Gogol "Old World Landowners" - read online. Gogol: Old world landowners

I still cannot forget two old men of the last century, whom, alas! no longer, but my soul is still full of pity, and my feelings shrink strangely when I imagine that in time I will come back to their former, now deserted dwelling and see a bunch of ruined huts, a dead pond, an overgrown moat in that place where there was a low house - and nothing more. Sad! I'm sad in advance! But let's get back to the story.

Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, in the words of the peasants of the district, were the old men about whom I began to talk. If I were a painter and wanted to depict Philemon and Baucis on the canvas, I would never choose another original than them. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivanovna was fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, he always walked in a sheepskin coat covered with camlot, he sat bent over and almost always smiled, even if he was talking or simply listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna was somewhat serious, almost never laughing; but so much kindness was written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably find the smile already too sugary for her kind face. The light wrinkles on their faces were arranged with such pleasantness that the artist would surely have stolen them. One could, it seemed, read from them all their lives, a clear, calm life led by old national, simple-hearted and at the same time rich families, always constituting the opposite of those low Little Russians who tear themselves out of the tar, merchants, fill, like locusts, chambers and office workers. places, tearing the last penny from their fellow countrymen, flooding St. Petersburg with tell-tales, finally making capital and solemnly adding to their surname, ending in about, syllable in. No, they did not look like these despicable and pitiful creations, just like all ancient Little Russian and indigenous families.

It was impossible to look without participation at their mutual love. They never spoke to each other you but always you; you, Afanasy Ivanovich; you, Pulcheria Ivanovna. “Did you push through the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?” - "Nothing, do not be angry, Pulcheria Ivanovna: it's me." They never had children, and therefore all their affection was concentrated on themselves. Once upon a time, in his youth, Afanasy Ivanovich served in the company, was after a second major, but that was a very long time ago, already gone, Afanasy Ivanovich himself almost never remembered it. Afanasy Ivanovich married at the age of thirty, when he was young and wore an embroidered camisole; he even carried away rather cleverly Pulcheria Ivanovna, whom her relatives did not want to give away for him; but he remembered very little of that, at least he never spoke of it.

All these long-standing, extraordinary incidents have been replaced by a calm and solitary life, by those dormant and at the same time some kind of harmonic dreams that you feel when you sit on a rustic balcony overlooking the garden, when a beautiful rain rustles luxuriously, flapping on tree leaves, flowing down in murmuring streams and slandering sleep on your members, and meanwhile a rainbow sneaks up from behind the trees and, in the form of a dilapidated vault, shines with matte seven colors in the sky. Or when your carriage is rocking you, diving between green bushes, and the steppe quail rattles and fragrant grass, together with ears of corn and wildflowers, climbs into the doors of the carriage, pleasantly hitting you on the hands and face.

He always listened with a pleasant smile to the guests who came to him, sometimes he spoke himself, but he asked more questions. He was not one of those old men who bore with eternal praises of the old times or censures of the new. He, on the contrary, in questioning you, showed great curiosity and interest in the circumstances of your own life, successes and failures, in which all good old people are usually interested, although it is somewhat like the curiosity of a child who, while talking to you, examines the signet of your hours. Then his face, one might say, breathed kindness.

The rooms of the house in which our old men lived were small, low, such as are usually found in old-world people. Each room had a huge stove, which occupied almost a third of it. These rooms were terribly warm, because both Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna were very fond of warmth. Their fireboxes were all held in the vestibule, always filled almost to the ceiling with straw, which is usually used in Little Russia instead of firewood. The crackle of this burning straw and the illumination make the porch extremely pleasant on a winter evening, when ardent youth, chilled from the pursuit of some dark-skinned woman, runs into them, clapping their hands. The walls of the rooms were decorated with several paintings and pictures in old narrow frames. I am sure that the owners themselves have long forgotten their contents, and if some of them were carried away, they would probably not notice this. Two portraits were large, painted in oils. One represented some bishop, the other Peter III. The Duchess Lavalière peered out of the narrow frames, stained with flies. Around the windows and above the doors there were many small pictures, which you somehow get used to recognizing as stains on the wall and therefore you don’t look at them at all. The floor in almost all the rooms was clay, but so cleanly smeared and kept with such neatness, with which, it is true, no parquet is kept in a rich house, lazily swept by a sleepy gentleman in livery.

Pulcheria Ivanovna's room was full of chests, drawers, drawers, and chests. A lot of bundles and bags with seeds, flower, garden, watermelon, hung on the walls. Numerous balls of multi-coloured wool, scraps of old dresses, sewn for half a century, were stacked in the corners in chests and between chests. Pulcheria Ivanovna was a great housewife and collected everything, although sometimes she herself did not know what it would be used for later.

Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, in the words of the peasants of the district, were the old men about whom I began to talk. If I were a painter and wanted to depict Philemon and Baucis on the canvas, I would never choose another original than them. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivanovna was fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, he always walked in a sheepskin coat covered with camlot, he sat bent over and almost always smiled, even if he was talking or simply listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna was somewhat serious, almost never laughing; but so much kindness was written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably find the smile already too sugary for her kind face. The light wrinkles on their faces were arranged with such pleasantness that the artist would surely have stolen them. One could, it seemed, read from them all their lives, a clear, calm life led by old national, simple-hearted and at the same time rich families, always constituting the opposite of those low Little Russians who tear themselves out of the tar, merchants, fill, like locusts, chambers and office workers. places, tearing the last penny from their fellow countrymen, flooding St. Petersburg with tell-tales, finally making capital and solemnly adding to their surname, ending in o, the syllable въ. No, they did not look like these despicable and pitiful creations, just like all ancient Little Russian and indigenous families.

It was impossible to look without participation at their mutual love. They never said to each other you, but always you; you, Afanasy Ivanovich; you, Pulcheria Ivanovna. “Did you push through the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?” - "Nothing, do not be angry, Pulcheria Ivanovna: it's me." They never had children, and therefore all their affection was concentrated on themselves. Once upon a time, in his youth, Afanasy Ivanovich served in the company, was after a second major, but that was a very long time ago, already gone, Afanasy Ivanovich himself almost never remembered it. Afanasy Ivanovich married at the age of thirty, when he was young and wore an embroidered camisole; he even carried away rather cleverly Pulcheria Ivanovna, whom her relatives did not want to give away for him; but he remembered very little of that, at least he never spoke of it.

Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna are two old men of the "past century", tenderly loving and touchingly caring for each other. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, always wore a sheepskin coat, and practically always smiled. Pulcheria Ivanovna almost never laughed, but "so much kindness was written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably find the smile already too sugary for her kind face." They didn't have children.

Afanasy Ivanovich never criticizes the present and does not praise his past; on the contrary, it shows a keen interest in the events of the life of other people, including young people. “Pulcheria Ivanovna’s room was all lined with chests, boxes, boxes and chests. A lot of bundles and bags with seeds, flower, garden and watermelon, hung on the walls. in chests and between chests.

Pulcheria Ivanovna was a great housewife and collected everything, although sometimes she herself did not know what it would be used for later. "Afanasy Ivanovich does little housekeeping; the reins of government are in the hands of Pulcheria Ivanovna. She constantly makes jam, dries fruits, distills vodka, salts mushrooms and cucumbers; all this is then stolen by the yard girls, but this is even for the better, otherwise the mistress's supplies would be enough for several years. exuded worms."

Afanasy Ivanovich is a hunter for a good meal; for stomach pain he also has one remedy - an additional meal. The worst thing that spouses can imagine is a fire in their house. But even here, discussing the possibility of such a disaster, they do not lose heart: Afanasy Ivanovich is ready to go to the servants' room, and Pulcheria Ivanovna to the pantry. “But the old people seemed most interesting to me at a time when they had guests. Then everything in their house took on a different look.

These kind people, one might say, lived for the guests. Everything that they had the best, all this was endured ... in all their helpfulness there was no cloying. This cordiality and readiness were so meekly expressed on their faces, so approached them that he involuntarily agreed to their requests. They were the result of the pure, clear simplicity of their kind, ingenuous souls. "Once Pulcheria Ivanovna's cat was "lured" by wild cats, and she went with them into the forest. The hostess regrets the loss of the cat for three days, then calms down. Suddenly the cat appears; she is very emaciated and went wild.

Despite the fact that Pulcheria Ivanovna feeds her, the cat, having eaten, runs away again into the forest. Pulcheria Ivanovna decides that it was her death that came for her. She announces this to her husband, shares with him her premonitions of imminent death. Although she has no visible reason to worry, the old woman begins to melt day by day. She announces her last will and begins to prepare for her own funeral. She feels sorry for Afanasy Ivanovich more than herself, who after her death will be left completely alone and there will be no one to look after him lovingly.

Not sick at all, but firmly convinced of her imminent death, a few days later Pulcheria Ivanovna really dies. Afanasy Ivanovich is so amazed that he cannot even cry at a funeral; he doesn't seem to fully understand what happened. When the coffin is already covered with earth, Afanasy Ivanovich helplessly asks the question: "So you already buried her! Why!" Returning to the deserted house, "Afanasy Ivanovich sobs long and inconsolably. Five years pass. Afanasy Ivanovich is very old and hunched over, has become sloppy and inattentive. He is unable to recover from the terrible misfortune that befell him. He listens absently, as if absent. Attention he is attracted to the dish that his dead wife has always cooked and served before, unable to even pronounce her name and bursts into uncontrollable tears. I thought, looking at him, five years of all-destroying time, an old man already insensible, an old man whose life seemed to consist only of sitting on a high chair, of eating dried apples and pears, of good-natured stories, and such a long, such a hot sadness! What is stronger over us: passion or habit?

Shortly thereafter, Afanasy Ivanovich died. Shortly before, walking in the garden, he hears someone call him by name, although the surroundings are deserted. Afanasy Ivanovich brightens his face and (like his wife once) begins to melt, dry, die. "It's Pulcheria Ivanovna calling me!" says Afanasy Ivanovich and asks to be buried near his wife.

old world landowners

I very much love the modest life of those secluded rulers of remote villages, who in Little Russia are usually called old-world, who, like decrepit picturesque houses, are good in their diversity and in complete contrast to the new smooth structure, whose walls have not yet been washed by rain, the roof has not been covered with green mold and lacking the cheeky porch does not show its red bricks. I sometimes like to descend for a moment into the sphere of this unusually solitary life, where not a single desire flies over the palisade surrounding a small courtyard, over the wattle fence of a garden filled with apple and plum trees, over the village huts surrounding it, staggering to the side, overshadowed by willows, elderberry and pears. The life of their modest owners is so quiet, so quiet, that for a moment you forget and think that the passions, desires and restless creations of an evil spirit that disturb the world do not exist at all and you saw them only in a brilliant, sparkling dream. From here I can see a low house with a gallery of small blackened wooden posts going around the whole house, so that during thunder and hail you can close the shutters of the windows without getting wet with rain. Behind him fragrant bird cherry, whole rows of low fruit trees, sunk cherries and a sea of plums covered with a lead mat; a spreading maple, in the shade of which a carpet is spread out for relaxation; in front of the house there is a spacious yard with low, fresh grass, with a trodden path from the barn to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the master's quarters; a long-necked goose drinking water with goslings young and tender as fluff; a palisade hung with bundles of dried pears and apples and ventilated carpets; a wagon with melons standing near the barn; an unharnessed ox lying lazily beside him - all this has an inexplicable charm for me, perhaps because I no longer see them and that everything that we are apart from is dear to us. Be that as it may, but even when my chaise drove up to the porch of this house, my soul took on a surprisingly pleasant and calm state; the horses rolled merrily under the porch, the coachman calmly got down from the box and stuffed his pipe, as if he were coming to his own house; the barking itself, which was raised by phlegmatic watchdogs, eyebrows and bugs, was pleasant to my ears. But most of all I liked the very owners of these modest corners, the old men, the old women, who carefully came out to meet me. Their faces appear to me even now sometimes in the noise and crowd among fashionable tailcoats, and then suddenly a drowsiness finds itself on me and the past seems to me. Such kindness, such cordiality and sincerity are always written on their faces that you involuntarily refuse, at least for a short time, from all daring dreams and imperceptibly pass with all your feelings into a base bucolic life.
I still cannot forget two old men of the last century, whom, alas! no longer, but my soul is still full of pity, and my feelings shrink strangely when I imagine that in time I will come back to their former, now deserted dwelling and see a bunch of ruined huts, a dead pond, an overgrown moat in that place where a low house stood, and nothing more. Sad! I'm sad in advance! But let's get back to the story.
Afanasy Ivanovich Tovstogub and his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha, in the words of the peasants of the district, were the old men about whom I began to talk. If I were a painter and wanted to depict Philemon and Baucis on the canvas, I would never choose another original than them. Afanasy Ivanovich was sixty years old, Pulcheria Ivanovna was fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovich was tall, he always walked in a sheepskin coat covered with camlot, he sat bent over and almost always smiled, even if he was talking or simply listening. Pulcheria Ivanovna was somewhat serious, almost never laughing; but so much kindness was written on her face and in her eyes, so much readiness to treat you to everything they had best, that you would probably find the smile already too sugary for her kind face. The light wrinkles on their faces were arranged with such pleasantness that the artist would surely have stolen them. One could, it seemed, read from them all their lives, a clear, calm life led by old national, simple-hearted and at the same time rich families, always constituting the opposite of those low Little Russians who tear themselves out of the tar, merchants, fill, like locusts, chambers and office workers. places, tearing the last penny from their fellow countrymen, flooding St. Petersburg with tell-tales, finally making capital and solemnly adding to their surname, ending in o, the syllable въ. No, they did not look like these despicable and pitiful creations, just like all ancient Little Russian and indigenous families.
It was impossible to look without participation at their mutual love. They never said to each other you, but always you; you, Afanasy Ivanovich; you, Pulcheria Ivanovna. “Did you push through the chair, Afanasy Ivanovich?” - "Nothing, do not be angry, Pulcheria Ivanovna: it's me." They never had children, and therefore all their affection was concentrated on themselves. Once upon a time, in his youth, Afanasy Ivanovich served in the company, was after a second major, but that was a very long time ago, already gone, Afanasy Ivanovich himself almost never remembered it. Afanasy Ivanovich married at the age of thirty, when he was young and wore an embroidered camisole; he even carried away rather cleverly Pulcheria Ivanovna, whom her relatives did not want to give away for him; but he remembered very little of that, at least he never spoke of it.
All these long-standing, extraordinary incidents have been replaced by a calm and solitary life, by those dormant and at the same time some kind of harmonic dreams that you feel when you sit on a rustic balcony overlooking the garden, when a beautiful rain rustles luxuriously, flapping on tree leaves, flowing down in murmuring streams and slandering sleep on your members, and meanwhile a rainbow sneaks up from behind the trees and, in the form of a dilapidated vault, shines with matte seven colors in the sky. Or when your carriage is rocking you, diving between green bushes, and the steppe quail rattles and fragrant grass, together with ears of corn and wildflowers, climbs into the doors of the carriage, pleasantly hitting you on the hands and face.
He always listened with a pleasant smile to the guests who came to him, sometimes he spoke himself, but he asked more questions. He was not one of those old men who bore with eternal praises of the old times or censures of the new. He, on the contrary, in questioning you, showed great curiosity and interest in the circumstances of your own life, successes and failures, in which all good old people are usually interested, although it is somewhat like the curiosity of a child who, while talking to you, examines the signet of your hours. Then his face, one might say, breathed kindness.
The rooms of the house in which our old men lived were small, low, such as are usually found in old-world people. Each room had a huge stove, which occupied almost a third of it. These rooms were terribly warm, because both Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna were very fond of warmth. Their fireboxes were all held in the vestibule, always filled almost to the ceiling with straw, which is usually used in Little Russia instead of firewood. The crackle of this burning straw and the illumination make the porch extremely pleasant on a winter evening, when ardent youth, chilled from the pursuit of some dark-skinned woman, runs into them, clapping their hands. The walls of the rooms were decorated with several paintings and pictures in old narrow frames. I am sure that the owners themselves have long forgotten their contents, and if some of them were carried away, they would probably not notice this. Two portraits were large, painted in oils. One represented some bishop, the other Peter III. The Duchess Lavalière peered out of the narrow frames, stained with flies. Around the windows and above the doors there were many small pictures, which you somehow get used to recognizing as stains on the wall and therefore you don’t look at them at all. The floor in almost all the rooms was clay, but so cleanly smeared and kept with such neatness, with which, it is true, no parquet is kept in a rich house, lazily swept by a sleepy gentleman in livery.
Pulcheria Ivanovna's room was full of chests, drawers, drawers, and chests. A lot of bundles and bags with seeds, flower, garden, watermelon, hung on the walls. Numerous balls of multi-coloured wool, scraps of old dresses, sewn for half a century, were stacked in the corners in chests and between chests. Pulcheria Ivanovna was a great housewife and collected everything, although sometimes she herself did not know what it would be used for later.
But the most remarkable thing about the house was the singing doors. As soon as morning came, the singing of the doors was heard throughout the house. I can’t say why they sang: whether the rusty hinges were the fault, or the mechanic who made them hid some secret in them - but the remarkable thing is that each door had its own special voice: the door leading to the bedroom sang the thinnest treble; the door to the dining-room rattled in bass; but the one that was in the entrance made some strange rattling and groaning sound together, so that, listening to it, it was very clearly heard at last: “Fathers, I will be chilly!” I know a lot of people really don't like this sound; but I love him very much, and if I happen to sometimes hear the creaking of doors here, then suddenly I will smell like a village, a low room, illuminated by a candle in an old candlestick, dinner already standing on the table, on a dark May night, looking out of the garden, through the dissolved a window, on a table laden with appliances, a nightingale, dousing the garden, the house and the distant river with its peals, fear and the rustle of branches ... and God, what a long string of memories is brought to me then!
The chairs in the room were wooden, massive, as is usually the case in antiquity; they were all with high turned backs, in their natural form, without any varnish and paint; they were not even upholstered with material and were somewhat similar to those chairs that bishops still sit on to this day. Triangular tables in the corners, quadrangular in front of a sofa and a mirror in thin gold frames carved with leaves, which flies dotted with black dots, a carpet in front of the sofa with birds that look like flowers and flowers that look like birds - these are almost all the decorations of an undemanding house where my old people lived.
The maid's room was filled with young and middle-aged girls in striped underwear, whom Pulcheria Ivanovna sometimes gave to sew some trinkets and forced to peel berries, but who mostly ran to the kitchen and slept. Pulcheria Ivanovna considered it necessary to keep them in the house and strictly looked after their morality. But, to her extreme surprise, several months did not pass without one of her girls becoming much fuller than usual; it seemed all the more surprising that there were almost no single people in the house, except for the room boy, who walked around in a gray half-coat, with bare feet, and if he did not eat, then he certainly slept. Pulcheria Ivanovna usually scolded the culprit and punished severely so that this would not happen in the future. A terrible multitude of flies rang on the glass of the windows, all of which were covered by the thick bass of a bumblebee, sometimes accompanied by the shrill squeals of wasps; but as soon as the candles were served, this whole gang went to sleep and covered the entire ceiling with a black cloud.
Afanasy Ivanovich took very little care of the household, although, by the way, he sometimes went to the mowers and reapers and looked rather intently at their work; the entire burden of government lay on Pulcheria Ivanovna. The economy of Pulcheria Ivanovna consisted in the incessant unlocking and locking of the pantry, in salting, drying, boiling countless fruits and plants. Her house looked exactly like a chemical laboratory. Under the apple tree, a fire was always laid out, and a cauldron or a copper basin with jam, jelly, marshmallow, made with honey, sugar, and I don’t remember what else, was almost never removed from the iron tripod. Under another tree, the coachman was always distilling vodka in a copper lembic for peach leaves, for bird cherry blossom, for centaury, for cherry pits, and by the end of this process he was completely unable to move his tongue, chatting such nonsense that Pulcheria Ivanovna could not understand anything, and went to the kitchen to sleep. So much of all this rubbish was boiled, salted, and dried that it would probably drown the whole yard at last, because Pulcheria Ivanovna always liked to cook more for the reserve in excess of what was calculated for consumption, if more than half of it was not eaten by the yard girls, who, climbing into the pantry, they gorged themselves so terribly there that they moaned and complained about their stomachs all day long.
Pulcheria Ivanovna had little opportunity to enter into arable farming and other household items outside the courtyard. The clerk, having joined with the voit, robbed in an merciless manner. They got into the habit of entering the master's forests as if they were their own, making a lot of sledges and selling them at the nearby fair; in addition, they sold all the thick oaks to the neighboring Cossacks for milling. Only once Pulcheria Ivanovna wished to revise her scaffolding. For this, a droshky with huge leather aprons was harnessed, from which, as soon as the coachman shook the reins and the horses, who were still serving in the police, started off, the air was filled with strange sounds, so that suddenly a flute, and tambourines, and a drum were heard; every carnation and iron bracket rang so that near the mills one could hear the pani leaving the yard, although this distance was at least two versts. Pulcheria Ivanovna could not fail to notice the terrible devastation in the forest and the loss of those oaks that she had known in her childhood to be centuries old.
- Why is it with you, Nichipor, - she said, turning to her clerk, who was right there, - oak trees have become so rare? See that your hair does not become sparse on your head.
- Why are they rare? - the clerk usually used to say, - they are gone! So they completely disappeared: they struck with thunder, and they pierced the worms - they disappeared, ladies, they disappeared.
Pulcheria Ivanovna was completely satisfied with this answer, and when she arrived home, she only gave orders to double the guard in the garden near Spanish cherries and large winter muzzles.
These worthy rulers, the clerk and the voit, found it completely superfluous to bring all the flour to the barns of the lords, and half of what would be enough from the bar; finally, they brought this half moldy or soaked, which was culled at the fair. But no matter how much the clerk and the voit robbed, no matter how terribly they ate everything in the yard, from the housekeeper to the pigs, who destroyed a terrible multitude of plums and apples and often pushed the tree with their own snouts to shake off a whole rain of fruit from it, no matter how much the sparrows pecked at them and ravens, no matter how much the whole household carried gifts to their godfathers in other villages and even dragged old linens and yarn from the barns, that everything turned to the universal source, that is, to the tavern, no matter how the guests, phlegmatic coachmen and lackeys stole, - but the blessed land produced of everything in such abundance, Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna needed so little that all these terrible thefts seemed completely unnoticeable in their household.
Both old men, according to the old custom of old-world landowners, were very fond of eating. As soon as dawn broke (they always got up early) and as soon as the doors started their discordant concert, they were already sitting at the table and drinking coffee. After drinking coffee, Afanasy Ivanovich went out into the hallway and, shaking off his handkerchief, said: “Kish, kish! Come on, geese, off the porch! In the yard he usually came across a clerk. He, as usual, entered into conversation with him, asked about the work in the greatest detail, and gave him such remarks and orders that would surprise anyone with an extraordinary knowledge of the economy, and some beginner would not dare to even think that it was possible to steal from such vigilant owner. But his clerk was a fired bird: he knew how to answer, and even more so, how to manage.
After that, Afanasy Ivanovich returned to the chambers and said, approaching Pulcheria Ivanovna:
- Well, Pulcheria Ivanovna, maybe it's time to have something to eat?
- What would you like to have a bite to eat now, Afanasy Ivanovich? perhaps shortcakes with bacon, or pies with poppy seeds, or, perhaps, salted mushrooms?
"Perhaps even saffron milk caps or pies," answered Afanasy Ivanovich, and suddenly a tablecloth with pies and saffron milk caps appeared on the table.
An hour before dinner, Afanasy Ivanovich ate again, drank an old silver glass of vodka, ate mushrooms, various dried fish and other things. They sat down to dinner at twelve o'clock. In addition to dishes and gravy boats, there were a lot of pots with smeared lids on the table so that some appetizing product of old delicious cuisine could not run out of steam. At dinner, conversation usually went on about subjects closest to dinner.
“It seems to me that this porridge,” Afanasy Ivanovich usually used to say, “is a little burnt; Don't you think so, Pulcheria Ivanovna?
- No, Afanasy Ivanovich; you put more oil, then it will not seem burnt, or take this sauce with mushrooms and pour it on it.
- Perhaps, - said Afanasy Ivanovich, substituting his plate, - let's try, how it will be.
After dinner, Afanasy Ivanovich went to rest for an hour, after which Pulcheria Ivanovna brought a cut watermelon and said:
- Here, try, Afanasy Ivanovich, what a good watermelon.
“Don’t believe it, Pulcheria Ivanovna, that it’s red in the middle,” Afanasy Ivanovich said, taking a decent chunk, “it happens that it’s red, but not good.
But the watermelon immediately disappeared. After that, Afanasy Ivanovich ate a few more pears and went for a walk in the garden with Pulcheria Ivanovna. Arriving home, Pulcheria Ivanovna went about her business, and he sat under a shed facing the courtyard, and watched how the pantry constantly showed and closed its inside and the girls, pushing one another, now bringing in, then taking out a bunch of all sorts of squabbles in wooden boxes, sieves, overnight stays and other fruit storage facilities. A little later he sent for Pulcheria Ivanovna, or went to her himself and said:
- What would I like to eat, Pulcheria Ivanovna?
- What would it be? - said Pulcheria Ivanovna, - am I going to tell you to bring dumplings with berries, which I ordered to leave for you on purpose?
"And that's good," answered Afanasy Ivanovich.
- Or maybe you would eat kisselika?
"And that's good," replied Afanasy Ivanovich. After that, all this was immediately brought and, as usual, eaten.
Before supper Afanasy Ivanovich had something else to eat. At half past ten they sat down for dinner. After supper they immediately went back to bed, and a general silence settled in this active and at the same time calm corner. The room in which Afanasy Ivanovich and Pulcheria Ivanovna slept was so hot that few people would be able to stay in it for several hours. But Afanasy Ivanovich, in addition to being warmer, slept on a couch, although the intense heat often forced him to get up several times in the middle of the night and pace the room. Sometimes Afanasy Ivanovich would moan as he walked up and down the room. Then Pulcheria Ivanovna asked:
- Why are you moaning, Afanasy Ivanovich?
“God knows, Pulcheria Ivanovna, as if his stomach hurts a little,” said Afanasy Ivanovich.
"But wouldn't it be better for you to eat something, Afanasy Ivanovich?"
- I don't know if it will be good, Pulcheria Ivanovna! However, what would you like to eat?
- Sour milk or thin uzvara with dried pears.
“Perhaps, is it just to try,” said Afanasy Ivanovich.
The sleepy girl went to rummage through the cupboards, and Afanasy Ivanovich ate a plate; after which he usually said:
- Now it seems to be easier.
Sometimes, if it was clear time and the rooms were rather warmly heated, Afanasy Ivanovich, merry, liked to joke with Pulcheria Ivanovna and talk about something extraneous.
- And what, Pulcheria Ivanovna, - he said, - if our house suddenly caught fire, where would we go?
- God save this! said Pulcheria Ivanovna, crossing herself.
- Well, let's suppose that our house burned down, where would we go then?
- God knows what you're saying, Afanasy Ivanovich! as possible, so that the house could burn down: God will not allow it.
- Well, what if it burned down?
- Well, then we would go to the kitchen. You would occupy for a while the room that the housekeeper occupies.
What if the kitchen burned down?
- Here's another! God will keep from such an allowance, so that suddenly both the house and the kitchen burn down! Well, then in the pantry, while a new house would be lined up.
“What if the pantry burned down?”
- God knows what you're saying! I don't want to listen to you! It is a sin to say this, and God punishes for such speeches.
But Afanasy Ivanovitch, pleased that he had played a trick on Pulcheria Ivanovna, was smiling as he sat in his chair.
But the old men seemed most interesting to me at the time when they had guests. Then everything in their house took on a different look. These kind people, one might say, lived for the guests. Everything that they had the best, it all endured. They vied with each other trying to treat you to everything that their economy only produced. But most of all I was pleased that in all their helpfulness there was no cloying. This cordiality and readiness were so meekly expressed on their faces, so approached them that he involuntarily agreed to their requests. They were the result of the pure, clear simplicity of their kind, unsophisticated souls. This cordiality is not at all the kind with which an official of the Treasury Chamber treats you, who has become popular through your efforts, calls you a benefactor and crawls at your feet. The guest was in no way allowed to leave the same day: he had to spend the night without fail.
- How can you go to such a late sometimes long way! Pulcheria Ivanovna always said (the guest usually lived three or four versts from them).
- Of course, - said Afanasy Ivanovich, - it is not equal to any case: robbers or another unkind person will attack.
- May God have mercy on the robbers! said Pulcheria Ivanovna. - And why tell such a thing at night. Robbers are not robbers, but the time is dark, it is not at all good to go. Yes, and your coachman, I know your coachman, he is so tenditous and small, any mare will beat him; and besides, now he must have drunk his fill and is sleeping somewhere.
And the guest was bound to stay; but, by the way, an evening in a low warm room, a cordial, warming and soporific story, rushing steam from the food served on the table, always nutritious and skillfully prepared, is his reward. I see how now, how Afanasy Ivanovich, bent over, sits on a chair with his usual smile and listens with attention and even enjoyment to the guest! There was often talk of politics. The guest, who also very rarely left his village, often with a significant look and a mysterious expression on his face, deduced his guesses and told that the Frenchman secretly agreed with the Englishman to release Bonaparte again to Russia, or simply talked about the upcoming war, and then Afanasy Ivanovich often said, as if not looking at Pulcheria Ivanovna:
- I'm thinking of going to war myself; why can't I go to war?
- That's already gone! interrupted Pulcheria Ivanovna. "You don't believe him," she said, addressing her guest. - Where is he, the old one, to go to war! His first soldier will shoot! By God, shoot! This is how you aim and shoot.
- Well, - said Afanasy Ivanovich, - and I will shoot him.
- Just listen to what he says! - Pulcheria Ivanovna picked up, - where should he go to war! And his pistols have long since rusted and lie in the closet. If you could see them: there are such that, before they even shoot, they will tear them apart with gunpowder. And he will beat his hands, and cripple his face, and forever remain unhappy!
- Well, - said Afanasy Ivanovich, - I will buy myself new weapons. I will take a saber or a Cossack pike.
- It's all fiction. So suddenly it comes to mind and starts telling, - picked up Pulcheria Ivanovna with annoyance. "I know he's joking, but it's still unpleasant to listen to." That's what he always says, sometimes you listen, you listen, and it will become scary.
But Afanasy Ivanovitch, pleased that he had somewhat frightened Pulcheria Ivanovna, laughed, sitting bent over in his chair.
Pulcheria Ivanovna was most entertaining to me when she led a guest to a snack.
“This,” she said, removing the cork from the decanter, “is vodka infused with wood and sage.” If anyone has pain in the shoulder blades or lower back, it helps a lot. Here it is for the centaury: if it rings in the ears and lichen is made on the face, it helps a lot. But this one is distilled into peach pits; Here, take a glass, what a wonderful smell. If somehow, getting out of bed, someone hits the corner of a closet or table and runs into a Google on his forehead, then you just have to drink one glass before dinner - and everything will be removed as if by hand, in the same minute everything will pass as if it had not happened at all.