Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Aunt

I. Ivan Fiodorovich Shponka

It is four years since Ivan Fiodorovich retired from the army and came to live on his farm Vytrebenki. When he was still Vanyusha, he was at the Gadyach district school, and I must say he was a very well-behaved and industrious boy. Nikifor Timofeevich Deeprichastie the teacher of Russian grammar, used to say that if all the boys had been as anxious to do their best as Shponka, he would not have brought into the classroom the maplewood ruler with which, as he confessed, he was tired of hitting the lazy and mischievous boys’ hands. Vanyusha’s exercise book was always neat, with a ruled margin, and not the tiniest blot anywhere. He always sat quietly with his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the teacher, and he never used to stick scraps of paper on the back of the boy sitting in front of him, never cut the bench, and never played at shoving the other boys off the bench before the teacher came in. If anyone wanted a penknife to sharpen his quill, he immediately asked Ivan Fiodorovich, knowing that he always had a penknife, and Ivan Fiodorovich, then called simply Vanyusha, would take it out of a little leather case attached to a buttonhole of his gray coat, and would only request that the sharp edge should not be used for scraping the quill, pointing out that there was a blunt side for the purpose. Such good conduct soon attracted the attention of the Latin teacher, whose cough in the passage was enough to reduce the class to terror, even before his frieze coat and pockmarked face had appeared in the doorway. This terrifying teacher, who always had two birches lying on his desk and half of whose pupils were always on their knees, made Ivan Fiodorovich monitor, although there were many boys in the class of much greater ability. Here I cannot omit an incident which had an influence on the whole of his future life. One of the boys entrusted to his charge tried to induce his monitor to write scit on his report, though he had not learned his lesson, by bringing into class a pancake soaked in butter and wrapped in paper. Though Ivan Fiodorovich was usually conscientious, on this occasion he was hungry and could not resist the temptation; he took the pancake, held a book up before him, and began eating it, and he was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not observe that a deathly silence had fallen upon the class. He woke up with horror only when a terrible hand protruding from a frieze overcoat seized him by the ear and dragged him into the middle of the room. “Hand over that pancake! Hand it over, I tell you, you rascal!” said the terrifying teacher; he seized the buttery pancake in his fingers and flung it out of the window, sternly forbidding the boys running about in the yard to pick it up. Then he proceeded on the spot to whack Ivan Fiodorovich very painfully on the hands; and quite rightly—the hands were responsible for taking it and no other part of the body. Anyway, the timidity which had always been characteristic of him was more marked from that time forward. Possibly the same incident was the explanation of his feeling no desire to enter the civil service, having learned by experience that one is not always successful in hiding one’s misdeeds.

He was very nearly fifteen when he advanced to the second class, where instead of the four rules of arithmetic and the abridged catechism, he went on to the unabridged one, the book describing the duties of man, and fractions. But seeing that the further you went into the forest the thicker the wood became, and receiving the news that his father had departed this life, he stayed only two years longer at school, and with his mother’s consent went into the P—infantry regiment.

The P—infantry regiment was not at all of the class to which many infantry regiments belong, and, although it was for the most part stationed in villages, it was in no way inferior to many cavalry regiments. The majority of the officers drank hard and were really as good at dragging Jews around by their earlocks as any Hussars; some of them even danced the mazurka, and the colonel of the regiment never missed an opportunity of mentioning the fact when he was talking to anyone in company. “Among my officers,” he used to say, patting himself on the belly after every word, “a number dance the mazurka, quite a number of them, really a great number of them indeed.” To show our readers the degree of culture of the P—infantry regiment, we must add that two of the officers were passionately fond of the game of bank and used to gamble away their uniforms, caps, overcoats, sword knots, and even their underclothes, which is more than you could say about every cavalry regiment.

Contact with such comrades did not, however, diminish Ivan Fiodorovich’s timidity; and as he did not drink hard liquor, preferring instead a wineglassful of ordinary vodka before dinner and supper, did not dance the mazurka or play bank, naturally he was bound to be always left alone. And so it came to pass that while the others were driving about with hired horses, visiting the less important landowners, he, sitting at home, spent his time in pursuits peculiar to a mild and gentle soul: he either polished his buttons, or read a fortunetelling book or set mousetraps in the corners of his room, or failing everything he would take off his uniform and lie on his bed.

On the other hand, no one in the regiment was more punctual in his duties than Ivan Fiodorovich, and he drilled his platoon in such a way that the commander of the company always held him up as a model to the others. Consequently in a short time, only eleven years after becoming an ensign, he was promoted to be a second lieutenant.

During that time he had received the news that his mother was dead, and his aunt, his mother’s sister, whom he only knew from her bringing him in his childhood—and even sending him when he was at Gadyach—dried pears and extremely nice honeycakes which she made herself (she was on bad terms with his mother and so Ivan Fiodorovich had not seen her in later years), this aunt, in the goodness of her heart, undertook to look after his little estate and in due time informed him of the fact by letter.

Ivan Fiodorovich, having the fullest confidence in his aunt’s good sense, continued to perform his duties as before. Some men in his position would have grown conceited at such promotion, but pride was a feeling of which he knew nothing, and as lieutenant he was the same Ivan Fiodorovich as he had been when an ensign. He spent another four years in the regiment after his promotion, an event of great importance to him, and was about to leave the Mogiliov district for Great Russia with his regiment when he received a letter as follows:

MY DEAR NEPHEW, IVAN FIODOROVICH, I am sending you some linen: five pairs of socks and four shirts of fine linen; and what is more I want to talk to you of something serious; since you have already a rank of some importance, as I suppose you are aware, and have reached a time of life when it is fitting to take up the management of your land, there is no reason for you to remain longer in military service. I am getting old and can no longer see to everything on your farm; and in fact there is a great deal that I want to talk to you about in person.

Come, Vanyusha! Looking forward to the real pleasure of seeing you, I remain your very affectionate aunt

VASILISA TSUPCHEVSKA

P.S.—There is a wonderful turnip in our vegetable garden, more like a potato than a turnip.

A week after receiving this letter Ivan Fiodorovich wrote an answer as follows:

HONORED MADAM, AUNTIE, VASILISA KASHPOROVNA,

Thank you very much for sending the linen. My socks especially are very old; my orderly has darned them four times and that has made them very tight. As to your views in regard to my service in the army, I completely agree with you, and the day before yesterday I sent in my papers. As soon as I get my discharge I will engage a chaise. As to your commission in regard to the wheat seed and Siberian grain, I cannot carry it out; there is none in all the Mogiliov province. Pigs here are mostly fed on brewers’ grains together with a little beer when it has grown flat. With the greatest respect, honored madam and auntie, I remain your nephew

IVAN SHPONKA

At last Ivan Fiodorovich received his discharge with the grade of lieutenant, hired for forty rubles a Jew to drive from Mogiliov to Gadyach, and set off in the chaise just at the time when the trees are clothed with young and still scanty leaves, the whole earth is bright with fresh green, and there is the fragrance of spring over all the fields.

II. The Journey

Nothing of great interest occurred on the journey. They traveled more than two weeks. Ivan Fiodorovich might have arrived a little sooner than that, but the devout Jew kept the Sabbath on the Saturdays and, putting his horse blanket over his head, prayed the whole day. Ivan Fiodorovich, however, as I have had occasion to mention already, was a man who did not give way to being bored. During these intervals he undid his trunk, took out his underclothes, inspected them thoroughly to see whether they were properly washed and folded; carefully removed the fluff from his new uniform, which had been made without epaulets, and repacked it all in the best possible way. He was not fond of reading in general; and if he did sometimes look into a fortunetelling book, it was because he liked to find again what he had already read several times. In the same way one who lives in the town goes every day to the club, not for the sake of hearing anything new there, but in order to meet there friends with whom it has been his habit to chat at the club from time immemorial. In the same way a government clerk will read a directory of addresses with immense satisfaction several times a day with no ulterior object; he is simply entertained by the printed list of names. “Ah! Ivan Gavrilovich So-and-so…” he murmurs mutely to himself. “And here again am I! h’m…!” and next time he reads it over again with exactly the same exclamations.

After a two-week journey Ivan Fiodorovich reached a little village some eighty miles from Gadyach. This was on Friday. The sun had long set when with the chaise and the Jew he reached an inn.

This inn differed in no respects from other little village inns. As a rule the traveler is zealously regaled in them with hay and oats, as though he were a posthorse. But should he want to lunch as decent people lunch, he keeps his appetite intact for some future opportunity. Ivan Fiodorovich, knowing all this, had provided himself beforehand with two bundles of pretzels and a sausage, and asking for a glass of vodka, of which there is never a shortage in any inn, he began his supper, sitting down on a bench before an oak table which was fixed immovably in the clay floor.

Meanwhile he heard the rattle of a chaise. The gates creaked but it was a long while before the chaise drove into the yard. A loud voice was engaged in scolding the old woman who kept the inn. “I will drive in,” Ivan Fiodorovich heard, “but if I am bitten by a single bug in your inn, I will beat you, I swear I will, you old witch! and I won’t give you anything for your hay either!”

A minute later the door opened and there walked—or rather squeezed himself—in a fat man in a green coat. His head rested immovably on his short neck, which seemed even thicker because of a double chin. To judge from his appearance, he belonged to that class of men who do not trouble their heads about trifles and whose whole life has passed easily.

“I wish you good day, honored sir!” he pronounced on seeing Ivan Fiodorovich.

Ivan Fiodorovich bowed in silence.

“Allow me to ask, to whom have I the honor of speaking?” the fat newcomer continued.

At such a question Ivan Fiodorovich involuntarily got up and stood at attention as he usually did when the colonel asked him a question. “Retired Lieutenant Ivan Fiodorovich Shponka,” he answered.

“And may I ask what place you are bound for?”

“My own farm Vytrebenki.”

“Vytrebenki!” cried the stern questioner. “Allow me, honored sir, allow me!” he said, going toward him, and waving his arms as though someone were hindering him or as though he were making his way through a crowd, he folded Ivan Fiodorovich in an embrace and kissed him first on the right cheek and then on the left and then on the right again. Ivan Fiodorovich was much gratified by this kiss, for his lips were pressed against the stranger’s fat cheeks as though against soft cushions.

“Allow me to make your acquaintance, my dear sir!” the fat man continued: “I am a landowner of the same district of Gadyach and your neighbor; I live not more than four miles from your Vytrebenki in the village of Khortyshche; and my name is Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. You really must, sir, you really must pay me a visit at Khortyshche. I won’t speak to you if you don’t. I am in haste now on business… Why, what’s this?” he said in a mild voice to his lackey, a boy in a Cossack coat with patched elbows and a bewildered expression, who came in and put bundles and boxes on the table. “What’s this, what’s the meaning of it?” and by degrees Grigory Grigorievich’s voice grew more and more threatening. “Did I tell you to put them here, my good lad? Did I tell you to put them here, you rascal? Didn’t I tell you to heat the chicken up first, you dirty scoundrel? Get out!” he shouted stamping. “Wait, you ugly rogue! Where’s the basket with the bottles? Ivan Fiodorovich!” he said, pouring out a glass of liqueur, “I beg you to take some cordial!”

“Oh, really, I cannot… I have already had occasion…” Ivan Fiodorovich began hesitatingly.

“I won’t hear a word, sir!” the gentleman raised his voice, “I won’t hear a word! I won’t budge till you drink it….”

Ivan Fiodorovich, seeing that it was impossible to refuse, not without gratification emptied the glass.

“This is a chicken, sir,” said the fat Grigory Grigorievich, carving it in its wooden box. “I must tell you that my cook Yavdokha is fond of a drop at times and so she makes things too dry. Hey, boy!” here he turned to the boy in the Cossack coat who was bringing in a feather bed and pillows, “make my bed on the floor in the middle of the room! Make sure you put plenty of hay under the pillow! And pull a bit of hemp from the woman’s spindle to stop up my ears for the night! I must tell you, sir, that I have the habit of stopping up my ears at night ever since the damned occasion when a cockroach crawled into my left ear in a Great Russian inn. Those damned Russians, as I found out afterward, eat their soup with cockroaches in it. Impossible to describe what happened to me; there was such a tickling, such a tickling in my ear… I was almost mad! I was cured by a simple old woman in our district, and by what, do you suppose? Simply by charming it. What do you think, my dear sir, about doctors? What I think is that they simply hoax us and make fools of us: some old women know a dozen times as much as all these doctors.”

“Indeed, what you say is perfectly true, sir. There certainly are cases…” Here Ivan Fiodorovich paused as though he could not find the right word. It may not be improper to mention here that he was at no time lavish of words. This may have been due to timidity, or it may have been due to a desire to express himself elegantly.

“Shake up the hay properly, shake it up properly!” said Grigory Grigorievich to his servant. “The hay is so bad around here that you may come upon a twig in it any minute. Allow me, sir, to wish you a good night! We shall not see each other tomorrow. I am setting off before dawn. Your Jew will keep the Sabbath because tomorrow is Saturday, so it is no good for you to get up early. Don’t forget my invitation; I won’t speak to you if you don’t come to see me at Khortyshche.”

At this point Grigory Grigorievich’s servant pulled off his coat and high boots and gave him his dressing gown instead, and Grigory Grigorievich stretched on his bed, and it looked as though one huge feather bed were lying on another.

“Hey, boy! where are you, rascal? Come here and arrange my quilt. Hey, boy, prop up my head with hay! Have you watered the horses yet? Some more hay! here, under this side! And arrange the bedspread properly, you rascal! That’s right, more! Ough…!”

Then Grigory Grigorievich heaved two sighs and filled the whole room with a terrible whistling through his nose, snoring so loudly at times that the old woman who was snoozing on the stove, suddenly waking up, looked about her in all directions, but seeing nothing, subsided and went to sleep again.

When Ivan Fiodorovich woke up next morning, the fat gentleman was no longer there. This was the only noteworthy incident that occurred on the journey. Two days later he drew near his little farm.

He felt his heart begin to throb when the windmill waving its sails peeped out and, as the Jew drove his nag up the hill, the row of willows came into sight below. The pond gleamed bright and shining through them and a breath of freshness rose from it. Here he used to bathe in the old days; in that pond he used to wade with the peasant lads up to his neck after crayfish. The covered cart mounted the dam and Ivan Fiodorovich saw the little old house thatched with reeds, and the apple trees and cherry trees which he used to climb on the sly as a boy. He had no sooner driven into the yard than dogs of all kinds, brown, black, gray, spotted, ran up from every side. Some flew under the horse’s hoofs, barking; others ran behind the cart, noticing that the axle was smeared with bacon fat; one, standing near the kitchen and keeping his paw on a bone, uttered a volley of shrill barks; and another barked from the distance, running to and fro wagging his tail and seeming to say: “Look, good Christians! What a fine young fellow I am!” Boys in dirty shirts ran out to stare. A sow who was promenading in the yard with sixteen little pigs lifted her snout with an inquisitive air and grunted louder than usual. In the yard a number of hempen sheets were lying on the ground covered with wheat, millet, and barley drying in the sun. A good many different kinds of herbs, such as wild chicory and hawkweed, were drying on the roof.

Ivan Fiodorovich was so occupied looking at all this that he was only roused when a spotted dog bit the Jew on the calf of his leg as he was getting down from the box. The servants who ran out, that is, the cook and another woman and two girls in woolen petticoats, after the first exclamations: “It’s our young master!” informed him that his aunt was sowing sweet corn together with the girl Palashka and Omelko the coachman, who often performed the duties of a gardener and watchman also. But his aunt, who had seen the covered cart in the distance, was already on the spot. And Ivan Fiodorovich was astonished when she almost lifted him from the ground in her arms, hardly able to believe that this could be the aunt who had written to him of her old age and infirmities.