Ivan Fyodorovich plucked up his courage a bit and was about to begin a conversation; but it seemed he had lost all his words on the road. Not a single thought occurred to him.
The silence lasted about a quarter of an hour. The young lady went on sitting in the same way.
Finally Ivan Fyodorovich took heart.
"There's quite a lot of flies in summer, miss!" he uttered in a half-trembling voice.
"An incredible lot!" replied the young lady. "My brother specially made a swatter out of mama's old shoe, but there's still quite a lot."
Here the conversation stopped. And in no way could Ivan Fyodorovich find his tongue again.
Finally the mistress, the aunt, and the dark young lady came back. After talking a little while longer, Vasilisa Kashporovna took her leave of the old lady and the young ones, in spite of invitations to stay the night. The old lady and the girls came out to the porch to see the guests off, and for a long time still they kept bowing to the aunt and nephew peeking out of the britzka.
"Well, Ivan Fyodorovich! what did you talk about with the young miss?" the aunt asked on their way.
"Marya Grigorievna is a very modest and well-behaved girl!" said Ivan Fyodorovich.
"Listen, Ivan Fyodorovich! I want to talk seriously with you. You are, thank God, in your thirty-eighth year. You already have a good rank. It's time to think about children! You absolutely must have a wife…"
"What, auntie?" Ivan Fyodorovich cried out, frightened. "What, a wife? No, auntie, for pity's sake… You make me completely ashamed… I've never been married before… I absolutely wouldn't know what to do with her!"
"You'll find out, Ivan Fyodorovich, you'll find out," the aunt said, smiling, and thought to herself: "My, oh, my. He's still quite a young lad, doesn't know a thing!" "Yes, Ivan Fyodorovich," she said aloud, "you won't find a better wife than Marya Grigorievna. Besides, you liked her very much. I've already discussed it at length with the old woman: she's very pleased to see you as her son-in-law. True, we don't know what that sinner of a Grigorievich is going to say. But we won't consider him, just let him try and withhold the dowry, we'll have him in court…"
At that moment the britzka drove into the yard and the ancient nags livened up, sensing their stalls nearby.
"Listen, Omelko! give the horses a good rest first, don't take them for water right after unharnessing, they're hot. Well, Ivan Fyodorovich," the aunt went on, climbing out, "I advise you to think it over well. I still have to run by the kitchen. I forgot to give Solokha orders for supper, and I suppose the worthless woman hasn't thought of it herself."
But Ivan Fyodorovich stood as if thunderstruck. True, Marya Grigorievna was a very nice young lady; but to get married!… that seemed to him so strange, so odd, that he was simply unable to think of it without fear. To live with a wife!… incomprehensible! He wouldn't be alone in his room, there'd be two of them everywhere!… Sweat broke out on his face as he fell to pondering more deeply.
He went to bed earlier than usual, but despite all efforts was unable to fall asleep. At last the longed-for sleep, that universal pacifier, visited him-but what sleep! He had never had more incoherent dreams. First he dreamed that everything around him was noisy, whirling, and he is running, running, not feeling the legs under him…he's already at the end of his strength… Suddenly somebody grabs him by the ear. "Aie! who's that?" "It's me, your wife!" some voice said noisily. And he suddenly woke up. Then he imagined that he was already married, that everything in their house was so odd, so strange: in his room, instead of a single bed, there stood a double bed. On a chair sits the wife. It's strange to him; he doesn't know how to approach her, what to say to her, and he notices that she has a goose face. Inadvertendy, he turns away and sees another wife, also with a goose face. He turns another way-there stands a third wife. Behind him, one more wife. Here anguish came over him. He rushed into the garden; but it was hot in the garden. He took his hat off and saw: a wife is sitting in the hat, too. Sweat broke out on his face. He went to his pocket to get a handkerchief-there's a wife in the pocket as well; he took a wad of cotton out of his ear-there sits another wife… Then suddenly he was hopping on one foot, and his aunt, looking at him, said with an imposing air, "Yes, you must hop, because you're a married man now." He turns to her, but the aunt is no longer an aunt but a belfry. And he feels that someone is pulling him on a rope up the belfry. "Who is pulling me?" Ivan Fyodorovich asks pitifully. "It's me, your wife pulling you, because you're a bell." "No, I'm not a bell, I'm Ivan Fyodorovich!" he cries. "Yes, you're a bell," says the colonel of the Pinfantry regiment, passing by. Then he suddenly dreamed that his wife was not a person at all but some sort of woolen fabric; that he was in Mogilev, going into a shop. "What kind of fabric would you like?" says the shopkeeper. "Take some wife, it's the most fashionable fabric! very good quality! everybody makes frock coats from it now." The shopkeeper measures and cuts the wife. Ivan Fyodorovich takes it under his arm and goes to a tailor, a Jew. "No," says the Jew, "this is poor fabric! Nobody makes frock coats from it…"
In fear and beside himself, Ivan Fyodorovich woke up. He was streaming with cold sweat.
As soon as he got up in the morning, he at once appealed to the fortune-telling book, at the end of which one virtuous bookseller, in his rare kindness and disinterestedness, had placed an abbreviated interpretation of dreams. But there was absolutely nothing in it even faintly resembling such an incoherent dream.
Meanwhile, in the aunt's head a totally new plot was hatching, which you will hear about in the next chapter.
Old World Landowners
I like very much the modest life of those solitary proprietors of remote estates who in Little Russia are usually known as the old world and who, like decrepit, picturesque little houses, are so nicely mottled and so completely the opposite of a new, smooth building whose walls have not yet been washed by rain, whose roof is not yet covered with green mold, and whose porch does not yet show its red bricks through missing plaster. I like sometimes to descend for a moment into the realm of this remarkably solitary life, where not one desire flies over the paling that surrounds the small yard, over the wattle fence that encloses the garden filled with apple and plum trees, over the village cottages surrounding it, slumped to one side, in the shade of pussy willows, elders, and pear trees. The life of their modest owners is quiet, so quiet that for a moment you forget yourself and think that the passions, desires, and restlessness produced by the evil spirit who troubles the world do not exist at all, and that you saw them only in a splendid, shining dream. From here I can see a low house with a gallery of small, blackened wooden posts running all the way round it, so that it would be possible in time of hail and thunder to close the shutters without getting wet by rain. Behind it, a fragrant bird cherry, whole rows of low fruit trees drowning in the purple of cherries and the ruby sea of plums covered with a leaden bloom; a branching maple in the shadow of which a rug has been spread for resting on; in front of the house, a vast yard of low, fresh grass, with a beaten path from the barn to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the master's quarters; a long-necked goose drinking water with her young, downy-soft goslings; the paling hung with strings of dried pears and apples and with rugs airing out; a cart full of melons standing by the barn; an unharnessed ox lying lazily beside it-all this has an inexplicable charm for me, perhaps because I no longer see it, and because everything we are parted from is dear to us. Be that as it may, even as my britzka drove up to the porch of this little house, my soul would assume a remarkably pleasant and calm state; the horses would trot merrily to the porch, the coachman would most calmly climb down from the box and fill his pipe as if he had come to his own house; the very barking set up by the phlegmatic Rustys, Rovers, and Fidos was pleasant to my ears. But most of all I liked the owners of these modest corners themselves, the little old men, the little old women who came solicitously to meet me. Their faces come back to me even now, in the noise and crowd, amid fashionable tailcoats, and then suddenly I am overcome by reverie and have vision^ of the past. On their faces there was always written such kindness, such cordiality and pure-heartedness, that you would unwittingly renounce all your bold dreams, at least for a short while, and pass imperceptibly into lowly bucolic life.