I.S

26.02.2019

The small house where Lavretsky arrived and where Glafira Petrovna died two years ago was built in the last century pine forest; it looked dilapidated, but could stand for another fifty years or more. Lavretsky went around all the rooms and, to the great anxiety of the old, sluggish flies with white dust on their backs, sitting motionless under the lintels, ordered the windows to be opened everywhere: since the death of Glafira Petrovna, no one had unlocked them. Everything in the house remained as it was. The thin-legged white sofas in the living room, upholstered in glossy gray damask, worn and dented, vividly recalled Catherine's times; in the drawing-room stood the mistress's favorite armchair, with a high and straight back, against which she would not lean even in her old age. hung on the main wall vintage portrait Fedorov's great-grandfather, Andrey Lavretsky; the dark, bilious face was hardly separated from the blackened and warped background; small evil eyes looked sullenly from under hanging, as if swollen eyelids; her black, powderless hair rose like a brush over her heavy, pitted forehead. At the corner of the portrait hung a wreath of dusty immortels. “Glafira Petrovna themselves deigned to weave,” Anton reported. In the bedroom rose a narrow bed, under a canopy of old-fashioned, very solid striped matter; a heap of faded pillows and a quilted liquid blanket lay on the bed, and at the head of the head hung an image of the Entrance of the Most Holy Theotokos into the Temple - the very image to which the old maid, dying alone and forgotten by everyone, in last time kissed her already cold lips. A dressing table made of piece wood, with brass plaques and a curved mirror, with blackened gilding, stood by the window. Next to the bedroom was a figurative, small room, with bare walls and a heavy icon-case in the corner; on the floor lay a worn, wax-stained rug; Glafira Petrovna bowed to the ground on him. Anton went with Lavretsky's footman to unlock the stable and the barn; an old woman appeared in his place, almost the same age as him, tied with a scarf to the very eyebrows; her head was shaking and her eyes looked dull, but they expressed zeal, a long-standing habit of serving unrequitedly, and at the same time a kind of respectful pity. She went up to Lavretsky's hand and stood at the door waiting for orders. He absolutely did not remember her name, did not even remember if he had ever seen her; it turned out that her name was Apraksey; Forty years ago, the same Glafira Petrovna exiled her from the manor's court and ordered her to be a poultry keeper; however, she spoke little, as if out of her mind, and looked obsequiously. In addition to these two old men and three pot-bellied children in long shirts, Antonov's great-grandchildren, there also lived in the manor's yard a one-armed, taxless peasant; he muttered like a black grouse and was incapable of anything; not much more useful than he was the decrepit dog, which greeted Lavretsky's return with a bark: for ten years now it had been sitting on a heavy chain bought on the orders of Glafira Petrovna, and was barely able to move and drag its burden. After examining the house, Lavretsky went out into the garden and was pleased with it. It is all overgrown with weeds, burdock, gooseberries and raspberries; but there was a lot of shade in it, a lot of old lindens, which struck with their immensity and strange arrangement of branches; they were too closely planted and once - about a hundred years ago - sheared. The garden ended in a small bright pond with a border of tall reddish reeds. Footprints human life they would die out very soon: the estate of Glafira Petrovna had not had time to become wild, but already seemed to be immersed in that quiet slumber, which slumbers everything on earth, where only there is no human, restless infection. Fyodor Ivanitch also walked around the village; the women looked at him from the threshold of their huts, propping their cheeks with their hands; the peasants bowed from a distance, the children ran away, the dogs barked indifferently. He was finally hungry; but he expected his servant and cook only towards evening; The convoy with provisions from Lavrikov had not yet arrived, so I had to turn to Anton. Anton now ordered: he caught, slaughtered and plucked an old hen; Apraksya rubbed and washed it for a long time, washing it like linen, before putting it in the pan; when it was finally cooked, Anton covered and cleared the table, placed in front of the appliance a blackened salt shaker with three legs and a faceted decanter with a round glass stopper and a narrow neck; then he reported to Lavretsky in a melodious voice that the food was ready, and he himself stood behind his chair, wrapping a napkin around his right fist and spreading some strong, ancient smell, like the smell of a cypress tree. Lavretsky tasted the soup and brought out the chicken; her skin was all covered with large pimples; a thick vein ran down each leg, the meat reeked of wood and lye. After dinner, Lavretsky said that he would drink tea if ... "I'll serve you this minute," the old man interrupted him, and he kept his promise. A pinch of tea was found, wrapped in a piece of red paper; a small, but intermittent and noisy samovar was found, and sugar was found in very small, as if melted pieces. Lavretsky drank tea from a large cup; he remembered this cup from childhood: gambling cards were depicted on it, only guests drank from it, and he drank from it like a guest. By evening the servants arrived; Lavretsky did not want to lie down in his aunt's bed; he had his bed made up in the dining-room. Having extinguished the candle, he looked around him for a long time and thought a gloomy thought; he experienced a feeling familiar to every person who has to spend the night for the first time in a long uninhabited place; it seemed to him that the darkness surrounding him on all sides could not get used to the new tenant, that the very walls of the house were perplexed. Finally, he sighed, pulled the covers over himself, and fell asleep. Anton stayed on his feet the longest; he whispered to Apraksya for a long time, groaned in an undertone, crossed himself twice; they both did not expect the master to settle with them in Vasilyevsky, when he had such a glorious estate with a well-arranged estate near him; they did not even suspect that this very estate was disgusting to Lavretsky; it brought back painful memories in him. Having whispered to his heart's content, Anton took a stick, beat on a hanging, long-silent board by the barn, and immediately crouched down in the yard, not covering his white head with anything. The May night was quiet and kind, and the old man slept soundly.

The small house where Lavretsky arrived and where Glafira Petrovna died two years ago was built in the last century from a solid pine forest; it looked dilapidated, but could stand for another fifty years or more. Lavretsky went around all the rooms and, to the great anxiety of the old, sluggish flies with white dust on their backs, sitting motionless under the lintels, ordered the windows to be opened everywhere: since the death of Glafira Petrovna, no one had unlocked them. Everything in the house remained as it was: the thin-legged white sofas in the living room, upholstered in glossy gray damask, worn and crushed, vividly recalled Catherine's times; in the drawing-room stood the mistress's favorite armchair, with a high and straight back, against which she would not lean even in her old age. On the main wall hung an old portrait of Fedorov's great-grandfather, Andrey Lavretsky; the dark, bilious face was hardly separated from the blackened and warped background; small evil eyes looked sullenly from under hanging, as if swollen eyelids; her black, powderless hair rose like a brush over her heavy, pitted forehead. At the corner of the portrait hung a wreath of dusty immortels. “Glafira Petrovna herself deigned to weave,” Anton reported. In the bedroom rose a narrow bed, under a canopy of old-fashioned, very solid striped matter; a heap of faded pillows and a quilted liquid blanket lay on the bed, and at the head of the bed hung the image of the Entrance of the Most Holy Theotokos into the Temple—the very image to which the old maid, dying alone and forgotten by everyone, kissed her cold lips for the last time. A dressing table made of piece wood, with brass plaques and a curved mirror, with blackened gilding, stood by the window. Next to the bedroom was a figurative, small room, with bare walls and a heavy icon-case in the corner; on the floor lay a worn, wax-stained rug; Glafira Petrovna bowed to the ground on him. Anton went with Lavretsky's footman to unlock the stable and the shed; an old woman appeared in his place, almost the same age as him, tied with a scarf to the very eyebrows; her head was shaking and her eyes looked dull, but they expressed zeal, a long-standing habit of serving unrequitedly, and at the same time a kind of respectful pity. She went up to Lavretsky's hand and stood at the door waiting for orders. He absolutely did not remember her name, did not even remember if he had ever seen her; it turned out that her name was Apraksey; Forty years ago, the same Glafira Petrovna exiled her from the manor's court and ordered her to be a poultry keeper; however, she spoke little, as if out of her mind, and looked obsequiously. In addition to these two old men and three pot-bellied children in long shirts, Antonov's great-grandchildren, there also lived in the manor's yard a one-armed, taxless peasant; he muttered like a black grouse and was incapable of anything; not much more useful than him was the decrepit dog, which greeted Lavretsky's return with a bark: for ten years now it had been sitting on a heavy chain bought on the orders of Glafira Petrovna, and was barely able to move and drag its burden. After examining the house, Lavretsky went out into the garden and was pleased with it. It is all overgrown with weeds, burdock, gooseberries and raspberries; but there was a lot of shade in it, a lot of old lindens, which struck with their immensity and strange arrangement of branches; they were too closely planted and once - a hundred years ago - sheared. The garden ended in a small bright pond with a border of tall reddish reeds. The traces of human life will fade away very soon: Glafira Petrovna's estate did not have time to become wild, but already seemed immersed in that quiet slumber, which slumbers everything on earth, where there is only no human, restless infection. Fyodor Ivanitch also walked around the village; the women looked at him from the threshold of their huts, propping their cheeks with their hands; the peasants bowed from a distance, the children ran away, the dogs barked indifferently. He was finally hungry; but he expected his servant and cook only towards evening; The convoy with provisions from Lavrikov had not yet arrived, so I had to turn to Anton. Anton now ordered: he caught, slaughtered and plucked an old hen; Apraksya rubbed and washed it for a long time, washing it like linen, before putting it in the pan; when it was finally cooked, Anton covered and cleared the table, placed in front of the appliance a blackened salt shaker with three legs and a faceted decanter with a round glass stopper and a narrow neck; then he reported to Lavretsky in a melodious voice that the food was ready, and he himself stood behind his chair, wrapping a napkin around his right fist and spreading some strong, ancient smell, like the smell of a cypress tree. Lavretsky tasted the soup and brought out the chicken; her skin was all covered with large pimples; a thick vein ran down each leg, the meat reeked of wood and lye. After dinner, Lavretsky said that he would have some tea if... "I'll give you a minute," the old man interrupted him, and he kept his promise. A pinch of tea was found, wrapped in a piece of red paper; a small, but intermittent and noisy samovar was found, and sugar was found in very small, as if melted pieces. Lavretsky drank tea from a large cup; he remembered this cup from childhood: gambling cards were depicted on it, only guests drank from it, and he drank from it like a guest. By evening the servants arrived; Lavretsky did not want to lie down in his aunt's bed; he had his bed made up in the dining-room. Having extinguished the candle, he looked around him for a long time and thought a gloomy thought; he experienced a feeling familiar to every person who has to spend the night for the first time in a long uninhabited place; it seemed to him that the darkness surrounding him on all sides could not get used to the new tenant, that the very walls of the house were perplexed. Finally, he sighed, pulled the covers over himself, and fell asleep. Anton stayed on his feet the longest; he whispered to Apraksya for a long time, groaned in an undertone, crossed himself twice; they both did not expect the master to settle with them in Vasilyevsky, when he had such a glorious estate with a well-arranged estate near him; they did not even suspect that this very estate was disgusting to Lavretsky; it brought back painful memories in him. Having whispered to his heart's content, Anton took a stick, beat on a hanging, long-silent board by the barn, and immediately crouched down in the yard, not covering his white head with anything. The May night was quiet and kind, and the old man slept soundly.

XVII

The next morning, after the day we have described, at ten o'clock, Lavretsky went up to the porch of the Kalitinsky house. Liza came out to meet him in a hat and gloves.

- Where are you going? he asked her.

- For dinner. Today is Sunday.

- Do you go to dinner?

Lisa looked at him silently, in amazement.

“Excuse me, please,” Lavretsky said, “I ... I didn’t mean to say that, I came to say goodbye to you, I’m going to the village in an hour.

“Isn’t it close to here?” Lisa asked.

- Twenty-five versts.

Lenochka appeared on the threshold of the door, accompanied by a maid.

“Look, don’t forget us,” Liza said and went down from the porch.

And don't forget me. Yes, listen, - he added, - you are going to church: by the way, pray for me too.

Lisa stopped and turned to him.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking directly into his face, “I will pray for you too.” Let's go, Lenochka.

In the drawing-room Lavretsky found Marya Dmitrievna alone. She smelled of cologne and mint. She had a headache, she said, and had a restless night. She received him with her usual languid courtesy and gradually got into conversation.

“Isn’t it true,” she asked him, “what a pleasant young man Vladimir Nikolaevich is!”

- Who is Vladimir Nikolaevich?

- Yes, Panshin, that's what was here yesterday. He liked you terribly; I'll tell you a secret, mon cher cousin, he's just crazy about my Lisa. Well! He has a good family name, serves excellently, is smart, well, a chamber junker, and if it is the will of God ... I, for my part, as a mother, will be very glad. The responsibility is, of course, great; of course, the happiness of children depends on the parents, but even then to say: is it still bad, is it good, but I’m all the same, everywhere I’m alone, as I am: I raised the children, and taught them, I’m all ... I’m here and now Mamzel has written out from Madame Bolus...

Marya Dmitrievna launched into a description of her worries, efforts, her maternal feelings. Lavretsky listened to her in silence and turned his hat in his hands. His cold, heavy look embarrassed the loose lady.

How do you like Liza? she asked.

“Lizaveta Mikhailovna is a most beautiful girl,” objected Lavretsky, got up, bowed, and went to Marfa Timofeevna. Marya Dmitrievna looked after him with displeasure and thought: “What a seal, peasant! Well, now I understand why his wife could not remain faithful to him.

Marfa Timofeevna was sitting in her room, surrounded by her staff. It consisted of five creatures, almost equally close to her heart: from a thick-mouthed learned bullfinch, whom she fell in love with because he stopped whistling and carrying water, a small, very shy and quiet dog Roska, an angry cat Matros, a dark-haired, fidgety girl of about nine, with huge eyes and a pointed nose, whose name was Shurochka, and an elderly woman of about fifty-five, in a white cap and a brown short-haired katsaveyka on a dark dress, named Nastasya Karpovna Ogarkova. Shurochka was a petty-bourgeois woman, an orphan, Marfa Timofeevna took her in out of pity, just like Roska: she found both the little dog and the girl in the street; both were thin and hungry, both were soaked in the autumn rain; no one chased after Roska, and Marfa Timofeevna even willingly yielded Shurochka to her uncle, a drunken shoemaker, who himself was malnourished and did not feed his niece, but beat him on the head with a block. Marfa Timofeevna made acquaintance with Nastasya Karpovna on a pilgrimage, in a monastery; she herself approached her in church (Marfa Timofyevna liked her because, according to her, she prayed very tasty), she herself spoke to her and invited her to her place for a cup of tea. Since that day, she has not parted with her. Nastasya Karpovna was a woman of the most cheerful and meek disposition, a widow, childless, from poor noblewomen; her head had a round, gray-haired, soft white hands, soft face with large good features and somewhat funny, upturned nose; she was in awe of Marfa Timofeevna, and she was very fond of her, although she teased her tender heart: she felt weak towards all young people and involuntarily blushed like a girl at the most innocent joke. Her entire capital consisted of one thousand two hundred rubles in banknotes; she lived at the expense of Marfa Timofeevna, but on an equal footing with her: Marfa Timofeevna could not bear servility.

- AND! Fedya! she began as soon as she saw him. “You didn’t see my family last night: take a look. We all gathered for tea; This is our second celebratory tea. You can caress everyone; only Shurochka will not give in, and the cat will scratch. Are you eating today?

- Today. Lavretsky sat down on a low chair. “I have already said goodbye to Marya Dmitrievna. I saw Lizaveta Mikhailovna too.

- Call her Liza, my father, what kind of Mikhailovna is she to you? Yes, sit still, otherwise you will break Shurochka's chair.

“She was on her way to mass,” continued Lavretsky. - Is she devout?

- Yes, Fedya, very much. More of us with you, Fedya.

- Aren't you devout? Nastasya Karpovna remarked, whispering. “And today you didn’t go to the early mass, but you will go to the late one.”

“But no, you’ll go alone: I’m lazy, my mother,” objected Marfa Timofeevna, “I spoil myself with tea very much. - She said to Nastasya Karpovna "you", although she lived with her on an equal footing - it was not without reason that she was Pestova: three Pestovs appear in the synodics of Ivan Vasilyevich the Terrible; Marfa Timofeyevna knew this.

“Tell me, please,” Lavretsky began again, “Marya Dmitrievna just told me about this ... what do you mean by him? .. Panshina. What is this sir?

- What a talker she is, God forgive me! - grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, - tea, secretly told you that, they say, what kind of groom is coming up. I would whisper with my priest; No, it looks like she's not enough. And after all, there is still nothing, and thank God! and she's already talking.

Why, thank God? asked Lavretsky.

- But because I don’t like the fellow; and what is there to be happy about?

- You don't like him?

- Yes, he does not captivate everyone. It will also come from him that Nastasya Karpovna is in love with him.

The poor widow was all alarmed.

- What are you, Marfa Timofeevna, you are not afraid of God! she exclaimed, and a blush instantly spread over her face and neck.

“And he knows, you rogue,” Marfa Timofeyevna interrupted her, “he knows how to seduce her: he gave her a snuffbox.” Fedya, ask her to sniff some tobacco; you will see what a glorious snuffbox: on the lid is a hussar on horseback. You're better, my mother, don't make excuses.

Nastasya Karpovna only waved her hands.

“Well, and Liza,” asked Lavretsky, “is she not indifferent to him?”

“She seems to like him, but, besides, God knows her!” Alien soul, you know dark forest, and girlish and even more so. Here is Shurochkin's soul - go, take it apart! Why is she hiding instead of leaving since you came?

Shurochka snorted with suppressed laughter and rushed out, while Lavretsky got up from his seat.

- Yes, - he said with an emphasis, - you can’t guess a girl’s soul.

He began to say goodbye.

- Well? will we see you soon? asked Marfa Timofeevna.

“As you will, auntie; it’s not far from here.

- Yes, because you are going to Vasilyevskoye. You don't want to live in Lavriky - well, that's your business; just go and bow to your mother's coffin, and grandmother's coffin, by the way. You there, abroad, have gained all sorts of minds, and who knows, maybe they will feel in their graves that you have come to them. Don't forget, Fedya, to serve the Panafida according to Glafira Petrovna too; here's a whole one for you. Take it, take it I I want to serve a Panafida on it. I didn’t love her during her lifetime, but there’s nothing to say, she was a girl with character. She was smart; Well, I didn't offend you. Now go with God, otherwise you'll get tired of me.

And Marfa Timofeevna embraced her nephew.

- And Liza will not be after Panshin, do not worry; She is not worth the kind of husband.

“Yes, I’m not at all worried,” answered Lavretsky, and withdrew.

XVIII

Four hours later he was driving home. His tarantass rolled quickly along the country, soft road. There had been a drought for two weeks; a thin mist spread like milk in the air and veiled the distant forests; he smelled of burning. Many darkish clouds with indistinctly outlined edges spread across the pale blue sky; a rather strong wind rushed in a dry continuous stream, not dispersing the heat. Leaning his head against the pillow and crossing his arms, Lavretsky gazed at the paddocks of the fields passing like a fan, at the slowly flickering willows, at the stupid crows and rooks, gazing with dull suspicion sideways at the passing carriage, at the long demarcations overgrown with Chernobyl, wormwood and mountain ash; he looked ... and this fresh, steppe, fat wilderness and wilderness, this greenery, these long hills, ravines with squat oak bushes, gray villages, liquid birches - all this Russian picture, which he had not seen for a long time, evoked sweet and at the same time, almost mournful feelings pressed on his chest with some pleasant pressure. His thoughts wandered slowly; their outlines were just as indistinct and vague, like the outlines of those high, also as if wandering, clouds. He remembered his childhood, his mother, he remembered how she was dying, how they brought him to her, and how she, pressing his head to her chest, began weakly wailing over him, but looked at Glafira Petrovna - and fell silent. He remembered his father, at first cheerful, dissatisfied with everything, with a brassy voice, then blind, whining, with an untidy gray beard; he remembered how one day at the table, after drinking an extra glass of wine and pouring sauce over his napkin, he suddenly laughed and began, blinking his unseeing eyes and blushing, to tell about his victories; he remembered Varvara Pavlovna, and involuntarily squinted, as a man squints from an instantaneous inner pain, and shook his head. Then his thoughts settled on Lisa.

“Here,” he thought, “a new being is just coming into life. Nice girl, something will come out of her? She is good as well. Pale, fresh face, eyes and lips so serious, and look honest and innocent. Too bad, she seems a little enthusiastic. Growth is glorious, and he walks so easily, and his voice is quiet. I love it very much when she suddenly stops, listens with attention, without a smile, then thinks and throws her hair back. Precisely, it seems to me myself that Panshin is not worth it. But what is wrong with him? But what am I dreaming about? She will also run along the same path along which everyone runs. I'd rather sleep." And Lavretsky closed his eyes.

He could not sleep, but he fell into a drowsy road numbness. The images of the past, as before, slowly rose and surfaced in his soul, getting in the way and getting confused with other ideas. Lavretsky, God knows why, began to think of Robert Peel... French history... about how he would have won the battle if he had been a general; he fancied shots and screams... His head slid to one side, he opened his eyes... The same fields, the same steppe views; the worn horseshoes of the horseshoes alternately sparkle through the wavy dust; the driver's shirt, yellow, with red gussets, puffs up from the wind ... "I'm good to go back to my homeland," flashed through Lavretsky's head, and he shouted: "Let's go!" - Wrapped himself in his overcoat and snuggled closer to the pillow. The tarantass was pushed: Lavretsky straightened up and opened his eyes wide. In front of him, on a hillock, stretched a small village; a little to the right one could see a dilapidated manor house with closed shutters and a crooked porch; across the wide courtyard, from the very gates, nettles grew, green and dense, like hemp; right there stood an oak, still strong barn. It was Vasilevsky.

The coachman turned to the gate, stopped the horses; Lavretsky's lackey got up on the box and, as if preparing to jump off, shouted: "Hey!" There was a hoarse, dull barking, but not even a dog appeared; the footman again prepared to jump off and again shouted: "Hey!" The decrepit barking was repeated, and, a moment later, a man in a nanke caftan, with a head as white as snow, ran out into the yard, out of nowhere; shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked at the tarantass, suddenly struck himself with both hands on the thighs, at first thrashed about a little on the spot, then rushed to open the gate. The tarantass drove into the courtyard, wheels rustling through the nettles, and stopped in front of the porch. The white-headed man, apparently very nimble, was already standing, legs wide and crookedly apart on the last step, unfastened the front, convulsively pulling up the skin, and, helping the master down to the ground, kissed his hand.

“Hello, hello, brother,” Lavretsky said, “I think your name is Anton?” Are you still alive?

The old man bowed silently and ran for the keys. While he was running, the coachman sat motionless, slumped over and looking at the locked door; and Lavretsky's footman jumped down and remained in a picturesque pose, throwing one arm over the goats. The old man brought the keys and, without any need, bending like a snake, raising his elbows high, unlocked the door, stood aside and again bowed from the waist.

“Here I am at home, here I am back,” thought Lavretsky as he entered the tiny anteroom, while the shutters banged and screeched open one after another and daylight penetrated the empty chambers.

XIX

Traces of human life will fade away very soon: Glafira Petrovna's estate did not have time to become wild, but already seemed to be immersed in that quiet slumber, which slumbers everything on earth, where only there is no human, restless infection. Fyodor Ivanitch also walked around the village; the women looked at him from the threshold of their huts, propping their cheeks with their hands; the peasants bowed from a distance, the children ran away, the dogs barked indifferently. He finally wanted to eat; but he expected his servant and cook only towards evening; The convoy with provisions from Lavrikov had not yet arrived, so I had to turn to Anton. Anton now ordered: he caught, slaughtered and plucked an old hen; Apraksya rubbed and washed it for a long time, washing it like linen, before putting it in the pan; when it was finally cooked, Anton covered and cleared the table, placed in front of the appliance a blackened salt shaker with three legs and a faceted decanter with a round glass stopper and a narrow neck; then he reported to Lavretsky in a melodious voice that the food was ready, and he himself stood behind his chair, wrapping a napkin around his right fist and spreading some strong, ancient smell, like the smell of a cypress tree. Lavretsky tasted the soup and brought out the chicken; her skin was all covered with large pimples; a thick vein ran down each leg, the meat reeked of wood and lye. After dinner, Lavretsky said that he would drink tea if ... "I'll give you a minute," the old man interrupted him, and he kept his promise. A pinch of tea was found, wrapped in a piece of red paper; a small, but intermittent and noisy samovar was found, and sugar was found in very small, as if melted pieces. Lavretsky drank tea from a large cup; he remembered this cup from childhood: gambling cards were depicted on it, only guests drank from it, and he drank from it like a guest. By evening the servants arrived; Lavretsky did not want to lie down in his aunt's bed; he had his bed made up in the dining-room. Having extinguished the candle, he looked around him for a long time and thought a gloomy thought; he experienced a feeling familiar to every person who has to spend the night for the first time in a long uninhabited place; it seemed to him that the darkness surrounding him on all sides could not get used to the new tenant, that the very walls of the house were perplexed. Finally, he sighed, pulled the covers over himself, and fell asleep. Anton stayed on his feet the longest; he whispered to Apraksya for a long time, groaned in an undertone, crossed himself twice; they both did not expect the master to settle with them in Vasilyevsky, when he had such a glorious estate with a well-arranged estate near him; they did not even suspect that this very estate was disgusting to Lavretsky; it brought back painful memories in him. Having whispered to his heart's content, Anton took a stick, beat on a hanging, long-silent board by the barn, and immediately crouched down in the yard, not covering his white head with anything. The May night was quiet and gentle, and the old man slept soundly.

XX

The next day, Lavretsky got up quite early, talked to the headman, visited the threshing floor, ordered the yard dog to be unchained, which only barked a little, but did not even move away from its kennel, and, returning home, plunged into a kind of peaceful stupor, from which he did not leave the whole day. “That's when I hit the bottom of the river,” he said to himself more than once. He sat under the window, did not move, and seemed to be listening to the current. quiet life that surrounded him, to the rare sounds of the rural wilderness. Here, somewhere behind the nettles, someone is singing in a thin, thin voice; the mosquito seems to echo him. So he stopped, and the mosquito kept squeaking; through the friendly, importunately plaintive buzzing of flies, there is a buzz of a fat bumblebee, which now and then knocks its head against the ceiling; a rooster crowed in the street, hoarsely drawing out the last note, a cart rattled, the gates creaked in the village. "What?" suddenly rattled a woman's voice. “Oh, my sir,” Anton says to a two-year-old girl whom he nursed in his arms. “Bring kvass,” repeats the same woman’s voice, “and suddenly there is a dead silence; nothing will knock, nothing will move; the wind does not move the leaf; the swallows rush without a cry one after another over the earth, and the soul becomes sad from their silent raid. “That’s when I’m at the bottom of the river,” Lavretsky thinks again. “And always, at all times, life is quiet and unhurried here,” he thinks, “whoever enters its circle, submit: there is nothing to worry about, nothing to stir up; here only he is lucky who paves his path slowly, like a plowman furrows with a plow. And what strength is all around, what health in this inactive stillness! Here, under the window, a stocky burdock climbs out of the thick grass, the dawn stretches its juicy stalk above it, the Mother of God's tears throw out their pink curls even higher; and there, farther, in the fields, the rye is shining, and the oats have already gone into a tube, and every leaf on every tree, every grass on its stem, expands to its full width. On woman's love gone are mine best years Let boredom sober me up here, let it calm me down, prepare me so that I, too, know how to do things slowly. And he again begins to listen to the silence, not expecting anything - and at the same time, as if constantly waiting for something: silence embraces him from all sides, the sun rolls quietly across the calm blue sky, and clouds quietly float across it; they seem to know where and why they are swimming. At the same time, in other places on earth, life was seething, hurrying, rumbling; here the same life flowed inaudibly, like water over swamp grasses; and until the very evening Lavretsky could not tear himself away from the contemplation of this departing, flowing life; sorrow for the past melted in his soul like spring snow—and a strange thing! - never had a feeling of homeland so deep and strong in him.

I spoil myself with tea. - She said to Nastasya Karpovna "you", although she lived with her on an equal footing - it was not for nothing that she was Pestova: three Pestovs appear in the synodics of Ivan Vasilyevich the Terrible; Marfa Timofeyevna knew this. “Tell me, please,” Lavretsky began again, “Marya Dmitrievna just told me about this ... how, I mean, him? .. Panshina. What is this sir? - What a talker she is, God forgive me! - grumbled Marfa Timofeevna, - tea, secretly told you that, they say, what kind of groom is coming up. I would whisper with my priest; No, it looks like she's not enough. And after all, there is still nothing, and thank God! and she's already talking. Why, thank God? asked Lavretsky. - But because I don’t like the fellow; and what is there to be happy about? - You don't like him? - Yes, he does not captivate everyone. It will also come from him that Nastasya Karpovna is in love with him. The poor widow was all alarmed. - What are you, Marfa Timofeevna, you are not afraid of God! she exclaimed, and a blush instantly spread over her face and neck. “And he knows, the rogue,” Marfa Timofeevna interrupted her, “he knows how to seduce her: he gave her a snuffbox. Fedya, ask her to sniff some tobacco; you will see what a glorious snuffbox: on the lid is a hussar on horseback. You're better, my mother, don't make excuses. Nastasya Karpovna only waved her hands. “Well, and Liza,” asked Lavretsky, “is she not indifferent to him?” “She seems to like him, but, besides, God knows her!” An alien soul, you know, a dark forest, and a girlish one even more so. Here is Shurochkin's soul - go and make it out! Why is she hiding instead of leaving since you came? Shurochka snorted with suppressed laughter and rushed out, while Lavretsky got up from his seat. - Yes, - he said with an emphasis, - you can’t guess a girl’s soul. He began to say goodbye. - Well? Will we see you soon? asked Marfa Timofyevna. - As it is necessary, aunt: it's not far here. - Yes, you are going to Vasilyevskoye. You don't want to live in Lavriky - well, that's your business; just go and bow to your mother's coffin, and grandmother's coffin, by the way. You there, abroad, have gained all sorts of minds, and who knows, maybe they will feel in their graves that you have come to them. Don't forget, Fedya, to serve the Panafida according to Glafira Petrovna too; here's a whole one for you. Take it, take it, I want to serve a Panafida on it. I didn’t love her during her lifetime, but there’s nothing to say, she was a girl with character. She was smart; Well, I didn't offend you. Now go with God, otherwise you'll get tired of me. And Marfa Timofeevna embraced her nephew. - But Lisa will not be for Panshin, do not worry; She is not worth the kind of husband. “Yes, I’m not at all worried,” answered Lavretsky, and withdrew. XVIII Four hours later he was driving home. His tarantass rolled quickly along the soft country road. There had been a drought for two weeks; a thin mist spread like milk in the air and veiled the distant forests; he smelled of burning. Many darkish clouds with indistinctly outlined edges spread across the pale blue sky; a rather strong wind rushed in a dry continuous stream, not dispersing the heat. Leaning his head against the pillow and crossing his arms, Lavretsky gazed at the paddocks of the fields passing like a fan, at the slowly flickering willows, at the stupid crows and rooks, gazing with dull suspicion sideways at the passing carriage, at the long demarcations overgrown with Chernobyl, wormwood and mountain ash; he looked ... and this fresh, fat steppe wilderness and wilderness, this greenery, these long hills, ravines with squat oak bushes, gray villages, thin birch trees - all this Russian picture, which he had not seen for a long time, brought sweet sweetness to his soul. and at the same time almost mournful feelings crushed his chest with some kind of pleasant pressure. His thoughts wandered slowly; their outlines were just as indistinct and vague, like the outlines of those high, also as if wandering, clouds. He remembered his childhood, his mother, he remembered how she was dying, how they brought him to her, and how she, pressing his head to her chest, began weakly wailing over him, but looked at Glafira Petrovna - and fell silent. He remembered his father, at first cheerful, dissatisfied with everything, with a brassy voice, then blind, whining, with an untidy gray beard; he remembered how one day at the table, after drinking an extra glass of wine and pouring sauce over his napkin, he suddenly laughed and began, blinking his unseeing eyes and blushing, to tell about his victories; He remembered Varvara Pavlovna, and involuntarily squinted, as a man squints from an instantaneous inner pain, and shook his head. Then his thoughts settled on Lisa. "Here," he thought, "a new creature is just entering into life. A nice girl, something will come of her? She is good-looking too. Pale, fresh face, eyes and lips are so serious, and her look is honest and innocent. It's a pity she seems to be a little enthusiastic. She is of good height, and walks so easily, and her voice is quiet. I really love it when she suddenly stops, listens with attention, without a smile, then she thinks and throws back her hair. Exactly, it seems to me, Panshin it's not worth it. But why is he bad? She will also run along the same path along which everyone runs. I'd rather sleep." And Lavretsky closed his eyes. He could not fall asleep, but plunged into a drowsy road numbness. The images of the past, as before, slowly rose, surfaced in his soul, interfering and confusing with other ideas. Lavretsky, God knows why , began to think about Robert Peel ... about French history ... about how he would have won the battle if he had been a general; he fancied shots and shouts ... His head slipped to one side, he opened his eyes ... the same fields, the same steppe views; the worn-out horseshoes of the horseshoes alternately sparkle through the wavy dust; the driver’s shirt, yellow, with red gussets, puffs up from the wind ... : "Let's go!" - Wrapped himself in his greatcoat and snuggled closer to the pillow. The tarantass was pushed: Lavretsky straightened up and opened his eyes wide. A small village stretched in front of him on a hillock; a little to the right was seen a dilapidated master's house with closed shutters and a crooked porch; across a wide courtyard, about from the very gates, nettles grew, green and dense, like hemp; right there stood an oak, still strong barn. It was Vasilevsky. The coachman turned to the gate, stopped the horses; Lavretsky's lackey got up on the box and, as if preparing to jump off, shouted: "Hey!" There was a hoarse, dull barking, but not even a dog appeared; the footman again prepared to jump off and again shouted: "Hey!". The decrepit barking was repeated, and, a moment later, a man in a nanke caftan, with a head as white as snow, ran out into the yard, out of nowhere; shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked at the tarantass, suddenly struck himself with both hands on the thighs, at first thrashed about a little on the spot, then rushed to open the gate. The tarantass drove into the courtyard, wheels rustling through the nettles, and stopped in front of the porch. The white-headed man, apparently very nimble, was already standing, legs wide and crooked, on the last step, unfastened the front, convulsively pulling his skin up, and, helping the master down to the ground, kissed his hand. “Hello, hello, brother,” Lavretsky said, “I think your name is Anton?” Are you still alive? The old man bowed silently and ran for the keys. While he was running, the coachman sat motionless, slumped over and looking at the locked door; and Lavretsky's footman jumped down and remained in a picturesque pose, throwing one arm over the goats. The old man brought the keys and, without any need, bending like a snake, raising his elbows high, unlocked the door, stood aside and again bowed from the waist. "Here I am at home, here I am back," thought Lavretsky as he entered the tiny ante-room, while the shutters were opened one after the other with a clatter and a screech, and daylight penetrated the empty chambers. XIX The small house where Lavretsky arrived and where Glafira Petrovna died two years ago was built in the last century from a solid pine forest; it looked dilapidated, but could stand for another fifty years or more. Lavretsky went around all the rooms and, to the great anxiety of the old, sluggish flies with white dust on their backs, sitting motionless under the lintels, ordered the windows to be opened everywhere: since the death of Glafira Petrovna, no one had unlocked them. Everything in the house remained as it was. The thin-legged white sofas in the living room, upholstered in glossy gray damask, worn and dented, vividly recalled Catherine's times; in the drawing-room stood the mistress's favorite armchair, with a high and straight back, against which she would not lean even in her old age. On the main wall hung an old portrait of Fedorov's great-grandfather, Andrey Lavretsky; the dark, bilious face was hardly separated from the blackened and warped background; small evil eyes looked sullenly from under hanging, as if swollen eyelids; her black, powderless hair rose like a brush over her heavy, pitted forehead. At the corner of the portrait hung a wreath of dusty immortels. “Glafira Petrovna herself deigned to weave,” Anton reported. In the bedroom rose a narrow bed, under a canopy of old-fashioned, very solid striped matter; a heap of faded pillows and a quilted liquid blanket lay on the bed, and at the head of the bed hung the image of the Entrance into the Temple of the Most Holy Theotokos, the very image to which the old maid, dying alone and forgotten by everyone, kissed her cold lips for the last time. A dressing table made of piece wood, with brass plaques and a curved mirror, with blackened gilding, stood by the window. Next to the bedroom was a figurative, small room, with bare walls and a heavy icon-case in the corner; on the floor lay a worn, wax-stained rug; Glafira Petrovna bowed to the ground on him. Anton went with Lavretsky's footman to unlock the stable and the shed; an old woman appeared in his place, almost the same age as him, tied with a scarf to the very eyebrows; her head was shaking and her eyes looked dull, but they expressed zeal, a long-standing habit of serving unrequitedly, and at the same time some kind of respectful pity. She went up to Lavretsky's hand and stood at the door waiting for orders. He absolutely did not remember her name, did not even remember if he had ever seen her; it turned out that her name was Apraksey; Forty years ago, the same Glafira Petrovna exiled her from the manor's court and ordered her to be a poultry keeper; however, she spoke little, as if out of her mind, and looked obsequiously. In addition to these two old men and three pot-bellied children in long shirts, Antonov's great-grandchildren, there also lived in the manor's yard a one-armed, taxless peasant; he muttered like a black grouse and was incapable of anything; not much more useful than him was the decrepit dog, which greeted Lavretsky's return with a bark: for ten years now it had been sitting on a heavy chain bought on the orders of Glafira Petrovna, and was barely able to move and drag its burden. After examining the house, Lavretsky went out into the garden and was pleased with it. It is all overgrown with weeds, burdock, gooseberries and raspberries; but there was a lot of shade in it, a lot of old lindens, which struck with their immensity and strange arrangement of branches; they were too closely planted and once - about a hundred years ago - sheared. The garden ended in a small bright pond with a border of tall reddish reeds. Traces of human life will fade away very soon: Glafira Petrovna's estate did not have time to become wild, but already seemed to be immersed in that quiet slumber, which slumbers everything on earth, where only there is no human, restless infection. Fyodor Ivanitch also walked around the village; the women looked at him from the threshold of their huts, propping their cheeks with their hands; the peasants bowed from a distance, the children ran away, the dogs barked indifferently. He was finally hungry; but he expected his servant and cook only towards evening; The convoy with provisions from Lavrikov had not yet arrived, so I had to turn to Anton. Anton now ordered: he caught, slaughtered and plucked an old hen; Apraksya rubbed and washed it for a long time, washing it like linen, before putting it in the pan; when it was finally cooked, Anton covered and cleared the table, placed in front of the appliance a blackened salt shaker with three legs and a faceted decanter with a round glass stopper and a narrow neck; then he reported to Lavretsky in a melodious voice that the food was ready, and he himself stood behind his chair, wrapping a napkin around his right fist and spreading some strong, ancient smell, like the smell of a cypress tree. Lavretsky tasted the soup and brought out the chicken; her skin was all covered with large pimples; a thick vein ran down each leg, the meat reeked of wood and lye. After dinner, Lavretsky said that he would drink tea if ... "I'll give you a minute, sir," the old man interrupted him, and he kept his promise. A pinch of tea was found, wrapped in a piece of red paper; a small, but intermittent and noisy samovar was found, and sugar was found in very small, as if melted pieces. Lavretsky drank tea from a large cup; he remembered this cup from childhood: gambling cards were depicted on it, only guests drank from it, and he drank from it like a guest. By evening the servants arrived; Lavretsky did not want to lie down in his aunt's bed; he had his bed made up in the dining-room. Having extinguished the candle, he looked around him for a long time and thought a gloomy thought; he experienced a feeling familiar to every person who has to spend the night for the first time in a long uninhabited place; it seemed to him that the darkness surrounding him on all sides could not get used to the new tenant, that the very walls of the house were perplexed. Finally, he sighed, pulled the covers over himself, and fell asleep. Anton stayed on his feet the longest; he whispered to Apraksya for a long time, groaned in an undertone, crossed himself twice; they both did not expect the master to settle with them in Vasilyevsky, when he had such a glorious estate with a well-arranged estate near him; they did not even suspect that this very estate was disgusting to Lavretsky; it brought back painful memories in him. Having whispered to his heart's content, Anton took a stick, beat on a hanging, long-silent board by the barn, and immediately crouched down in the yard, not covering his white head with anything. The May night was quiet and kind, and the old man slept soundly. XX The next day, Lavretsky got up quite early, talked to the headman, visited the threshing floor, ordered the yard dog to be unchained, which only barked a little, but did not even move away from his kennel, and, returning home, plunged into a kind of peaceful stupor from which he did not leave the whole day. "That's when I hit the bottom of the river," he said to himself more than once. He sat under the window, did not move, and seemed to be listening to the flow of the quiet life that surrounded him, to the rare sounds of the rural wilderness. Here, somewhere behind the nettles, someone is singing in a thin, thin voice; the mosquito seems to echo him. So he stopped, and the mosquito kept squeaking: through the friendly, importunately plaintive buzzing of flies, there is a buzz of a fat bumblebee, which every now and then knocks its head on the ceiling; a rooster crowed in the street, hoarsely drawing out the last note, a cart rattled, the gates were hidden in the village. "What?" suddenly rattled a woman's voice. “Oh, my sir,” Anton says to a two-year-old girl, whom she nurses in her arms. “Bring kvass,” repeats the same woman’s voice, “and suddenly there is a dead silence; nothing will knock, nothing will move; the wind does not move the leaf; the swallows rush without a cry one after another over the earth, and the soul becomes sad from their silent raid. “When I am at the bottom of the river,” Lavretsky thinks again. “And always, at all times, life is quiet and unhurried here,” he thinks, “whoever enters its circle, submit: there is nothing to worry about, nothing to stir up; here only that and good luck, who paves his path slowly, like a plowman furrows a plow. And what strength is all around, what health in this inactive stillness! Here, under the window, a stocky burdock climbs out of the thick grass; above him, the dawn stretches its juicy stalk, the tears of the Mother of God throw out their pink curls even higher; and there, farther, in the fields, the rye is shining, and the oats have already gone into a tube, and every leaf on every tree, every grass on its stem, expands to its full width. My best years have gone into womanly love, - Lavretsky continues to think, - let boredom here sober me up, let it calm me down, prepare me so that I can slowly do business. "And he again begins to listen to the silence, expecting nothing - and at the same time, as if constantly waiting for something; silence embraces him from all sides, the sun rolls quietly across a calm blue sky, and the clouds quietly float across it; it seems that they know where and why they are swimming. time in other places on earth seethed, hurried, rumbled life; here the same life flowed inaudibly, like water over swamp grasses; and until evening Lavretsky could not tear himself away from contemplating this passing, flowing life; sorrow for the past melted in his soul, like spring snow, and—strangely enough!—the feeling of homeland had never been so deep and strong in him. XXI In the course of two weeks, Fyodor Ivanovich put Glafira Petrovna’s house in order, cleared the yard and garden, brought him comfortable furniture from Lavrikov, from the city wine, books gi, magazines; horses appeared in the stable; in a word, Fyodor Ivanovich acquired everything he needed and began to live - either as a landowner, or as a hermit. His days passed monotonously; but he did not get bored, although he did not see anyone; he diligently and attentively took care of the household, rode around the neighborhood, read. However, he read little: it was more pleasant for him to listen to the stories of old Anton. Lavretsky usually sat down with a pipe of tobacco and a cup of cold tea by the window; Anton stood at the door, hands folded back, and began his leisurely stories about ancient times, about those fabulous times when oats and rye were sold not by measurements, but in large bags, two and three kopecks per bag; when in all directions, even under the city, stretched impenetrable forests , untouched steppes. “And now,” complained the old man, who was already over eighty years old, “everything has been cut down and plowed up so much that there is nowhere to get through.” Anton also told a lot about his mistress, Glafira Petrovna: how reasonable and thrifty they were; how a certain gentleman, a young neighbor, would imitate them, often began to run into them, and how they even deigned to put on their festive cap for him, with ribbons the color of massak and a yellow dress of tru-tru-levantine; but how later, angry at the neighbor for an indecent question: "What, they say, should you have, madam, capital?" - they ordered him to refuse home, and how they then ordered that everything after their death, to the smallest rag, be presented to Fyodor Ivanovich. And sure enough, Lavretsky found all his aunt's belongings intact, not turning off the festive cap with massak-colored ribbons and a yellow dress made of tru-tru-levantine. There were no old papers and curious documents that Lavretsky counted on, except for one dilapidated book, in which his grandfather, Pyotr Andreich, entered that "Celebration in the city of St. Petersburg of the reconciliation concluded with the Turkish Empire by His Excellency Prince Alexander Alexandrovich Prozorovsky" ; then a recipe for breast decocht with a note: "This instruction was given to General Praskovya Feodorovna Saltykova from the archpriest of the Church of the Life-Giving Trinity Feodor Avksentevich"; then political news of the following kind: “Something has gone silent about the French tigers,” and right next to it: “The Moscow Gazette shows that Mr. Prime Minister Mikhail Petrovich Kolychev has died. Isn’t Peter Vasilyevich Kolychev’s son?” Lavretsky also found several old calendars and dream books and a mysterious work by Mr. Ambodicus; many memories were aroused in him by the long forgotten, but familiar "Symbols and Emblems". In Glafira Petrovna's dressing table, Lavretsky found a small package tied with a black ribbon, sealed with black sealing wax, and stuffed into the very bottom of the drawer. In the package lay face to face a pastel portrait of his father in his youth, with soft curls scattered over his forehead, with long languid eyes and a half-open mouth, and an almost erased portrait of a pale woman in a white dress, with a white rose in her hand - his mother. Glafira Petrovna never allowed a portrait to be taken of herself. “I, father Fyodor Ivanovich,” Anton used to say to Lavretsky, “khosh and in the master’s mansions did not have a residence then, but I remember your great-grandfather, Andrei Afanasyevich, how: when they died, I was eighteen years old. Once I ran into them in the garden, even my hamstrings shook; however, they did nothing, only asked for their name, and sent to their chambers for a handkerchief. The master was, to be sure, - and did not know the elder over himself. Therefore, I will tell you, your great-grandfather had such a wonderful amulet; from Mount Athos, a monk gave them that amulet. And he said to him, this monk-something: "For yours, boyar, I give you this cordiality; wear it - and do not be afraid of the court." Well, then, father, you know what the times were: whatever the master wanted, he did. It happened that even one of the gentlemen would take it into his head to argue with them, so they would only look at him and say: “You swim shallowly,” - that’s what they had favorite word. And he lived, your great-grandfather of blessed memory, in small wooden mansions; and what good he left behind, what silver, all sorts of reserves, all the cellars were chock-full. The owner was. That decanter

He began to say goodbye.

- Well? will we see you soon? asked Marfa Timofeevna.

“As you will, auntie; it’s not far from here.

And Marfa Timofeevna embraced her nephew.

- And Liza will not be after Panshin, do not worry; She is not worth the kind of husband.

“Yes, I’m not at all worried,” answered Lavretsky, and withdrew.

He could not sleep, but he fell into a drowsy road numbness. The images of the past, as before, slowly rose and surfaced in his soul, getting in the way and getting confused with other ideas. Lavretsky, God knows why, began to think about Robert Peel ... about French history ... about how he would have won the battle if he had been a general; he fancied shots and screams... His head slid to one side, he opened his eyes... The same fields, the same steppe views; the worn horseshoes of the horseshoes alternately sparkle through the wavy dust; the driver's shirt, yellow, with red gussets, puffs up from the wind ... "I'm good to go back to my homeland," flashed through Lavretsky's head, and he shouted: "Let's go!" - Wrapped himself in his overcoat and snuggled closer to the pillow. The tarantass was pushed: Lavretsky straightened up and opened his eyes wide. In front of him, on a hillock, stretched a small village; a little to the right one could see a dilapidated manor house with closed shutters and a crooked porch; across the wide courtyard, from the very gates, nettles grew, green and dense, like hemp; right there stood an oak, still strong barn. It was Vasilevsky.

“Hello, hello, brother,” Lavretsky said, “I think your name is Anton?” Are you still alive?

“Here I am at home, here I am back,” thought Lavretsky as he entered the tiny anteroom, while the shutters banged and screeched open one after another and daylight penetrated the empty chambers.