into the whole class. This terrible teacher, who always had two bundles of rods on the pulpit and half of the students were on their knees, made Ivan Fedorovich an auditor, despite the fact that there were many in the class with much better abilities.

Here one cannot miss one incident that had an impact on his entire life. One of the students entrusted to him, in order to persuade his auditor to write scit for him on the list, while he did not know his lesson at all, brought to class a pancake wrapped in paper, doused in oil. Ivan Fedorovich, although he adhered to justice, was hungry at this time and could not resist the seduction: he took a pancake, put a book in front of him and began to eat. And I was so busy with this that I didn’t even notice how suddenly there was dead silence in the class. Only then did he wake up in horror when a terrible hand, reaching out from his frieze overcoat, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him into the middle of the class. “Give me the damn here! Give it to you, they tell you, you scoundrel!” - said the formidable teacher, grabbed the butter pancake with his fingers and threw it out the window, strictly forbidding the schoolchildren running around the yard to pick it up. After that, he immediately and painfully whipped Ivan Fedorovich’s hands. And the thing is: the hands are to blame, why did they take it, and not another part of the body. Be that as it may, only from then on the timidity, already inseparable from him, increased even more. Perhaps this very incident was the reason that he never had the desire to enter civilian service, seeing from experience that it is not always possible to bury loose ends.

He was already nearly fifteen years old when he moved to the second grade, where instead of an abbreviated catechism and the four rules of arithmetic, he began to study a lengthy one, a book about human positions and fractions. But, having seen that the further into the forest, the more firewood there was, and having received the news that the father had ordered him to live long, he stayed for another two years and, with the consent of his mother, then joined the P*** infantry regiment.

The P*** infantry regiment was not at all of the sort to which many infantry regiments belong; and, despite the fact that he mostly stood in the villages, he was on such a footing that he was not inferior to others and the cavalry. Most of the officers drank hard liquor and knew how to drag Jews by their sidelocks no worse than the hussars; several people even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the P*** regiment never missed an opportunity to notice this when talking with someone in society. “For me,” he usually said, patting himself on the belly after each word, “many people dance the mazurka; very many, sir; very many, sir.” To further show the readers the education of the P*** infantry regiment, we will add that two of the officers were terrible bank players and lost a uniform, a cap, an overcoat, a lanyard and even an underwear, which cannot be found everywhere and among cavalrymen.

Dealing with such comrades, however, did not in the least reduce Ivan Fedorovich’s timidity. And since he did not drink cold drinks, preferring a glass of vodka before lunch and dinner, did not dance mazurkas and did not play bank, then, naturally, he always had to remain alone. Thus, when others were driving around the small landowners in philistine cars, he, sitting in his apartment, practiced activities akin to one meek and kind soul: he cleaned buttons, then read a fortune-telling book, then set mousetraps in the corners of his room, then, finally Having taken off his uniform, he lay on the bed. But there was no one more serviceable than Ivan Fedorovich in the regiment. And he commanded his platoon in such a way that the company commander always held him up as a model. But soon, eleven years after receiving the rank of ensign, he was promoted to second lieutenant.

During this time, he received news that his mother had died; and his aunt, his mother’s sister, whom he knew only because she brought him in childhood and even sent him to Gadyach dried pears and delicious gingerbread cookies she made herself (she was in a quarrel with mother, and therefore Ivan Fedorovich did not see her after), - this aunt, out of her good nature, undertook to manage his small estate, which she notified him about in due time by letter. Ivan Fedorovich, being completely confident in his aunt’s prudence, began to perform his service as before. Someone else in his place, having received such a rank, would have become proud; but pride was completely unknown to him, and, having become a second lieutenant, he was the same Ivan Fedorovich as he had once been in the rank of ensign. Having stayed four years after this remarkable event for him, he was preparing to set out with a regiment from the Mogilev province to Great Russia, when he received a letter with the following content:

"Dear nephew,

Ivan Fedorovich!

I am sending you linen: five pairs of cotton slips and four shirts of thin linen; and I also want to talk to you about the matter: since you already have an important rank, which I think you know, and came at such an age that it’s time to take care of the household, then you have no need to serve in military service anymore. I’m already old and can’t look after everything in your household; and indeed, I have much to reveal to you personally. Come, Vanyusha; In anticipation of the true pleasure of seeing you, I remain your much-loving aunt.

Vasilisa Tsupchevska.

A wonderful turnip grew in our garden: it looks more like a potato than a turnip.”

A week after receiving this letter, Ivan Fedorovich wrote the following response:

“Dear Madam, Auntie

Vasilisa Kashporovna!

Thank you very much for sending the linen. Especially my carpets are so old that even the orderly darned them four times and that’s why they became very narrow. Regarding your opinion of my service, I completely agree with you and resigned on the third day. And as soon as I get fired, I’ll hire a cab driver. I couldn’t fulfill your previous commission regarding wheat seeds, Siberian Arnautka: there is no such thing in the entire Mogilev province. The pigs here are fed mostly with mash, mixing in a little of the beer they win.

With complete respect, dear lady aunt, I remain nephew

Ivan Shponka."

Finally, Ivan Fedorovich received his resignation with the rank of lieutenant, hired a Jew from Mogilev to Gadyach for forty rubles and got into the tent at the very time when the trees were dressed with young, still sparse leaves, the whole earth was brightly green with fresh greenery and the whole field smelled of spring.

II. ROAD

Nothing too remarkable happened on the road. We traveled for a little over two weeks. Perhaps Ivan Fedorovich would have arrived sooner, but the devout Jew went on Saturdays and, covered with his blanket, prayed all day.

However, Ivan Fedorovich, as I had the opportunity to notice before, was the kind of person who did not allow boredom to come to him. At that time, he untied the suitcase, took out the linen, examined it carefully: whether it was washed or folded correctly, carefully removed the fluff from the new uniform, sewn without shoulder straps, and again laid it all out in the best possible way. In general, he did not like to read books; and if he sometimes looked into a fortune-telling book, it was because he liked to meet there something familiar that he had already read several times. So a city dweller goes to the club every day, not to hear something new there, but to meet those friends with whom he has been accustomed to chatting in the club since time immemorial. So the official with great pleasure reads the address-calendar several times a day, not for any diplomatic undertakings, but he is extremely amused by the printed list of names. "A! Ivan Gavrilovich so and so! - he repeats dully to himself. - A! Here I am! hm!..” And the next time he rereads it again with the same exclamations.

After a two-week drive, Ivan Fedorovich reached a village located a hundred miles from Gadyach. It was on Friday. The sun had long since set when he rode into the inn with the wagon and the Jew.

This inn was no different from others built in small villages. They usually treat the traveler with hay and oats with great zeal, as if he were a post horse. But if he wanted to have breakfast, as decent people usually have breakfast, he would have kept his appetite intact until another occasion. Ivan Fedorovich, knowing all this, stocked up on two bundles of bagels and sausage in advance and, having asked for a glass of vodka, which is not lacking in any inn, began his dinner, sitting down on a bench in front of an oak table, motionless, dug into the clay floor.

During this time, the sound of the chaise was heard. The gates creaked; but the chaise did not enter the yard for a long time. A loud voice scolded the old woman who kept the inn. “I’ll drive in,” Ivan Fedorovich heard, “but if even one bug bites me in your hut, I’ll kill you, by God, I’ll kill you, old witch!” and I won’t give anything for the hay!”

A minute later the door opened and a fat man in a green frock coat walked in, or rather climbed in. His head rested motionless on his short neck, which seemed even thicker because of his two-story chin. It seemed, in appearance, that he belonged to those people who never racked their brains over trifles and whose whole life went swimmingly.

I wish you good health, dear sir! - he said when he saw Ivan Fedorovich.

Ivan Fedorovich bowed silently.

Let me ask, with whom do I have the honor of speaking? - continued the fat visitor.

During such an interrogation, Ivan Fedorovich involuntarily rose from his seat and stood at attention, which is what he usually did when the colonel asked him what.

Retired lieutenant, Ivan Fedorov Shponka,” he answered.

Do I dare ask what places you would like to go to?

To your own farm, sir, Vytrebenki.

You little bastards! - exclaimed the strict interrogator. - Allow me, dear sir, allow me! - he said, approaching him and waving his arms, as if someone was not letting him in or he was pushing through the crowd, and, approaching, he took Ivan Fedorovich into his arms and kissed him first on the right, then on the left, and then again on the right cheek . Ivan Fedorovich really liked this kiss, because his lips mistook the stranger’s large cheeks for soft pillows.

Allow me, dear sir, to meet you! - continued the fat man. - I am a landowner of the same Gadyachsky district and your neighbor. I live no further than five miles from your Vytrebenka farm, in the village of Khortyshche; and my last name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. Definitely, definitely, dear sir, and I don’t want to know you unless you come to visit the village of Khortyshche. Now I’m in a hurry when necessary... What is this? - he said in a meek voice to his footman who came in, a boy in a Cossack scroll with patched elbows, who was placing bundles and boxes on the table with a perplexed expression. - What is this? What? - and Grigory Grigorievich’s voice imperceptibly became more and more menacing. “Did I tell you to put this here, my dear?” Did I tell you to put this here, you scoundrel! Didn't I tell you to reheat the chicken ahead of time, you scammer? Let's go! - he cried, stamping his foot. - Wait, face! where is the cellar with damasks? Ivan Fedorovich! - he said, pouring tinctures into a glass, - I humbly ask for a medicinal one!

By God, sir, I can’t... I’ve already had a case... - Ivan Fedorovich said with a hesitation.

And I don’t want to listen, dear sir! - the landowner raised his voice, - and I don’t want to listen! I won’t leave my place until you eat...

Ivan Fedorovich, seeing that he could not refuse, drank with some pleasure.

This is a chicken, dear sir,” continued fat Grigory Grigorievich, cutting it with a knife in a wooden box. “I must tell you that my cook Yavdokha sometimes likes to whine and that’s why she often gets too dry.” Hey, boy! - here he turned to the boy in the Cossack scroll, who had brought a feather bed and pillows, - make a bed for me on the floor in the middle of the hut! Look, put the hay higher under the pillow! Yes, pull out a piece of hemp from the woman’s ear and plug my ears for the night! You need to know, dear sir, that I have been in the habit of plugging my ears at night since that damned incident when, in a Russian tavern, a cockroach crawled into my left ear. The damned Katsaps, as I later found out, even eat cabbage soup with cockroaches. It’s impossible to describe what happened to me: it’s tickling in my ear, it’s tickling... well, even on the wall! A simple old woman already helped me in our area. And what would you think? just whispering. What do you say, dear sir, about doctors? I think they are just fooling and fooling us. Some old woman knows all these doctors twenty times better.

Indeed, you deign to speak the absolute truth. It definitely happens differently... - Here he stopped, as if unable to find any more decent words.

It doesn’t hurt me to say here that he was not generous with his words at all. Perhaps this came from timidity, or perhaps from a desire to express myself more beautifully.

Well, shake the hay well! - Grigory Grigorievich said to his lackey. “The hay here is so disgusting that every moment a twig gets in.” Allow me, dear sir, to say good night! We won't see you tomorrow: I'm leaving before dawn. Your Jew will be running wild because tomorrow is Saturday, and therefore you have no reason to get up early. Do not forget my request; and I don’t want to know you until you come to the village of Khortyshche.

Then Grigory Grigorievich's valet pulled off his coat and boots and put on a robe instead, and Grigory Grigorievich fell onto the bed, and it seemed that a huge feather bed lay on another.

Hey, boy! where are you going, scoundrel? Come here, straighten the blanket for me! Hey, boy, scaffold the hay under your head! So, have the horses already been watered? More hay! here, under this side! Yes, correct it, scoundrel, make a good blanket! That's it, again! Oh!..

Here Grigory Grigorievich sighed twice more and let out a terrible nasal whistle throughout the room, snoring from time to time so that the old woman who had been dozing on the couch, waking up, suddenly looked with both eyes in all directions, but, not seeing anything, calmed down and fell asleep again.

The next day, when Ivan Fedorovich woke up, the fat landowner was no longer there. This was just one remarkable incident that happened to him on the road. On the third day after this, he approached his farm.

Then he felt that his heart began to beat strongly when a windmill appeared, flapping its wings, and when, as the Jew drove his nags up the mountain, a row of willows appeared below. The pond shone vividly and brightly through them and breathed freshness. Here he once swam, in this very pond he and his children once walked neck-deep in water for crayfish. The wagon pulled up to row, and Ivan Fedorovich saw the same old house, covered with an outline; the same apple and cherry trees that he once sneakily climbed. He had just entered the yard when dogs of all kinds came running from all sides: brown, black, gray, piebald. Some threw themselves at the horses' feet, barking, others ran behind, noticing that the axle was smeared with lard; one, standing near the kitchen and covering a bone with his paw, began to sing at the top of his lungs; another barked from a distance and ran back and forth, wagging his tail and as if saying: “Look, baptized people, what a wonderful young man I am!” Boys in soiled shirts ran to look. A pig, walking around the yard with sixteen piglets, raised its snout upward with an inquisitive look and grunted louder than usual. In the yard there were many rows of wheat, millet and barley lying on the ground, drying in the sun. There were also a lot of different kinds of herbs drying on the roof: peter’s batogs, nechu-vetra and others.

Ivan Fedorovich was so busy looking at this that he woke up only when the piebald dog bit the Jew who had climbed off the goat on the calf. The rushing servants, consisting of a cook, one woman and two girls in woolen underpants, after the first exclamations: “That’s our gentleman!”- announced that the aunt was planting wheat in the garden, together with the girl Palashka and the coachman Omelko, who often filled the position of gardener and watchman. But the aunt, who had seen the matting tent from afar, was already here. And Ivan Fedorovich was amazed when she almost lifted him in her arms, as if not trusting whether this was the same aunt who wrote to him about her decrepitude and illness.

III. AUNTIE

Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna at that time was about fifty years old. She was never married and usually said that the life of a girl was most precious to her. However, as far as I remember, no one matched her. This happened because all the men felt some kind of timidity in front of her and did not have the courage to confess to her. “Vasilisa Kashporovna is very characterful!” - the suitors said, and they were absolutely right, because Vasilisa Kashporovna knew how to make anyone quieter than grass. She, with her own courageous hand every day tugging at his forelock, knew how to turn the drunken miller, who was completely good for nothing, into gold, and not into a man, without any extraneous means. Her height was almost gigantic, her stature and strength were completely proportionate. It seemed that nature had made an unforgivable mistake in deciding that she should wear a dark brown bonnet with small frills on weekdays and a red cashmere shawl on Easter Sunday and her name day, when a dragoon mustache and long boots would have suited her best. But her activities were completely consistent with her appearance: she rode a boat herself, rowing with an oar more skillfully than any fisherman; shot game; stood constantly over the mowers; knew off and on the number of melons and watermelons on the tower; she took a toll of five kopecks from a cart that passed through her row; she climbed a tree and shook pears, beat lazy vassals with her terrible hand and offered the worthy a glass of vodka from the same terrible hand. Almost at the same time she scolded, dyed yarn, ran to the kitchen, made kvass, cooked honey jam and bustled all day and kept up with everything. The consequence of this was that Ivan Fedorovich’s small estate, which consisted of eighteen souls at the last revision, flourished in the full sense of the word. Moreover, she loved her nephew too dearly and carefully collected a penny for him.

Upon arrival home, Ivan Fedorovich’s life changed decisively and took a completely different path. It seemed that nature had created him specifically to manage an eighteen-person estate. The aunt herself noted that he would be a good owner, although, however, she did not allow him to interfere in all branches of the economy. " The big thing is still young,- she usually used to say, despite the fact that Ivan Fedorovich was almost forty years old, “how does he know everything!”

However, he was constantly in the field with the reapers and mowers, and this gave inexplicable pleasure to his meek soul. A unanimous wave of a dozen or more shiny braids; the sound of grass falling in orderly rows; the occasional songs of the reapers, sometimes cheerful, like welcoming guests, sometimes mournful, like parting; a calm, clean evening, and what an evening! how free and fresh the air is! How alive everything was then: the steppe turns red, blue and ablaze with flowers; quails, bustards, seagulls, grasshoppers, thousands of insects, and from them whistle, buzz, crackle, scream and suddenly a harmonious chorus; and everything is not silent for a minute. And the sun sets and disappears. Uh! how fresh and good! Across the field, here and there, lights are laid out and cauldrons are placed, and mustachioed mowers sit around the cauldrons; Steam is wafting from the dumplings. Twilight is turning grey... It is difficult to tell what was happening to Ivan Fedorovich then. When he joined the mowers, he forgot to taste their dumplings, which he loved very much, and stood motionless in one place, watching with his eyes the seagull disappearing in the sky or counting the piles of acquired bread that were humiliating the field.

In a short time, people started talking about Ivan Fedorovich everywhere as a great owner. The aunt couldn’t get enough of her nephew and never missed an opportunity to show him off. One day - it was already after the end of the harvest, and precisely at the end of July - Vasilisa Kashporovna, taking Ivan Fedorovich by the hand with a mysterious look, said that she now wanted to talk to him about a matter that had been occupying her for a long time .

You, dear Ivan Fedorovich,” she began, “know that there are eighteen souls in your farm; however, this is according to the audit, and without that, maybe there will be more, maybe up to twenty-four. But that's not the point. You know that forest that is behind our levada, and, probably, you know behind the same forest a wide meadow: there are almost twenty dessiatines in it; and there is so much grass that you can sell more than a hundred rubles every year, especially if, as they say, there will be a cavalry regiment in Gadyach.

Well, sir, auntie, I know: the grass is very good.

I myself know that I am very good; but do you know that all this land is truly yours? Why are your eyes bulging out so much? Listen, Ivan Fedorovich! Do you remember Stepan Kuzmich? What I say: remember! You were so small then that you couldn’t even pronounce his name; where to go! I remember when I arrived at the very clearing, in front of Filippovka, and took you in my arms, you almost ruined my whole dress; Fortunately, I managed to hand you over to mother Matryona. You were so nasty back then!.. But that’s not the point. All the land behind our farm, and the village of Khortyshche itself, belonged to Stepan Kuzmich. I must tell you that before you were in the world, he began to visit your mother; True, at a time when your father was not at home. But I, however, do not say this as a reproach to her. God rest her soul! - although the deceased was always wrong against me. But that's not the point. Be that as it may, only Stepan Kuzmich made a deed of gift for you on the very estate that I told you about. But your late mother, let it be said between us, had a wonderful disposition. The devil himself, God forgive me for this vile word, could not understand her. Where she made this recording - only God knows. I simply think that she is in the hands of this old bachelor Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. This pot-bellied scoundrel got his entire estate. I'm ready to bet God knows what if he didn't hide the records.

Allow me to report, auntie: isn’t this the same Storchenko I met at the station?

Here Ivan Fedorovich told about his meeting.

Who knows! - Auntie answered, after thinking a little. - Maybe he is not a scoundrel. True, he only moved to live with us for six months; at such a time you don’t recognize a person. The old woman, his mother, I heard, is a very intelligent woman and, they say, a great skill at pickling cucumbers. Her girls know how to make their own carpets very well. But since you say that he received you well, then go to him! Perhaps the old sinner will obey his conscience and give away what does not belong to him. Perhaps you can go in a britzka, only the damned child pulled out all the nails from behind. It will be necessary to tell the coachman Omelka to nail down better leather everywhere.

For what, auntie? I'll take the cart in which you sometimes go to shoot game.

This ended the conversation.

At lunchtime, Ivan Fedorovich entered the village of Khortyshche and became a little timid when he began to approach the master’s house. This house was long and not under a fence, like many district landowners, but under a wooden roof. Two barns in the yard are also under a wooden roof; oak gates. Ivan Fedorovich looked like that dandy who, having stopped by a ball, sees everyone, wherever he looks, dressed more dapper than him. Out of respect, he stopped his cart near the barn and walked up to the porch.

A! Ivan Fedorovich! - shouted fat Grigory Grigorievich, walking around the yard in a frock coat, but without a tie, vest and suspenders. However, even this outfit seemed to burden his corpulence, because sweat rolled off him like a hail. - Why did you say that now, as soon as you see your aunt, you’ll come, but you didn’t come? - After these words, Ivan Fedorovich’s lips met the same familiar pillows.

Mostly housework... I came to you for a minute, actually on business...

For a minute? This won't happen. Hey, boy! - the fat owner shouted, and the same boy in a Cossack scroll ran out of the kitchen. - Tell Kasyan to lock the gate now, do you hear, lock it tighter! And I could unharness this gentleman’s horses this very minute! Please go to the room; It's so hot here that my whole shirt is wet.

Ivan Fedorovich, entering the room, decided not to waste time and, despite his timidity, to attack decisively.

Auntie had the honor... to tell me that the deed of gift of the late Stepan Kuzmich...

It is difficult to imagine what an unpleasant expression Grigory Grigorievich’s broad face made at these words.

By God, I don’t hear anything! - he answered. - I must tell you that there was a cockroach in my left ear. In Russian huts, the damned katsaps bred cockroaches everywhere. It is impossible to describe with any pen what kind of torment it was. So it tickles, and it tickles. One old woman already helped me with the simplest means...

I wanted to say... - Ivan Fedorovich dared to interrupt, seeing that Grigory Grigorievich deliberately wanted to turn the conversation to something else, - that the will of the late Stepan Kuzmich mentions, so to speak, a deed of gift... it follows, with me...

I know your aunt managed to tell you this. This is a lie, by God, a lie! My uncle did not make any deed of gift. Although, it is true, the will does mention some kind of entry; but where is she? no one introduced her. I am telling you this because I sincerely wish you well. By God, this is a lie!

Ivan Fedorovich fell silent, reasoning that perhaps it was really just his aunt’s imagination.

And here comes my mother and her sisters! - said Grigory Grigorievich, - therefore, dinner is ready. Let's go! - At the same time, he dragged Ivan Fedorovich by the hand into the room in which vodka and snacks stood on the table.

At that same time, an old woman came in, short, a perfect coffee pot in a cap, with two young ladies - blond and black-haired. Ivan Fedorovich, like a well-mannered gentleman, approached first the old lady’s hand, and then the hands of both young ladies.

This, mother, is our neighbor, Ivan Fedorovich Shponka! - said Grigory Grigorievich.

The old woman looked intently at Ivan Fedorovich, or perhaps she only seemed to be looking. However, it was complete kindness. It seemed like she wanted to ask Ivan Fedorovich: how many cucumbers do you pickle for the winter?

Did you drink vodka? - asked the old lady.

“You, mother, probably didn’t get enough sleep,” said Grigory Grigorievich, “who asks the guest if he drank?” You only serve; whether we drank or not is our business. Ivan Fedorovich! Please, centaury or Trochimov's fusel, which one do you like better? Ivan Ivanovich, why are you standing there? - said Grigory Grigorievich, turning back, and Ivan Fedorovich saw Ivan Ivanovich approaching the vodka, in a long frock coat with a huge standing collar that covered the entire back of his head, so that his head sat in the collar, as if in a chaise.

Ivan Ivanovich went up to the vodka, rubbed his hands, took a good look at the glass, poured it, held it up to the light, poured all the vodka from the glass into his mouth at once, but without swallowing it, rinsed it thoroughly in his mouth, after which he swallowed it; and, having eaten some bread and salted honey mushrooms, turned to Ivan Fedorovich.

Is it not Ivan Fedorovich, Mr. Shponka, with whom I have the honor of speaking?

“That’s right, sir,” answered Ivan Fedorovich.

A lot has deigned to change since I knew you. Why,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, “I still remember you like this!” - At the same time, he raised his palm a yard from the floor. - Your late father, may God grant him the kingdom of heaven, was a rare person. He always had watermelons and melons that you can’t find anywhere now. If only here,” he continued, taking him aside, “they will serve you melons at the table.” What kind of melons are these? - I don’t want to look! Would you believe, my dear sir, that he had watermelons,” he said with a mysterious look, spreading his arms, as if he wanted to clasp a thick tree, “by God, these are what they are!”

Let's go to the table! - said Grigory Grigorievich, taking Ivan Fedorovich by the hand.

Everyone went out to the dining room. Grigory Grigoryevich sat down in his usual place, at the end of the table, hanging himself with a huge napkin and in this appearance resembling those heroes whom barbers draw on their signs. Ivan Fedorovich, blushing, sat down in the place indicated to him opposite the two young ladies; and Ivan Ivanovich did not fail to sit next to him, rejoicing mentally that he would have someone to share his knowledge with.

You took the cupric in vain, Ivan Fedorovich! It's turkey! - said the old woman, turning to Ivan Fedorovich, who at that time was brought a dish by a village waiter in a gray tailcoat with a black patch. - Take the back!

Mother! After all, no one is asking you to interfere! - said Grigory Grigorievich. - Be sure that the guest knows what to take! Ivan Fedorovich, take the wing, the other one, with the navel! Why did you take so little? Take a quilt! Did you open your mouth with the dish? Ask! Get down, you scoundrel, on your knees! Say now: “Ivan Fedorovich, take the stitch!”

Ivan Fedorovich, take your whip! - the waiter roared, kneeling down with the dish.

Hmm, what kind of turkey is this! - Ivan Ivanovich said in a low voice with an air of disdain, turning to his neighbor. - Is this how turkeys should be? If only you could see my turkeys! I assure you that there is more fat in one than in a dozen like these. Would you believe, my lord, that it’s even disgusting to look at them walking around my yard, so fat!..

Ivan Ivanovich, you're lying! - said Grigory Grigorievich, listening to his speech.

“I’ll tell you,” Ivan Ivanovich continued in the same way to his neighbor, pretending that he had not heard Grigory Grigorievich’s words, “that last year, when I sent them to Gadyach, they gave them fifty kopecks apiece. And I still didn’t want to take it.

Ivan Ivanovich, I’m telling you that you’re lying! - Grigory Grigorievich said, for better clarity - in words and louder than before.

But Ivan Ivanovich, pretending that this did not apply to him at all, continued in the same way, only much more quietly.

Exactly, my lord, I didn’t want to take it. In Gadyach, not a single landowner...

Ivan Ivanovich! “You’re stupid, and nothing more,” Grigory Grigorievich said loudly. “After all, Ivan Fedorovich knows all this better than you and probably won’t believe you.”

Here Ivan Ivanovich became completely offended, fell silent and began to remove the turkey, despite the fact that it was not as fat as those that are disgusting to look at.

The clatter of knives, spoons and plates replaced conversation for a while; but the loudest sound was Grigory Grigorievich's smearing of lamb bone marrow.

“Have you read,” Ivan Ivanovich asked after some silence, sticking his head out of his chaise towards Ivan Fedorovich, “the book “Korobeinikov’s Journey to Holy Places”? A true delight for the soul and heart! Nowadays such books are not published. I’m very sorry that I didn’t watch what year.

Ivan Fedorovich, having heard that it was about a book, diligently began to pour himself some sauce.

It’s truly amazing, my lord, when you think that a simple tradesman has walked through all these places. More than three thousand miles, my sir! More than three thousand miles. Indeed, God himself granted him the opportunity to visit Palestine and Jerusalem.

So you’re saying that he,” said Ivan Fedorovich, who had heard a lot about Jerusalem from his orderly, “was also in Jerusalem?..

What are you talking about, Ivan Fedorovich? - Grigory Grigorievich said from the end of the table.

That is, I had the opportunity to notice that what distant countries there are in the world! - said Ivan Fedorovich, being heartily pleased that he had uttered such a long and difficult phrase.

Don't believe him, Ivan Fedorovich! - said Grigory Grigorievich, without listening carefully, - he’s all lying!

Meanwhile, lunch was over. Grigory Grigorievich went to his room, as usual, to snore a little; and the guests followed the old hostess and the young ladies into the living room, where the very table on which they had left vodka when they went out to dinner, as if by some kind of transformation, was covered with saucers with different types of jam and dishes with watermelons, cherries and melons.

The absence of Grigory Grigorievich was noticeable in everything. The hostess became more talkative and revealed herself, without asking, many secrets about making marshmallows and drying pears. Even the young ladies began to talk; but the fair one, who seemed six years younger than her sister and who looked to be about twenty-five years old, was more silent.

But Ivan Ivanovich spoke and acted most of all. Confident that now no one would knock him down or mix him up, he talked about cucumbers, and about sowing potatoes, and about how reasonable people were in the old days - how different from those of today! - and how everything gets smarter and comes to inventing the wisest things. In a word, he was one of those people who with the greatest pleasure love to engage in soul-delighting conversation and will talk about everything that can be talked about. If the conversation concerned important and pious subjects, then Ivan Ivanovich sighed after each word, nodding his head slightly; if it was about household chores, he stuck his head out of his chaise and made such faces, looking at which, it seemed, one could read how to make pear kvass, how big those melons he was talking about, and how fat those geese that run around him around the yard.

Finally, with great difficulty, already in the evening, Ivan Fedorovich managed to say goodbye; and, despite his tractability and the fact that he was forcibly left to spend the night, he still persisted in his intention to go and left.

V. AUNT'S NEW DESIGN

Well? lured the old villain out of the recording? - Ivan Fedorovich was greeted with this question by his aunt, who had been impatiently waiting for him on the porch for several hours and finally could not stand it so as not to run out of the gate.

No, auntie! - said Ivan Fedorovich, getting off the cart, - Grigory Grigorievich does not have any record.

And you believed him! He's lying, damn it! Someday I’ll really beat him with my own hands. Oh, I'll spare him some fat! However, we need to talk to our defendant in advance, whether it is possible to demand the court from him... But this is not the point now. Well, was it a good lunch?

Very... yes, very much, auntie.

Well, what were the dishes, tell me? The old woman, I know, is a master at looking after the kitchen.

The cheesecakes were covered in sour cream, auntie. Sauce with pigeons, polished...

Was there turkey with plums? - asked the aunt, because she herself was a great expert in preparing this dish.

There was also an Indian!.. Very beautiful young ladies, Grigory Grigorievich’s sisters, especially the blond one!

A! - said the aunt and looked intently at Ivan Fedorovich, who, blushing, lowered his eyes to the ground. A new thought quickly flashed through her head. - Well? - she asked curiously and lively, - what kind of eyebrows do she have?

It doesn’t hurt to notice that Auntie always placed the first beauty of a woman in her eyebrows.

The eyebrows, auntie, are exactly the same as you said you had in your youth. And there are small freckles all over my face.

A! - said the aunt, being pleased with Ivan Fedorovich’s remark, who, however, had no intention of saying a compliment. - What kind of dress was she wearing? although, however, now it is difficult to find such dense materials as, for example, I have on this hood. But that's not the point. Well, did you talk to her about anything?

That is, how?.. I, sir, auntie? You may already be thinking...

So what? What's strange here? God wants it that way! Maybe you and her were destined to live as a couple.

I don't know, auntie, how you can say this. This proves that you don't know me at all...

Well, I’m already offended! - said the aunt. " The dytyna is still young,- she thought to herself, - she doesn’t know anything! we need to bring them together, let them get acquainted!”

Then the aunt went to look into the kitchen and left Ivan Fedorovich. But from that time on, she only thought about how to see her nephew married as soon as possible and take care of her little granddaughters. Only preparations for the wedding were piled up in her head, and it was noticeable that she was fussing about all her affairs much more than before, although, however, these things were going worse rather than better. Often, when making some kind of cake, which she never trusted the cook in general, she, having forgotten herself and imagining that her little granddaughter was standing next to her asking for a pie, absentmindedly extended her hand to him with the best piece, and the yard dog, taking advantage of this, grabbed the tasty one. piece and with its loud swaggering brought her out of her thoughts, for which she was always beaten with a poker. She even abandoned her favorite pastimes and did not go hunting, especially when instead of a partridge she shot a crow, which had never happened to her before.

Finally, four days later, everyone saw a chaise rolled out of the barn into the yard. The coachman Omelko, who is also a gardener and watchman, had been hammering and nailing leather since early morning, constantly driving away the dogs that were licking the wheels. I consider it my duty to warn readers that this was exactly the same britzka in which Adam still rode; and therefore, if anyone passes off another as Adam’s, then this is a complete lie and the britzka is certainly fake. It is completely unknown how she escaped the flood. It must be thought that in Noah's Ark there was a special shed for her. It is a great pity that readers cannot vividly describe her figures. Suffice it to say that Vasilisa Kashporovna was very pleased with its architecture and always expressed regret that ancient carriages had fallen out of fashion. She really liked the design of the chaise, slightly on one side, that is, so that its right side was much higher than the left, because, as she said, a short person could get in on one side, and a tall one on the other. However, about five small people and three people like my aunt could fit inside the chaise.

Around noon, Omelko, having managed near the chaise, led three horses out of the stable, a little younger than the chaise, and began tying them with a rope to the majestic carriage. Ivan Fedorovich and his aunt, one on the left side, the other on the right, climbed into the chaise, and it started moving.

The men who came across on the road, seeing such a rich carriage (my aunt very rarely traveled in it), stopped respectfully, took off their hats and bowed at the waist. About two hours later the wagon stopped in front of the porch - I don’t think there is any need to say: in front of the porch of Storchenko’s house. Grigory Grigorievich was not at home. The old lady and the young ladies went out to meet the guests in the dining room. The aunt approached with a majestic step, with great dexterity she put one foot forward and said loudly:

I am very glad, my lady, that I have the honor to personally convey my respects to you. And along with the respect, allow me to thank you for your hospitality to my nephew Ivan Fedorovich, who boasts about it a lot. Your buckwheat is wonderful, madam! I saw her as I approached the village. Let me know how many kopecks you get from your tithe?

After this there followed a general kiss. When they sat down in the living room, the old hostess began:

I can’t tell you about buckwheat: this is Grigory Grigorievich’s part. I haven't done this for a long time; Yes, I can’t: I’m already old! In the old days, I remember, we used to have buckwheat up to our waists, now God knows what. Although, however, they say that everything is better now. - Here the old woman sighed; and some observer would have heard in this sigh the sigh of the ancient eighteenth century.

“I heard, my lady, that your own girls are excellent at making carpets,” said Vasilisa Kashporovna, and this touched the old lady’s most sensitive chord. At these words, she seemed to come to life, and her speeches flowed about how yarn should be dyed, how to prepare thread for this. The conversation quickly moved from the carpets to pickling cucumbers and drying pears. In a word, not an hour had passed before both ladies started talking to each other as if they had known each other for centuries. Vasilisa Kashporovna had already begun to talk to her a lot in such a quiet voice that Ivan Fedorovich could not hear anything.

Would you like to take a look? - said the old housewife, getting up.

The young ladies and Vasilisa Kashporovna stood behind her, and everyone headed to the girls’ room. Auntie, however, gave a sign to Ivan Fedorovich to stay and said something quietly to the old woman.

Mashenka! - said the old lady, turning to the blond young lady, - stay with the guest and talk to him so that the guest does not get bored!

The blond young lady stayed and sat on the sofa. Ivan Fedorovich sat in his chair as if on pins and needles, blushed and lowered his eyes; but the young lady did not seem to notice this at all and sat indifferently on the sofa, diligently examining the windows and walls or following with her eyes the cat that cowardly ran under the chairs.

Ivan Fedorovich cheered up a little and wanted to start a conversation; but it seemed that he lost all his words on the road. Not a single thought came to mind.

The silence lasted for about a quarter of an hour. The young lady was still sitting there.

Finally, Ivan Fedorovich gathered his courage.

There are a lot of flies in summer, madam! - he said in a half-trembling voice.

Extremely many! - answered the young lady. - Brother deliberately made a firecracker out of his mother’s old shoe; but still a lot.

Here the conversation stopped again. And Ivan Fedorovich could no longer find words.

Finally, the hostess, her aunt and the dark-haired young lady returned. After talking a little more, Vasilisa Kashporovna said goodbye to the old woman and the young ladies, despite all the invitations to stay overnight. The old woman and the young ladies went out onto the porch to see off the guests and for a long time bowed to their aunt and nephew, who were looking out of the chaise.

Well, Ivan Fedorovich! What were you talking about with the young lady? - asked the dear aunt.

A very modest and well-behaved girl Marya Grigorievna! - said Ivan Fedorovich.

Listen, Ivan Fedorovich! I want to talk to you seriously. After all, thank God, you are thirty-eighth year old. You already have a good rank. It's time to think about children! You definitely need a wife...

How, auntie! - Ivan Fedorovich cried out, frightened. - As a wife! No, auntie, do me a favor... You bring me to complete shame... I have never been married before... I don’t know at all what to do with her!

You’ll find out, Ivan Fedorovich, you’ll find out,” said the aunt, smiling, and thought to herself: “ “Where to go!” Let’s call him a young lady, she doesn’t know anything!”- Yes, Ivan Fedorovich! - she continued aloud, - you cannot find a better wife like Marya Grigorievna. You really liked her, too. We have already talked a lot about this with the old woman: she is very glad to see you as her son-in-law; It is still unknown, however, what this sinner Grigorievich will say. But we will not look at him, and even if he decides not to give the dowry, we will judge him...

At this time the chaise drove up to the yard, and the ancient nags came to life, sensing a nearby stall.

Listen, Omelko! Give the horses a good rest first, and don’t immediately lead them, unharnessed, to the watering hole! they are hot horses. Well, Ivan Fedorovich,” the aunt continued, getting out, “I advise you to think carefully about this.” I still need to run into the kitchen, I forgot to order dinner for Solokha, and she’s worthless, I don’t think she even thought about it.

But Ivan Fedorovich stood as if stunned by thunder. True, Marya Grigorievna is a very good young lady; but to get married!.. it seemed so strange to him, so wonderful that he could not think about it without fear. Living with my wife!.. it’s incomprehensible! He will not be alone in his room, but there must be two of them everywhere!.. Sweat appeared on his face, the deeper he went into thought.

He went to bed earlier than usual, but, despite all his efforts, he could not fall asleep. Finally, the desired sleep, this universal calmer, visited him; but what a dream! He had never seen more incoherent dreams. Then he dreamed that everything was noisy and spinning around him, and he was running, running, not feeling his legs under him... now he was exhausted... Suddenly someone grabbed him by the ear.

“Ay! who is this?" - “It’s me, your wife!” - a voice told him noisily. And he suddenly woke up. It seemed to him that he was already married, that everything in their house was so wonderful, so strange: in his room there was a double bed instead of a single one. The wife is sitting on the chair. He feels strange; he doesn’t know how to approach her, what to say to her, and notices that she has a goose-like face. He accidentally turns to the side and sees another wife, also with a goose face. He turns in the other direction - the third wife is standing. Back - another wife. Here he becomes sad. He started running into the garden; but it's hot in the garden. He took off his hat and saw: his wife was sitting in the hat. Sweat appeared on his face. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief - and there was his wife in his pocket; took the cotton paper out of his ear - and his wife was sitting there... Then suddenly he was jumping on one leg, and the aunt, looking at him, said with an important look: “Yes, you should jump, because you are now a married man.” He comes to her - but auntie is no longer auntie, but a bell tower. And he feels that someone is dragging him with a rope to the bell tower. “Who is this that is dragging me?” - Ivan Fedorovich said plaintively. “It’s me, your wife, who’s dragging you because you’re the bell.” - “No, I’m not a bell, I’m Ivan Fedorovich!” - he shouted. “Yes, you are a bell,” said Colonel P*** of the infantry regiment as he passed by. Then he suddenly dreamed that his wife was not a person at all, but some kind of woolen material; that he comes to a merchant’s shop in Mogilev. “Which matter do you order? - says the merchant. - Take your wife, this is the most fashionable matter! very nice! Everyone now sews frock coats from it.” The merchant measures and cuts his wife. Ivan Fedorovich takes it under his arm and goes to the Jew, the tailor. “No,” says the Jew, “this is bad matter! No one sews a frock coat out of it...”

Ivan Fedorovich woke up in fear and unconsciousness. Cold sweat poured from him like hail.

As soon as he got up in the morning, he immediately turned to the fortune-telling book, at the end of which one virtuous bookseller, out of his rare kindness and selflessness, placed an abbreviated dream book. But there was absolutely nothing there, even a little like such an incoherent dream.

Meanwhile, a completely new plan has matured in the aunt’s head, which you will learn about in the next chapter.

Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol

Ivan Fedorovich Shponka and his aunt

There was a story about this story: Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka, who came from Gadyach, told us about it. You need to know that I have a memory, it’s impossible to say what kind of rubbish it is: say it, don’t say it, it’s all the same. The same as pouring water into a sieve. Knowing that he had such a sin, he deliberately asked him to write it down in his notebook. Well, God bless him, he was always a kind person to me, he took it and wrote it off. I put it on a small table; I think you know him well: he stands in the corner when you enter the door... Yes, I forgot that you were never with me. My old woman, with whom I have been living together for thirty years, has never learned to read and write; There’s no point in hiding it. I notice that she is baking pies on some kind of paper. She, dear readers, bakes pies surprisingly well; You won't have better pies anywhere. Once I looked at the back of the pie and saw: written words. As if my heart knew, I come to the table - not even half of my notebook is there! The rest of the leaves were all taken away for pies. What do you want me to do? You can't fight in your old age!

Last year I happened to pass through Gadyach. On purpose, before reaching the city, he tied a knot so as not to forget to ask Stepan Ivanovich about it. This is not enough: I made a promise from myself - as soon as I sneezed in the city, I would remember him. All in vain. He drove through the city, and sneezed, and blew his nose into a handkerchief, but forgot everything; Yes, I already remembered how I drove six miles away from the outpost. There was nothing to do, I had to type endlessly. However, if anyone definitely wants to know what is said later in this story, then he only needs to come to Gadyach on purpose and ask Stepan Ivanovich. He will tell it with great pleasure, at least, perhaps, again from beginning to end. He lives nearby near a stone church. There is now a small alley: as soon as you turn into the alley, there will be a second or third gate. Well, it’s better: when you see a large pole with a quail in the yard and a fat woman in a green skirt comes out to meet you (it doesn’t hurt to say that he leads a single life), then this is his yard. However, you can meet him at the market, where he is every morning until nine o’clock, chooses fish and greens for his table and talks with Father Antip or with the Jew tax farmer. You will recognize him immediately, because no one but him has colored trousers and a yellow Chinese frock coat. Here's another sign for you: when he walks, he always waves his arms. The late assessor there, Denis Petrovich, always used to see him from afar and say: “Look, look, there goes the windmill!”

I. Ivan Fedorovich Shponka

For four years now, Ivan Fedorovich Shponka has been retired and lives in his Vytrebenki farmstead. When he was still Vanyusha, he studied at the Gadyach district school, and it must be said that he was a well-behaved and diligent boy. The teacher of Russian grammar, Nikifor Timofeevich Communion, used to say that if everyone in his class were as diligent as Shponka, he would not carry a maple ruler with him to class, with which, as he himself admitted, he was tired of hitting the hands of sloths and naughty people. His notebook was always clean, lined all over, not a stain anywhere. He always sat quietly, with his hands folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and never hung pieces of paper on the back of his friend sitting in front of him, did not cut the bench, and did not play with the tight woman before the teacher arrived. When someone needed a knife to sharpen a pen, he immediately turned to Ivan Fedorovich, knowing that he always had a knife; and Ivan Fedorovich, then just Vanyusha, took it out of a small leather case tied to a loop of his gray frock coat, and asked only not to scrape the pen with the tip of a knife, assuring that there was a blunt side for this. Such good behavior soon attracted the attention of even the Latin teacher himself, whom one cough in the hallway, before his frieze overcoat and his face, dotted with smallpox, stuck out at the door, struck fear into the whole class. This terrible teacher, who always had two bundles of rods on the pulpit and half of the students were on their knees, made Ivan Fedorovich an auditor, despite the fact that there were many in the class with much better abilities.

Here one cannot miss one incident that had an impact on his entire life. One of the students entrusted to him, in order to persuade his auditor to write scit for him on the list, while he did not know his lesson at all, brought to class a pancake wrapped in paper, doused in oil. Ivan Fedorovich, although he adhered to justice, was hungry at this time and could not resist the seduction: he took a pancake, put a book in front of him and began to eat. And I was so busy with this that I didn’t even notice how suddenly there was dead silence in the class. Only then did he wake up in horror when a terrible hand, reaching out from his frieze overcoat, grabbed him by the ear and pulled him into the middle of the class. “Give me the damn here! Give it to you, they tell you, you scoundrel!” - said the formidable teacher, grabbed the butter pancake with his fingers and threw it out the window, strictly forbidding the schoolchildren running around the yard to pick it up. After that, he immediately and painfully whipped Ivan Fedorovich’s hands. And the thing is: the hands are to blame, why did they take it, and not another part of the body. Be that as it may, only from then on the timidity, already inseparable from him, increased even more. Perhaps this very incident was the reason that he never had the desire to enter civilian service, seeing from experience that it is not always possible to bury loose ends.

He was already nearly fifteen years old when he moved to the second grade, where instead of an abbreviated catechism and the four rules of arithmetic, he began to study a lengthy one, a book about human positions and fractions. But, having seen that the further into the forest, the more firewood there was, and having received the news that the father had ordered him to live long, he stayed for another two years and, with the consent of his mother, then joined the P*** infantry regiment.

The P*** infantry regiment was not at all of the sort to which many infantry regiments belong; and, despite the fact that he mostly stood in the villages, he was on such a footing that he was not inferior to others and the cavalry. Most of the officers drank hard liquor and knew how to drag Jews by their sidelocks no worse than the hussars; several people even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the P*** regiment never missed an opportunity to notice this when talking with someone in society. “For me,” he usually said, patting himself on the belly after each word, “many people dance the mazurka; very many, sir; very many, sir.” To further show the readers the education of the P*** infantry regiment, we will add that two of the officers were terrible bank players and lost a uniform, a cap, an overcoat, a lanyard and even an underwear, which cannot be found everywhere and among cavalrymen.

Dealing with such comrades, however, did not in the least reduce Ivan Fedorovich’s timidity. And since he did not drink cold drinks, preferring a glass of vodka before lunch and dinner, did not dance mazurkas and did not play bank, then, naturally, he always had to remain alone. Thus, when others were driving around the small landowners in philistine cars, he, sitting in his apartment, practiced activities akin to one meek and kind soul: he cleaned buttons, then read a fortune-telling book, then set mousetraps in the corners of his room, then, finally Having taken off his uniform, he lay on the bed. But there was no one more serviceable than Ivan Fedorovich in the regiment. And he commanded his platoon in such a way that the company commander always held him up as a model. But soon, eleven years after receiving the rank of ensign, he was promoted to second lieutenant.

During this time, he received news that his mother had died; and his aunt, his mother’s sister, whom he knew only because she brought him in childhood and even sent him to Gadyach dried pears and delicious gingerbread cookies she made herself (she was in a quarrel with mother, and therefore Ivan Fedorovich did not see her after), - this aunt, out of her good nature, undertook to manage his small estate, which she notified him about in due time by letter. Ivan Fedorovich, being completely confident in his aunt’s prudence, began to perform his service as before. Someone else in his place, having received such a rank, would have become proud; but pride was completely unknown to him, and, having become a second lieutenant, he was the same Ivan Fedorovich as he had once been in the rank of ensign. Having stayed four years after this remarkable event for him, he was preparing to set out with a regiment from the Mogilev province to Great Russia, when he received a letter with the following content:

"Dear nephew,

Ivan Fedorovich!

I am sending you linen: five pairs of cotton slips and four shirts of thin linen; and I also want to talk to you about the matter: since you already have an important rank, which I think you know, and came at such an age that it’s time to take care of the household, then you have no need to serve in military service anymore. I’m already old and can’t look after everything in your household; and indeed, I have much to reveal to you personally. Come, Vanyusha; in anticipation of the real pleasure of seeing you, I remain your much-loving aunt

A wonderful turnip grew in our garden: it looks more like a potato than a turnip.”

A week after receiving this letter, Ivan Fedorovich wrote the following response:

“Dear Madam, Auntie

Vasilisa Kashporovna!

Thank you very much for sending the linen. Especially my carpets are so old that even the orderly darned them four times and that’s why they became very narrow. Regarding your opinion of my service, I completely agree with you and resigned on the third day. And as soon as I get fired, I’ll hire a cab driver. I couldn’t fulfill your previous commission regarding wheat seeds, Siberian Arnautka: there is no such thing in the entire Mogilev province. The pigs here are fed mostly with mash, mixing in a little of the beer they win.

With complete respect, dear lady aunt, I remain nephew

Finally, Ivan Fedorovich received his resignation with the rank of lieutenant, hired a Jew from Mogilev to Gadyach for forty rubles and got into the tent at the very time when the trees were dressed with young, still sparse leaves, the whole earth was brightly green with fresh greenery and the whole field smelled of spring.

II. Road

Nothing too remarkable happened on the road. We traveled for a little over two weeks. Perhaps Ivan Fedorovich would have arrived sooner, but the devout Jew went on Saturdays and, covered with his blanket, prayed all day. However, Ivan Fedorovich, as I had the opportunity to notice before, was the kind of person who did not allow boredom to come to him. At that time, he untied the suitcase, took out the linen, examined it carefully: whether it was washed or folded correctly, carefully removed the fluff from the new uniform, sewn without shoulder straps, and again laid it all out in the best possible way. In general, he did not like to read books; and if he sometimes looked into a fortune-telling book, it was because he liked to meet there something familiar that he had already read several times. So a city dweller goes to the club every day, not to hear something new there, but to meet those friends with whom he has been accustomed to chatting in the club since time immemorial. So the official with great pleasure reads the address-calendar several times a day, not for any diplomatic undertakings, but he is extremely amused by the printed list of names. "A! Ivan Gavrilovich so and so! - he repeats dully to himself. - A! Here I am! hm!..” And the next time he rereads it again with the same exclamations.

After a two-week drive, Ivan Fedorovich reached a village located a hundred miles from Gadyach. It was on Friday. The sun had long since set when he rode into the inn with the wagon and the Jew.

This inn was no different from others built in small villages. They usually treat the traveler with hay and oats with great zeal, as if he were a post horse. But if he wanted to have breakfast, as decent people usually have breakfast, he would have kept his appetite intact until another occasion. Ivan Fedorovich, knowing all this, stocked up on two bundles of bagels and sausage in advance and, having asked for a glass of vodka, which is not lacking in any inn, began his dinner, sitting down on a bench in front of an oak table, motionless, dug into the clay floor.

During this time, the sound of the chaise was heard. The gates creaked; but the chaise did not enter the yard for a long time. A loud voice scolded the old woman who kept the inn. “I’ll drive in,” Ivan Fedorovich heard, “but if even one bug bites me in your hut, I’ll kill you, by God, I’ll kill you, old witch!” and I won’t give anything for the hay!”

A minute later the door opened and a fat man in a green frock coat walked in, or rather climbed in. His head rested motionless on his short neck, which seemed even thicker because of his two-story chin. It seemed, in appearance, that he belonged to those people who never racked their brains over trifles and whose whole life went swimmingly.

I wish you good health, dear sir! - he said when he saw Ivan Fedorovich.

Ivan Fedorovich bowed silently.

Let me ask, with whom do I have the honor of speaking? - continued the fat visitor.

During such an interrogation, Ivan Fedorovich involuntarily rose from his seat and stood at attention, which is what he usually did when the colonel asked him what.

Retired lieutenant, Ivan Fedorov Shponka,” he answered.

Do I dare ask what places you would like to go to?

To your own farm, sir, Vytrebenki.

You little bastards! - exclaimed the strict interrogator. - Allow me, dear sir, allow me! - he said, approaching him and waving his arms, as if someone was not letting him in or he was pushing through the crowd, and, approaching, he took Ivan Fedorovich into his arms and kissed him first on the right, then on the left, and then again on the right cheek . Ivan Fedorovich really liked this kiss, because his lips mistook the stranger’s large cheeks for soft pillows.

Allow me, dear sir, to meet you! - continued the fat man. - I am a landowner of the same Gadyachsky district and your neighbor. I live no further than five miles from your Vytrebenka farm, in the village of Khortyshche; and my last name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. Definitely, definitely, dear sir, and I don’t want to know you unless you come to visit the village of Khortyshche. Now I’m in a hurry when necessary... What is this? - he said in a meek voice to his footman who came in, a boy in a Cossack scroll with patched elbows, who was placing bundles and boxes on the table with a perplexed expression. - What is this? What? - and Grigory Grigorievich’s voice imperceptibly became more and more menacing. “Did I tell you to put this here, my dear?” Did I tell you to put this here, you scoundrel! Didn't I tell you to reheat the chicken ahead of time, you scammer? Let's go! - he cried, stamping his foot. - Wait, face! where is the cellar with damasks? Ivan Fedorovich! - he said, pouring tinctures into a glass, - I humbly ask for a medicinal one!