The tiny house where Lavretzky had arrived, and where, two years
previously, Glafira Petrovna had breathed her last, had been built in
the previous century, out of sturdy pine lumber; in appearance it was
decrepit, but was capable of standing another fifty years or more.
Lavretzky made the round of all the rooms, and, to the great
discomfiture of the aged, languid flies, with white dust on their backs,
who were sitting motionless under the lintels of the doors, he ordered
all the windows to be opened; no one had opened them since the death of
Glafira Petrovna. Everything in the house remained as it had been: the
small, spindle-legged couches in the drawing-room, covered with glossy
grey material, worn through and flattened down, vividly recalled the days
of Katherine II; in the drawing-room, also, stood the mistress's
favourite chair, with a tall, straight back, against which, even in her
old age, she had not leaned. On the principal wall hung an ancient
portrait of Feodor's great-grandfather, Andrei Lavretzky; the dark,
sallow face was barely discernible against the warped and blackened
background; the small, vicious eyes gazed surlily from beneath pendent,
swollen lids; the black hair, devoid of powder, rose in a brush over the
heavy, deeply-seamed brow. On the corner of the portrait hung a wreath of
dusty immortelles. "Glafira Petrovna herself was pleased to weave it,"
announced Anton. In the bedchamber rose a narrow bed, under a tester of
ancient, striped material, of very excellent quality; a mountain of faded
pillows, and a thin quilted coverlet, lay on the bed, and by the head of
the bed hung an image of the Presentation in the Temple of the All-Holy
Birthgiver of God, the very same image to which the old spinster, as she
lay dying alone and forgotten by every one, had pressed for the last
time, her lips which were already growing cold. The toilet-table, of
inlaid wood with brass trimmings and a crooked mirror with tarnished
gilding, stood by the window. Alongside the bedroom was the room for the
holy pictures, a tiny chamber, with bare walls and a heavy shrine of
images in the corner; on the floor lay a small, threadbare rug, spotted
with wax; Glafira Petrovna had been wont to make her prostrations upon
it. Anton went off with Lavretzky's lackey to open the stable and
carriage-house; in his stead, there presented herself an old woman,
almost of the same age as he, with a kerchief bound round her head, down
to her very brows; her head trembled, and her eyes gazed dully, but
expressed zeal, and a long-established habit of serving with assiduity,
and, at the same time, a certain respectful commiseration. She kissed
Lavretzky's hand, and paused at the door, in anticipation of orders. He
positively was unable to recall her name; he could not even remember
whether he had ever seen her. It turned out that her name was Apraxyeya;
forty years before, that same Glafira Petrovna had banished her from
the manor-house service, and had ordered her to attend to the fowls;
however, she said little,--as though she had outlived her mind,--and only
looked on cringingly. In addition to these two old people, and three
potbellied brats in long shirts, Anton's great-grandchildren, there
dwelt in the service-rooms of the manor a one-armed little old peasant,
who was exempt from compulsory service; he made a drumming noise like a
woodcock when he spoke, and was not capable of doing anything. Not much
more useful than he was the decrepit dog, who had welcomed Lavretzky's
home-coming with his bark: it had already been fastened up for ten years
with a heavy chain, bought by order of Glafira Petrovna, and was barely
in a condition to move and drag its burden. After inspecting the house,
Lavretzky went out into the park, and was satisfied with it. It was all
overgrown with tall grass, burdock, and gooseberry and raspberry bushes;
but there was much shade in it: there were many old linden-trees, which
surprised the beholder by their huge size and the strange arrangement of
their branches; they had been too closely planted, and at some time or
other--a hundred years before--had been pollarded. The park ended in a
small, clear pond, with a rim of tall, reddish reeds. The traces of human
life fade away very quickly: Glafira Petrovna's farm had not succeeded
in running wild, but it already seemed plunged in that tranquil dream
wherewith everything on earth doth dream, where the restless infection of
people does not exist. Feodor Ivanitch also strolled through the
village; the women stared at him from the thresholds of their cottages,
each with her cheek propped on one hand; the peasant men saluted him from
afar; the children ran away; the dogs barked indifferently. At last he
felt hungry, but he did not expect his servants and cook until toward
evening; the cart with provisions from Lavriki had not yet arrived,--he
was compelled to appeal to Anton. Anton immediately arranged matters:
he caught an old hen, cut its throat, and plucked it; Apraxyeya rubbed
and scrubbed it for a long time, and washed it, like linen, before she
placed it in the stew-pan; when, at last, it was cooked, Anton put on
the table-cloth and set the table, placed in front of the plate a
blackened salt-cellar of plated ware on three feet, and a small faceted
carafe with a round glass stopper and a narrow neck; then he announced to
Lavretzky, in a chanting voice, that the meal was ready,--and took up
his post behind his chair, having wound a napkin around his right fist,
and disseminating some strong, ancient odour, which resembled the odour
of cypress wood. Lavretzky tasted the soup, and came upon the hen; its
skin was all covered with big pimples, a thick tendon ran down each leg,
its flesh had a flavour of charcoal and lye. When he had finished his
dinner, Lavretzky said that he would like some tea, if.... "This very
moment, sir, I will serve it, sir,"--interrupted the old man,--and he
kept his promise. A pinch of tea was hunted up, wrapped in a scrap of red
paper, a small but very mettlesome and noisy samovar was searched out,
also sugar, in very tiny bits, that seemed to have been melted around the
edges. Lavretzky drank his tea out of a large cup; he remembered that
cup in his childhood: playing-cards were depicted on it, only visitors
drank out of it,--and he now drank out of it, like a visitor. Toward
evening, his servants arrived; Lavretzky did not wish to sleep in his
aunt's bed; he gave orders that a bed should be made up for him in the
dining-room. Extinguishing the candle, he stared about him for a long
time, and meditated on cheerless thoughts; he experienced the sensation
familiar to every man who chances to pass the night, for the first time,
in a place which has long been uninhabited; it seemed to him that the
darkness which surrounded him on all sides could not accustom itself to
the new inhabitant, that the very walls of the house were waxing
indignant. At last he sighed, drew the coverlet up over him, and fell
asleep. Anton remained afoot longer than the rest; for a long time he
whispered with Apraxyeya, groaned in a low tone, and crossed himself a
couple of times. Neither of them expected that the master would settle
down among them at Vasilievskoe, when, near at hand, he owned such a
magnificent estate, with a capitally-organised manor-house; they did not
even suspect that it was precisely that manor-house which was repugnant
to Lavretzky: it evoked in him oppressive memories. After having
whispered his fill, Anton took his staff, and beat upon the board at the
store-house which had long been hanging silent,[8] and immediately lay
down for a nap in the yard, without covering up his grey head with
anything. The May night was tranquil and caressing--and the old man
slumbered sweetly.
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[8] It is the duty of the night-watchman to beat upon the board at
regular intervals, to show that he is vigilant.--Translator.