‘‘And we, you know, have sold our estate. Of course, it’s a pity, we’re used to it here, but Dolzhikov has promised to make Jean the stationmaster of Dubechnya, so we won’t be leaving the place, we’ll live here at the station, and it’s the same as on the estate. The engineer is so kind! Don’t you find him very handsome?’’
Still recently the Cherpakovs lived a wealthy life, but after the general’s death, everything changed. Elena Nikiforovna started quarreling with the neighbors, went to court, paid less than she owed to her stewards and hired hands, kept fearing she would be robbed—and in some ten years, Dubechnya became unrecognizable.
Behind the big house was an old garden, grown wild, stifled with tall weeds and bushes. I strolled about the terrace, still strong and beautiful; through the glass door, a room with a parquet floor could be seen, probably the drawing room; an old piano, and on the walls, etchings in wide mahogany frames—and nothing more. All that was left of the former flowerbeds were peonies and poppies that lifted their white and scarlet heads from the grass; on the pathways, stretching themselves out, hindering each other, grew young maples and elms, already plucked by the cows. The growth was thick, and the garden looked impenetrable, but that was only near the house, where poplars, pines, and old lindens, all of an age, survivors from the former alleys, still stood, but further behind them the garden had been cleared for hayfields, and here it was no longer so close, the cobwebs did not get into your eyes and mouth, a breeze blew; the further on, the more spacious it became, and here cherries, plums, and spreading apple trees grew in abandon, disfigured by props and canker, and pear trees so tall it was even hard to believe they were pear trees. This part of the garden was rented by our town marketwomen and was guarded from thieves and starlings by a peasant simpleton who lived in a brush hut.
The garden, growing ever sparser, turned into a real meadow, descending to the river, where green bulrushes and willows grew; by the dam there was a pool, deep and full of fish, a small mill with a thatched roof made an angry clamor, frogs croaked furiously. From time to time, the water, smooth as a mirror, would be covered with rings, and the water lilies would shake, disturbed by playful fish. On the other side of the river was the small village of Dubechnya. The quiet blue pool enticed you, promising coolness and peace. And now all of it—the pool, and the mill, and the cozy-looking banks—belonged to the engineer!
And so my new work began. I received telegrams and sent them further on, kept various records, and made clean copies of the requests, claims, and reports sent to our office by illiterate foremen and workmen. But the greater part of the day I did nothing but walk around the room waiting for telegrams, or I’d get a boy to sit there and go to the garden myself, and stroll until the boy came running to tell me the telegraph was tapping. I ate dinners with Mrs. Cheprakov. Meat was served very rarely, the dishes were all from dairy products, but on Wednesdays and Fridays they were lenten, and on those days pink plates, which were known as lenten plates, were set out on the table. Mrs. Cheprakov blinked constantly—such was her habit—and I felt ill at ease each time I was in her presence.
Since there was not enough work in the wing even for one person, Cheprakov did nothing but sleep or go to the pool with a gun to shoot ducks. In the evenings he would get drunk in the village or at the station and, before going to bed, would look in the mirror and shout:
‘‘Greetings, Ivan Cheprakov!’’
When drunk, he was very pale and kept rubbing his hands and laughing with a sort of whinny: ‘‘Hee, hee, hee!’’ Out of mischief, he would strip and run naked through the fields. He ate flies and said they tasted sour.
IV
ONCE AFTER DINNER he came running to the wing, out of breath, and said:
‘‘Go, your sister’s here.’’
I went out. Indeed, a hired town droshky was standing by the porch of the big house. My sister had come, and Anyuta Blagovo with her, and some gentleman in a military tunic. Going closer, I recognized the military man: it was Anyuta’s brother, a doctor.
‘‘We’ve come for a picnic,’’ he said. ‘‘It that all right?’’
My sister and Anyuta would have liked to ask how my life was there, but they both said nothing and only looked at me. I also said nothing. They understood that I didn’t like it there, and tears welled up in my sister’s eyes, and Anyuta Blagovo turned red. We went to the garden. The doctor went ahead of us, saying rapturously:
‘‘What air! Holy Mother, what air!’’
In appearance, he was still quite the student. He spoke and walked like a student, and the gaze of his gray eyes was as lively, simple, and open as in a good student. Next to his tall and beautiful sister, he seemed weak and thin; and his little beard was thin, and his voice also—a thin little tenor, though pleasant enough. He served in a regiment somewhere, and had now come home on leave, and said that in the fall he would go to Petersburg to pass the examination for doctor of medicine. He already had a family of his own— a wife and three children; he had married early, while still in the second year of his studies, and now they said of him in town that he was unhappy in his family life and no longer lived with his wife.
‘‘What time is it now?’’ My sister was worried. ‘‘We should get back early, papa allowed me to visit my brother only till six o’clock.’’
‘‘Ah, your papa again!’’ sighed the doctor.
I prepared a samovar. We had tea on a rug in front of the terrace of the big house, and the doctor, on his knees, drank from the saucer and said that he was experiencing bliss. Then Cheprakov fetched the key and opened the glass door, and we all went into the house. Here it was dim, mysterious, it smelled of mushrooms, and our footsteps made a hollow sound, as if there was a basement under the floor. The doctor, standing, touched the keys of the piano, and it responded to him weakly, in quavering, husky, but still harmonious chords; he tested his voice and began to sing some love song, wincing and tapping his foot impatiently when one of the keys turned out to be mute. My sister no longer wanted to go home but went about the room excitedly, saying:
‘‘I feel merry! I feel very, very merry!’’
There was surprise in her voice, as if it seemed incredible to her that she also could be in good spirits. It was the first time in her life I had seen her so merry. She even became prettier. In profile she was unattractive, her nose and mouth were somehow thrust forward and made it look as if she was blowing, but she had beautiful dark eyes, a pale, very delicate complexion, and a touching expression of kindness and sorrow, and when she spoke, she looked comely and even beautiful. Both she and I took after our mother—broad-shouldered, strong, enduring—but her paleness was sickly, she coughed frequently, and in her eyes I sometimes caught the expression people have who are seriously ill but for some reason conceal it. In her present merriment, there was something childlike, naive, as if the joy which, during our childhood, had been suppressed and stifled by a stern upbringing, had now suddenly awakened in her soul and burst out into freedom.
But when evening came and the horses were brought, my sister became quiet, shrank, and got into the droshky looking as if it was the prisoner’s bench.
