BokRobot reading edition
Books
FreeGooseberries
Anton Chekhov
Adapt
The whole sky had been overcast with rain clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one expects rain and it does not come.
Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed endless to them. Far ahead of them they could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that there were meadows, green willows, and homesteads there, and that if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same vast plain, telegraph wires, and a train which in the distance looked like a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love for that countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.
"Last time we were in Prokofy's barn," said Burkin, "you were about to tell me a story."
"Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother." Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lit a pipe to begin to tell his story, but just at that moment the rain began. And five minutes later heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tell when it would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation; the dogs, already drenched, stood with their tails between their legs gazing at them feelingly.
"We must take shelter somewhere," said Burkin. "Let us go to Alehin's; it's close by."
"Come along." They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes going straight forward, sometimes turning to the right, till they came out on the road. Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns; there was a gleam of the river, and the view opened onto a broad expanse of water with a windmill and a white bathhouse: this was Sofino, where Alehin lived.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 1 / 13
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The whole sky had been overcast with rain clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one expects rain and it does not come.
Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed endless to them. Far ahead of them they could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that there were meadows, green willows, and homesteads there, and that if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same vast plain, telegraph wires, and a train which in the distance looked like a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love for that countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.
"Last time we were in Prokofy's barn," said Burkin, "you were about to tell me a story."
"Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother." Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lit a pipe to begin to tell his story, but just at that moment the rain began. And five minutes later heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tell when it would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation; the dogs, already drenched, stood with their tails between their legs gazing at them feelingly.
"We must take shelter somewhere," said Burkin. "Let us go to Alehin's; it's close by."
"Come along." They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes going straight forward, sometimes turning to the right, till they came out on the road. Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns; there was a gleam of the river, and the view opened onto a broad expanse of water with a windmill and a white bathhouse: this was Sofino, where Alehin lived.The watermill was at work, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam was shaking. Here wet horses with drooping heads were standing near their carts, and men were walking about covered with sacks. It was damp, muddy, and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were already conscious of a feeling of wetness, messiness, and discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, and when, crossing the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, as though they were angry with one another.
In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine; the door was open, and clouds of dust were coming from it. In the doorway stood Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long hair, more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt that badly needed washing, a rope for a belt, drawers instead of trousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. His eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them.
"Go into the house, gentlemen," he said, smiling; "I'll come directly, this minute." It was a big two-story house. Alehin lived on the lower floor, with arched ceilings and small windows, where the bailiffs had once lived; here everything was plain, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. He went upstairs to the best rooms only on rare occasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were met in the house by a maidservant, a young woman so beautiful that they both stood still and looked at one another.
"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends," said Alehin, going into the hall with them. "It's a surprise! Pelagea," he said, addressing the girl, "give our visitors something to change into. And, by the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, for I almost think I haven't washed since spring. Wouldn't you like to come into the bathhouse? And meanwhile they will get things ready here." Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and soap, and Alehin went to the bathhouse with his guests.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 2 / 13
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The watermill was at work, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam was shaking. Here wet horses with drooping heads were standing near their carts, and men were walking about covered with sacks. It was damp, muddy, and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were already conscious of a feeling of wetness, messiness, and discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, and when, crossing the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, as though they were angry with one another.
In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine; the door was open, and clouds of dust were coming from it. In the doorway stood Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long hair, more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He was wearing a white shirt that badly needed washing, a rope for a belt, drawers instead of trousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. His eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them.
"Go into the house, gentlemen," he said, smiling; "I'll come directly, this minute." It was a big two-story house. Alehin lived on the lower floor, with arched ceilings and small windows, where the bailiffs had once lived; here everything was plain, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. He went upstairs to the best rooms only on rare occasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were met in the house by a maidservant, a young woman so beautiful that they both stood still and looked at one another.
"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends," said Alehin, going into the hall with them. "It's a surprise! Pelagea," he said, addressing the girl, "give our visitors something to change into. And, by the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, for I almost think I haven't washed since spring. Wouldn't you like to come into the bathhouse? And meanwhile they will get things ready here." Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and soap, and Alehin went to the bathhouse with his guests."It's a long time since I had a wash," he said, undressing. "I've got a nice bathhouse, as you see—my father built it—but somehow I never have time to wash." He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the water around him turned brown.
"Yes, I must say," said Ivan Ivanovitch meaningfully, looking at his head.
"It's a long time since I washed..." said Alehin with embarrassment, giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, and swam in the rain, flinging his arms out wide. He stirred the water into waves that made the white lilies bob up and down; he swam to the very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch the bottom.
"Oh, my goodness!" he repeated continually, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Oh, my goodness!" He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning his face to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he still continued swimming and diving. "Oh, my goodness!..." he said. "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me!..."
"That's enough!" Burkin shouted at him.
They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lit in the large drawing room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in armchairs; and Alehin, washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about the drawing room, evidently enjoying the feeling of warmth, cleanliness, dry clothes, and light shoes; and when lovely Pelagea, stepping noiselessly on the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray—only then did Ivan Ivanovitch begin his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and Alehin were listening, but also the ladies, young and old, and the officers who looked down on them sternly and calmly from their gold frames.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 3 / 13
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"It's a long time since I had a wash," he said, undressing. "I've got a nice bathhouse, as you see—my father built it—but somehow I never have time to wash." He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the water around him turned brown.
"Yes, I must say," said Ivan Ivanovitch meaningfully, looking at his head.
"It's a long time since I washed..." said Alehin with embarrassment, giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, and swam in the rain, flinging his arms out wide. He stirred the water into waves that made the white lilies bob up and down; he swam to the very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch the bottom.
"Oh, my goodness!" he repeated continually, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Oh, my goodness!" He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning his face to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he still continued swimming and diving. "Oh, my goodness!..." he said. "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me!..."
"That's enough!" Burkin shouted at him.
They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lit in the large drawing room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, dressed in silk dressing gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in armchairs; and Alehin, washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about the drawing room, evidently enjoying the feeling of warmth, cleanliness, dry clothes, and light shoes; and when lovely Pelagea, stepping noiselessly on the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray—only then did Ivan Ivanovitch begin his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and Alehin were listening, but also the ladies, young and old, and the officers who looked down on them sternly and calmly from their gold frames.
"There are two of us brothers," he began--"I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and my brother, Nikolay Ivanovitch, two years younger. I went into a learned profession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay worked in a government office from the time he was nineteen." Our father, Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but he rose to become an officer and left us a small estate and the rank of nobility. After his death, the small estate was burdened with debts and legal expenses; but, anyway, we had spent our childhood running wild in the countryside. Like peasant children, we spent our days and nights in the fields and the woods, looked after horses, stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on....
And, you know, whoever has once in his life caught a perch or has seen the migrating of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocks over the village on bright, cool days, will never be a real townsman, and will have a yearning for freedom until the day of his death. My brother was miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he kept sitting in the same place, kept writing the same papers and thinking of one and the same thing--how to get into the country. And this yearning gradually passed into a definite desire, into a dream of buying himself a little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 4 / 13
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"There are two of us brothers," he began--"I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and my brother, Nikolay Ivanovitch, two years younger. I went into a learned profession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay worked in a government office from the time he was nineteen." Our father, Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but he rose to become an officer and left us a small estate and the rank of nobility. After his death, the small estate was burdened with debts and legal expenses; but, anyway, we had spent our childhood running wild in the countryside. Like peasant children, we spent our days and nights in the fields and the woods, looked after horses, stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on....
And, you know, whoever has once in his life caught a perch or has seen the migrating of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocks over the village on bright, cool days, will never be a real townsman, and will have a yearning for freedom until the day of his death. My brother was miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he kept sitting in the same place, kept writing the same papers and thinking of one and the same thing--how to get into the country. And this yearning gradually passed into a definite desire, into a dream of buying himself a little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake."He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but I never sympathized with this desire to shut himself up for the rest of his life in a little farm of his own. It's the correct thing to say that a man needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, not a man. And they say, too, now, that if our intellectual classes are attracted to the land and yearn for a farm, it's a good thing. But these farms are just the same as six feet of earth. To retreat from town, from the struggle, from the bustle of life, to retreat and bury oneself in one's farm--it's not life, it's egoism, laziness; it's a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without good works. A man does not need six feet of earth or a farm, but the whole globe, all of nature, where he can have room to display all the qualities and peculiarities of his free spirit.
"My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbages, which would fill the whole yard with such a savoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and the forest. Gardening books and the agricultural hints in calendars were his delight, his favourite spiritual sustenance; he enjoyed reading newspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were the advertisements of so many acres of arable land and a grass meadow with farm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, for sale. And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and all that sort of thing, you know.
These imaginary pictures were of different kinds according to the advertisements which he came across, but for some reason in every one of them he always had to have gooseberries. He could not imagine a homestead, he could not picture an idyllic nook, without gooseberries.
"'Country life has its conveniences,' he would sometimes say. 'You sit on the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there is a delicious smell everywhere, and... and the gooseberries are growing.'
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 5 / 13
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but I never sympathized with this desire to shut himself up for the rest of his life in a little farm of his own. It's the correct thing to say that a man needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, not a man. And they say, too, now, that if our intellectual classes are attracted to the land and yearn for a farm, it's a good thing. But these farms are just the same as six feet of earth. To retreat from town, from the struggle, from the bustle of life, to retreat and bury oneself in one's farm--it's not life, it's egoism, laziness; it's a kind of monasticism, but monasticism without good works. A man does not need six feet of earth or a farm, but the whole globe, all of nature, where he can have room to display all the qualities and peculiarities of his free spirit.
"My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cabbages, which would fill the whole yard with such a savoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and the forest. Gardening books and the agricultural hints in calendars were his delight, his favourite spiritual sustenance; he enjoyed reading newspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were the advertisements of so many acres of arable land and a grass meadow with farm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, for sale. And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and all that sort of thing, you know.
These imaginary pictures were of different kinds according to the advertisements which he came across, but for some reason in every one of them he always had to have gooseberries. He could not imagine a homestead, he could not picture an idyllic nook, without gooseberries.
"'Country life has its conveniences,' he would sometimes say. 'You sit on the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there is a delicious smell everywhere, and... and the gooseberries are growing.'"He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there were the same things: (a) a house for the family, (b) servants' quarters, (c) a kitchen garden, (d) gooseberry bushes. He lived frugally, was frugal in food and drink, and his clothes were beyond description; he looked like a beggar, but kept on saving and putting money in the bank. He grew fearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to give him something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but he used to save that too. Once a man is consumed by an idea, there is no doing anything with him.
"Years passed: he was transferred to another province. He was over forty, and he was still reading the advertisements in the papers and saving up. Then I heard he had married. Still with the same aim of buying a farm and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and ugly widow without a trace of feeling for her, simply because she had filthy lucre. He continued to live frugally after marrying her, and kept her short of food, while he put her money in the bank in his name.
"Her first husband had been a postmaster, and with him she was accustomed to pies and homemade wines, while with her second husband she did not get enough black bread; she began to waste away with this sort of life, and three years later she gave up her soul to God. And I need hardly say that my brother never for a single moment imagined that he was responsible for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer." In our town there was a merchant who, before he died, ordered a plateful of honey and ate up all his money and lottery tickets with the honey, so that no one might benefit from it. While I was inspecting cattle at a railway station, a cattle dealer fell under an engine and had his leg cut off.
We carried him into the waiting room; the blood was flowing—it was a horrible sight—and he kept asking them to look for his leg and was very worried about it; there were twenty roubles in the boot on the leg that had been cut off, and he was afraid they would be lost.
"That's a story from a different opera," said Burkin.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 6 / 13
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there were the same things: (a) a house for the family, (b) servants' quarters, (c) a kitchen garden, (d) gooseberry bushes. He lived frugally, was frugal in food and drink, and his clothes were beyond description; he looked like a beggar, but kept on saving and putting money in the bank. He grew fearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to give him something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but he used to save that too. Once a man is consumed by an idea, there is no doing anything with him.
"Years passed: he was transferred to another province. He was over forty, and he was still reading the advertisements in the papers and saving up. Then I heard he had married. Still with the same aim of buying a farm and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and ugly widow without a trace of feeling for her, simply because she had filthy lucre. He continued to live frugally after marrying her, and kept her short of food, while he put her money in the bank in his name.
"Her first husband had been a postmaster, and with him she was accustomed to pies and homemade wines, while with her second husband she did not get enough black bread; she began to waste away with this sort of life, and three years later she gave up her soul to God. And I need hardly say that my brother never for a single moment imagined that he was responsible for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer." In our town there was a merchant who, before he died, ordered a plateful of honey and ate up all his money and lottery tickets with the honey, so that no one might benefit from it. While I was inspecting cattle at a railway station, a cattle dealer fell under an engine and had his leg cut off.
We carried him into the waiting room; the blood was flowing—it was a horrible sight—and he kept asking them to look for his leg and was very worried about it; there were twenty roubles in the boot on the leg that had been cut off, and he was afraid they would be lost.
"That's a story from a different opera," said Burkin."After his wife's death," Ivan Ivanovitch continued, after thinking for half a minute, "my brother began looking for an estate for himself. Of course, you may look for five years and yet end up making a mistake, and buying something quite different from what you have dreamed of. My brother Nikolay bought, through an agent, a mortgaged estate of three hundred and thirty acres, with a house for the family, servants' quarters, a park, but no orchard, no gooseberry bushes, and no duck pond; there was a river, but the water in it was the colour of coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brickyard and on the other a factory for burning bones. But Nikolay Ivanovitch did not grieve much; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes, planted them, and began living as a country gentleman."
"Last year I went to pay him a visit. I thought I would go and see what it was like." In his letters, my brother called his estate 'Tchumbaroklov Waste, alias Himalaiskoe.' I reached 'alias Himalaiskoe' in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, and fir trees planted in rows, and there was no way of knowing how to get to the yard or where to put one's horse. I went up to the house, and was met by a fat red dog that looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but it was too lazy. The cook, a fat, barefooted woman, came out of the kitchen; she, too, looked like a pig, and said that her master was resting after dinner. I went in to see my brother. He was sitting up in bed with a quilt over his legs; he had grown older, fatter, and wrinkled; his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth all stuck out—he looked as though he might begin grunting into the quilt at any moment.
"We embraced each other, and shed tears of joy and of sadness at the thought that we had once been young and now were both grey-headed and near the grave. He dressed, and led me out to show me the estate.
"'Well, how are you getting on here?' I asked.
"'Oh, all right, thank God; I am getting on very well.'
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 7 / 13
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"After his wife's death," Ivan Ivanovitch continued, after thinking for half a minute, "my brother began looking for an estate for himself. Of course, you may look for five years and yet end up making a mistake, and buying something quite different from what you have dreamed of. My brother Nikolay bought, through an agent, a mortgaged estate of three hundred and thirty acres, with a house for the family, servants' quarters, a park, but no orchard, no gooseberry bushes, and no duck pond; there was a river, but the water in it was the colour of coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brickyard and on the other a factory for burning bones. But Nikolay Ivanovitch did not grieve much; he ordered twenty gooseberry bushes, planted them, and began living as a country gentleman."
"Last year I went to pay him a visit. I thought I would go and see what it was like." In his letters, my brother called his estate 'Tchumbaroklov Waste, alias Himalaiskoe.' I reached 'alias Himalaiskoe' in the afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, and fir trees planted in rows, and there was no way of knowing how to get to the yard or where to put one's horse. I went up to the house, and was met by a fat red dog that looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but it was too lazy. The cook, a fat, barefooted woman, came out of the kitchen; she, too, looked like a pig, and said that her master was resting after dinner. I went in to see my brother. He was sitting up in bed with a quilt over his legs; he had grown older, fatter, and wrinkled; his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth all stuck out—he looked as though he might begin grunting into the quilt at any moment.
"We embraced each other, and shed tears of joy and of sadness at the thought that we had once been young and now were both grey-headed and near the grave. He dressed, and led me out to show me the estate.
"'Well, how are you getting on here?' I asked.
"'Oh, all right, thank God; I am getting on very well.'"He was no longer a poor, timid clerk, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already grown accustomed to it, had become used to it, and liked it. He ate a great deal, went to the bath-house, was growing stout, was already at law with the village commune and both factories, and was very much offended when the peasants did not call him 'Your Honour.' And he concerned himself with the salvation of his soul in a substantial, gentlemanly manner, and performed deeds of charity, not simply, but with an air of consequence. And what deeds of charity! He treated the peasants for every sort of disease with soda and castor oil, and on his name-day had a thanksgiving service in the middle of the village, and then treated the peasants to a gallon of vodka--he thought that was the thing to do. Oh, those horrible gallons of vodka!
One day the fat landowner hauls the peasants up before the district captain for trespass, and the next day, in honour of a holiday, treats them to a gallon of vodka, and they drink and shout 'Hurrah!' and when they are drunk bow down to his feet. A change of life for the better, and being well-fed and idle develops in a Russian the most insolent self-conceit. Nikolay Ivanovitch, who at one time in the government office was afraid to have any views of his own, now could say nothing that was not gospel truth, and uttered such truths in the tone of a prime minister. 'Education is essential, but for the peasants it is premature.' 'Corporal punishment is harmful as a rule, but in some cases it is necessary and there is nothing to take its place.'
"'I know the peasants and understand how to treat them,' he would say. 'The peasants like me. I need only to hold up my little finger and the peasants will do anything I like.'
"And all this, observe, was uttered with a wise, benevolent smile. He repeated twenty times over 'We noblemen,' 'I as a noble'; obviously he did not remember that our grandfather was a peasant, and our father a soldier. Even our surname Tchimsha-Himalaisky, in reality so incongruous, seemed to him now melodious, distinguished, and very agreeable.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 8 / 13
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"He was no longer a poor, timid clerk, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already grown accustomed to it, had become used to it, and liked it. He ate a great deal, went to the bath-house, was growing stout, was already at law with the village commune and both factories, and was very much offended when the peasants did not call him 'Your Honour.' And he concerned himself with the salvation of his soul in a substantial, gentlemanly manner, and performed deeds of charity, not simply, but with an air of consequence. And what deeds of charity! He treated the peasants for every sort of disease with soda and castor oil, and on his name-day had a thanksgiving service in the middle of the village, and then treated the peasants to a gallon of vodka--he thought that was the thing to do. Oh, those horrible gallons of vodka!
One day the fat landowner hauls the peasants up before the district captain for trespass, and the next day, in honour of a holiday, treats them to a gallon of vodka, and they drink and shout 'Hurrah!' and when they are drunk bow down to his feet. A change of life for the better, and being well-fed and idle develops in a Russian the most insolent self-conceit. Nikolay Ivanovitch, who at one time in the government office was afraid to have any views of his own, now could say nothing that was not gospel truth, and uttered such truths in the tone of a prime minister. 'Education is essential, but for the peasants it is premature.' 'Corporal punishment is harmful as a rule, but in some cases it is necessary and there is nothing to take its place.'
"'I know the peasants and understand how to treat them,' he would say. 'The peasants like me. I need only to hold up my little finger and the peasants will do anything I like.'
"And all this, observe, was uttered with a wise, benevolent smile. He repeated twenty times over 'We noblemen,' 'I as a noble'; obviously he did not remember that our grandfather was a peasant, and our father a soldier. Even our surname Tchimsha-Himalaisky, in reality so incongruous, seemed to him now melodious, distinguished, and very agreeable."But the point just now is not he, but myself. I want to tell you about the change that took place in me during the brief hours I spent at his country place.
In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook put on the table a plateful of gooseberries. They were not bought, but his own gooseberries, gathered for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolay Ivanovitch laughed and looked for a minute in silence at the gooseberries, with tears in his eyes; he could not speak for excitement. Then he put one gooseberry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who has at last received his favourite toy, and said: 'How delicious!'
"And he ate them greedily, continually repeating, 'Ah, how delicious! Do taste them!'
"They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says: 'Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts Than hosts of baser truths.'
"I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, who had attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate and himself. There is always, for some reason, an element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome by an oppressive feeling that was close on despair. It was particularly oppressive at night." A bed was made up for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear that he was awake, and that he kept getting up and going to the plate of gooseberries and taking one. I reflected on how many satisfied, happy people there really are! What a suffocating force it is! You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all around us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying....
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 9 / 13
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"But the point just now is not he, but myself. I want to tell you about the change that took place in me during the brief hours I spent at his country place.
In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook put on the table a plateful of gooseberries. They were not bought, but his own gooseberries, gathered for the first time since the bushes were planted. Nikolay Ivanovitch laughed and looked for a minute in silence at the gooseberries, with tears in his eyes; he could not speak for excitement. Then he put one gooseberry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of a child who has at last received his favourite toy, and said: 'How delicious!'
"And he ate them greedily, continually repeating, 'Ah, how delicious! Do taste them!'
"They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says: 'Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts Than hosts of baser truths.'
"I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, who had attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate and himself. There is always, for some reason, an element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome by an oppressive feeling that was close on despair. It was particularly oppressive at night." A bed was made up for me in the room next to my brother's bedroom, and I could hear that he was awake, and that he kept getting up and going to the plate of gooseberries and taking one. I reflected on how many satisfied, happy people there really are! What a suffocating force it is! You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all around us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying....Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there is not one who would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes.... Everything is quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition.... And this order of things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would be impossible. It's a case of general hypnotism.
There ought to be behind the door of every happy, contented man someone standing with a hammer, continually reminding him with a tap that there are unhappy people; that however happy he may be, life will show him its laws sooner or later, trouble will come for him—disease, poverty, losses, and no one will see or hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others. But there is no man with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and trivial daily cares agitate him faintly like the wind in the aspen-tree—and all goes well.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 10 / 13
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there is not one who would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes.... Everything is quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition.... And this order of things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would be impossible. It's a case of general hypnotism.
There ought to be behind the door of every happy, contented man someone standing with a hammer, continually reminding him with a tap that there are unhappy people; that however happy he may be, life will show him its laws sooner or later, trouble will come for him—disease, poverty, losses, and no one will see or hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others. But there is no man with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and trivial daily cares agitate him faintly like the wind in the aspen-tree—and all goes well.
"That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented," Ivan Ivanovitch went on, getting up. "I, too, at dinner and at the hunt liked to lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage the peasantry. I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture was essential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enough for the time. Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more do without it than without air, but we must wait a little. Yes, I used to talk like that, and now I ask, 'For what reason are we to wait?'" asked Ivan Ivanovitch, looking angrily at Burkin. "Why wait, I ask you? What grounds do we have for waiting? I shall be told, it can't be done all at once; every idea takes shape in life gradually, in its due time. But who is it that says that? Where is the proof that it's right?"
You will fall back on the natural order of things, the uniformity of phenomena; but is there order and uniformity in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand over a chasm and wait for it to close of itself, or to fill up with mud at the very time when perhaps I might leap over it or build a bridge across it? And again, wait for the sake of what? Wait till there is no strength to live? And meanwhile one must live, and one wants to live!
"I left my brother's early in the morning, and ever since then it has been unbearable for me to be in town. I am oppressed by its peace and quiet; I am afraid to look at the windows, for there is no sight more painful to me now than the sight of a happy family sitting round the table drinking tea. I am old and am not fit for the struggle; I am not even capable of hatred; I can only grieve inwardly, feel irritated and vexed; but at night my head is hot from the rush of ideas, and I cannot sleep.... Ah, if I were young!" Ivan Ivanovitch walked back and forth in excitement, and repeated: "If I were young!" He suddenly went up to Alehin and began pressing first one of his hands and then the other.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 11 / 13
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented," Ivan Ivanovitch went on, getting up. "I, too, at dinner and at the hunt liked to lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage the peasantry. I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture was essential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enough for the time. Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more do without it than without air, but we must wait a little. Yes, I used to talk like that, and now I ask, 'For what reason are we to wait?'" asked Ivan Ivanovitch, looking angrily at Burkin. "Why wait, I ask you? What grounds do we have for waiting? I shall be told, it can't be done all at once; every idea takes shape in life gradually, in its due time. But who is it that says that? Where is the proof that it's right?"
You will fall back on the natural order of things, the uniformity of phenomena; but is there order and uniformity in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand over a chasm and wait for it to close of itself, or to fill up with mud at the very time when perhaps I might leap over it or build a bridge across it? And again, wait for the sake of what? Wait till there is no strength to live? And meanwhile one must live, and one wants to live!
"I left my brother's early in the morning, and ever since then it has been unbearable for me to be in town. I am oppressed by its peace and quiet; I am afraid to look at the windows, for there is no sight more painful to me now than the sight of a happy family sitting round the table drinking tea. I am old and am not fit for the struggle; I am not even capable of hatred; I can only grieve inwardly, feel irritated and vexed; but at night my head is hot from the rush of ideas, and I cannot sleep.... Ah, if I were young!" Ivan Ivanovitch walked back and forth in excitement, and repeated: "If I were young!" He suddenly went up to Alehin and began pressing first one of his hands and then the other."Pavel Konstantinovitch," he said in an imploring voice, "do not be calm and contented, do not let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young, strong, confident, be not weary in well-doing! There is no happiness, and there ought not to be; but if there is a meaning and an object in life, that meaning and object is not our happiness, but something greater and more rational. Do good!" And Ivan Ivanovitch said all this with a pitiful, imploring smile, as though he were asking them for a personal favour.
Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the drawing room and remained silent. Ivan Ivanovitch's story had not satisfied either Burkin or Alehin. When the generals and ladies gazed down from their gilt frames, looking in the dusk as though they were alive, it was dreary to listen to the story of the poor clerk who ate gooseberries. They felt inclined, for some reason, to talk about elegant people, about women. And their sitting in the drawing room, where everything—the chandeliers in their covers, the armchairs, and the carpet under their feet—reminded them that those very people who were now looking down from their frames had once moved about, sat, and drunk tea in this room, and the fact that lovely Pelagea was moving noiselessly about was better than any story.
Alehin was fearfully sleepy; he had gotten up early, before three o'clock in the morning, to attend to his work, and now his eyes were closing. But he was afraid his visitors might tell some interesting story after he had gone, and so he lingered on. He did not go into the question of whether what Ivan Ivanovitch had just said was right and true. His visitors did not talk about groats, nor about hay, nor about tar, but about something that had no direct bearing on his life, and he was glad and wanted them to go on.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 12 / 13
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"Pavel Konstantinovitch," he said in an imploring voice, "do not be calm and contented, do not let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young, strong, confident, be not weary in well-doing! There is no happiness, and there ought not to be; but if there is a meaning and an object in life, that meaning and object is not our happiness, but something greater and more rational. Do good!" And Ivan Ivanovitch said all this with a pitiful, imploring smile, as though he were asking them for a personal favour.
Then all three sat in armchairs at different ends of the drawing room and remained silent. Ivan Ivanovitch's story had not satisfied either Burkin or Alehin. When the generals and ladies gazed down from their gilt frames, looking in the dusk as though they were alive, it was dreary to listen to the story of the poor clerk who ate gooseberries. They felt inclined, for some reason, to talk about elegant people, about women. And their sitting in the drawing room, where everything—the chandeliers in their covers, the armchairs, and the carpet under their feet—reminded them that those very people who were now looking down from their frames had once moved about, sat, and drunk tea in this room, and the fact that lovely Pelagea was moving noiselessly about was better than any story.
Alehin was fearfully sleepy; he had gotten up early, before three o'clock in the morning, to attend to his work, and now his eyes were closing. But he was afraid his visitors might tell some interesting story after he had gone, and so he lingered on. He did not go into the question of whether what Ivan Ivanovitch had just said was right and true. His visitors did not talk about groats, nor about hay, nor about tar, but about something that had no direct bearing on his life, and he was glad and wanted them to go on."It's bedtime, though," said Burkin, getting up. "Allow me to wish you good night." Alehin said good night and went downstairs to his own domain, while the visitors remained upstairs. Both of them were taken for the night to a large room where there stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings, and in the corner was an ivory crucifix. The big, cool beds, which had been made by the lovely Pelagea, smelt pleasantly of clean linen.
Ivan Ivanovitch undressed in silence and got into bed.
"Lord, forgive us sinners!" he said, and put his head under the quilt.
His pipe, lying on the table, smelt strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin could not sleep for a long while, wondering where the oppressive smell was coming from.
The rain pattered on the window panes all night.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-eeef933d9ddd4870ab770f6af64e8321
# book_title: Gooseberries
# chapter_id: 1-gooseberries
# chapter_title: Gooseberries
# book_page: 13 / 13
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"It's bedtime, though," said Burkin, getting up. "Allow me to wish you good night." Alehin said good night and went downstairs to his own domain, while the visitors remained upstairs. Both of them were taken for the night to a large room where there stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings, and in the corner was an ivory crucifix. The big, cool beds, which had been made by the lovely Pelagea, smelt pleasantly of clean linen.
Ivan Ivanovitch undressed in silence and got into bed.
"Lord, forgive us sinners!" he said, and put his head under the quilt.
His pipe, lying on the table, smelt strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin could not sleep for a long while, wondering where the oppressive smell was coming from.
The rain pattered on the window panes all night.
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