Finally, in the evening, Ivan Fyodorovich managed with great difficulty to say good-bye; and, despite his tractability and their attempts to force him to stay the night, he held to his intention to leave, and left.
V
The Aunt's New Plot
"Well, so, did you coax the deed out of the old villain?" With this question Ivan Fyodorovich was met by his aunt, who had been waiting impatiently for him on the porch for several hours already and finally, unable to help herself, had run out the gate.
"No, auntie!" Ivan Fyodorovich said, getting out of the cart, "Grigory Grigorievich hasn't got any deed."
"And you believed him! He's lying, curse him! There'll come a day, really, when I go and beat him up with my own hands. Oh, I'll get him to lose some of his fat! However, I must talk with our court clerk first, to see whether we can't claim it through the court… But that's not the point now. Well, was the dinner good?"
"Very… yes, auntie, quite."
"Well, so, what were the courses, tell me? The old woman knows how to run her kitchen, I know that."
"Cottage cheese cakes with sour cream, auntie. Stuffed pigeons with sauce…"
"And turkey with plums?" asked the aunt, being herself a great expert at preparing that dish.
"Turkey, too!… Quite beautiful young ladies they are, Grigory Grigorievich's sisters, especially the fair one!"
"Ah!" the aunt said and looked intently at Ivan Fyodorovich, who blushed and dropped his eyes. A new thought quickly flashed in her head. "Well, so?" she asked curiously and keenly, "what kind of eyebrows does she have?"
It will do no harm to note that, in feminine beauty, the aunt always gave first place to the eyebrows.
"Her eyebrows, auntie, are absolutely like you described yourself as having when you were young. And little freckles all over her face."
"Ah!" said the aunt, pleased with Ivan Fyodorovich's observation, though he had had no intention of paying her a compliment by it. "And what kind of dress did she have on?-though in any case it's hard now to find such sturdy fabrics as, for instance, this housecoat I'm wearing is made of. But that's not the point. Well, so, did you talk with her about anything?"
"You mean, that is… me, auntie? Perhaps you're already thinking…"
"And why not? what's so remarkable? it's God's will! Maybe it's your destiny that you and she live as a couple."
"I don't know how you can say that, auntie. It proves that you don't know me at all…"
"Well, now he's offended!" said the aunt. "He's still a young lad," she thought to herself, "doesn't know a thing! They should be brought together, let them get acquainted!"
Here the aunt went to have a look in the kitchen and left Ivan Fyodorovich. But from then on she thought only of seeing her nephew married soon and of fussing over little grandchildren. Nothing but wedding preparations were piling up in her head, and it could be noticed that though she now bustled over everything much more than before, all the same things went rather worse than better. Often, while cooking some pastry, which she generally never entrusted to the cook, she would forget herself and, imagining a little grandson standing by her and asking for cake, would absentmindedly hold out the best piece to him in her hand, while the yard dog, taking advantage of it, would snatch the tasty morsel and bring her out of her reverie with his loud chomping, for which he would always get beaten with the poker. She even neglected her favorite occupations and stopped going hunting, especially after she shot a crow instead of a partridge, something that had never happened to her before.
Finally, some four days later, everyone saw the britzka rolled out of the shed into the yard. The coachman Omelko, also both gardener and watchman, had been banging with the hammer since early morning, tacking down the leather and constantly driving away the dogs that licked the wheels. I consider it my duty to warn readers that this was the same britzka in which Adam drove about; and therefore, if anybody tries to pass some other one off as Adam's britzka, it will be a downright lie, and the britzka will certainly be a false one. It is totally unknown how it was saved from the flood. It must be supposed that there was a special shed for it on Noah's ark. It's a pity readers cannot have a vivid description of its appearance. Suffice it to say that Vasilisa Kashporovna was very pleased with its architecture and always expressed regret over old vehicles becoming outmoded. She liked very much the way the britzka was constructed-that is, slightly lopsided, so that its right side was much higher than the left, because, as she used to say, a man of small stature could get in on one side, and on the other a man of great stature. In any case, some five people of small stature could fit into the britzka, or three of the aunt's size.
Around midday, Omelko, having finished with the britzka, led out of the stable three horses not much younger than the britzka and began tying them to the majestic vehicle with a rope. Ivan Fyodorovich and his aunt got in, one from the left side, the other from the right, and the britzka set off. The muzhiks who happened along their way, seeing such a rich vehicle (the aunt rarely drove out in it), stopped respectfully, doffed their hats, and made low bows. About two hours later the kibitka stopped before the porch-I think there's no need to say-before the porch of Stor-chenko's house. Grigory Grigorievich was not at home. The old lady and the young ladies came out to the living room to meet the guests. The aunt approached with majestic step, put one leg forward with great adroitness, and said loudly:
"I am very pleased, my dear madam, to have the honor of personally paying you my respects. And along with that, allow me to thank you for your hospitality to my nephew, Ivan Fyodorovich, who has given it much praise. Your buckwheat, madam, is excellent! I saw it as I was driving up to the village. And allow me to ask, how many stacks do you get per acre?"
After which followed a general planting of kisses. And once they were settled in the living room, the old hostess began:
"Regarding the buckwheat, I am unable to tell you: that is along Grigory Grigorievich's line. I haven't occupied myself with it for a long time, and I can't-I'm too old! In olden times, I remember, we used to have buckwheat up to the waist. God knows how it is now. Though, anyhow, they say everything's better these days!" Here the old lady sighed, and an observer might have heard in this sigh the sigh of the old eighteenth century.
"I've heard, my dear madam, that your own serf girls make excellent rugs," said Vasilisa Kashporovna, thereby touching the old lady's most sensitive string. At these words she became as if animated and talk poured from her about how yarn ought to be dyed and how to prepare thread for it. From rugs the conversation quickly slipped over to the pickling of cucumbers and the drying of pears. In short, before an hour went by, the two ladies were talking as if they had known each other forever. Vasilisa Kashporovna already began saying many things to her in such a soft voice that Ivan Fyodorovich was unable to make anything out.
"But wouldn't you like to have a look?" said the old hostess, rising.
After her the young ladies and Vasilisa Kashporovna also rose, and they all moved toward the serving-girls' room. The aunt, however, gave a sign to Ivan Fyodorovich to stay and said something softly to the old lady.
"Mashenka!" the old lady said, turning to the fair girl, "stay with our guest and talk with him, so that our guest doesn't get bored!"
The fair young lady stayed and sat down on the sofa. Ivan Fyo- dorovich sat on his chair as if on needles, blushing and looking down; but the young lady seemed not to notice it at all and sat indifferently on the sofa, studying the windows and walls diligently or following with her eyes a cat that timorously ran under the chairs.