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Chapter 31 The Two Landlords (2)
The postmaster, the perpetrators, and the postmasters were terribly afraid of him.No one was entertained in his house, and he was said to be a miser.Even so, he was an excellent landowner.Neighbors said he was "an old soldier, impartial, well-behaved, vieux grognard." Only one provincial prosecutor, when people spoke of General Hvalensky's good and real character in front of him, Sneering alone - jealousy makes people unable to do anything! ... Now let us talk about another landowner.Martali Apolonech Stegunov was not at all like Khvalensky.He probably never held a job anywhere, and was never considered a handsome man.Martali Apolonech was a squat little old man, bald, with a double chin, soft hands, and a rather large belly.He is very hospitable and humorous, and he can be said to live his life freely.No matter winter or summer, he wears a striped cotton pajamas.He had only one thing in common with General Hvalensky: he too was celibate.He has 500 serfs.Martali Apolonech managed his estate with great attention to appearance. In order not to fall behind the times, he bought a threshing machine from the Butenop company in Moscow about ten years ago and locked it in the storage room. , I feel at ease in my heart.Only on fine summer days did he order a racing carriage to go out into the fields to look at the crops and gather some cornflowers.Martali Apolonech's life was quite the old way.His house was also built in the old style: in the front room there was a strong smell of kvass, tallow candles and leather; to its right there was a sideboard with pipes and towels; in the dining room there were family portraits , flies, a large pot of geraniums, and a poor piano; in the drawing-room were three couches, three tables, two mirrors, and a hoarse chime clock with blackened enamel and two engraved bronze pointers; a study with a desk piled with papers; a blue screen pasted with pictures cut out from various books of the last century; Dust; and a bloated easy chair, and an Italian window, and a blocked door to the garden . . . in short, everything.Martali Apolonech's servants were in groups, all dressed in old-fashioned clothes: long blue coats with high collars, dark trousers, and short yellow waistcoats.They address guests as "sir".The man who runs his property is a serf-born general manager with a beard and fur coat.The housekeeper was a wrinkled, extremely miserly old woman in a brown kerchief.Martali Apolonech had 30 horses of various kinds in his stable, and he traveled in a 150-pood self-made four-wheeled carriage when he went out.He entertained his guests with great enthusiasm and lavish hospitality, that is to say, because of the intoxicating nature of Russian cooking, they could do nothing until the evening except play with Pritt Ferrance.He himself has never had anything to do, not even reading a "dream book".But there are still many such landlords in our Russia.Someone may ask, for what reason and for what purpose am I talking about him here? . . . Well, let me tell you about a visit I made to Martali Apolonech, and I shall be the right to answer.

I came to his house around 7 o'clock in the summer evening.He had just finished vespers when the abbe—a young man with a very shy face, probably just out of a religious school—was sitting on the edge of a chair by the door of the drawing-room.Martali Apolonech received me with the usual cordiality.He greeted every guest with a genuine welcome, and his general conduct was very kind.The priest stood up and took his hat. "Wait a minute, abbe," said Martali Apolonech, shaking my hand, "don't go... I'll tell them to get you brandy."

"I don't know how to drink," murmured the priest awkwardly, blushing to the ears.

"What a joke! How can people like you not drink!" Martali Apolonitch answered. "Yushka! Yushka! Give the priest some brandy!"

Ushka, a tall, thin old man of about eighty, came in with a glass of soju on a dark, flesh-colored plate.

The priest began to politely decline. "Drink, priest, don't be coy, it's not very good," said the landowner in a tone of displeasure.The poor young man had to obey. "Well, priest, you may go now." The priest bowed and took his leave.

"Oh, come, come, go. . . he's a good fellow," Martali Apolonitch went on, looking after him. "I'm quite satisfied with him. Just a little, still tender. Always preaching, Not even wine. Well, how are you, my sir? .

We went to the balcony, sat down and chatted.Martali Apolonech looked around and suddenly panicked.

"Whose chicken is this? Whose chicken is this?" he cried. "Which chicken is running around in our garden? . Chickens running around in the garden?... Which chicken is this? How many times have I banned it, how many times have I told it!"

Yushika ran away. "What a mess!" repeated Martali Apolonech. "It's a shame!"

The unfortunate chickens, I can still remember, two spotted ones and one white and crested one, were strolling leisurely under the apple tree, expressing their feelings sometimes with persistent clucking sounds; suddenly, without a hat on their heads And Yushika, who was holding a stick in his hand, and the other three adult servants, all rushed towards them in unison.It was a lively moment: the hens were crowing, flapping, jumping, and clucking loudly; the servants were running around, stumbling, and falling to the ground; they were yelling frantically from the balcony: "Catch, catch! Catch, hold! Catch, hold, hold!...Whose chicken is this, whose chicken is this?" Finally, a servant took the crested chicken Pressing his chest to the ground, he caught it.Just at this moment, a disheveled girl of about eleven years old jumped over the fence and jumped into the garden from the street with a long pole in her hand.

"Ah, it turned out to be her chicken!" The landlord exclaimed happily. "It's Yermir's chickens, the coachman! Look, he sent his Natalka to drive them back... why didn't he send Balasya," the landowner added softly, smiling meaningfully. , "Hey, Yushika, stop catching chickens, get Natalka for me."

However, Yushika, who was out of breath, hadn't run to the frightened little girl, the housekeeper appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the little girl's hand, and hit her on the back a few times... "That's right, that's right," the landowner went on, "Well, well! Well, well!..." He said loudly again: "Keep the chicken, Afudoja." Then he said to me with a smile on his face: " How's the hunt going, sir? I'm sweating, you see."

And Martali Apolonech laughed out loud.We remained on the verandah.It was indeed a beautiful night.The servants served us tea.

"Excuse me," I began, "Martali Apolonech, do you own those houses on the road behind the ravine?"

"It's mine . . . Why?" "Why are you doing this, Martali Apolonech? It's not right. The rooms allotted to them are dirty and cramped; not a single tree can be seen around them; Not even a fish pond; just a well, and it doesn't work. Can't you find another place? . . . And I hear you took their old hemp fields too?"

"What can you do with such a division of the land?" Martali Apolonech answered me. "It's such a headache to divide the land. (He points to his head.) I don't see any advantage in this division of the land." .As for me taking their marijuana fields, and not digging a fish pond on their side—I have my own reasons for that, sir. A lord is always a lord, a farmer is always a farmer... that's how it is."

There is of course no answer to such a clear and indisputable reason.

"And," he went on, "those peasants are very bad, and a pain in the ass. There are two families over there in particular. My late father—wish him heaven—had hated them when he was alive, and it was very I don't like them. Let me tell you, I have this experience: if the father is a thief, the son must be a thief too; say what you want... Oh, blood, blood—this is a serious matter! I tell you frankly Well, I sent all the people from those two families who didn’t have their turn to serve as soldiers, and sent them to various places like this. But it still can’t be eradicated, what can I do? These abominable people multiply quickly.”

There was silence all around.Only the wind blew gently, and when it paused for the last time beside the house, a constant and rhythmic pounding from the stables reached our ears.Martali Apolonech had just brought the saucer full of tea to his lips, and was already opening his nostrils to drink tea—as is known to all native Russians—but he stopped, Listened, nodded, took a long swig of tea, then put the saucer on the table, and with the kindest smile seemed to cry out involuntarily to the pounding, "Chuck! Thumb! Thumb! "

"What is this?" I asked in surprise. "There, as I said, a naughty fellow is being punished... that Huaxia who is in charge of the dining room, do you know?" "Which Huaxia?" What?" No matter how angry she was, she was irresistible to Martali Apolonech's gentle and bright eyes. "What's the matter with you, young man, what's the matter with you?" he said, shaking his head. "Don't you think I'm a bad man when you look at me like this? You know how to punish for love."

Fifteen minutes later I bid farewell to Martali Apolonech.As my carriage passed the village, I saw Huaxia, who was in charge of the kitchen.He was eating walnuts and walking on the street.I told the coachman to rein in the horse, and told him to come over.

"Hey man, did you get punished today?" I asked him. "Who told you?" Hua Xiya replied. "Your master told me." "Master told you personally?" "Why did he punish you?"

"It's what I deserve, sir, what I deserve. We don't get punished for petty things here. We don't have that kind of rule--absolutely not. Our master wouldn't do that, our master . . . Your master is the best in the province." "Come on!" I said to the coachman. "This is old Russia!" I thought on the way back.

(End of this chapter)