Novels, Tales, Journeys

We came to the cemetery, a bare place, no fence around it, studded with wooden crosses, not shaded by a single tree. In all my born days I had never seen such a desolate cemetery.

“Here’s the old stationmaster’s grave,” said the boy, jumping onto a pile of sand in which a black cross with a brass icon was planted.

“And the lady came here?” I asked.

“Yes, she did,” replied Vanka, “I watched her from further off. She lay down here and went on lying for a long time. Then the lady went to the village and summoned the priest, gave him money, and drove away, and me she gave five silver kopecks—such a nice lady!”

I, too, gave the boy five kopecks and no longer regretted either the trip or the seven roubles it had cost me.

THE YOUNG LADY PEASANT

You look lovely, Dushenka, in any garments.

BOGDANOVICH1

In one of our remote provinces lay the estate of Ivan Petrovich Berestov. He served with the guards in his youth, retired at the beginning of 1797, went to his village, and after that never left it. He married a poor noblewoman, who died in childbirth while he was out hunting. The exercise of estate management soon consoled him. He built a house to his own plan, started a fulling mill, tripled his income, and began to consider himself the most intelligent man in the whole neighborhood, in which he was not contradicted by his neighbors, who came to visit him with their families and dogs. On weekdays he went around in a velveteen jacket, for Sundays he put on a frock coat of homespun broadcloth; he kept the accounts himself and read nothing except the Senate Gazette. He was generally liked, though he was considered proud. The only one who did not get along with him was Grigory Ivanovich Muromsky, his nearest neighbor. This was a real Russian squire. Having squandered the greater part of his fortune in Moscow and become a widower at the same time, he left for the last of his holdings, where he went on playing pranks, but now of a different sort. He planted an English garden, into which he poured almost all his remaining income. His stable-boys were dressed like English jockeys. His daughter had an English governess. He cultivated his fields following the English method,

But Russian grain won’t grow in foreign fashion,2

and, despite a significant reduction of expenses, Grigory Ivanovich’s income did not increase; he found ways to make new debts in the country as well; yet for all that he was considered none too stupid, because among the landowners of his province he was the first to mortgage his estate to the Government Trust: a transaction which at that time seemed extremely complicated and courageous.3 Of people who disapproved of him, the most severe was Berestov. Hatred of innovation was the distinguishing mark of his character. He could not speak indifferently about his neighbor’s anglomania, and constantly found occasions to criticize him. He would show a guest over his domain, and in reply to praise of his management, would say with a sly smile:

“Yes, sir, with me it’s not like with my neighbor Grigory Ivanovich! We won’t go ruining ourselves English-style! It’s enough if we get our fill Russian-style.”

These and similar jests, through the diligence of obliging neighbors, were made known to Grigory Ivanovich with additions and explanations. The anglomaniac bore criticism no more patiently than do our journalists. He raged and dubbed his detractor a bear and a provincial.

Such were the relations between these two proprietors when Berestov’s son came to his village. He had been educated at * * * University and had intended to enter military service, but his father would not consent to it. The young man felt himself totally unsuited to civil service. Neither would yield to the other, and the young man began meanwhile to live as a squire, letting his moustache grow just in case.

Alexei was indeed a fine fellow. It really would have been a pity if a military uniform were never to hug his slender waist, and if, instead of showing himself off on horseback, he were to spend his youth hunched over office papers. Seeing how he always galloped at the head of the hunt, heedless of the road, the neighbors all agreed that he would never make a worthwhile department chief. The young ladies cast an eye on him, some even fixed an eye on him; but Alexei paid little attention to them, and they supposed that the cause of his insensibility was a love intrigue. Indeed, a copy of the address from one of his letters was passed around: To Akulina Petrovna Kurochkina, in Moscow, opposite the St. Alexei Monastery, in the house of the coppersmith Savelyev, humbly requesting that you deliver this letter to A. N. R.