"You can't set out so late on such a long journey!" Pulkheria Ivanovna always said (the guest usually lived two or three miles away).
"Of course not," Afanasy Ivanovich would say, "who knows what may happen: robbers may fall upon you, or some other bad men."
"God preserve us from robbers!" Pulkheria Ivanovna would say.
"Why talk of such things before going to bed at night? Robbers or no robbers, it's dark, it's not good at all to go. And your coachman, I know your coachman, he's so weak and small, any nag can beat him; and besides, he's surely tipsy by now and sleeping somewhere."
And the guest absolutely had to stay. However, evening in a low, warm room, cordial, warming, and lulling conversation, steaming hot food served on the table, always nourishing and expertly cooked, would be his reward. I can see Afanasy Ivanovich as if it were right now, sitting hunched on a chair, smiling his usual smile and listening to the guest with attention and even pleasure! Often the talk ran to politics. The guest, who also very rarely left his estate, frequently offered his surmises with an important look and a mysterious expression on his face, saying that the French had secretly agreed with the English to turn Bonaparte loose on Russia again, or else simply talked of war being imminent, and then Afanasy Ivanovich often said, as if not looking at Pulkheria Ivanovna:
"I'm thinking of going to war myself. Why shouldn't I go to war?”
"He's off again!" Pulkheria Ivanovna would interrupt. "Don't believe him," she would say, addressing the guest. "How can he go to war, old as he is? The first soldier will shoot him down! By God, he will! He'll just take aim and shoot him down."
"So what," Afanasy Ivanovich would say, "I'll shoot him down, too.”
"Just hear him talk!" Pulkheria Ivanovna would pick up. "How can he go to war? His pistols got rusty long ago sitting in the closet. You should see them: the way they are, the powder will blow them up before they do any shooting. He'll hurt his hands, and disfigure his face, and stay crippled forever."
"So what," Afanasy Ivanovich would say, "I'll buy myself a new weapon. I'll take a saber or a Cossack lance."
"He makes it all up. It just comes into his head and he starts talking," Pulkheria Ivanovna would pick up vexedly "I know he's joking, but even so, it's unpleasant to listen. He always says something like that, sometimes you listen and listen, and then you get scared."
But Afanasy Ivanovich, pleased to have given Pulkheria Ivanovna a little fright, would be laughing as he sat hunched on his chair. To me Pulkheria Ivanovna was most entertaining at the moments when she was treating a guest to hors d'ceuvres.
"This," she would say, unstopping a decanter, "is vodka infused with yarrow and sage. If someone has an ache in the shoulder blades or the lower back, it's a great help. This one is with centaury: if you have a ringing in the ears or blotches on your face, it's a great help. And this one's distilled with peach stones; here, take a glass, what a wonderful smell! If someone bumps the corner of a cupboard or a table as he's getting out of bed and gets a lump on his forehead, it's enough just to drink one little glass before dinner and it will go away as if by magic, that same minute, as if he'd never had it."
This was followed by the same kind of report on other decanters, that almost all of them had some healing properties. Having loaded the guest with all this pharmacy, she would lead him to a multitude of plates.
"These are mushrooms with thyme! These are with cloves and walnuts! A Turkish woman taught me how to pickle them, back when we still had Turkish prisoners. 9 She was such a nice woman, it didn't even show that she confessed the Turkish faith. She went about just as we do, only she didn't eat pork, said it was somehow forbidden by their law. These are mushrooms with black currant leaves and nutmeg! And these are big gourds done in vinegar: it's the first time I've tried it, I don't know how they came out, it's Father Ivan's secret. First you spread some oak leaves in a small barrel, then put in some pepper and saltpeter, and some hawkweed flowers, too—you just take the flowers and spread them stems up. And these are pirozhki! cheese pirozhki! with poppyseed juice! And these are the ones Afanasy Ivanovich likes best, with cabbage and buckwheat."
"Yes," added Afanasy Ivanovich, "I like them very much. They're tender and slightly tart."
Generally, Pulkheria Ivanovna was in exceptionally good spirits whenever they had guests. A kindly old woman! She belonged entirely to her guests. I loved visiting them, and though I overate terribly, as all their visitors did, and though it was very bad for me, nevertheless I was always glad to go there. However, I think that the very air of Little Russia may possess some special quality that aids digestion, because if anyone here tried to eat like that, he would undoubtedly wind up lying not in his bed but on the table. 10
Kindly old folk! But my narrative is approaching a very sad event which changed the life of this peaceful corner forever. This event will seem the more striking because it proceeded from a quite unimportant incident. But, in the strange order of things, it is always insignificant causes that give birth to great events, and, vice versa, great undertakings have ended in insignificant consequences. Some conqueror gathers all the forces of his state, spends several years making war, his generals cover themselves with glory, and finally it all ends with the acquisition of a scrap of land on which there isn't even room enough to plant potatoes; while, on the other hand, two sausage makers from two towns start fighting over nothing, other towns get involved in the quarrel, then villages and hamlets, then the whole country. But let's drop this reasoning: it's out of place here. Besides, I don't like reasoning that remains mere reasoning.
Pulkheria Ivanovna had a little gray cat that almost always lay curled up at her feet.
Pulkheria Ivanovna sometimes patted her and tickled her neck with her finger, which the pampered cat arched as high as she could. It cannot be said that Pulkheria Ivanovna loved her all that much, she was simply attached to her, being used to seeing her all the time. Afanasy Ivanovich, however, often poked fun at this attachment:
"I don't know what you find in a cat, Pulkheria Ivanovna. What good is it? If you had a dog, it would be a different matter: a dog you can take hunting, but what good is a cat?"
"Be quiet, Afanasy Ivanovich," Pulkheria Ivanovna would say, "you just like to talk, that's all. Dogs are untidy, dogs make a mess, dogs break everything, but cats are gentle creatures, they won't do anyone any harm."
However, cats and dogs were all the same for Afanasy Ivanovich; he just said it to poke a little fun at Pulkheria Ivanovna.
Behind their garden was a big woods that had been wholly spared by their enterprising steward—perhaps because the sound of the ax would have come to Pulkheria Ivanovna's ears.
It was dense, overgrown, the old tree trunks were covered with rampant hazel bushes and looked like shaggy pigeon legs. This woods was inhabited by wild cats. Wild forest cats should not be confused with those dashing fellows who run over the rooftops of houses. City dwellers, despite their tough character, are far more civilized than the inhabitants of the forests. The latter, on the contrary, are grim and savage folk; they always go about thin, scrawny, meowing in coarse, untrained voices. They sometimes dig subterranean passages under barns and steal lard; they even come right into the kitchen, suddenly jumping through an open window when they notice that the cook has gone out to the bushes. Lofty feelings are generally unknown to them; they live by plunder and kill young sparrows right in their nests. These cats spent a long time sniffing at Pulkheria Ivanovna's meek little cat through a hole under the barn and finally lured her away, as a troop of soldiers lures away a foolish peasant girl. Pulkheria Ivanovna noticed the cat's disappearance and sent people to look for her, but the cat was not to be found. Three days passed; Pulkheria Ivanovna felt sorry, then finally forgot all about it. One day when, after inspecting her kitchen garden, she was coming back with fresh cucumbers she had picked for Afanasy Ivanovich with her own hand, her hearing was struck by a most pitiful meowing. She said, as if instinctively: "Kitty, kitty!" and suddenly ou
t of the weeds came her gray cat, thin, scrawny; it was clear that she had had nothing in her mouth for several days.
Pulkheria Ivanovna kept calling her, but the cat stood in front of her, meowing and not daring to come near; it was clear that she had grown quite wild in the meantime. Pulkheria Ivanovna went on ahead of her, still calling the cat, who timorously followed her as far as the fence.
Finally, seeing old familiar places, she went inside. Pulkheria Ivanovna at once ordered that she be given milk and meat, and, sitting before her, delighted in the greed with which her poor favorite ate piece after piece and lapped up the milk. The gray fugitive got fat before her eyes and no longer ate so greedily. Pulkheria Ivanovna reached out to pat her, but the ungrateful thing must have grown too used to the predatory cats, or picked up romantic ideas about love in poverty being better than any mansion, since the wild cats were dirt poor; be that as it may, she jumped out the window, and none of the servants could catch her.
The old woman fell to pondering. "It's my death come for me!" she said to herself, and nothing would distract her. All day she was sad. In vain did Afanasy Ivanovich joke and try to find out why she was suddenly so sorrowful: Pulkheria Ivanovna either would not reply or her replies failed totally to satisfy Afanasy Ivanovich. The next day she looked noticeably thinner.
"What's wrong, Pulkheria Ivanovna? You're not sick?"
"No, I'm not sick, Afanasy Ivanovich! I want to announce a special event to you: I know that I will die this summer; my death has already come for me!"
Afanasy Ivanovich's mouth twisted somehow painfully. He tried, however, to overcome the sad feeling in his soul, and said with a smile:
"God knows what you're saying, Pulkheria Ivanovna! You must have drunk peach vodka instead of your usual decoction of herbs."
"No, Afanasy Ivanovich, I didn't drink peach vodka," said Pulkheria Ivanovna.
And Afanasy Ivanovich felt sorry that he had poked fun at Pulkheria Ivanovna, and he looked at her and a tear hung on his eyelash.
"I ask you to carry out my will, Afanasy Ivanovich," said Pulkheria Ivanovna. "When I die, bury me by the church fence. Put my gray dress on me, the one with little flowers on a brown background. Don't put the satin dress on me, the one with the raspberry stripes: a dead woman doesn't need such a dress. What's the good of it? And you could use it: make a fancy dressing gown out of it for when guests come, so that you can look decent when you receive them."
"God knows what you're saying, Pulkheria Ivanovna!" said Afanasy Ivanovich. "Death's a long way off, and you're already frightening us with such talk."
"No, Afanasy Ivanovich, I know now when my death will be. But don't grieve over me: I'm already an old woman and have lived enough. You're old, too, we'll soon see each other in the next world."
But Afanasy Ivanovich wept like a baby.
"It's sinful to cry, Afanasy Ivanovich! Don't sin and make God angry with your sorrow. I'm not sorry to die. One thing I'm sorry about," a deep sigh interrupted her speech for a moment, "I'm sorry I don't know who to leave you with, who will take care of you when I die. You're like a little child: whoever looks after you must love you."
Here such deep, such devastating heart's pity showed on her face that I think no one could have looked on her at that moment with indifference.
"Watch out, Yavdokha," she said, addressing the housekeeper, whom she had sent for on purpose, "when I die, you must look after the master, cherish him like your own eye, like your own child. See that they cook what he likes in the kitchen. Always give him clean linen and clothes; dress him decently when there happen to be guests, or else he may come out in an old dressing gown, because even now he often forgets which are feast days and which are ordinary. Don't take your eyes off him, Yavdokha, I'll pray for you in the other world, and God will reward you. So don't forget, Yavdokha. You're old now, you don't have long to live, you mustn't heap sin on your soul. If you don't look after him, you won't be happy in this life. I'll ask God personally not to give you a good end. You'll be unhappy yourself, and your children will be unhappy, and none of your posterity will have God's blessing in anything."
The poor old woman! At that moment she was thinking neither of the great moment ahead of her, nor of her soul, nor of her future life; she was thinking only of her poor companion with whom she had spent her life and whom she was leaving orphaned and unprotected. With extraordinary efficiency, she arranged everything in such a way that afterwards Afanasy Ivanovich would not notice her absence. Her certainty of imminent death was so strong and her state of mind was so set on it that, in fact, a few days later she lay down and could no longer take any food. Afanasy Ivanovich turned all attention and never left her bedside. "Maybe you'll eat something, Pulkheria Ivanovna?" he would say, looking anxiously in her eyes. But Pulkheria Ivanovna would not say anything. Finally, after a long silence, she made as if to say something, moved her lips—and her breath flew away. Afanasy Ivanovich was completely amazed. The thing seemed so wild to him that he did not even weep. With dull eyes he gazed at her as if not understanding what this corpse could mean.
The dead woman was laid on the table, dressed in the dress she herself had appointed, with her hands crossed and a candle placed in them—he looked at it all insensibly. Many people of various ranks filled the yard, many guests came to the funeral, long tables were set up in the yard; kutya, 11 liqueurs, pies covered them in heaps; the guests talked, wept, gazed at the deceased, discussed her qualities, looked at him—but he viewed it all strangely. The deceased was finally taken up and borne away, people flocked behind, and he, too, followed her. The priests were in full vestments, the sun shone, nursing infants wept in their mothers' arms, larks sang, children in smocks ran and frolicked on the road. Finally the coffin was placed over the hole, he was told to go up and kiss the dead woman for the last time; he went up, kissed her, tears came to his eyes, but some sort of insensible tears. The coffin was lowered down, the priest took the spade and threw in the first handful of earth, in a deep, drawn-out chorus the reader and two sextons sang "Memory Eternal" 12under the clear, cloudless sky, the workmen took up their spades, and earth now covered the hole smoothly—at that moment he made his way to the front; everyone parted, allowing him to pass, wishing to know his intentions. He raised his eyes, looked around dully, and said: "Well, so you've buried her already! What for?!" He stopped and did not finish his speech.
But when he returned home, when he saw that his room was empty, that even the chair on which Pulkheria Ivanovna used to sit had been taken away—he wept, wept hard, wept inconsolably, and tears poured in streams from his lusterless eyes.
That was five years ago. What grief is not taken away by time? What passion will survive an unequal battle with it? I knew a man in the bloom of his still youthful powers, filled with true nobility and virtue, I knew him when he was in love, tenderly, passionately, furiously, boldly, modestly, and before me, almost before my eyes, the object of his passion—tender, beautiful as an angel—was struck down by insatiable death. I never saw such terrible fits of inner suffering, such furious, scorching anguish, such devouring despair as shook the unfortunate lover. I never thought a man could create such a hell for himself, in which there would be no shadow, no image, nothing in the least resembling hope . . . They tried to keep an eye on him; they hid all instruments he might have used to take his own life. Two weeks later he suddenly mastered himself: he began to laugh, to joke; freedom was granted him, and the first thing he did with it was buy a pistol. One day his family was terribly frightened by the sudden sound of a shot. They ran into the room and saw him lying with his brains blown out.
A doctor who happened to be there, whose skill was on everyone's lips, saw signs of life in him, found that the wound was not quite mortal, and the man, to everybody's amazement, was healed. The watch on him was increased still more. Even at table they did not give him a knife and tried to take away from him anything that he might strike himself with; but a short while later he found a new occasion and threw
himself under the wheels of a passing carriage. His arm and leg were crushed; but again they saved him. A year later I saw him in a crowded room; he sat at the card table gaily saying "Petite ouverte," 13 keeping one card turned down, and behind him, leaning on the back of his chair, stood his young wife, who was sorting through his chips.
As I said, five years had passed since Pulkheria Ivanovna's death when I visited those parts and stopped at Afanasy Ivanovich's farmstead to call on my old neighbor, with whom I once used to spend the days pleasantly and always ate too much of the excellent food prepared by the cordial hostess. As I drove up to the place, the house seemed twice as old to me, the peasant cottages lay completely on their sides—no doubt just like their owners; the paling and wattle fence were completely destroyed, and I myself saw the cook pulling sticks out of it for kindling the stove, when she had only to go two extra steps to get to the brushwood piled right there. With sadness I drove up to the porch; the same Rustys and Rovers, blind now or with lame legs, began barking, raising their wavy tails stuck with burrs. An old man came out to meet me. It was he! I recognized him at once; but he was now twice as hunched as before. He recognized me and greeted me with the same familiar smile. I followed him inside; everything there seemed as before, but I noticed a strange disorder in it all, some tangible absence of something or other; in short, I sensed in myself those strange feelings that come over us when for the first time we enter the dwelling of a widower whom we had known before inseparable from his lifelong companion. These feelings are like seeing before us a man we had always known in good health, now lacking a leg. The absence of the solicitous Pulkheria Ivanovna could be seen in everything: at the table one of the knives was lacking a handle; the dishes were no longer prepared with the same artfulness. I did not want to ask about the management and was even afraid to look at the farm works.
When we sat down to eat, a serf girl covered Afanasy Ivanovich with a napkin—and it was very well she did, because otherwise he would have spilled sauce all over his dressing gown. I tried to entertain him by telling him various bits of news; he listened with the same smile, but at times his look was completely insensible, and thoughts did not wander but vanished into it.