Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Aunt

III. The Aunt

Aunt Vasilisa Kashporovna was at this time about fifty. She had never married, and commonly declared that she valued her maiden state above everything. Though, indeed, to the best of my memory, no one ever courted her. This was due to the fact that all men were rather timid in her presence, and never had the courage to make her an offer. “A girl of great character, Vasilisa Kashporovna!” all the young men used to say, and they were quite right, too, for there was no one Vasilisa Kashporovna could not get the better of. With her own manly hand, tugging every day at his forelock, she could, unaided, turn the drunken miller, a worthless fellow, into a perfect treasure. She was of almost gigantic stature and her breadth and strength were fully in proportion. It seemed as though nature had made an unpardonable mistake in condemning her to wear a dark brown gown with little flounces on weekdays and a red cashmere shawl on Sunday and on her name day, though a dragoon’s mustaches and high topboots would have suited her better than anything. On the other hand, her pursuits completely corresponded with her appearance: she rowed the boat herself and was more skillful with the oars than any fisherman; shot game; stood over the mowers all the while they were at work; knew the exact number of the melons, of all kinds, in the vegetable garden; took a toll of five kopeks from every wagon that crossed her dam; climbed the trees and shook down the pears; beat lazy vassals with her terrible hand and with the same menacing hand bestowed a glass of vodka on the deserving. Almost at the same moment she was scolding, dyeing yarn, racing to the kitchen, brewing kvass, making jam with honey; she was busy all day long and everywhere in the nick of time. The result of all this was that Ivan Fiodorovich’s little property, which had consisted of eighteen serfs at the last census, was flourishing in the fullest sense of the word. Moreover, she had a very warm affection for her nephew and carefully saved kopeks for him.

From the time of his arrival at his home Ivan Fiodorovich’s life was completely changed and took an entirely different turn. It seemed as though nature had designed him expressly for looking after an estate of eighteen serfs. His aunt observed that he would make an excellent farmer, though she did not yet permit him to meddle in every branch of the management. “He’s still a child,” she used to say, though Ivan Fiodorovich was in fact not far from forty. “How should he know it all?”

However, he was always in the fields with the reapers and mowers, and this was a source of unutterable pleasure to his gentle heart. The sweep of a dozen or more gleaming scythes in unison; the sound of the grass falling in even swathes; the caroling songs of the reapers at intervals, at one time joyous as the welcoming of a guest, at another mournful as a parting; the calm pure evening— and what an evening! How free and fresh the air! How everything revived; the steppe flushed red, then turned dark blue and gleamed with flowers; quails, bustards, gulls, grasshoppers, thousands of insects, and all of them whistling, buzzing, chirping, calling, and suddenly blending into a harmonious chorus; nothing was silent for an instant, while the sun set and was hidden. Oh, how fresh and delightful it was! Here and there about the fields campfires were built and cauldrons set over them, and around the fires the mowers sat down; the steam from the dumplings floated upward; the twilight turned grayer…. It is hard to say what passed in Ivan Fiodorovich at such times. When he joined the mowers, he forgot to try their dumplings, though he liked them very much, and stood motionless, watching a gull disappear in the sky or counting the sheaves of wheat dotted over the field.

In a short time Ivan Fiodorovich was spoken of as a great farmer.

His aunt never tired of rejoicing over her nephew and never lost an opportunity of boasting of him. One day—it was just after the end of the harvest, that is, at the end of July—Vasilisa Kashporovna took Ivan Fiodorovich by the arm with a mysterious air, and said she wanted now to speak to him of a matter which had long been on her mind.

“You are aware, dear Ivan Fiodorovich,” she began “that there are eighteen serfs on your farm, though, indeed, that is by the census register, and in reality they may amount to more, they may be twenty-four. But that is not the point. You know the copse that lies behind our vegetable ground, and no doubt you know the broad meadow behind it; there are very nearly sixty acres in it; and the grass is so good that it is worth a hundred rubles every year, especially if, as they say, a cavalry regiment is to be stationed at Gadyach.”

“To be sure, Auntie, I know: the grass is very good.”

“You needn’t tell me the grass is very good, I know it; but do you know that all that land is by rights yours? Why do you look so surprised? Listen, Ivan Fiodorovich! You remember Stepan Kuzmich? What am I saying: ‘you remember’! You were so little that you could not even pronounce his name. Yes, indeed! How could you remember! When I came on the very eve of Christmas and took you in my arms, you almost ruined my dress; luckily I was just in time to hand you to your nurse, Matryona; you were such a horrid little thing then…! But that is not the point. All the land beyond our farm, and the village of Khortyshche itself belonged to Stepan Kuzmich. I must tell you that before you were in this world he used to visit your mama—though, indeed, only when your father was not at home. Not that I say it to blame her—God rest her soul!—though your poor mother was always unfair to me! But that is not the point. Be that as it may, Stepan Kuzmich made a gift to you of that same estate of which I have been speaking. But your poor mama, in confidence, was a very strange character. The devil himself (God forgive me for the nasty word!) would have been puzzled trying to understand her. What she did with that deed —God only knows. It’s my opinion that it is in the hands of that old bachelor, Grigory Grigorievich Storchenko. That potbellied scoundrel has got hold of the whole estate. I’d bet anything you like that he has hidden that deed.”

“Allow me to ask, Auntie: isn’t he the Storchenko whose acquaintance I made at the inn?” Here Ivan Fiodorovich described his meeting with Storchenko.

“Who knows,” said his aunt after a moment’s thought, “perhaps he is not a rascal. It’s true that it’s only six months since he came to live among us; there’s no finding out what a man is in that time. The old lady, his mother, is a very sensible woman, so I hear, and they say she is a great hand at pickling cucumbers; her own serf girls can make wonderful rugs. But as you say he gave you such a friendly welcome, go and see him; perhaps the old sinner will listen to his conscience and will give up what is not his. If you like you can go in the chaise, only those confounded brats have pulled out all the nails at the back; we must tell the coachman, Omelko, to nail the leather on better everywhere.”

“What for, Auntie? I will take the trap that you sometimes go out shooting in.”

With that the conversation ended.