'Don't believe him, Ivan Fyodorovich!' said Grigory Grigorievich, not hearing very well. 'It's all lies!'
Meanwhile dinner was over. Grigory Grigorievich went to his room, as usual, to have a little snooze; and the guests followed the old hostess and the young ladies to the living room, where the same table on which they had left the vodka when they went to dinner was, as if by some metamorphosis, covered with little dishes of various sorts of preserves and platters with watermelons, cherries, and melons.
Grigory Grigorievich's absence could be noticed in everything. The hostess became more talkative and revealed, on her own, without being asked, a lot of secrets about the making of fruit jellies and the drying of pears. Even the young ladies began to talk; but the fair one, who seemed six years younger than her sister and looked as if she was about twenty-five, was more taciturn.
But Ivan Ivanovich spoke and acted most of all. Being sure that no one would throw him off or confuse him now, he talked about cucumbers, and about planting potatoes, and about what sensible people there had been in olden times-a far cry from those of the present day!-and about how the further it went, the smarter it got, attaining to the invention of the most clever things. In short, this was one of those people who take the greatest pleasure in being occupied with soul-delighting conversation, and will talk about anything that can be talked about. If the conversation touched on important and pious subjects, Ivan Ivanovich sighed after every word, nodding his head slightly; if on estate management, he stuck his head out of his britzka and made such faces that, just looking at them, one could learn how to make pear kvass, how big were the melons he was talking about, and how fat the geese that ran in his yard.
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
