Since early morning, the entire sky was covered with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and boring, as happens on gray cloudy days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you wait for rain, but it doesn’t come. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the gymnasium teacher Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far behind the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stood on one of the hills, you could see from there the same huge field, a telegraph and a train, which from a distance looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather you can even see the city from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field and both thought about how great and how beautiful this country is. “Last time, when we were in the barn of the elder Prokofy,” said Burkin, “you were going to tell some story.” - Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then. Ivan Ivanovich took a long breath and lit a pipe to start telling the story, but just at that time it started to rain. And about five minutes later it was pouring heavily, constantly, and it was difficult to predict when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them with emotion. “We need to hide somewhere,” said Burkin. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here. - Let's go. They turned to the side and walked along the mown field, now straight, now turning to the right, until they came out onto the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river began to sparkle, and a view opened onto a wide stretch with a mill and a white bathhouse. This was Sofyino, where Alekhine lived. The mill worked, drowning out the noise of the rain; the dam trembled. Here wet horses stood near the carts with their heads hanging, and people walked around covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of wetness, uncleanliness, discomfort throughout their entire body, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they climbed to the master’s barns, they were silent, as if angry with each other. A winnowing machine was making noise in one of the barns; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. On the threshold stood Alyokhin himself, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt that had not been washed for a long time with a rope belt, long johns instead of trousers, and dirt and straw were also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy. “Please, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I’m here right now, this minute. The house was large, two-story. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks once lived; the furnishings here were simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka and harness. Upstairs, in the state rooms, he was rarely, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were met in the house by the maid, a young woman, so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” said Alyokhin, following them into the hallway. - I didn’t expect it! Pelageya,” he turned to the maid, “let the guests change into something.” By the way, I’ll change my clothes too. I just need to go wash myself first, otherwise it seems like I haven’t washed myself since spring. Would you like to go to the bathhouse, gentlemen, while they get ready? Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and the guests went to the bathhouse. “Yes, I haven’t washed for a long time,” he said, undressing. - As you can see, my bathhouse is good, my father was still building it, but somehow I still don’t have time to wash myself. He sat down on the step and soaped his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown. “Yes, I confess...” Ivan Ivanovich said significantly, looking at his head. “I haven’t washed for a long time...” Alekhine repeated embarrassedly and lathered himself again, and the water near him became dark blue, like ink. Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water noisily and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God...” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Oh, my God...” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the men there and turned back, and lay down in the middle of the reach, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alyokhin had already gotten dressed and were getting ready to leave, but he kept swimming and diving. “Oh, my God...” he said. - Oh, Lord have mercy. - It will be for you! - Burkin shouted to him. We returned to the house. And only when the lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, were sitting in armchairs, and Alyokhin himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure , cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently walking on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea with jam on a tray, only then Ivan Ivanovich began to tell the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alyokhin were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, calmly and sternly looking out from golden frames. “We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, two years younger.” I went into science, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already in the government ward from the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us hereditary nobility and a small name. After his death, our little name was taken away from us for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the village free. We, just like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding horses, stripping bast, catching fish, and so on... Do you know who has caught a ruffe at least once in their life or seen migrating blackbirds in the fall as they fly in flocks over the village on clear, cool days, he is no longer a city dweller, and until his death he will be drawn to freedom. My brother was sad in the government ward. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote the same papers and thought about the same things, as if going to the village. And this melancholy little by little turned into a definite desire, a dream to buy himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake. He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up in my own estate for the rest of my life. It is commonly said that a person only needs three arshins of land. But three arshins are needed by a corpse, not a person. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia is drawn to the land and strives for estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. Leaving the city, from the struggle, from the noise of everyday life, leaving and hiding in your estate is not life, it is selfishness, laziness, it is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without feat. A person needs not three arshins of land, not an estate, but the entire globe, all of nature, where in the open space he could demonstrate all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit. My brother Nikolai, sitting in his office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbage soup, which gave off such a delicious smell throughout the yard, eat on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for hours on end on a bench outside the gate and look at the field and forest. Agricultural books and all sorts of advice in calendars constituted his joy, his favorite spiritual food; He also loved to read newspapers, but in them he only read advertisements that so many acres of arable land and meadows with an estate, a river, a garden, a mill, and flowing ponds were for sale. And in his head he pictured paths in the garden, flowers, fruits, birdhouses, crucian carp in ponds and, you know, all this stuff. These imaginary pictures were different, depending on the advertisements that he came across, but for some reason there was certainly a gooseberry in each of them. He could not imagine a single estate, not a single poetic corner without gooseberries there. “Village life has its own conveniences,” he used to say. - You sit on the balcony, drink tea, and your ducks are swimming on the pond, it smells so good and... and gooseberries are growing. He drew a plan of his estate, and every time his plan showed the same thing: a) a manor’s house, b) a servant’s room, c) a vegetable garden, d) gooseberries. He lived sparingly: he didn’t eat enough, didn’t drink enough, dressed God knows how, like a beggar, and saved everything and put it in the bank. He was terribly greedy. It hurt me to look at him, and I gave him something and sent it on holidays, but he hid it too. Once a person has an idea, then nothing can be done. Years passed, he was transferred to another province, he was already forty years old, and he kept reading advertisements in newspapers and saving. Then, I hear, he got married. All for the same purpose, in order to buy himself an estate with gooseberries, he married an old, ugly widow, without any feeling, but only because she had money. He also lived sparingly with her, kept her from hand to mouth, and put her money in the bank in his name. She used to work for the postmaster and got used to his pies and liqueurs, but at her second husband she didn’t even see enough black bread; She began to wither away from such a life, and after three years she took it and gave her soul to God. And of course my brother didn’t think for a single minute that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a person an eccentric. A merchant was dying in our city. Before his death, he ordered a plate of honey to be served to himself and ate all his money and winning tickets along with the honey so that no one would get it. Once at the station I was inspecting the herds, and at that time one of the traders was hit by a locomotive and his leg was cut off. We take him to the emergency room, blood is pouring out - it’s a terrible thing, but he keeps asking for his leg to be found, and he’s still worried; There are twenty rubles in the boot on the severed leg, as if they were not lost. “You’re from a different story,” said Burkin. “After the death of his wife,” Ivan Ivanovich continued, after thinking for half a minute, “my brother began to look for an estate for himself.” Of course, even if you look for it for five years, you will still end up making a mistake and buying something completely different from what you dreamed of. Brother Nikolai, through a commission agent, with the transfer of debt, bought one hundred and twelve dessiatines with a manor house, with a people's house, with a park, but no orchard, no gooseberries, no ponds with ducks; there was a river, but the water in it was the color of coffee, because there was a brick factory on one side of the estate, and a bone factory on the other. But my Nikolai Ivanovich was little sad; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes for himself, planted them and began to live as a landowner. Last year I went to visit him. I’ll go, I think, and see how and what’s there. In his letters, his brother called his estate this way: Chumbaroklova Wasteland, Himalayan Identity. I arrived at the Himalayan identity in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there are ditches, fences, hedges, Christmas trees planted in rows - and you don’t know how to get into the yard, where to park the horse. I’m walking towards the house, and a red dog meets me, fat, like a pig. I want to bark at her, but I’m too lazy. The cook, bare-legged, fat, also looking like a pig, came out of the kitchen and said that the master was resting after dinner. I go in to my brother, he is sitting in bed, his knees are covered with a blanket; aged, plump, flabby; cheeks, nose and lips stretch forward - just look, he grunts into the blanket. We hugged and cried with joy and with the sad thought that we were once young, but now we are both gray and it’s time to die. He got dressed and took me to show his estate. - Well, how are you doing here? - I asked. - Nothing, thank God, I live well. This was no longer the former timid poor official, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He has already settled down here, got used to it and got a taste for it; he ate a lot, washed himself in the bathhouse, gained weight, was already suing society and both factories, and was very offended when the men did not call him “your honor.” And he took care of his soul solidly, like a lord, and did good deeds not simply, but with importance. And what good deeds? He treated the peasants for all diseases with soda and castor oil, and on his name day he served a thanksgiving prayer service among the village, and then put half a bucket, I thought it was necessary. Oh, these terrible half-buckets! Today the fat landowner drags the peasants to the zemstvo chief for weed, and tomorrow, on a solemn day, he gives them half a bucket, and they drink and shout hurray, and the drunks bow at his feet. A change in life for the better, satiety, and idleness develop in a Russian person conceit, the most arrogant. Nikolai Ivanovich, who once in the government chamber was afraid even to have his own views, now spoke only truths, and in such a tone, like a minister: “Education is necessary, but for the people it is premature,” “corporal punishment is generally harmful, but in some cases they are useful and irreplaceable.” “I know the people and know how to deal with them,” he said. - People love me. I just have to lift a finger and people will do whatever I want for me. And all this, mind you, was said with a smart, kind smile. He repeated twenty times: “we, the nobles,” “I, as a nobleman”; Obviously, he no longer remembered that our grandfather was a man, and our father was a soldier. Even our surname Chimsha-Himalayan, essentially incongruous, now seemed sonorous, noble and very pleasant to him. But it’s not about him, it’s about me. I want to tell you what a change occurred in me in these few hours while I was at his estate. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook brought a full plate of gooseberries to the table. These were not purchased, but my own gooseberries, collected for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolai Ivanovich laughed and looked at the gooseberries for a minute, silently, with tears - he could not speak from excitement, then he put one berry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who had finally received his favorite toy, and said: - How delicious! And he ate greedily and kept repeating: “Oh, how delicious!” You try! It was tough and sour, but, as Pushkin said, “the darkness of truths is dearer to us than deception that elevates us.” I saw a happy man, whose cherished dream had come true so obviously, who had achieved his goal in life, got what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate, with himself. For some reason, something sad was always mixed with my thoughts about human happiness, but now, at the sight of a happy person, I was overcome by a heavy feeling close to despair. It was especially difficult at night. They made a bed for me in a room next to my brother’s bedroom, and I could hear how he did not sleep and how he got up and went to the plate with gooseberries and took a berry. I thought: how, in essence, there are a lot of satisfied, happy people! What an overwhelming force this is! Just look at this life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and bestiality of the weak, impossible poverty all around, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lies... Meanwhile, in all the houses and on the streets there is silence and calm; Of the fifty thousand living in the city, not a single one would cry out or be loudly indignant. We see those who go to the market for provisions, eat during the day, sleep at night, who talk their nonsense, get married, grow old, complacently drag their dead to the cemetery, but we do not see or hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life, happens somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is quiet, calm, and only silent statistics protest: so many people have gone crazy, so many buckets have been drunk, so many children have died from malnutrition... And such order is obviously needed; Obviously, the happy person feels good only because the unfortunate bear their burden in silence, and without this silence happiness would be impossible. This is general hypnosis. It is necessary that behind the door of every contented, happy person there should be someone with a hammer and constantly remind him by knocking that there are unhappy people, that no matter how happy he is, sooner or later life will show him its claws, trouble will strike him - illness, poverty, loss, and no one will see or hear him, just as now he does not see or hear others. But there is no man with a hammer, the happy one lives for himself, and the small worries of life worry him lightly, like the wind on an aspen tree - and everything is going well. “That night it became clear to me how contented and happy I was too,” continued Ivan Ivanovich, getting up. “I, too, at dinner and while hunting, taught them how to live, how to believe, how to govern the people.” I also said that learning is the light, that education is necessary, but for ordinary people, just reading and writing is enough for now. Freedom is a blessing, I said, you can’t live without it, like you can’t live without air, but you have to wait. Yes, I said so, but now I ask: why wait? - asked Ivan Ivanovich, looking angrily at Burkin. - Why wait, I ask you? For what reasons? They tell me that not everything at once, every idea is realized in life gradually, in due time. But who is saying this? Where is the evidence that this is true? You refer to the natural order of things, to the lawfulness of phenomena, but is there order and lawfulness in the fact that I, a living, thinking person, stand over a ditch and wait for it to overgrow itself or cover it with silt, while, perhaps , could I jump over it or build a bridge over it? And again, why wait? To wait when there is no strength to live, but meanwhile you need to live and want to live! I then left my brother early in the morning, and from then on it became unbearable for me to be in the city. The silence and calm depress me, I’m afraid to look at the windows, because for me now there is no more painful sight than a happy family sitting around a table drinking tea. I am already old and not fit to fight, I am incapable even of hating. I just grieve mentally, get irritated, annoyed, at night my head burns from the influx of thoughts, and I can’t sleep... Oh, if only I were young! Ivan Ivanovich paced nervously from corner to corner and repeated: “If only I were young!” He suddenly approached Alekhine and began to shake him first one hand, then the other. “Pavel Konstantinich,” he said in a pleading voice, “don’t calm down, don’t let yourself be lulled to sleep!” While you are young, strong, vigorous, do not get tired of doing good! There is no happiness and there should not be any, and if there is meaning and purpose in life, then this meaning and purpose is not at all in our happiness, but in something more reasonable and greater. Do good! And Ivan Ivanovich said all this with a pitiful, pleading smile, as if he was asking for himself personally. Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the living room and were silent. Ivan Ivanovich's story did not satisfy either Burkin or Alekhine. When generals and ladies looked out from golden frames, who seemed alive in the twilight, it was boring to listen to the story about the poor official who ate gooseberries. For some reason I wanted to talk and listen about elegant people, about women. And the fact that they were sitting in the living room, where everything - the chandelier in its case, the chairs, and the carpets under their feet - said that these same people who were now looking out of the frames had once walked, sat, and drank tea here, and then That beautiful Pelageya was now walking silently here was better than any story. Alekhine really wanted to sleep; he got up early to do housework, at three o'clock in the morning, and now his eyes were drooping, but he was afraid that the guests might start telling something interesting without him, and he did not leave. Whether what Ivan Ivanovich had just said was smart or fair, he did not delve into; the guests were not talking about cereals, not about hay, not about tar, but about something that was not directly related to his life, and he was glad and wanted them to continue... “However, it’s time to sleep,” said Burkin , rising. - Let me wish you good night. Alekhine said goodbye and went downstairs, while the guests remained upstairs. They were both given a large room for the night, where there were two old wooden beds with carved decorations and in the corner there was an ivory crucifix; their beds, wide and cool, made by the beautiful Pelageya, smelled pleasantly of fresh linen. Ivan Ivanovich silently undressed and lay down. - Lord, forgive us sinners! - he said and covered his head. His pipe, lying on the table, smelled strongly of tobacco fume, and Burkin did not sleep for a long time and still could not understand where this heavy smell came from. The rain hammered on the windows all night.
Gooseberry
From early morning the entire sky was covered with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and boring, as happens on gray cloudy days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you wait for rain, but it doesn’t come. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the gymnasium teacher Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far behind the village, and both of them knew that this was the bank of the river, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stood on one of the hills, you could see from there the same huge field, a telegraph and a train, which from a distance looks like a crawling caterpillar, and in clear weather you can even see the city from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field and both thought about how great and how beautiful this country is.
“Last time, when we were in the barn of the elder Prokofy,” said Burkin, “you were going to tell some story.”
– Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother then.
Ivan Ivanovich took a long breath and lit a pipe to start telling the story, but just at that time it began to rain. And about five minutes later it was pouring heavily, constantly, and it was difficult to predict when it would end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin stopped in thought; The dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs, I looked at them with tenderness.
“We need to hide somewhere,” said Burkin. - Let's go to Alekhine. It's close here.
- Let's go.
They turned to the side and walked along the mown field, now straight, now turning to the right, until they came out onto the road. Soon the poplars, the garden, then the red roofs of the barns appeared; the river began to sparkle, and a view opened onto a wide reach with a mill and a white bathhouse. This was Sofiino, where Alekhine lived.
The mill worked, drowning out the noise of the rain; the dam trembled. Here wet horses stood near the carts with their heads hanging, and people walked around covered with sacks. It was damp, dirty, uncomfortable, and the view of the reach was cold and angry. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were already experiencing a feeling of wetness, uncleanliness, discomfort all over their bodies, their legs were heavy with mud, and when, having passed the dam, they went up to the master’s barns, they were silent, as if they were angry with each other.
A winnowing machine was making noise in one of the barns; the door was open and dust was pouring out of it. On the threshold stood Alekhine himself, a man of about forty, tall, plump, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt that had not been washed for a long time with a rope belt, long johns instead of trousers, and dirt and straw were also stuck to his boots. The nose and eyes were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin and, apparently, was very happy.
“Please, gentlemen, into the house,” he said, smiling. - I’m here right now, this minute.
The house was large, two-story. Alekhine lived downstairs, in two rooms with vaults and small windows, where clerks once lived; the furnishings here were simple, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka and harness. Upstairs, in the state rooms, he was rarely, only when guests arrived. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were met in the house by the maid, a young woman, so beautiful that they both stopped at once and looked at each other.
“You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you, gentlemen,” said Alekhine, following them into the hallway. - I didn’t expect it! Pelageya,” he turned to the maid, “let the guests change into something.” By the way, I’ll change my clothes too. I just need to go wash myself first, otherwise it seems like I haven’t washed myself since spring. Would you like to go to the bathhouse, gentlemen, while they get ready?
Beautiful Pelageya, so delicate and seemingly so soft, brought sheets and soap, and Alekhine and the guests went to the bathhouse.
“Yes, I haven’t washed for a long time,” he said, undressing. “As you can see, my bathhouse is good, my father was still building it, but somehow I still don’t have time to wash myself.”
He sat down on the step and soaped his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown.
“Yes, I confess...” Ivan Ivanovich said significantly, looking at his head.
“I haven’t washed for a long time...” Alekhine repeated embarrassedly and lathered himself again, and the water near him became dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanovich went outside, threw himself into the water noisily and swam in the rain, waving his arms widely, and waves came from him, and white lilies swayed on the waves; he swam to the very middle of the reach and dived, and a minute later he appeared in another place and swam further, and kept diving, trying to reach the bottom. “Oh, my God...” he repeated, enjoying himself. “Oh, my God...” He swam to the mill, talked about something with the men there, turned back, and lay down in the middle of the reach, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alekhine had already gotten dressed and were getting ready to leave, but he kept swimming and diving.
“Oh, my God...” he said. - Oh, Lord have mercy.
- It will be for you! - Burkin shouted to him.
We returned to the house. And only when the lamp was lit in the large living room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovich, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm shoes, were sitting in armchairs, and Alekhine himself, washed, combed, in a new frock coat, walked around the living room, apparently feeling the warmth with pleasure , cleanliness, dry dress, light shoes, and when the beautiful Pelageya, silently walking on the carpet and smiling softly, served tea with jam on a tray, only then Ivan Ivanovich began to tell the story, and it seemed that not only Burkin and Alekhine were listening to him, but also old and young ladies and military men, calmly and sternly looking out from golden frames.
“We are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanovich, and the other, Nikolai Ivanovich, two years younger.” I went into science, became a veterinarian, and Nikolai was already in the government ward at the age of nineteen. Our father Chimsha-Himalayan was from the cantonists, but, having served the rank of officer, he left us hereditary nobility and a small name. After his death, our little name was taken away from us for debts, but, be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the village free. We, just like peasant children, spent days and nights in the field, in the forest, guarding horses, stripping bast, catching fish, and so on... Do you know who has caught a ruffe at least once in their life or seen migrating thrushes in the fall, like on clear, cool days they fly in flocks over the village, he is no longer a city dweller, and until his death he will be drawn to freedom. My brother was sad in the government chamber. Years passed, and he still sat in one place, wrote the same papers and thought about the same things, as if going to the village. And this melancholy little by little turned into a definite desire, a dream to buy himself a small estate somewhere on the banks of a river or lake.
He was a kind, meek man, I loved him, but I never sympathized with this desire to lock myself up in my own estate for the rest of my life. It is commonly said that a person only needs three arshins of land. But three arshins are needed by a corpse, not a person. And they also say now that if our intelligentsia is drawn to the land and strives for estates, then this is good. But these estates are the same three arshins of land. Leaving the city, from the struggle, from the noise of everyday life, leaving and hiding in your estate is not life, it is selfishness, laziness, it is a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without feat. A person needs not three arshins of land, not an estate, but the entire globe, all of nature, where in the open space he could demonstrate all the properties and characteristics of his free spirit.
