IVAN FYODOROVICH SHPONKA AND HIS AUNT
THERE WAS A story to do with this story: it was told us by Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka, who used to come over from Gadyach. You should know that my memory's rotten beyond words: tell me something or not, it's all the same. Just like pouring water through a sieve. Knowing this fault of mine, I asked him purposely to write it down in a notebook. Well, God grant him good health, he was always kind to me, he did write it down. I put it into a little desk; I think you know it well: it's the one in the corner as you come in . . . Ah, I forgot, you've never been to my place. My old woman, whom I've lived with for some thirty years now, never learned to read in all her born days—may as well admit it. So I noticed she was baking pirozhki1 on some paper. Her pirozhki, my gentle readers, are amazingly good; you won't eat better pirozhki anywhere. I looked at the underside of one and saw some writing. My heart as if knew it. I went to the desk—not even half a notebook left! The rest of the pages she'd torn out for her pies! What could I do? you can't start fighting in old age!
Last year I happened to pass through Gadyach. Before we reached the town, I purposely tied a knot so that I wouldn't forget to ask Stepan Ivanovich about it. Not only that, but I made myself a promise—as soon as I sneezed in town, I'd remember him. All in vain. I passed through the town, and I sneezed, and I blew my nose in my handkerchief, yet I forgot everything; and I remembered only when I was some six miles beyond the town gates. Nothing to be done, I had to publish it without the end. However, if anyone really wishes to know what happened further on in the story, he need only go on purpose to Gadyach and ask Stepan Ivanovich. He'll tell it again with great pleasure, maybe even from beginning to end. He lives not far from the stone church. There's a little lane right there: you just turn down the lane and it's the second or third gate. Or better still: when you see a tall striped pole in the yard, and a fat woman in a green skirt comes out to meet you (he leads a bachelor's life, there's no harm in saying), then it's his yard. Or else you may meet him in the market, where he spends every morning till nine o'clock choosing fish and vegetables for his table and talking with Father Antip or the Jew tax farmer. 2 You'll recognize him at once, because nobody but he has printed duck trousers and a yellow nankeen frock coat. Here's another token for you: he always waves his arms as he walks. The local assessor, the late Denis Petrovich, always used to say when he saw him in the distance: "Look, look, there goes the windmill."
I: Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka
IT’S FOUR YEARS now that Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka has been retired and living on his farmstead in Vytrebenki. When he was still Vaniusha, he studied at the Gadyach regional high school, and, it must be said, he was a most well-behaved and diligent boy. The teacher of Russian grammar, Nikifor Timofeevich Participle, used to say that if everyone in the class was as diligent as Shponka, he wouldn't have to bring in the maple ruler, with which, as he con-lessed himself, he was weary of rapping lazybones and pranksters on the knuckles. His notebook was always clean, neatly ruled, never a blot anywhere. He always sat placidly, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and he never hung scraps of paper on the back of the comrade in front of him, never carved on the bench or played squash your granny before the teacher came. Whenever anyone needed a penknife to sharpen his pen, he immediately turned to Ivan Fyodorovich, knowing that he always had a penknife with him; and Ivan Fyodorovich, then simply Vaniusha, would take it from the little leather case tied to the buttonhole of his gray frock coat, and asked only that they not scrape the pen with the sharp edge, assuring them that the dull edge was meant for that. Such good behavior soon attracted the attention of the Latin teacher himself, whose mere cough in the front hall, which preceded the thrusting of his frieze overcoat and pockmark-adorned face through the doorway, inspired fear in the whole class. This terrible teacher, who always had two bundles of birch switches on the lectern and half his auditors on their knees, made Ivan Fyodorovich his monitor, though there were many in the class of much greater ability.
Here we cannot omit one occasion which influenced his entire life. One of the students he had charge of as monitor, in order to incline him to put down a scit3 on his record, though he didn't know a scrap of the lesson, brought a buttered pancake to class wrapped in paper.
Ivan Fyodorovich, though he had a bent for justice, was hungry just then and unable to resist temptation: he took the pancake, stood a book in front of him, and began to eat. And he was so occupied with it that he didn't even notice the deathly silence that suddenly fell over the class. He came to his senses with horror only when the dreaded hand, reaching out from the frieze overcoat, seized him by the ear and dragged him into the middle of the classroom. "Give the pancake here! Give it here, I tell you, scoundrel!" said the terrible teacher. Then he seized the buttery pancake with his fingers and flung it out the window, strictly forbidding the boys running around in the yard to pick it up. After which he beat Ivan Fyodorovich most painfully on the hands. And rightly so: it was the fault of the hands, they and not any other part of the body had done the taking. Be that as it may, the timidity inseparable from him to begin with increased still more. Perhaps this very event was the reason why he never had any wish to enter the civil service, seeing from experience that it was not always possible to keep the lid on things.
He was approaching fifteen when he passed into the second class, where, instead of the short catechism and the four rules of arithmetic, he started on the full-length one, the book on the duties of man, and fractions. But seeing that the further into the forest, the thicker grow the trees, and receiving news that his papa had bid the world farewell, he stayed on for another two years and then, with his mother's consent, joined the P— infantry regiment.
The P—infantry regiment was not at all of the sort to which many infantry regiments belong; and, even though it was mostly quartered in villages, it was nevertheless on such a footing that it would not yield to certain cavalry regiments. The majority of the officers drank vymorozki4 and knew how to pull Jews by their sidelocks no worse than the hussars; several of them even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the P—regiment never missed an opportunity of mentioning it when talking with someone in society. "I have many," he used to say, patting himself on the belly after each word, "who dance the mazurka, sir. A good many, sir. A great many." To better show readers the cultivation of the P— infantry regiment, we shall add that two of the officers gambled terribly at faro and would lose uniform, visored cap, greatcoat, sword knot, and underwear to boot—something not always found even among cavalrymen.
The company of such comrades, however, by no means diminished Ivan Fyodorovich's timidity. And since he did not drink vymorozki, preferring a glass of vodka before dinner and supper, and did not dance the mazurka or play faro, he naturally always had to stay alone. And so, while the others would go in hired carriages to visit small landowners, he sat at home and exercised himself in occupations dear only to a meek and kindly soul: polishing his buttons, reading a fortune-telling book, setting mousetraps in the corners of his room, and, finally, taking off his uniform and lying in bed. On the other hand, there was no one in the regiment more disciplined than Ivan Fyodorovich. And he commanded his platoon so well that the company commander always held him up as an example. For that, in a short time, eleven years after being made ensign, he was promoted to sub-lieutenant.
In the course of that time, he received the news that his mother had died; and his aunt, his mother's sister, whom he knew only because she used to bring him dried pears and her own very tasty homemade gingerbreads when he was a child, and even sent them to Gadyach (she was on bad terms with his mother and therefore Ivan Fyodorovich had not seen her later)—this aunt, out of the goodness of her heart, undertook to manage his small estate, of which she duly informed him in a letter. Ivan Fyodorovich, being fully confident of his aunt's reasonableness, began to carry on with his service as before. Another in his place, on receiving such rank, would have grown very proud; but pride was completely unkn
own to him, and having become a sub-lieutenant, he was the very same Ivan Fyodorovich that he had been in the rank of ensign. Staying on for four years after this event so remarkable for him, he was preparing to set out from Mogilev province for Great Russia with his regiment when he received a letter with the following content:
My gentle nephew, Ivan Fyodorovich, I am sending you underwear—five pairs of cotton socks and four shirts of fine linen—and I also want to discuss business with you: since you are already of a not unimportant rank, which I think you know yourself, and are already of such age that it is time you took up the management of your estate, there is no longer any need for you to serve in the army. I am old now and cannot look after everything on your estate; and indeed I have much to reveal to you personally besides.
Come, Vaniusha. In anticipation of the true pleasure of seeing you, I remain your most loving aunt Vasilisa Tsupchevska
A strange turnip has grown in our kitchen garden—more like a potato than a turnip.
Within a week of receiving this letter, Ivan Fyodorovich wrote in reply: My dear madam, Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna!
I thank you very much for sending me the underwear. My socks especially were very old, so that my orderly had to darn them four times, which made them very tight. As to your opinion about my service, I fully agree with you and sent in my resignation two days ago. As soon as I am discharged, I will hire a carriage. I was unable to fulfill your prior request concerning the wheat seed, the hard Siberian variety: there is none such to be found in all Mogilev province. The pigs here are fed on homebrew mash mixed with a little flat beer.
With the utmost respect, my dear madam aunt, I remain your nephew Ivan Shponka
At last Ivan Fyodorovich was discharged with the rank of sublieutenant, hired a Jew for forty roubles to take him from Mogilev to Gadyach, and sat himself in the kibitka just at the time when the trees became clothed in young, still sparse leaves, all the earth greened brightly with fresh green, and all the fields smelled of spring.
II: The Road
NOTHING REMARKABLE HAPPENED on the road. They traveled for a little over two weeks. Ivan Fyodorovich might have arrived sooner, but the pious Jew kept his sabbath on Saturdays and, covering himself with his horse blanket, prayed all day long. However, Ivan Fyodorovich, as I have had occasion to observe before, was the sort of man who would not allow himself to be bored. During that time, he would open his suitcase, take out his linen, examine it well to see if it was properly laundered, properly folded, would carefully remove a piece of fluff from the new uniform, already made without epaulettes, and would put it all back in the best way.
Generally speaking, he did not like reading books; and if he ever peeked into the fortunetelling book, it was because he liked meeting familiar things there, already read several times.
So a townsman goes to his club every day, not in order to hear anything new there, but to meet those friends with whom from time immemorial he has been used to chatting in the club. So an official takes great pleasure in reading the directory several times a day, not for the sake of any diplomatic undertakings, but because he delights exceedingly in seeing names in print. "Ah! Ivan Gavrilovich So-and-so!" he repeats to himself in a muted voice. "Ah! and here I am! Hm! . . ." And the next day he rereads it, again with the same exclamations.
After two weeks of traveling, Ivan Fyodorovich reached a village some seventy miles from Gadyach. It was a Friday. The sun had long set when, with kibitka and Jew, he drove into the inn. This inn was in no way different from others built in small villages. The traveler is usually treated zealously to hay and oats there, as if he were a post-horse. But if he should wish to have a meal such as decent people ordinarily have, he must keep his appetite intact for the next occasion. Ivan Fyodorovich, knowing all that, had provided himself beforehand with two strings of bagels and a sausage, and, having ordered a glass of vodka, which is never lacking in any inn, began on his supper, sitting on a bench in front of an oak table planted permanently in the clay floor.
In the meantime there came the noise of a britzka. The gates creaked, but for a long time no britzka drove into the yard. A loud voice was quarreling with the old woman who ran the inn. "I'll drive in," Ivan Fyodorovich heard, "but if a single bedbug bites me in your house, I'll beat you, by God, I'll beat you, you old witch! And I'll pay you nothing for the hay!"
A minute later the door opened and in came, or, rather, heaved himself, a fat man in a green frock coat. His immobile head rested on a short neck that seemed fatter still because of his double chin. Even by the look of him, he seemed to be one of those people who never rack their brains over trifles and whose whole life goes swimmingly.
"Greetings to you, my dear sir!" he said, seeing Ivan Fyodorovich.
Ivan Fyodorovich made a wordless bow.
"And may I ask with whom I have the honor of speaking?" the fat arrival went on.
Under such interrogation, Ivan Fyodorovich involuntarily got up from his seat and stood at attention, something he ordinarily did when his colonel asked him a question.
"Retired Sub-lieutenant Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka," he replied.
"And dare I ask to what parts you are traveling?"
"To my own farmstead, sir—Vytrebenki."
"Vytrebenki!" the stern interrogator exclaimed. "Allow me, my dear, dear sir, allow me!" he kept repeating as he approached him, waving his arms as if someone were hindering him or as if he were pushing his way through a crowd, and, coming close, he took Ivan Fyodorovich into his embrace and planted a kiss first on his right cheek, then on the left, and then again on the right. Ivan Fyodorovich liked this kissing very much, because the stranger's big cheeks felt like soft pillows on his lips.
"Allow me, my dear sir, to introduce myself!" the fat man went on. "I am a landowner in the same Gadyach district and your neighbor. I live in the village of Khortyshche, no more than four miles from your farmstead of Vytrebenki. My name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. Without fail, without fail, my dear sir, I don't even want to know you unless you come to visit the village of Khortyshche. I'm hurrying off on an errand now . . . And what is this?" he said in a mild voice to the entering lackey, a boy in a long Cossack blouse with patches on the elbows, who with a perplexed mien was placing bundles and boxes on the table.
"What is this? What?" and Grigory Grigorievich's voice was imperceptibly becoming more and more menacing. "Did I tell you to put it here, my gentle? did I tell you to put it here, scoundrel? Didn't I tell you to heat the chicken up first, you cheat? Get out!" he cried, stamping his foot. "Wait, you mug! where's the hamper with the bottles? Ivan Fyodorovich!" he said, pouring some liquor into a glass, "a little cordial if you please?"
"By God, sir, I can't. . . I've already had occasion . . ." Ivan Fyodorovich said, faltering.
"I won't hear of it, my dear sir!" the landowner raised his voice, "I won't hear of it! I'm not moving from this spot until you try..."
Ivan Fyodorovich, seeing it was impossible to refuse, drank it off, not without pleasure.
"This is a chicken, my dear sir," the fat Grigory Grigorievich went on, cutting it up in the wooden box with a knife. "I must tell you that my cook, Yavdokha, is fond of a nip now and then, and so it often comes out too dry. Hey, boy!" here he turned to the boy in the Cossack blouse, who was bringing in a featherbed and pillows, "make my bed up on the floor in the middle of the room! See that you pile the hay a bit higher under the pillow! And pull a tuft of hemp from the woman's spinning to stop my ears for the night! You should know, my dear sir, that I've been in the habit of stopping my ears for the night ever since that cursed time when a cockroach got into my left ear in a Russian tavern. The cursed Russians, as I found out later, even eat cabbage soup with cockroaches in it. It's impossible to describe what happened to me: such a tickling in my ear, such a tickling. . . you could just climb the wall! A simple old woman helped me when I got back to our parts. And how, do you think? Merely by whispering some spell on it. What do you say about these medical m
en, my dear sir? I think they simply fool and befuddle us. Some old woman knows twenty times better than all these medical men."
"Indeed, sir, what you say is perfectly true. In fact, some old . . ." Here he stopped, as if unable to find the appropriate word.
It will do no harm if I say that generally he was not lavish with words. Maybe the reason was his timidity, or maybe it was the wish to express himself more beautifully.
"Give that hay a real good shaking!" Grigory Grigorievich said to his lackey. "The hay here is so vile you have to keep watching for twigs. Allow me, my dear sir, to wish you a good night! We won't see each other tomorrow: I'll be setting out before dawn. Your Jew will keep his sabbath, because tomorrow's Saturday, and so there's no need for you to get up early. And don't forget my request. I don't even want to know you unless you come to the village of Khortyshche."
Here Grigory Grigorievich's valet pulled his frock coat and boots off him, replacing them with a dressing gown, and Grigory Grigorievich tumbled into bed, and it looked as if one huge featherbed were lying on another.
"Hey, boy! where are you off to, scoundrel! Come here, straighten my blanket! Hey, boy, pile up some hay under my head! and, say, have the horses been watered yet? More hay! here, under this side! and straighten the blanket nicely, scoundrel! Like that! more! ah! . . ."
Here Grigory Grigorievich sighed another time or two and sent a terrible nose-whistling all over the room, occasionally letting out such snores that the old woman snoozing on the stove bench5 would wake up and suddenly look all around her, but, seeing nothing, would calm down and go back to sleep.