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Chapter 11 My Neighbor Rakilov (2)
We went into the dining room and sat down.When we came here from the living room and sat down, Fyodor Mihaich, with glowing eyes and reddish nose from "enjoyment", hummed the song "Thunder of Victory!" , they had separate cutlery for him on a small table without a tablecloth in the corner.The poor old fellow couldn't keep clean, so they kept him at a distance.He crossed himself, sighed, and ate like a shark.The food was really good, as it was Sunday, with trembling jelly and "Spanish wind" of course.At the dinner table, Rajilov, who had worked in the Army Infantry Regiment for ten years and had been to Turkey, opened the conversation.I listened carefully to him, while peeking at Olya.She was not very pretty, but the resolute and serene expression of her face, her broad white forehead, thick hair, and especially a pair of brown eyes, small but intelligent, clear, and lively, No matter who is in my situation at that time, they will be amazed when they see it.She seemed to be listening to Rajilov's every word, and her face showed passionate attention.Rakilov looked old enough to be her father; he called her "you," but I quickly surmised that she wasn't his daughter.During the conversation, he spoke of his deceased wife—"her sister," he said, pointing to Olya.She blushed and lowered her eyes.Rajilov paused, then changed his subject.The old lady didn't talk when eating, she hardly ate anything herself, and she didn't persuade me to eat.Her features expressed a timid and hopeless expectation, and a sad, old sorrow.When the table was about to leave, Fyodor Mihech was about to "greeting" the hosts and guests, but Rajilov stopped him with a look at me.The old man put his hand to his lips for a moment, blinked, bowed, and sat down again, but this time on the edge of the chair.After dinner, Rajilov and I went to his study.

No matter how different their character, abilities, social status, and upbringing may be, people who are constantly and strongly attached to one idea or one passion will surely see a common, superficial similarity in their manners and speech.The more I looked at Rajilov, the more I was sure he belonged to this category.

He talked of farming, of harvesting, of mowing, of war, of county gossip, of upcoming elections, and he spoke without compulsion, or even with interest, but suddenly sighed, as if labored. Tired of work, he collapsed into the easy chair and touched his face with his hands.His whole, kind and gentle soul seemed to be filled with a feeling.What amazes me is that I don't see any passion in him for food, for drinking, for hunting, for Kursk nightingales, for diseased pigeons, for Russian literature, for parallel horses, for Hungarian hussars, for card games and billiards, for dancing parties, for trips to provincial and urban cities, for paper mills and beet sugar factories, for splendid kiosks, for tea, for sidekicks trained to tilt their heads. Horses, even to fat coachmen with belts tied under their armpits, to rich coachmen whose eyes fly for unknown reasons at the movement of their necks... "What kind of a landowner is this!" I thought.Yet he did not pretend to be a melancholy man, dissatisfied with his lot; on the contrary, he approached almost everyone with a kindness and affability that did not discriminate.But at the same time you can feel that he cannot be intimate with anyone or be really close, not because he never needs others, but because his whole life is generally inward.Looking at Rajilov, I can't imagine that he is now or at any time a happy man.He is not a handsome man.But in his eyes, in his smile, in his whole posture, there was a very moving power latent, indeed latent.So I want to know him better and love him more.Although he sometimes reveals the true nature of the landlord and the villagers.But he's a good guy after all.

"We are about to appoint a new county magistrate," Olya's voice suddenly came from the door, "The tea is ready." We came to the living room.Fyodor Mihech was still sitting in his corner, between the window and the door, with his feet carefully tucked away.Rajilov's mother knits socks there.Through the open windows, the cool autumn air and the scent of apples from the garden come in.Olya was busy pouring tea, and I began to watch her more carefully than I did when I was eating.Like most county girls, she doesn't talk much, and I can't even see that she is someone who wants to say a few beautiful words but at the same time has a feeling of hollowness and depression.She had no sighs that seemed to be filled with unspeakable emotion, no rolling eyes under the brow, no fanciful, vague smiles.Her gaze was steady and calm, like a person who is quiet after experiencing great happiness or great turmoil.Her gait, her movements are decisive and generous.I like her very much.

I spoke to Rachilov again.I have forgotten that somehow we have spoken of the frequent case of the most trifling incidents generally making a stronger impression than the most important ones.

"Yes," said Rachilov, "I've experienced that myself. I was married, you know. It wasn't long... Three years ago, my wife died in childbirth. I don't think I can." Alone, I'm very sad, I'm very sad, but I can't cry—it's as if I'm mad. We dressed her, and put her on the table—in this very room. A priest came, The deacons came, and they started singing, praying, and burning incense. I knelt down and saluted, but I couldn't shed a tear. My heart seemed to be petrified, and so did my head—I felt heavy all over. After the first day passed Can you believe it? I fell asleep at night. I went to my wife the next morning—it was summer, and the sun was shining brightly from her feet to her head.—Suddenly I saw . . . When Qilov said this, he couldn't help shivering.) Guess what happened? One of her eyes was not completely closed, and a fly was crawling on it... I lost consciousness all of a sudden, and after waking up, I kept crying— - I can't control myself..."

Rajilov was silent.I looked at him, then at Olina...I'll never forget the look on her face.The old lady put her socks on her knees, took a handkerchief from her handbag, and secretly wiped her tears.Suddenly Fyodor Mihech got up, took his violin, and began to sing in a hoarse and rough voice.He was probably trying to make us feel better, but we all trembled at the sound of his voice, and Rakilov told him to stop.

"However," he continued, "the past is finally the past, and the past cannot be repeated, and after all... everything is getting better in the world now-this should be Voltaire's words." He hurried added.

"Yes," I said, "of course, and all misfortunes are bearable. There is no adversity in the world that cannot be overcome."

"Do you think so?" said Rakilov, "well, you may be right. I remember lying half dead in a hospital in Turkey once with traumatic fever. Well, where we live It's not good--of course it was wartime--thank God for that! Suddenly there are a lot of sick people--where to put them? The doctor couldn't find anywhere. Then he came up to me and asked Assistant: 'Alive?' The man replied: 'Alive in the morning.' The doctor leaned over and listened to see if I was breathing. My lord was impatient. 'Good man,' he said,' This man is dying, and he's still stalling, just taking his place and getting in the way." "Oh," I thought to myself, "you're going to be in trouble, Mihailo Mihalitch..." But I Finally regained health and lived to this day, as you see. So your words are true."

"My words have been true under all circumstances," I replied, "and even if you were dead then, you escaped your adversity."

"Naturally, naturally," he continued, slapping the table heavily with his hand, "just make up your mind... What's the point of being stuck in adversity? Why delay, and why delay..."

Olya stood up quickly and went to the garden. "Hey, Fyodor, let's have a dance!" Rakilov said.Fyodor jumped up and danced around the room with a beautiful and unique gait, just like the well-known dance of the "goat" when he performed around the tame bear, and he sang: "In our At the gate..." There was the sound of a horse-drawn carriage outside, and after a while a tall, broad-shouldered, robust old man—the landowner Ovsenikov—entered the room... and Ovsenikov is such a wonderful and peculiar character that I ask the reader's permission to introduce him in another article.Now I just want to add a few words: the next day Yermolay and I went hunting at dawn and returned home after hunting.A week later I went to the Rachilovs again, only he and Olya were not there.Two weeks later, I heard that he disappeared suddenly, leaving behind his mother and taking his aunt with him.The entire province was in an uproar, and everyone was talking about this matter. Only then did I fully understand the expression on Rajilov's face when he mentioned Olya.Her face was not only showing pity, but also burning with jealousy.

Before I left the country, I went to visit Rakilov's mother.I saw her in the drawing-room, playing a card game of "Fools" with Fyodor Mihech.

"Any news from your son?" I finally asked her.The old lady began to cry.I never asked her about Rakilov again.

(End of this chapter)